write something nonsensical, surreal, silly.

[fleamailman]

("...wonderful..." went the goblin, "...you're really hitting the mark...")

repost from elsewhere, the "what are you doing" thread

the goblin is redoing today those habits of yesterday before he redoes them again tomorrow, saying "...force of habit is a prison that doesn't need bars...", to which the goblin then added "...what changes with time is one's ability, and one's perspective with it, otherwise it the same thing year after year...", not that the goblin minded where there was no choice, in that one had to eat, sleep, bath and the like, but there were other less obvious habits that, if not seen to, would simply continue unseen like that skin cancer that one doesn't feel until it is too late, "...me, I'm stocktaking my habits this morning..." replied the goblin in answer to that question "what are you doing", and the list of habits was quite extensive

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[fleamailman]

repost from elsewhere

the goblin was thinking in dibs and drabs today but the music was fine young cannibals which made up for it as it flooded pictures of younger times when he wrote letters, actually with a pen and paper in the bistro "...oh yes, I was mad even then too, but they got it wrong now, for it's not he who lives by the sword dies by the sword it's he who lives by the sword wants to die by that sword too..." ventured the goblin who couldn't envisage a life without his sword-like pen then, a life of just living on aimlessly, "...for what is life without one's passion within it..." asked the goblin to himself mostly

31

 

[WithLoveFromAlyssa]

The goldfish bled shades of indigo.

 

[brinny]

Sometimes i wonder if the devil uses our fear of death and those unknown realms to control us, to keep us behind a prison of sorts. The intention being to stifle any such thing as venturing past our "comfort" zone....well it's not really "comfortable", is it? that being said, it's where we stay, where it is "safe', although then again, just how 'safe" is it? In a box we stay, from the break of day till the setting of the sun, and beyond, for even in our dreams we are held captive. So there we are. Locked in nice n' tight, biding our time as the clock ticks on and the end of the road draws near and we find we're in the same box we started in.

 

[brinny]

yeah, goblins really do have toes, and sensitive ones at that...it says so in the book and right here.....

The Princess and the Goblin (1991) (Full Length 360p Upload) - YouTube

 

[fleamailman]

("...getting better, love this thread..." went the goblin)

repost from elsewhere, a forum's "last post" thread

in the old house the mirror to the bathroom is always there, just as it has been since the goblin's childhood, its full length, and, to anyone else of course, it would be just another mirror, like any other mirror, that they pass in the course of their day that is, and yes the goblin too passes many mirrors in his day, except that each time the goblin looks into the depths of this one mirror he see himself yes, but besides seeing his own reflection as most people would, he also sees those ghosts of himself years before, not as some tease, nor as a premise for regret or something, no, only as something "matter of fact", as those ghosts were then, or as they still are perhaps, “...well it's a compromise goblin...” said one of them suddenly, continuing “...we don't get to live on into that “you” we see here, but we do retain our countenances which is more than I can say for you of course, you're dying goblin like everyone else that is, whereas we can't die, ah but we can't change either, simply we're as “stuck aground” in your past, as you are “stuck adrift” in your present goblin, and we salute you too, for simply we owe ourselves to you then, that's all, dare I put it as, it's as if you are the “last post” of us now...”

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[fleamailman]

.


To grandma and the beach at Felixstowe
Grandma you're so late and many years in passing
But the sea and sand's still there and all those people basking.
I suppose there's nothing yesteryear about this boisterous sea
Just you had to go on from here and leave our beach to me.
Yet today this Winter's tide that breaks upon our shore
marks your daughter's slide to where we were before.
To weather to the last I swear while she goes on ahead
A promise to one's past it seems towards one's future dead.

-fleamailman-

 

[fleamailman]

repost from elsewhere, the "can money buy happiness" thread

"...ah no, one has to ask oneself whether one's awareness is due to one's contentment or to one's anguish here, just pain to open the eyes as they say..." mentioned the goblin thinking upon it once more, and then continuing "...where clearly the choice, between a happy sheep or an unhappy wolf, is one that most humans either face or fudge, in that someone might exchange their awareness for the trappings of dailylife and those trinkets of the moneygod becoming yet another contented sheep by it, but that lone wolf amongst those sheep is always aware that all around him was ever just one long journey to self then, just pain to open the eyes then and the cold truth by it I suppose..."

