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Automatic
cap, captain miss america
teaberryblue
So, lunylucy did an automatic writing assignment for class and I decided to do some automatic writing of my own this evening.



I aspire to be more than a fluffy ball of feathery fur, of purposely arranged flowers dripping vodka as they cheer the sunny ballerina's kiss. Hateful as it seems, the cockeyed pussycat was arrested on the first of the month. And no one ate haggis in the parlor that evening, for the bare particulars of the situation called for a dichotomy not unlike one seen on a Sunday in March superceded only by that which we call, "Harold."

Violent perks of caffeinated substance. The burden of stipulation has no effect on treacle tarts. Jam is sticky. Jam is gooey. I never met a rosebud I didn't like except for ones eaten away by worms and full of holes and dull and smelling like old wetness. If the piranha was my neighbor and the octopus was my friend, the bus never came until the end of the block and then all the people who got on were haggard and angry and did not want a refund in spite of the lemons.

Wishing faithfully that I am not what I seem, the cuckoo clock dancers are adamant as they twirl in vacant bags. Wistful and wandering and arrogant and aggravating and delightful and I never wanted to eat chicken at the picnic. It is greasy and proud of all the descendants of the fireflies it executed in the snow, bleeding grey virulent chastisement. Itsy bitsy spiders are the things of building blocks and mobiles and the spilling spinning air goes swish.

Have you ever seen the glass from the other side of the room? Does it melt slowly in the night and sing badly? After every rainstorm, the drops all fall consecutively and rectangles are free to deer. As it always was in the kitchen for mercy falls like teardrops on the favored asylum. Was it never the oval rectangle gentility of grace and has-beens? Is there no refuge for the real calliope murmuring chanting also altruistic?

Has the sun gone into the burbling box of fantastic chocolate vanity? I sing with the songs of a thousand purple balloons. I sang and danced and the broken hymns of salvation were eaten by the antelopes on the top of the hills of reckoning. Never were there any children in the porpoises' swamp. Vampires grow dim and groves of purple plants are receding into the foresty wetness of dialectic interchange. This is sleeping. This is as obscure as the orangutan's kisses. As the old man said to the penguin, everything is chance and change and change is the lamp in the ceiling vaguely drifting downstream into the new world of electric additives.

I scratch at the republic of youth and despair and the nails on the wall of brick reptiles admire the silly prose I write for no purpose but that they are singing dancing asking for menus in the pub diner curtains with red checks are blooming out the ceiling with musty smoke inhalation for all the diners who never wanted a sandwich with a pickle or cheese on the side. Whispering under their breath how their lungs hurt and not knowing that I too have a bubble in my chest, sickly swimming north at slow, slow speeds. A flake in the eye, and a scrap of hair that wants to be a pilot.

Vaguely I recall my youth when I was a curly-haired little moppet and I do not regret that I never swam in the Ganges. It was muddy though I have never actually seen it and I do not think the purpose of this song and dance is to tell you about all of the recollections of things I did not actually do, nor shall I ever do them, but that is superfluous at the present say. The headache is dimmer and duller and I do not fear the coming of the reptilian beasts who walk on four legs across the sandy desert to bring us swiss almond pies with nuts sliced so thin they taste like dirt. This is not my Cinderella. She is not too tall for this arrangement.

I recall that there was once a hand on my plate and it was hot and musty and there was nothing to do but to look at it and wonder if it had ever been there at all even though it was there as I was staring at it, somberly and soberly and seeing what I believed to be the red jumpsuit worn by an Olympic swimmer. I do not pretend to know the track or field but I know the running and jumping and zipper and suede and polyester. Has there been no enchanting illness with which to compete? I do not think it is fair to blame the seagulls. They did not know that their life depended on sandwiches or donuts, or that the crime in New England was caused by radiation poisoning at the zoo. Sixteen plastic doohickeys for everyone!

