From: owner-eda-thoughts-digest@smoe.org (eda-thoughts-digest) To: eda-thoughts-digest@smoe.org Subject: eda-thoughts-digest V3 #261 Reply-To: eda-thoughts@smoe.org Sender: owner-eda-thoughts-digest@smoe.org Errors-To: owner-eda-thoughts-digest@smoe.org Precedence: bulk eda-thoughts-digest Tuesday, July 11 2000 Volume 03 : Number 261 * If you ever wish to unsubscribe, send an email to * eda-thoughts-digest-request@smoe.org with ONLY * the word unsubscribe in the body of the email * . * PLEASE :) when you reply to this digest to send a post TO the list, * change the subject to reflect what your post is about. A subject * of Re: eda-thoughts-digest V3 #xxx or the like gives readers no clue * as to what your message is about. Today's Subjects: ----------------- ET: some love [RJonthego@aol.com] Re: ET: my thoughts for you to read (if you want) [DPS8315@aol.com] ET: The Humanity of a Vampire ["Chris Sylvester" ] ET: Under the Blue [Nondescript ] ET: Dude. [Nondescript ] ET: Eureka. [Nondescript ] ET: Hyper, Sorrow, Content and Ashamed [RJonthego@aol.com] ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Date: Mon, 10 Jul 2000 01:08:08 EDT From: RJonthego@aol.com Subject: ET: some love the only love i have now is the admiration of a stranger but oh- - -how i eat that up and how that keeps me running even at 3am when all i can see is a flame some love is something better than nothing when you can't see anything at all. ~~~ roya ------------------------------ Date: Mon, 10 Jul 2000 01:07:50 EDT From: DPS8315@aol.com Subject: Re: ET: my thoughts for you to read (if you want) In a message dated 7/9/00 12:58:11 AM US Eastern Standard Time, jackies_strength20@yahoo.com writes: > Subj: ET: my thoughts for you to read (if you want) > From: jackies_strength20@yahoo.com (Katherine Alexandra) > i can no longer write. my words are turning empty and > there is nothing that i can say, I used to consider what to call myself and my work... didn't know exactly if I was a poet or if I wrote poetry- the names seemed generic and left me wanting something more and I couldnt simply call myself a writer.. so i was unhappy..when I thought about it, which was seldom when the sixth sense hit big, I decided to see it, and the concept of free association dawned on me; brought revelation... I really was a free-association writer, always have been- recently I was thinking along these lines: to be a writer/defined and copied style/ignorant to the history's trends, and when I started to think about it, a lot of us here, very few of us have any particular form, even fewer have a specific meter or rhyme- and I think that's where modern free verse might end up, when our generation has aged.. then again, I've noticed that most award winning poetry has a plot, story line, and that defining moment of revelation that makes it so wonderful.. like a little story compacted too much, I guess we'll just have to see tangent ignored, point being: guided free association usually helps me break out of uninspired moments- re-read things you wrote so long ago, revisit them.. take your favorite phrases, maybe come up with a few new ones, then it's sort of like connect the dots, read those great 3 word lines, fill in the blanks that follow, let old work inspire new.. usually your greatest lines and great enough that they can renew your spirit time and again even if it has questionable origins, and even if it means absolutely nothing to you, it's still writing, and as I was recently criticized for, we should all do more "writing just to write" hope i helped ------------------------------ Date: Mon, 10 Jul 2000 08:48:18 PDT From: "Chris Sylvester" Subject: ET: The Humanity of a Vampire I've really been getting into vampires latley, and I've started writing a lot of stuff involving them. This is kind of a journal entry I wrote, taking a first person perspective on one of these so called foul creatures of the night. Watch out, it's kind of long, and a little scattered. - ---- 1/17/93 I sleep while you work. I spend my days surrounded in the same darkness that so encompasses my nights, and my very existance. And you hate me for it. At night, i wander the streets alone. I drink you, I drain you, and you hate me for it. Truly, your hate is justified. After all, I am a creature of the night. I am evil incarnate, darkness embodied in flesh. I look like you. I speak like you. I walk among you, but I am not you. And you hate me for it. I suffer from the blood curse. Sunlight is painful to me. My home reeks of the night. I am a vampire. And you hate me for it. I know you have your reasons for despising me and my kind so much, but at least do me the one favor of hearing my voice. These words are not intended to excuse, or even to justify my actions, but to hopefully bring about some sense of reason to this insane life I must live. As much as you don't want to believe it, I too am human. I bleed. I anger. I fight and scream. And I love. And as much as I love, I cannot bring any mortal soul close to mine for fear that I might hurt her. As much as I hate this, there is nothing I can do about it. I am a vampire. I need to drain her very lifeblood from her in order to survive. When you run outside to see your girlfriend on a sunday afternoon, I hide in my cellar, waiting for the sunlight to fade away into the darkness that forces me to love it. I wait for this, for what? All for the single purpose of doing it all over again. The sheer repetitiveness of this cycle naseuates me and draws me in at the same time. At least this one thing can grant some semblence of order in my chaotic life. Though I am hundreds, maybe thousands of years old (I have lost count by now, as birthdays are meaningless to me with no one to celebrate them with), I still retain the traces of what you call humanity within me. I have fear, as you do. I have goals, as you do. I think, and feel, all in the same way you do. But unlike you, none of this matters, not with any consequence anyways, in the way it does in your lives. My feelings toward a mortal will always lead to her downfall. This blood curse repulses me. Even the extucy I feel as I taste the sweetness of another's blood cannot compensate for the overwhelming guilt I feel after it is all said and done. So, I reach out to you. Why? Even I cannot answer that. You cannot help me. No one can. Not a soul on this earth, or in any plane of existance can cure me of this disease, this affliction. Just remember, I am human too. And am I so unlike you? Have you never drained another's blood from their veins? Have you never done something so terrible that it could never be forgiven, just to survive? When you arise in the morning.. the MORNING, do you ever think, "This is wrong."