 

[fleamailman]

repost from elsewhere, the goblin helping out on a writer's forum

Contrary to the appearance of the above two posters we do not require people to write in third person.

"...and quite right too, where of course you can write in first person now..." mentioned the goblin, continuing "...oh, and then just add inverted comers at either end with a mention of who or what is saying it, where I have it on good account that many a writer does just that then, though that other bit, about their placing the laptop on the floor and then doing a slow inspirational dance to get those writing juices flowing within them, had yet to be substantiated...", and with that, as in a token of good will and encouragement towards xxxxx. the goblin simply added a stream that he imagined might help any would-be writers, and normal people alike, get into their deeper writing mode once more, saying "...ah yes, anything to help those members on this forum reach their full literary potential now, where I'm sure they will just thank me later..."


to help writers connect with their inner writing muse then, just click me here

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[fleamailman]

repost from elsewhere, where the goblin had cut his loses and turned off notifications

the goblin understood that he makes a mark of caine on himself whenever he fights those people that don't like his way of posting or him either, so he just restarts elsewhere and then tries even harder to create his posts where he is accepted, saying “...perhaps one reads and replies for others now, but after that one posts for oneself to know oneself by it, or else what's the point where one is anonymous to begin with, and where honesty, a shared life, and a thick skin is all that one has here...”

19

 

[fleamailman]

repost from elsewhere

as if slowly readying his makeup seated in front of a theatre mirror, the goblin feels himself to be backstage looking across from his now neatly arranged props of this dressing room, "...on in five minutes goblin..." calls the imaginary voice from the other side of the door, "...thanks..." he shouts back brushing off the anxiety and impatience that always builds up in those moments before he goes up onto the thread/stage, so the goblin just checks through the lines while roll playing the piece over and over in his mind and then calmly walks into everyones view, "...for tonight this thread is ours and I will carry you away with me..." he promises them but the result was never that certain he knew, "...ah no, the uncertain outcome is what makes livewriting so live..." he confided in a whisper

19

 

[brinny]

......born he was, and grew he did, and came into his own, or so he thought. The box remains, and he in it, in his habitual repose. dreaming on of what could be, of days gone by and such, begets and frets, tears and fears, amidst haunting echoes of regret. There remained he, whimpering tragically 'That's all there was, and is, and evermore shall be.'

 

[fleamailman]

repost from elsewhere

the goblin thanked everyone saying "...well, the point is that whatever happens, one tries to write about it, reflecting, forming one's own opinion then, so for me that is my challenge here, though it doesn't actually mean that I go on to post that opinion, no, only that it is formed, and has been addressed by one's own reflection upon it...", the goblin then tried to put it differently by way of a quote the fear of seeming opinionated often makes one become unopionated, where equally, the goblin could simply "get by" by living on the surface as many people do, those who never write anything, nor reflect much upon one's lot that is, so he just said "...and they're probably right to do so too, as no one can win this game, its futility is quite obvious isn't it, for posting on, like one's life too, is merely built on an assumption that all is forever winnable here, where any post, like any day for that matter, could well be one's last now, ah but if one knows that fact, that one can't win forever that is, does one either "post on" or "give up" now becomes the question...", where the goblin's posts was merely proof that he was still trying to win the unwinnable

19

 

[brinny]

^ told ya goblins have toes

 

[fleamailman]

repost from elsewhere

the sky darkens with the coming storm as if a film is about to start, the goblin, ever alone in his bistro, knows well that smell of damp and the rush of people against the slow but heavy silence, that is, before those first specks that hail the deluge to come, "...so whoever said calm before a storm should have looked more closely at the signs now..." ventured the goblin, while outside the sky was growing intensely uncalm now

