deadken
deadken
penitent
Post rating:
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im trying to adpot a non-'literary' voice for this thing, thats the base, i want to write some bits like a romance novel, some like an absurd adventure story, some like war reportage, some like a philosophical treatise, all interspersed with various bits of ephemera, tv screenplays, holiday brochures, maybe internet posts... not sure how well that'll pan out but Thats The Plan
deadken
deadken
penitent
Post rating:
~
Impper posted:
it's not really courage so much as a lack of self awareness (ime)
same thing surely
Impper
Impper
Post rating:
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i think theres a socratic dialogue about the difference between courage and courage arising from stupidity
aerdil
aerdil
Post rating:
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deadken posted:
im trying to adpot a non-'literary' voice for this thing, thats the base, i want to write some bits like a romance novel, some like an absurd adventure story, some like war reportage, some like a philosophical treatise, all interspersed with various bits of ephemera, tv screenplays, holiday brochures, maybe internet posts... not sure how well that'll pan out but Thats The Plan
noice pastiche bro
Impper
Impper
Post rating:
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i had a random thought about your "peace" while on the bus today and it's that basically {your voice/the way you write} has an incredible sense of ease to it, almost like a virtuoso musician's sense of production. obviously that implies great talent; it also doesn't imply that what you're doing is ah-mazing, only that you've sort of got the rhythms and a sense of pace very naturally. idk how hard you worked on that particular piece or any other, but yah
[account deactivated]
Impper
Impper
Post rating:
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ah yes, how could i forget ._.
aerdil
aerdil
Post rating:
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tpaine, i hate to break this to you but... i was reading grundlesworthy long before you ever even picked up a fucking book. bitch.
EmanuelaBrolandi
EmanuelaBrolandi
Post rating:
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My grandad took a couple classes from grundlesworthy at officer's school back when he was an SS in training. Said he really was an inspired professor and researcher, not just a great writer.
deadken
deadken
penitent
Post rating:
~
Impper posted:
i had a random thought about your "peace" while on the bus today and it's that basically {your voice/the way you write} has an incredible sense of ease to it, almost like a virtuoso musician's sense of production. obviously that implies great talent; it also doesn't imply that what you're doing is ah-mazing, only that you've sort of got the rhythms and a sense of pace very naturally. idk how hard you worked on that particular piece or any other, but yah
lol thanks but this is weird to read cuz i agonise over basically every word and when its always done i always have this feeling like its somehow not 'right'... its always either too formal, too stilted, too rhetorical...or plain + awkward + dumb. fuck my brain
deadken
deadken
penitent
Post rating:
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i won the grundlesworthy prize when i was 14 for a poem about butts
Impper
Impper
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you never can tell how easy something was to do simply by how effortless it looked. in your case all of that 'effort' shows inasmuch as it looks like it was done ... effortlessly. as for me i really don't agonize over my writing anymore and it probably shows heh heh
AmericanNazbro
AmericanNazbro
Post rating:
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aerdil posted:
tpaine, i hate to break this to you but... i was reading grundlesworthy long before you ever even picked up a fucking book. bitch.
Damn...
[account deactivated]
[account deactivated]
mudcrabs
mudcrabs
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What's the deal w/ post-modernism
Impper
Impper
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im not sure but it seems to have something to do with modernism
[account deactivated]
littlegreenpills
littlegreenpills
Poronto
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I don't get it at all
mudcrabs
mudcrabs
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discipline posted:
Postmodernism, or the Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism by Fredric Jameson
what
gyrofry
gyrofry
Kurdt
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+
mudcrabs posted:
What's the deal w/ post-modernism
it white
cleanhands
cleanhands
Post rating:
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discipline posted:
Postmodernism, or the Cultural Logic of Late Capitalism by Fredric Jameson
theres a typo in the very first line of the intro, im sorry but this will not do
mudcrabs
mudcrabs
Post rating:
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Still have no idea what post-modernism is
[account deactivated]
[account deactivated]
mudcrabs
mudcrabs
Post rating:
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tpaine posted:mudcarb
getfiscal
getfiscal
Mike Nelson here.
Post rating:
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mudcrabs posted:Still have no idea what post-modernism is
getfiscal
getfiscal
Mike Nelson here.