? We're not so different, you and I. My addiction is to blood. Yours could be ciggarettes, money, or any one of a thousand other things that you do. But I am different because you have said it must be so. I am different because every society needs a scapegoat. I am different because I am a vampire. And you hate me for it. - --- ~Sly ps: there's going to be more of this stuff when I finish it. I've got a story I'm working on. It kind of scares me how it's coming out as easily as it is. ________________________________________________________________________ Get Your Private, Free E-mail from MSN Hotmail at http://www.hotmail.com ------------------------------ Date: Mon, 10 Jul 2000 17:29:51 -0400 From: Nondescript Subject: ET: Under the Blue I am letting go. Distracted by severed limbs, I cannot fathom piecing myself together anymore. It is as simple as nothing. I have been boldly fractured into a million filaments, and instead of singing myself to sleep, I shall just watch from afar. I can turn myself off to everything. So long as I keep my mind on stitches and forget that I have been selfish, it is smooth as honey to only be. What is this gauze around my heart? When did I sprout claws? They mock me. They are shredding, laughing, and Christ, I have no control. I believed in myself to the extent of becoming everything I secretly adore. In the closed-door corridor of my own unbecoming disarray, I romanticize this insanity. Chaos has always been there to sweep me under the tide. There is a gift for me on the windowsill. It torments me beneath it's skin. I cannot tear it open. There is a newness I dare not disturb, though maliciously it haunts. To destruct it in any way would be to rip the vulnerable flesh of an infant. It is not about wanting, it is about the aftermath. So I consider it as carefully as if it were a time bomb, which well it may be. Is my husband trying to murder me again? I shall forget that I am single, and become fascinated with the notion of a troubled marriage and a man who beats me. Is it his way of apologizing for last night, when he threw me against the wall for becoming pregnant? He must have learned about my lover. And after he shot my only hope, I miscarried all over the kitchen floor. He pulls at me, like a cherry tree. I can move, but I do not speak. I am fasting for purging. I shall say nothing for a week, and this is my baptism, the washing of my sins. It is my hajj without a Mecca. Or, perhaps this present is not for me at all. Suppose my heart is locked away under the blue. It sits, impatient, ticking and imploding. I cannot get over the prospect of my heart creating a wake. I look, I search, but my eyelids are heavy and I see no one to accept it. So beautiful and so alone. But the box loves me. See how it holds me and refuses to let go. Watch as it slowly suffocates. Are there no survivors brave enough to do away with the ribbons and the paper? It is as done with as dinner. I am wiping my hands of it. Exhaustion and doubt paints gray rings under my eyes, for I have seen too many--both men and women, and even a mirror propped to face me. Gluttonous, every one. Amid the calamity and confusion, the blood of each other dripping down chins, seductive and inviting in all the stillness it offers. Grinning like gods, the feast of the ages. I am finished, and I rise like a man. Silent and leaving things for someone else to clean, not bothering to push in my chair. - -Annie ------------------------------ Date: Mon, 10 Jul 2000 17:34:43 -0400 From: Nondescript Subject: ET: Dude. I just realized that title of the last thing I sent, Under the Blue, sounds too much like the name of one of Tori Amos' albums, Under the Pink. Woah. I didn't even notice 'til I looked back. So, I guess I'll call it something else, when I figure out exactly what I should call it. I'm really bad at thinking of titles. - -Annie ------------------------------ Date: Mon, 10 Jul 2000 17:36:31 -0400 From: Nondescript Subject: ET: Eureka. I'll call it 'Stasis' instead. Thank you, and enjoy the show. ------------------------------ Date: Mon, 10 Jul 2000 20:46:27 EDT From: RJonthego@aol.com Subject: ET: Hyper, Sorrow, Content and Ashamed Hyper stays up late giggling with Giddy, sipping coffee with extra sugar Buying drinks for Humor (in the morning, Humor will regret this) Hyper waves at strange men and trips over her feet when she laughs. Sorrow drips from room to room, her blue cape catching the dust from the wooden floors. Everything looks shiny and pristine, like Sorrow's children, Tears, have been doing their chores. Ashamed crochets quietly in her bedroom, pillowcases of red and purple, and late at night she hides her head under them. In the morning, the colors seem to have transferred like she has been crocheting scarlet cheeks instead. Content peels oranges on the front porch, his feet up on the table. The peels pile up at his side, but next to the ice cold lemonade, they really don't matter. ~~~ roya ------------------------------ End of eda-thoughts-digest V3 #261 **********************************