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[fleamailman]

repost from elsewhere

on waking up this morning the goblin greeted the rain with a feeling of goodbye to summer and its tourist season but he knew too that it never really stopped though, only that there would be less people now, and even then there were both times when the heat shot back up or when some event in geneva would return everything to a panic-like situation again, just that it wasn't summer any more, it didn't have that dire limitlessness to it, no, it became only an "intrusion on" as opposed to an "occupation of" the goblin's present, "...in fact if anything, the stress of the situation usually causes my posts rather than curtails them, just parrying with my pen then, the stress actually pushes my pen onwards..." ventured the goblin, adding "...ah but this time this summer had overwhelmed my defenses here...", perhaps the goblin was explaining, to himself perhaps, why at the time he most needed to post, he just couldn't face the slot like this, resulting in a very unusual silence from him

47

 

[fleamailman]

repost from elsewhere

Yeah, I'm half-hoping for them to deadlock, just to see what happens.

"...nah, it's best not to hold great hopes towards british politics now..." advised the goblin, continuing "...you see, in america it's more dynamic and decisive, like shoot first and ask questions later, whereas in iran it's just shoot and don't ask any questions but in britain it's more like ask questions, row over this that and the next thing, tea and fruitcake anyone, more questions then, oh, and how is aunt meg's lumbago then..."

100

 

[fleamailman]

repost from elsewhere, a writer's forum, from the "the process of writing" thread there

Diversity, we are beginning to learn, is a good thing. Writers have diverse styles, too. The more fluent writers can often be recognized by their unique style. It is not our job as readers to attempt to impose our style onto another’s writing.

"...music to my ears mortals, count me in amongst your ranks now MYAHAHAHA..." started the goblin, actually lying because his "whatevers" were more tailored towards forumland, as he intended to cut an anonymous name for himself here, perhaps amounting to the greatest goblin this internet has ever know now, continuing "...certain constraints arise when writing on forums, they are "post length", "writing style", "content", "eyecatchyness" and "ones persona" here...", the value of each the goblin could only vouch for from his near unrivaled experience across forum after forum, he continued "..."post length" is a compromise always, too long and they'll skip it, whereas with "writing style" grammarnazi is mostly loathed, for example they don't and won't understand colons, semi colons, etc., where too, the content has to be compelling enough for them to remember the persona behind it, and adding pictures or streams to ones text is to up the individual here, and where lastly the persona is really what you are trying to get them to latch onto here, if only because there's no point of doing any wonderful posts if they're not going to remember who's writing them now, so the username here is in effect the author's name for them...", and with that the goblin added an explanatory stream and an eyecatching picture as an example

the secret of posting

101

 

[fleamailman]

repost from elsewhere

once more seated between his coffee and his computer, slowly the goblin closes up his latest "today" and places it neatly into his past now as yet one more "today" in a line of so many "todays" stretching back to a point beyond his own memory even, where his mind, having a quick guess of how many memories he must now have memorized by now against some rough total of "todays" he has lived, feels cheated at how little he actually remembers of his long life, even if he tries to deflect the self-resentment with a quick retort like "...alright, but what does anyone owe their past anyway, and how can someone pay it back in kind now...", while outside, upon the cold wet street, as if to echo the goblin's pensive reflective mood inside then, the morning's rain had just continued unbroken on through his "today" again on up to this now late evening moment, until in the end, and upon giving up too, the goblin simply said "...well I guess we owe it to our past not to forget it, but how we do so easily forget our past where and when we don't fight to remember it.."

20

 

[fleamailman]

repost from elsewhere

the morning darkness, the goblin has a coffee as if waiting for the rain to stop though it won't, not for now at least, and work beckons him through it, so the goblin looks at a reflected light in a puddle below to gage the droplets against the need for an umbrella, chooses a book from the shelf for the bus journey, and readies himself making sure that he has switched off the lights, locked to doors and placed his brain firmly on standby, he steps out and is pelted numb, or who knows perhaps he was numb before that even, "...greetings o great temple of the moneygod, count me amongst your ranks then, for I do your bidding..." he says to the waiting unmoved metropolis as the scene closes tight upon him again

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