Post rating:
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tpaine posted:mudcarb
i laughed a lot
[account deactivated]
mudcrabs
mudcrabs
Post rating:
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youtube remixes of KOTH eps own
tentativelurkeraccount
tentativelurkeraccount
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do you guys mind if i rez this thread? i just feel like posting
(REDACTED) 11:09:21
Maybe what really happened to me—what’s got me so suicidal these past few months—is that in college, during my nihilistic phase, I started frequenting *humanities., a pretty popular newsgroup on Usenet back in the day, and one night I got into this argument with this supposed linguistics professor going by the username Gregory—back then you could pick usernames like Gregory or Chad without appending the now-necessary Xx123xXs of today’s world wide web—about the proper pronunciation of the word ‘acquiesce’—it’s something like ak-wee-ES, not ak-WEES, if you were wondering—and ended up making a pretty obtuse bet with the guy over who was right. It was all this guy’s idea, the bet—keep in mind that the culture and rhetoric of .humanities back then was doused in about seven layers of tongue-in-cheek irony—and it was that the loser would have to—the loser wound up being me, by the way—I would have to find and consume all works containing references to some obscure 18th century speculative fiction author named Joaquin Hanover—the basis for that being that this Hanover guy is the one who brought the word acquiesce into popular usage. I wouldn’t understand why I was supposed to seek out references to the guy rather than his actual body of work until later. The terms of this bet had me updating this dynamic Usenet posting with each reference to this Hanover chump that I could find in other works, mostly book reviews of the era or academic papers detailing the history of shitty speculative fiction, stuff like that. At first I played along in a somewhat detached and sardonic spirit, like, “Hey guys (and yeah, people would really turn out for this stuff, it was neat) here’s the hottest scoop on that Joaquin Hanover fellow!” and posting an oppressively mundane article dated 1754 alluding to the sagging sales of one his books—those all had ridiculous titles, by the way, my favorite being The Scriveners Who Shit Last—but after a while of wading through this stuff—and even right from the beginning there was a lot of it; surprising for an author whose existence faded from pop culture’s memory right around the 1890s it would seem—the references I found kept getting increasingly elaborate and obtuse and layered and this thing was really starting to feel like I’d gone down a rabbit hole. Nothing sinister or conspiracy theory-like, mind you, but dude’s getting off-handedly mentioned in Finnegan’s Wake—the song that inspired the book, I mean, but it gets mentioned in the book, too, if that wasn't obvious—and Action Comics #002, lots of early SNL episodes for some reason—come to find out that one of the writers, Joe Hardy, was a big fan of one of Hanover’s short stories, The Greased Benefactress and How She Came to York, having read it as like a kid or something—and it’s in a ton of old timey radio shows from the 30s, like he’s some inside joke for the radio guys where they say Jackie Handover! in this real shrill intonation and cackle all funnily but they won’t ever reveal the origin of the meme—its mystery and obscurity was part of the gag, from what I could gather. And of course the guy has a punk rock band or two named after him/his stuff, he gets named in at least six Barth novels (the most mindbending thing coming in the Chimera story with the genie) . . .I got really into this little hunt for all things Hanover. As stupid as it sounds it was the one steady thing I had through the years, through the two awful marriages and the myriad soul-sucking jobs I did and all that . . .Every Thursday night I’d have that Usenet update out with all these bizarre little allusions to fucking Joaquin Hanover and everyone would be absolutely enthralled with the nuggets we’d—because it wasn’t just me anymore, it was a team of .humanities guys looking for stuff--found that week. It was a real kick. We even had this one fiasco where apparently some expressionist painter desperate for exposure caught wind of our little list so she started tagging all of her work with shit related to Hanover, as a way of you know getting her name out there. Of course we found out eventually so I took her junk off the posting—she lived in Walla Walla, but that’s not really pertinent now is it?—and had to instate a rule where only references made prior to the creation date of the original Usenet post were allowed. It got that big.
