GENIUS FORUMS

Where does Donna go when Mike appears?

-

Tomas says she's been banned

If I were Donna, and she is banned then how would I Mike get through?

Mike

It wouldn't surprise me at all if alien beings are right here on earth, hasn't anyone noticed the commercials on T.V, they seem to be preparing society of their existence.

Perhaps, to allow Gump to talk would be to cause hysteria among the herd.

But, to deny her of her mental competence is foolhardy. She'll make fools out of everyone!

Mike

It does seem suspicious that Mike's so supportive of Donna, and repeats her usual lines.

If true, then it's interesting that Donna knows how to act in a more masculine way. Even though it's motivated by wanting to be accepted, it means she knows there's something ugly about her feminine effusions (in the eyes of others whom she wishes to please).

This is probably the only way women can grow to be more masculine. If they see themselves as dignified in the eyes of others, whom they admire, then that's the next best thing to being dignified in their own eyes.

The whole key is what they value. Who are they trying to impress: a con artist? a husband type? a head honcho?

I'm not the only one supportive of Gump, she is well respected in Canada and accepted.

You guys are certainly suspicious, the gal's been banned.

I know I have a feminine side guys but lets face it I'm all male!

The names Mike, Mike Hunt

Mike

between races

I know that I'm not supposed to bother
you, he said.

you've got that right, I
answered.

but, he went on, I want to tell you
that I was up all night
reading your
latest book.
I've read all your
books.
I work in the
post office.

oh, I said.

and I want to interview you for
our newspaper.

no, I said, no
interview.

why? he asked.

I'm tired of interviews, they have
nothing to do with
anything.

listen, he went on, I'll make it
easy for you, I'll come to your
house or I'll buy you dinner at
Musso's.

no, thank you, I said.

look, the interview isn't really for
our paper, it's for
me, I'm a writer and I want to get
out of the post
office.

listen, I said, just pull up a chair
and sit down at your
typewriter.

no interview? he asked.

no, I answered.

he walked
off.

they were coming out on the track
for the next race.

talking to the young man had
made me feel
bad.

they thought that writing had
something to do with
the politics of the
thing.

they were simply not
crazy enough
in the head
to sit down to a
typer
and let the words bang
out.

they didn't want to
write
they wanted to
succeed at
writing.

I got up to make
my bet.

no use letting a little
conversation
ruin your
day.

-- Charles Bukowski


Don't lose yourself in the life of 'the others'.

Hamlet (final soliloquy)
Act IV, Scene iv

How all occasions do inform against me
And spur my dull revenge! What is a man,
If his chief good and market of his time
Be but to sleep and feed? a beast, no more.
Sure he that made us with such large discourse,
Looking before and after, gave us not
That capability and godlike reason
To fust in us unus'd. Now, whether it be
Bestial oblivion, or some craven scruple
Of thinking too precisely on the event,—
A thought which, quarter'd, hath but one part wisdom
And ever three parts coward,—I do not know
Why yet I live to say 'This thing's to do;'
Sith I have cause, and will, and strength, and means
To do't. Examples, gross as earth, exhort me:
Witness this army, of such mass and charge,
Led by a delicate and tender prince;
Whose spirit, with divine ambition puff'd,
Makes mouths at the invisible event;
Exposing what is mortal and unsure
To all that fortune, death, and danger dare,
Even for an egg-shell. Rightly to be great
Is not to stir without great argument,
But greatly to find quarrel in a straw
When honour's at the stake. How stand I, then,
That have a father kill'd, a mother stain'd,
Excitements of my reason and my blood,
And let all sleep? while, to my shame, I see
The imminent death of twenty thousand men
That, for a fantasy and trick of fame,
Go to their graves like beds; fight for a plot
Whereon the numbers cannot try the cause,
Which is not tomb enough and continent
To hide the slain?—O, from this time forth,
My thoughts be bloody, or be nothing worth!

~

Envy is a merciless beast, honour its sacrifice. To hell with the oblivion, the personal calamity, of such morality!

If armies of men move for a stolen grain of wheat to the sleep of death as if to their worldly beds with the same promise and possibility of awakening to an uncertain morning, what honour is there in not moving to avenge death itself? To be great is not, indeed, to stir without great argument, but to find great argument in the slightest infraction against one’s honour...

Leyla, are you talking about the will to individuality?

It is, ironically. Thus, it ends in the death of his entire family, who represent anything but.

Hamlet’s fate and legacy, which he was unable to overcome, is riddled with dishonour. First, in his father’s inability to recognise minor infractions against him by his own brother, Claudius (which should have moved him to action as a matter of honour) to such an extent that Claudius succeeds in murdering his own brother, taking the kingdom and his wife (Hamlet‘s mother).

Hamlet’s admiration for Fortinbras (the “delicate and tender prince” who moves 20,000 men to their deaths “over nothing”) stems precisely from this dishonour. His fate would see his own kingdom dropped into the lap of Fortinbras (whose impending wrath was levelled at Claudius) as avenging his father‘s death and mother‘s reputation; as the redemption of his and his family’s honour.

air and light and time and space

"---you know, I've either had a family, a job, something
has always been in the
way
but now
I've sold my house, I've found this
place, a large studio, you should see the space and
the light.
for the first time in my life I'm going to have a place and the time to
create."

no baby, if you're going to create
you're going to create whether you work
16 hours a day in a coal mine
or
you're going to create in a small room with 3 children
while you're on
welfare,
you're going to create with part of your mind and your
body blown
away,
you're going to create blind
crippled
demented,
you're going to create with a cat crawling up your
back while
the whole city trembles in earthquake, bombardment,
flood and fire.

baby, air and light and time and space
have nothing to do with it
and don't create anything
except maybe a longer life to find
new excuses
for.


