Hi Dan, Yes, imitation is the highest form of flattery. Your welcome, Mark
On Sat, Jul 16, 2011 at 1:58 PM, Dan Glover <[email protected]> wrote: > Hello everyone > > On Fri, Jul 15, 2011 at 11:20 PM, 118 <[email protected]> wrote: >> >> While I turned away to spare him any shame, the hands of God grabbed >> me deep within and made me turn around and visualize him one more >> time. The old man still sat there with his head down, tears dry, >> silent now,. The church door behind where he sat suddenly opened and >> a small child appeared, running into the man's arms, calling out >> "Grandpapa! There you are! Let's go down the hill" That could have >> been me. I guess God answered his prayers after all. >> >> Uncle Alamo died two days later. I remember a cold wind blew the day >> we buried him on the lonely cemetery hilltop behind where sat the >> church; him and Auntie Virginia use to take me there when I was but a >> boy. >> >> No one came to his funeral but the preacher and me. The rest are >> already there on the hilltop, waiting. Waiting with the GrandMamas >> and GrandPapas. Perhaps Alamo was accepted, he certainly did not come >> back. And Thomas knows that he was in a good place. My bones will >> someday lie there too. Daddy will join his brother, and then be there >> with Mamma waiting for me. But I have a road to walk, yet; do them >> proud. >> >> -Anonymous > > Hi Mark > > It is good to pick an author who we admire and make their words our > own. I do it all the time to the myriad authors I've read over the > past fifty odd years. Actually, it is the first time anyone (that I > know of) has used my words to make their own. Pretty cool... > > Thank you, > > Dan > >> >> On Thu, Jul 14, 2011 at 11:01 PM, Dan Glover <[email protected]> wrote: >>> What's your name? She asked the question late one night when they were >>> closing up. He'd been too shy to approach Lisa but he knew her name; >>> he couldn't quite understand why she didn't know his name as well. >>> They'd been working together nearly a month now. But then in between >>> the space of her speaking and him answering, he reasoned (to himself) >>> that she did know his name... it was her way of starting a >>> conversation that he himself didn't quite know how to start. >>> >>> Billy. Billy Austin. >>> >>> I'm Lisa. >>> >>> Yes, I know, he stammered the I know slightly, not wanting to seem too >>> familiar. She didn't seem to notice, or if she did, she didn't let on. >>> >>> Where you from, Billy Austin? >>> >>> Oklahoma. >>> >>> Your skin looks so dark! she said, touching his arm, running her >>> fingers over his skin ever so lightly, just brushing the hair that >>> grew there curly and abundantly. >>> >>> I'm quarter Cherokee, or so my daddy told me, he said. He didn't move >>> his arm. He liked her touch. He liked it a lot. >>> >>> Your daddy? >>> >>> He's dead now. So's my momma. >>> >>> Yeah, mine too, she said, taking her hand away from his arm and >>> drawing herself a glass of beer from the spigot, tilting it expertly >>> to avoid a foamy head. So you're all alone, Billy Austin? >>> >>> Yes. I live upstairs. His eyes went automatically to the ceiling. >>> >>> Really! Her eyes followed his to the ceiling. She lit a cigarette and >>> drank the glass of beer down in a gulp. Plunking it down on the bar, >>> she said, Can I see? >>> >>> Sure, come on. He led her outside, carefully remembering to lock the >>> door behind them, and she followed him up the side set of stairs >>> leading to his apartment. He unlocked the door and kicked it at the >>> bottom where it stuck sometimes, especially when it rained. And it >>> smelled like rain tonight. >>> >>> You ever been with a woman, Billy Austin? she asked, as she settled >>> herself on the worn-out sofa adorning the living room. It was mossy >>> green and sagged in the middle and its felt-like hide looked all >>> matted down like it had been deep down under the ocean for a thousand >>> years. >>> >>> I was married once, he told her, watching her eyes, gauging her >>> reaction. A long time ago. >>> >>> Yeah, me too, she said. A distant look came into her eyes. Didn't work out? >>> >>> No, I guess it didn't. >>> >>> Well, don't feel bad, she said, finishing her cigarette and stabbing >>> it out in the overflowing ashtray that rocked back and forth on the >>> cardboard box he used for a coffee table. It didn't work out for me >>> either, Billy Austin. Got anything to