I sickly sadly stated that the purpose of the revolution was to be impressed by nothing but my own frankness and that is quite sad seeing as I have been dishonest with you all from the time I was a small child and said in fact that I was a penguin. Penguins never lie and so you must have been taken in by that small falsehood which grew in proportion like a vaudevillian duckling who walked the tightrope from the San Fernando Valley to a Grecian Urn to which odes were written and burned and the ashes laid inside it, pretending to be the remains of my grandmother, who is not dead and who will never die because pink lace is not to be trifled with. Sobriety, my dears, is a lost cause, and we will never suffer so under the delusion that halting stems of vanquished ponies will lie and conquer and never be able to read or write. Writhing in tongues of how-do-you-dos and making it very clear that there is no excess but in escape.


I realized about halfway through Lost that I had forgotten to liveblog. Oh well! I liked it, although this OMG WE WILL REVEAL ANOTHER MEMBER OF THE OCEANIC SIX gimmick is kind of lame. One of the things I do like about the show is that no one can really be pegged as all bad or all good.

I have news of a personal nature which I will post the next time I post a locked post, because it concerns a family member who has not told everyone in his immediate life yet. But it is good news, very good news.

You are all awesome people. I have not been as good a commenter lately as I should be, and rotae made me smile today by including me on her list of 20 people and I just got a tickle out of that, but I started to do it and can't pick just 20 so no list. Just, you are all awesome. Congratulations, coldwriter on your book; captain_hat, your comic is awesome, emmiiiie, things totally get better and people stop being petty jerks, mel06, I got a kick out of your voting post, cinediva, that spindle is hot. If I forgot to comment on something important, or missed it completely, pretend I commented because I really would have liked to.

I have been writing song lyrics again for the first time in a long time. They're just bits and pieces of things, and I sort of wish I played an instrument well enough to record some of them for you to hear without them just being a cappella.


I don't know just what it meant, but
People in the government
All talk of revolution, and it
starts to make me sad,
'cause
They say I should get out & vote, but
in the end, that's all she wrote, and
No matter how the world ends,
I don't think it could be all that bad
So
When you're marching off to war,
Pretend I'm the one you're fighting for
That I'm the victim and the madman
I'm the virgin and the bad man
I don't want you to fight for me
Just let things rest, just let things be
I don't want you to fight for me
I don't want you to fight for me

People say that love is blind, but
It's also patient, also kind, and
I've found more real love from friends
Than any number of distant men and
I don't want it any other way
If you ask me again, I'll say
I don't want it any other way
I don't want it any other way
I don't want you to fight for me
I don't want you to fight for me
So stop your revolution 'cause
It's spinning much too fast
And I don't know just what it means, but
First responders to the scene
All count the casualties
And it starts to make me sick
'cause
All were gone and all were lost
And no one cared much for the cost, and
No matter where we go now,
We'll be building brick by brick
So when you're marching off to war
Remember what's worth fighting for
I asked you not to fight for me
To let things rest, to let things be
I asked you not to fight for me
I asked you not to fight for me.



Now I am sleepy. Nighty-night!

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Explain this mysterious "automatic writing" thing to me, please!

Also, I am hopefully going to be posting a big MY THEORIES ABOUT LOST post soon! I have many new ones.

I have many new ones too that are only not posted because I was talking to my mom and dad all the way through it last night! I am excited!

And automatic writing is when you just sit down and start writing or typing whatever comes to mind and not try to think about a story or a theme or sense. So it's like:

The lugubrious anticipation of the filthy indoctrination was ever so happy to be belittled by fate on Tuesday.

I really enjoyed doing automatic writing. Did you?

Anyway, yours soounds like a cross between what I've read of Breton's automatic writing and what I came up with. He seemed to always drift to an abundance of adjectives and esoteric words. Although he also had these passages that almost sounded like regular writing.

I really enjoyed it. I feel like once I get into the zone of writing like that, my mind automatically starts drifting into lyrical patterns, which is a very pleasant sensation. I think I am going to keep doing more of it, if not this much. I definitely felt like sometimes it was like playing word ssociation while at other times it was a lot more loose and free.

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