-- Charles Bukowski

-----------------------------------
Stop making excuses.

(Alright, whatever I've uploaded of Bukowski is not poetry, and he writes almost no poetry, even 'there's a bluebird in my heart' isn't poetry. It's a very clear symbol. So poetry is using symbols to obfuscate matters.)

I think you are arbitrarily limiting the definition of poetry.

"There's a bluebird in my heart" is poetry, by definition.

I'm limiting the definition to further the causes of wisdom.

Some people can use unconventional symbols to point to wisdom, such as "There is no bottom in the bucket" or "He buried the tight-rope walker in a hollow log".

Some people can use unconventional symbols to hide or remain impervious to wisdom, such as "Truth is Beauty, Beauty Truth; That's is all we can or need to know".

Both wise and unwise are arbitrarily limiting definitions to suit their aims.

I knew you were going to say that. :)

It also depends who you're communicating with.

With others, it's best to use a common literary language that can represent anything in experience. You might be using a clear and precise language you've developed for yourself, but it looks like deliberate obfuscation to others.

For instance, for someone who's enthralled in real poetry, it's really a good idea just to bring them gently down to earth. Suggest they read of Love and other idealistic concepts, like the Dhammapada, or Thus Spake Zarathustra. It's helping them transition from their own limited and arbitrary view of the world, to a God-wide view.

For instance, for someone who's enthralled in real poetry, it's really a good idea just to bring them gently down to earth.

Yes, well--right now this is me we are talking about and, as should be abundantly clear, I am much too selfish for this to be my focus.

Suggest they read of Love and other idealistic concepts, [snip]

Pfft! Anathema, really. But, yeah.

Leyla Shen wrote:

For instance, for someone who's enthralled in real poetry, it's really a good idea just to bring them gently down to earth.

Yes, well--right now this is me we are talking about and, as should be abundantly clear, I am much too selfish for this to be my focus.

It's funny that this should come to your mind, as I was talking about the poetry-loving spirit, not any fixed individual.

Idealism is a fabulous tool to help the bottom fall out of a selfish and narcissistic state of mind. It widens the notion of self, and opens the mind up.

It's really quite interesting to contrast narcissism, with its lack of centre, to enthusiastic imagination, with its stable energy no matter what the circumstances.

Skipair's spirit is a youthful example of the latter type, being light-spirited, stable, fresh, and imaginative. I guess you can identify some of the heavy, stale, narrow-minded spirits who are going in circles in their constant reference to an absence of soul.

I think the difference is courage - willingness to lose and to risk all - jump out into the unknown - try something that is probably going to be painful, a bit tedious, untried.

[snip]…I was talking about the poetry-loving spirit, not any fixed individual.

Yes, I know. :)

To elaborate, I do not concern myself with the effort involved in bringing the poetry-loving spirit "gently down to earth" with poems of Love, etc., as the whole idea of doing so is, to me, quite limited in terms of potential---yes, my own. The idea concerns itself only with the treatment of thinking pathology. Orienting a poetry-loving spirit to the earth---toward the terra firma of reason, logic and wisdom---by repeating the same rhythm is only going to keep such a person so entranced---a sort of hypnotic state.

Pavlov‘s dog plus applied harmonics.

It's not the rhythm, the poem, that is key, but the carefully tuned notes being played. Such a person needs to be shaken--woken up by a few well-placed but perhaps seemingly dissonant chords--on the right frequency if they are going to stand a chance---and if we are concerned with more than simply manipulating an existing thinking pathology.

Only the wise can appreciate the depth in a piece of finely tuned music.

Idealism is a fabulous tool to help the bottom fall out of a selfish and narcissistic state of mind. It widens the notion of self, and opens the mind up.

Sure, if it is wise to conclude that all appearances of self (and, therefore, other) are necessarily narcissistic. Or, is it only idealistic instances of self appearance that appear so?

woken up by a few well-placed but perhaps seemingly dissonant chords--

Do you mean, the deafer a person, the louder you have to shout?

Sometimes people are deliberately deaf, and the plainer you speak, the deafer they become!

I tend to agree with Kevin --- nothing conquers quite like Love.

if it is wise to conclude that all appearances of self (and, therefore, other) are necessarily narcissistic.

No, I wouldn't say so. My real self is the Infinite, which isn't lacking a soul as the narcissistic attitude is lacking.

Or, is it only idealistic instances of self appearance that appear so?

If the love is of the Infinite self, then that doesn't lack a soul-centre either.

This one will be good for a sarcastic laugh among the nihilists, but I have actually had a lot of positive feedback about it over the years as simple poetic inspiration:

the last entry in my 'conscious unity' page:

Oh, tree of Life, From Earth To Sky,
You span All Time And Space;
You Integrate The Deep And High
With Beauty Truth And Grace. . .

Our Souls Are Drawn
Like Sap To Root
For Rest In Fertile Ground. . .
Then Up! To Sun and Bloom and Fruit…
To Share The Gifts Of Life We've Found!

I generally find poetry distasteful. I love good laconic phrases.

Nihilism doesn't exist!

Sometimes people are deliberately deaf, and the plainer you speak, the deafer they become!

Nevertheless, you can hear even them on the right frequency.

hello. let me share a poem

Tell me the story of your sorrow.
How deep do the roots of your pain go?

Explain to me how you got here.

Diving into a shallow pool of deep conversation:
Vertabras intact.

Tell me stranger, A strange story with your eyes.

Tell me, How can i feel your absence when we've only just met?

Tell me, Why does time remain our best friend and worst enemy?

Sitting across from me on the train, avoiding my eyes but compelled to glance.

Tell me stranger, why havent we yet met?
did u like this Love Poetry