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 All that remains: in afterlife as 'mainstream' blogger, with what little I know. 20k views |
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Obshchak Some torn to the ground ▼ Read here some old blog entries...  2018 Highlights ▼Brian K Compton   -- ![Merit Badge in Second Time Around Contest
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Congratulations on winning the Grand Overall Prize in [Link To Item #2164876] with your beautiful poem, [Link to Book Entry #933358]. This poem really moved me. Great writing!
Rachel *^*Heartv*^*](https://images.Writing.Com/imgs/writing.com/writers/badges/group-Second_Time_Around_Contest-2164963_14.gif) Short answer, mostly relatable. |
| A Student Proved Paradox-Free Time Travel Is Possible https://www.msn.com/en-us/health/medical/covid-19-news-cognitive-impairment-equi... If you keep your hands inside the machine at all times. So, in Quantum Mechanics, I can exist but not exist? Cause, it feels like I'm here and not here now. Let's see if anyone opens this box? I will have time traveled back and forth so many times, I'll have another 10,000 parallel lives. Or, three. The one you see, the one I see and the one I want people to see? I ruin everything by sticking my head out the window on every ride. *eyesroll* |
| Maybe, a little known fact about me: songs that get too much air play don't spin for me. I prefer lesser known songs by fave artists, or just music that lays low, undiscovered by the masses. When I found Ben Folds Five when I was running a music shop, I knew they played just for me. They got their 15 minutes, so I can play 'Brick' over and over and note tire of it. You can look at my blog or this book that was once my blog and see plenty of links to little known, or lesser known music. Occasionally, I go back to the past. I am mainly in the present from Indie to Blues. But right now, one of those acts everyone knows, there are two songs that immediately come to mine when I think of Aerosmith: "The Other Side" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zkGfPrst29Y They aren't complete unknowns, but I don't worry that vinyl will wear thin in my lifetime. The Other Side really gave me goosebumps the first time I heard it. It was my anthem. It solidified Aerosmith's comeback and journey to the top. Back In The Saddle just had a hook and vibe my teenage self couldn't shake for life. My current indulgence Freya Ridings needs to release a new album. Discovered six months ago, it's been three years. Girl, stop performing and get in the studio. I worry her backing isn't help push for new material. And, break into the states, honey. There is a whole other world waiting. Some prople don't like her vocal style. It's an acquired taste and it's all mine. Lyrics and a voice that intone the deepest, darkest parts of me. s |
| I identify, she's still my favorite character: Britta Perry, Communty: https://www.slashfilm.com/840536/how-britta-went-from-being-communitys-best-char... If I had one thing to add as a note to the author, who I can follow on Twitter and shout out, it would be: I told my wife years ago, "When you're happy, I'm happy." It sort of calms the storm within me to see her smile. I would do a lot of things to show my love and appreciation. Defending Britta as the show's 'worst', a conscious effort after falling out of love with a character who was perfect in episode one, is that she was suffering and no one knew why. No one really got into her story, other than a hypocritical activist. Then, she wanted to be a therapist. She was trying and took a lot of insults and kidding when she opened up to a group that sometimes supported her, but mostly mocked her. Could she have been on the spectrum worse than Abed, because she didn't know how to relate to the world, made poor choices, but her heart was essentially good. She made mistakes, but was humble. I feel I would tell this author to look further at the motivation for a character that always wanted to help the fallen and downtrodden before herself. She got rattled by Pierce's 10k ‘bequeathment’ to see if she'd keep it for herself. She was eventually living in a tent on campus, wrestled with finances, didn't want her parent's support but reluctantly took money pitously through a backchannel her friend's created with her parents, 'tired' of paying for her. Her concept of finances was bad. She stole quarters from a cupholder in the final season. Britta would up being a bartender, no where near a Psych degree. And my point is, she chose psychology because it helped her to help others, just as activism, or helping Abed with his dad and the loss of Troy and helping Jeff reunite with his father. She even ran Shirley’s sub shop, serving burnt sandwiches with sadness and guilt. She wanted what was best for everyone and knowing she could make a difference allowed her a bit of dignity and pride she lost from being confused by the world and how it functions. Original Britta never had that struggle and lost her identity as a member of seven. The simplest acts like helping others mends a soul hemorrhaging and yet still hanging in there, still trying. Admittedly, Britta looked worn out by the end of season six. The realization she would not heal might have been setting in. Alcohol and sex with men could have been the last wall to come tumbling down, if she could not find worth and self-redemption. And let's face, Greendale was a joke of a college, fictitious, because community or city institutions don't hand out four year degrees. But, you could take pass or fail classes for 30 plus years like Leonard and remain valedictorian? And, that's a high school thing, just like all those dances run by a Dean who obviously faced something traumatic in his own formative years to rerun the past and force it on unwitting community college denizens. I think he hated Britta and even started the buzz she was the worst, jealous of her barely there relationship with Jeff. I'll think on this more before I post. This was supposed to be short. 9.9.22 10.23.22 updated |