(REDACTED) 11:09:32
But then one day it all just dried up. I must have spent eight hours that last Wednesday night scrambling across the net—I’d gotten amazing at Googling stuff over the years, as you can imagine—for a single Hanover ref. I couldn’t find anything. I’d compiled it all—it was complete. Fourteen years, six months, eleven weeks, and three days after making that silly bet and I’d finally finished. I thought I’d’ve felt satisfied once I found that last ref, accomplished in a stupid way, but I just felt kind of empty. Thursdays were just Thursdays now. They were the same as all the rest. Sure, the guy’s got the most comprehensively cited Wikipedia page on the whole dang site (www.wikipedia/wiki/Joaquin_Hanover), but aside from that I’ve nothing really to show for. I’ve got nothing.
(REDACTED) 11:09:21
Maybe what really happened to me—what’s got me so suicidal these past few months—is that in college, during my nihilistic phase, I started frequenting *humanities., a pretty popular newsgroup on Usenet back in the day, and one night I got into this argument with this supposed linguistics professor going by the username Gregory—back then you could pick usernames like Gregory or Chad without appending the now-necessary Xx123xXs of today’s world wide web—about the proper pronunciation of the word ‘acquiesce’—it’s something like ak-wee-ES, not ak-WEES, if you were wondering—and ended up making a pretty obtuse bet with the guy over who was right. It was all this guy’s idea, the bet—keep in mind that the culture and rhetoric of .humanities back then was doused in about seven layers of tongue-in-cheek irony—and it was that the loser would have to—the loser wound up being me, by the way—I would have to find and consume all works containing references to some obscure 18th century speculative fiction author named Joaquin Hanover—the basis for that being that this Hanover guy is the one who brought the word acquiesce into popular usage. I wouldn’t understand why I was supposed to seek out references to the guy rather than his actual body of work until later. The terms of this bet had me updating this dynamic Usenet posting with each reference to this Hanover chump that I could find in other works, mostly book reviews of the era or academic papers detailing the history of shitty speculative fiction, stuff like that. At first I played along in a somewhat detached and sardonic spirit, like, “Hey guys (and yeah, people would really turn out for this stuff, it was neat) here’s the hottest scoop on that Joaquin Hanover fellow!” and posting an oppressively mundane article dated 1754 alluding to the sagging sales of one his books—those all had ridiculous titles, by the way, my favorite being The Scriveners Who Shit Last—but after a while of wading through this stuff—and even right from the beginning there was a lot of it; surprising for an author whose existence faded from pop culture’s memory right around the 1890s it would seem—the references I found kept getting increasingly elaborate and obtuse and layered and this thing was really starting to feel like I’d gone down a rabbit hole. Nothing sinister or conspiracy theory-like, mind you, but dude’s getting off-handedly mentioned in Finnegan’s Wake—the song that inspired the book, I mean, but it gets mentioned in the book, too, if that wasn't obvious—and Action Comics #002, lots of early SNL episodes for some reason—come to find out that one of the writers, Joe Hardy, was a big fan of one of Hanover’s short stories, The Greased Benefactress and How She Came to York, having read it as like a kid or something—and it’s in a ton of old timey radio shows from the 30s, like he’s some inside joke for the radio guys where they say Jackie Handover! in this real shrill intonation and cackle all funnily but they won’t ever reveal the origin of the meme—its mystery and obscurity was part of the gag, from what I could gather. And of course the guy has a punk rock band or two named after him/his stuff, he gets named in at least six Barth novels (the most mindbending thing coming in the Chimera story with the genie) . . .I got really into this little hunt for all things Hanover. As stupid as it sounds it was the one steady thing I had through the years, through the two awful marriages and the myriad soul-sucking jobs I did and all that . . .Every Thursday night I’d have that Usenet update out with all these bizarre little allusions to fucking Joaquin Hanover and everyone would be absolutely enthralled with the nuggets we’d—because it wasn’t just me anymore, it was a team of .humanities guys looking for stuff--found that week. It was a real kick. We even had this one fiasco where apparently some expressionist painter desperate for exposure caught wind of our little list so she started tagging all of her work with shit related to Hanover, as a way of you know getting her name out there. Of course we found out eventually so I took her junk off the posting—she lived in Walla Walla, but that’s not really pertinent now is it?—and had to instate a rule where only references made prior to the creation date of the original Usenet post were allowed. It got that big.