drink? >>> >>> Beer. I got beer. That's about it. >>> >>> Get me one? >>> >>> He went to the kitchen and took two cold bottles of Budweiser from the >>> refrigerator. He liked the taste of beer in bottles better than cans >>> even though they cost more. Walking back to the living room, half >>> expecting her to be gone, he twisted off one of the caps. She was >>> still there though, sitting on the sofa, waiting for him, so he handed >>> her the beer. >>> >>> I see you watching me when you're working, she said, after taking a >>> long pull from the bottle and shaking her long dirty-blond hair out of >>> her eyes the way she did. >>> >>> Oh, he said, standing there feeling flummoxed and not knowing what >>> else to say. He felt his face grow red, red like the neon bar sign >>> that glowed off and on all night long outside the living room window, >>> shouting out Nick's Place, Nick's Place, Nick's Place. He always >>> blushed easy; momma used to say indian blood runs quick and hot. He >>> lit a cigarette in an effort to hide his embarrassment and twisted the >>> cap off his bottle of Bud, leaning over and dropping it into the >>> ashtray. >>> >>> It's okay, she said, looking up into his face with big brown eyes that >>> he could drown in and be happy doing it. I like it when you watch me. >>> Come on over here and sit by me, Billy Austin. >>> >>> On Thu, Jul 14, 2011 at 11:00 PM, 118 <[email protected]> wrote: >>>> Yeah, I can see it now >>>> The distant red neon shivered in the heat >>>> I was feeling like a stranger in a strange land >>>> You know where people play games with the night >>>> God, it was too hot to sleep >>>> I followed the sound of a jukebox coming from up the levee >>>> All of a sudden I could hear somebody whistling >>>> From right behind me >>>> I turned around and she said >>>> "Why do you always end up down at Nick's Cafe?" >>>> I said "I don't know, the wind just kind of pushed me this way." >>>> She said "Hang the rich." >>>> >>>> Catch the blue train >>>> To places never been before >>>> Look for me >>>> Somewhere down the crazy river >>>> Somewhere down the crazy river >>>> Catch the blue train >>>> All the way to Kokomo >>>> You can find me >>>> Somewhere down the crazy river >>>> Somewhere down the crazy river >>>> >>>> -Robbie Robertson: "Somewhere Down That Crazy River" >>>> >>>> "Here's looking at you kid" >>>> -H.B. in Casablanca >>>> (as time flows by in Rick's cafe). >>>> >>>> >>>> The ghost was her father's parting gift, presented by a black-clad >>>> secretary in >>>> a departure lounge at Narita. >>>> For the first two hours of the flight to London it lay forgotten in >>>> her >>>> purse, a smooth dark oblong, one side impressed with the ubiquitous >>>> Maas-Neotek >>>> logo, the other gently curved to fit the user's palm. >>>> She sat up very straight in her seat in the first-class cabin, her >>>> features composed in a small cold mask modeled after her dead mother's most >>>> characteristic expression. The surrounding seats were empty; her father had >>>> purchased the space. She refused the meal the nervous steward offered. The >>>> vacant seats frightened him, evidence of her father's wealth and power. >>>> The man >>>> hesitated, then bowed and withdrew. Very briefly, she allowed the mask her >>>> mother's smile. >>>> Ghosts, she thought later, somewhere over Germany, staring at the >>>> upholstery of the seat beside her. How well her father treated his ghosts. >>>> >>>> -William Gibson: "Mona Lisa Overdrive" >>>> (a father's lasting gift) >>>> >>>> >>>> >>>> On Tue, Jul 12, 2011 at 10:42 PM, Dan Glover <[email protected]> wrote: >>>>> They locked him up... told him he was crazy. After enough time had >>>>> passed, he knew it too. He must be crazy. He could see it in >>>>> everyone's eyes. He heard it in the way they talked to him. He felt it >>>>> in the way they kept their distance. Like they were afraid. Not of >>>>> him, but of what he'd become. Or maybe it was him they were afraid of. >>>>> After all, he was crazy so how would he know, how could he know for >>>>> sure of where the madness ended and he started? >>>>> >>>>> They asked him questions and fed him pills. Blue pills, green pills, >>>>> red pills... they all went down the same so it didn't much matter. A >>>>> cup of water, drink, now, lift your tongue. How do we feel today? Do >>>>> we want to hurt our self today? Do we want to hurt anyone today? After >>>>> enough time had passed he