| PROMPT 5: Sept 5 – Do writers have obligations towards their readers? If so, what can they be? If not, why not? Do you have anything to tell about (your) readers? On Writers and Readers. No. What are the readers obligations to me as a writer, I offer rhetorically? No, a writer such as myself has no debt to readers. A paid writer has obligations to publishers and editors, if under a contract. A writer might feel indebted if he or she has fans. But, we write for ourselves. What motivates a person to write might actually determines the level of obligation one might feel. The obligation is to oneself and those who depend on them, like family, to provide a sustainable living. If a writer makes promises, there is a moral obligation in some rare instances. But, still no. Why we become writers is this impulse to put down words and craft them in a fashion similar to puzzling. We are creating as artists, although there are grant writers, educational requirements for theses or essays, and tabloid matter, including columns and other print criteria. I won’t speak to social media, basically brainwashing and rewriting history, social, moral and ethical values. No. We are fully going to focus on the struggling, starving profession called writing. I'm not going to look at the world through Elizabeth Gibson's lens. I write for me and aim to find a niche, to find some avenue of discovery. But, I can't think about getting paid for this. It's not nearly to that horizon. Ah, but there might be an obligation in the process to being discovered. Why would anyone care to read us? First, you have to be in the stream where you could be found and your words can be shared. Grr, social media.  How's that going to happen unless you tirelessly self-promote? When that process begins, it creates expectations. ‘Who want to read me?’ is the call. The response might be ‘we like what we so far. Show us what you've got’. Sort of an obligation there. You start mingling with readers and writers and there's the back and forth. You shout them out, the do the same. It’s a lot of work and you realize creativity has been stunted. When is that next Gibson creation coming? I don't know. Don't care. She got paid. She created those obligations. I'm Joe Schmo sitting over here in my incipient void on the internet, hunkered down between atoms of programming matter wondering what I'm doing in this tiny space I've occupied. I made $15? On my first digital book of poetry? On Amazon. Wasn't really pushing it or trying to be a household name. It's just something cool I could do. Now, I'm sitting here as a two-time Quill award winner of Best Poetry Collection (2020 and 2021). I'm dead in the water. There won't be anything beyond. Charitable? An honor. It's really more of a Gibson moment. But for me, resignation. So, while I'll park my butt this fall under a tree in a sunny patch an inhale nature connecting to my soul, I won't be thinking while jotting down words who's expecting this man to hop on the internet and post these ditties. I'm purging, I'm learning about life. I'm inside my head, pinging off my soul and heart, sending signals back to my brain, stimulated to conjur up word pictures and lonely lectures on the life of a solemn poet. No manuscript for a novel is forthcoming. No inklings of writing a short story for a site sponsored contest because I don’t get a sniff. Just an endless stream of "The Absence of Wavelength and Sight"  filling a book nearing it's end. Obligation to continue my membership is ending, too. Perhaps, a big send off in one to three years, when I drop all remaining coin collected, close account, forget writing and take up fishing. I'll stop puzzling words in my brain and sing aloud, dance with my wife in the kitchen, weed the garden beds and plant fresh bulbs, have summer cookouts, card games with friends, and keep hinting my kids need to grow up and move out — because a woman needs all of my attention. The true obligation would be her. She's not asking for a poem and a flower on her pillow, but my strong arms around her waist, a gleam in my eye as to happily spin her round and round until the bomb drops.No. Life is my obligation. PS -- I would gladly consent to becoming a white case here and leave all my gifts to this community. I'm not sure the obligation. It's given me SO much. But, say I'm dead and my family wants to take all my work and have a publisher create collections post part 'em? They get first crack. I'm sure I'll fade into obscurity like all the rest. Pack up all my belongings and turn the light out here before I'm white in my casket. It feels like I'm in it now. I reiterate: I've been give SO much. I also GAVE a lot — my words, my content, my support at times, when I could. Can you imagine writing over 3,000 reviews (5k plus from deletions) the length of high school to college essays and the best you could average was maybe 10-25 cents per review? There was definitely an impulse for many years of obligation, vague as it was, to fit in. I'm grateful for my status that arrived 14 years post. Honestly, I cherish it. I think it creates further obligation, so I upped my game. But, with mental affliction, learning disability, childhood PTSD, lingering and uncurable blindness, apnea, social awkwardness and more, you just want to get through one day without tearing the lid off something. Anger is better than self-pity. I grind. I wear out. I write. I purge. Obligation? Obligation?? We're talking about obligation??? I want mother's arms to wrap me up in my weakest moments, assurance. I want to protect my family from carpetbaggers and all the evil of the world. I have to save every last dime to make sure they are provided for when I'm gone. Maybe, that will include these unexamined words. This unmentored writing life where I struggle to co-exist. Where I wish I could tap one person on the shoulder and ask, is there any hope for me? And like some all knowing God, they can say 'give it up, kid.' You'll only get a headache. Just, no. No. Elizabeth Gibson owes me an explanation. 9.5.22 |
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