began to sense the correct answers, the >>>>> answers that would set him free. Not just free to wander the grounds, >>>>> but free to go... out there... into the world. >>>>> >>>>> The answers didn't work right away, the correct answers. But after >>>>> enough time had passed, they didn't seem as afraid when they looked at >>>>> him. A light in their eyes had replaced the fear. He noticed now that >>>>> everyone had that light in their eyes but the light wasn't always the >>>>> same light... the sane light. The light that said: I am okay. Now, >>>>> when he looked into a mirror, he saw that light in his own eyes. It >>>>> made him feel better. >>>>> >>>>> One day they came and told him that he was indeed better now... that >>>>> he could go home. It'd been so long though that he no longer had a >>>>> home to go to. Four years in an institution will do that. Everything >>>>> was gone. Family, friends, wife, money... like he'd been to war. They >>>>> gave him a hundred dollars and a bus ticket anywhere. So he rode that >>>>> dog all the way west until the sea stopped it; he could go no further. >>>>> >>>>> He rented a cheap room above a tavern by the ocean. The sounds of the >>>>> waves and the people below lulled him to sleep at night. He got a job >>>>> in the tavern below doing the only thing he knew how to do: cleaning >>>>> up after others. He noticed the light in their eyes changing as they >>>>> grew drunk with liquor, meaner, uglier. They made messes on purpose >>>>> just to see him clean it up. But he never grew angry. He just did what >>>>> he did and he did it with a smile on his face. A smile only an insane >>>>> man could wear properly. >>>>> >>>>> She worked as a bar maid and her name was Lisa. All the men called her >>>>> Mona, though, especially after they'd had a few, and they laughed >>>>> about it and slapped their knees as they did so like it was the >>>>> funniest thing. He didn't get the joke but then again he'd never been >>>>> to a museum and he'd forgotten all the art he'd ever been taught. Lisa >>>>> didn't like it. But, like him, she never let on. She just smiled and >>>>> did what she did. He noticed that it was a smile a lot like his. >>>>> >>>>> >>>>> >>>>> >>>>> On Tue, Jul 12, 2011 at 10:17 PM, 118 <[email protected]> wrote: >>>>>> Once he had lived with his new awareness and gotten used to it, he >>>>>> wished to share it with others. When the breakdown first happened, he >>>>>> was left without ability to share what he saw. Gradually, he had >>>>>> recovered from the original shock, and spent time with his new >>>>>> awareness trying to understand it. Now he fully understood it, >>>>>> although not with words, but did not know how to communicate it. >>>>>> >>>>>> There was a wide divide between his personal understanding and its >>>>>> agreement in the Social Layer, which is where he wanted to place it. >>>>>> He felt alone, and wanted it discussed between other people. Every >>>>>> word that he thought of as part of a description was insufficient, and >>>>>> just plain wrong. He read how others had done it, but did not have >>>>>> the patience for all the questions that would spring forth. However, >>>>>> he also did not want to remain alone with his new understanding. >>>>>> >>>>>> He sat in front of the computer and surfed around. He found a nice >>>>>> slide show that kind of was in tune with his awareness. A little more >>>>>> surfing brought forth the perfect music to expand upon the slide show. >>>>>> Visual and auditory, was that enough? He was feeling something >>>>>> similar but much much more intense. He opened the window a bit to let >>>>>> the night air in. Yes! That was it, that cool breeze fit right in. >>>>>> Not only that but the night blooming jasmine was expressing itself >>>>>> fully at that time. But how many people know about that breeze and >>>>>> that smell. >>>>>> >>>>>> He decided that he could not share it over the computer. He would >>>>>> have to wander the lands and find people who he could show directly. >>>>>> An while such a journey seemed long, he knew that by doing it that >>>>>> way, he would no longer feel alone. >>>>>> >>>>>> >>>>>> >>>>>> On Tue, Jun 14, 2011 at 12:37 PM, 118 <[email protected]> wrote: >>>>>>> Hi All, >>>>>>> It has been said that communication through writing lies within the >>>>>>> realm of static quality. Certainly it can be said that it is based on >>>>>>> Subject/Object grammar. How then do we point to dynamic quality, >>>>>>> without getting stuck in these circular discussions which only point >>>>>>> towards themselves? >>>>>>> >>>>>>> I propose that there is a method in writing which is based on Dynamic >>>>>>> Quality. In fact there are many methods being used today with such a >>>>>>> basis. Train of thought, or automatic writing is one of those. Often >>>>>>> I have to read my posts after I have written them to see what I said. >>>>>>> In this way writing is more like talking in the present tense, in the >>>>>>> moment. >>>>>>> >>>>>>> So, what does this look like when we are relating something that >>>>>>> happened in the past? Well, we must remember that things that >>>>>>> happened in the past were happening in the present at one time. By >>>>>>> present I mean that infinitesimal (non-existent) fraction of time that >>>>>>> we live in. In order to explain this, I will use an example that has >>>>>>> nothing to do with MoQ, since that is much more difficult. I will >>>>>>> choose the following sentence written in standard past-tense grammar, >>>>>>> and convert it to dynamic quality format. >>>>>>> >>>>>>> "The lovestruck man swam across the cold river to be with his expectant >>>>>>> lover." >>>>>>> >>>>>>> OK with that? Now here is the Dynamic Quality Format: >>>>>>> >>>>>>> "Feeling alone and despondent, the intensity of desire was building. >>>>>>> Each step brought him closer to that object of his desire until he was >>>>>>> met by a cold river which presented a barrier. Yet, his wanting >>>>>>> pushed him forward. As he entered, the cold began to travel up his >>>>>>> body until he was completely free of suffocating heat. Arm over arm >>>>>>> he entered into a mesmerized state where each moment was unique and >>>>>>> separate from the previous. He had no idea how long he was in this >>>>>>> state, but found himself surfacing at the shore, and the spellbinding >>>>>>> cold was replaced slowly with heat once more. This much closer, he >>>>>>> moved slowly towards that which he sought in order to satisfy the >>>>>>> longing which had held him for so long. This was the woman who was >>>>>>> expecting him." >>>>>>> >>>>>>> So, why do I call this "writing in Dynamic Quality format"? It is >>>>>>> simply because as one read this, everything is opening up to the >>>>>>> reader as happening in the moment. The subjects and objects are >>>>>>> revealed as they happen. It is not until the end of the sentence that >>>>>>> the beginning is defined. This is the way life works if we live in >>>>>>> the dynamic moment. Each moment defines those that occurred >>>>>>> previously. >>>>>>> >>>>>>> Give it a try and see what you guys come up with! >>>>>>> >>>>>>> Cheers, >>>>>>> Mark >>>>>>> >>>>>> Moq_Discuss mailing list >>>>>> Listinfo, Unsubscribing etc. >>>>>> http://lists.moqtalk.org/listinfo.cgi/moq_discuss-moqtalk.org >>>>>> Archives: >>>>>> http://lists.moqtalk.org/pipermail/moq_discuss-moqtalk.org/ >>>>>> http://moq.org/md/archives.html >>>>>> >>>>> Moq_Discuss mailing list >>>>> Listinfo, Unsubscribing etc. >>>>> http://lists.moqtalk.org/listinfo.cgi/moq_discuss-moqtalk.org >>>>> Archives: >>>>> http://lists.moqtalk.org/pipermail/moq_discuss-moqtalk.org/ >>>>> http://moq.org/md/archives.html >>>>> >>>> Moq_Discuss mailing list >>>> Listinfo, Unsubscribing etc. >>>> http://lists.moqtalk.org/listinfo.cgi/moq_discuss-moqtalk.org >>>> Archives: >>>> http://lists.moqtalk.org/pipermail/moq_discuss-moqtalk.org/ >>>> http://moq.org/md/archives.html >>>> >>> Moq_Discuss mailing list >>> Listinfo, Unsubscribing etc. >>> http://lists.moqtalk.org/listinfo.cgi/moq_discuss-moqtalk.org >>> Archives: >>> http://lists.moqtalk.org/pipermail/moq_discuss-moqtalk.org/ >>> http://moq.org/md/archives.html >>> >> Moq_Discuss mailing list >> Listinfo, Unsubscribing etc. >> http://lists.moqtalk.org/listinfo.cgi/moq_discuss-moqtalk.org >> Archives: >> http://lists.moqtalk.org/pipermail/moq_discuss-moqtalk.org/ >> http://moq.org/md/archives.html >> > Moq_Discuss mailing list > Listinfo, Unsubscribing etc. > http://lists.moqtalk.org/listinfo.cgi/moq_discuss-moqtalk.org > Archives: > http://lists.moqtalk.org/pipermail/moq_discuss-moqtalk.org/ > http://moq.org/md/archives.html > Moq_Discuss mailing list Listinfo, Unsubscribing etc. http://lists.moqtalk.org/listinfo.cgi/moq_discuss-moqtalk.org Archives: http://lists.moqtalk.org/pipermail/moq_discuss-moqtalk.org/ http://moq.org/md/archives.html