(REDACTED) 11:09:32
But then one day it all just dried up. I must have spent eight hours that last Wednesday night scrambling across the net—I’d gotten amazing at Googling stuff over the years, as you can imagine—for a single Hanover ref. I couldn’t find anything. I’d compiled it all—it was complete. Fourteen years, six months, eleven weeks, and three days after making that silly bet and I’d finally finished. I thought I’d’ve felt satisfied once I found that last ref, accomplished in a stupid way, but I just felt kind of empty. Thursdays were just Thursdays now. They were the same as all the rest. Sure, the guy’s got the most comprehensively cited Wikipedia page on the whole dang site (www.wikipedia/wiki/Joaquin_Hanover), but aside from that I’ve nothing really to show for. I’ve got nothing.
deadken
deadken
penitent
Post rating:
+
creative writing class exercise TWO yall. based on one of my own posts, here at tHE r H i z z o n E. i havent slept in.... a while
In sci-fi films the monsters are always disgusting. They ooze fluids from every pore, their exoskeletons glisten with mucus, their digestive juices slop about in wide arcs, their goo splatters everywhere once our heroes inevitably blow them up. That’s us. It’s not the unknown that really scares us, it’s ourselves. It fascinates us too.
I’m in the food court of a mall in San Antonio, watching people eat. One guy in particular, a fat old geezer in one of those motorised wheelchairs. He lifts the cheeseburger up to his face. As he bites into it the crumbs stick to the grease surrounding his mouth, the oil runs in rivulets down his face, little specks of gristle wedge themselves inbetween his teeth. When he eats the skin hanging down from his neck sways from side to side. Ripples pass across it, as slow and solemn as the tides. He’s not looking in any particular direction, he just stares into the hazy distance, his eyes moistening with – with what? Regret? Shame? Self-loathing? I wish, but it’s unlikely. I don’t really care. It’s hard to feel sorry for him.
I can see it all. I can see the blood rushing through his fat-clogged arteries, the phlegm in the back of his throat that gives his breath its laboured wheeze, the yeasty cells swarming in the pits and folds of his belly. His jeans are rubbing against his thighs; the skin there is breaking out in livid sores; the pus bubbles away just underneath. His ears are caked with wax, slimy stuff, clotted with particles of dust. Somewhere in the fetid depths of his gut the walls of his gut are pulsing and contracting, squeezing a half-formed turd along inch by gruesome inch.
The burger is finished; now he’s moving on to the chips. He grabs a couple with one swollen hand, he smears them in the ketchup, he shoves them roughly into his mouth. A big gulp of Coke. More stray liquid drips courses down his cheeks, collecting in little puddles around the stubble that bristles from his skin. I see the burp shuddering in his chest before it bursts out and his lips wobble about like plates of jelly. A light spray of saliva splatters against his plate, mingling with the juices from his meal.
A few tables down two girls are eating with their mother. They’re seventeen, maybe; their cheeks are flush with enthusiasm, their chatter fills the air with spittle, their nostrils are plugged with mucus, stringy conduits squirm and writhe inside their bodies. They seem to hardly notice that the spectre of their future is just across from them. She sits glumly, her sour, defeated look telling me all I need to know: she has a wardrobe full of polyester pantsuits and a big grey minivan, there’s a bottle of Diazepam on the bathroom counter of her sprawling bungalow in the suburbs. Eventually she’ll grow tired with it all and die; the kids will cry about it for a while, then they'll slowly start to forget. The microbes will disperse her fluids through the soil.
I don’t eat much these days; some dry crackers, occasionally, with a glass of water. I’ve given up on sex entirely – all that grunting and sweating and squirting; I don’t miss it at all, it’s better to observe people from a distance. I’m smoking a lot; I’ve grown quite attached to amphetamines. I've learned to make do with one or two hours of sleep a night. My friends tell me I’m wasting away; they say it in voices dripping with self-righteous concern. I’ve never felt more alive. Once you detach yourself from the world you can see it for what it is. It’s a joke. It’s all one big joke, and only I seem to get it.
In sci-fi films the monsters are always disgusting. They ooze fluids from every pore, their exoskeletons glisten with mucus, their digestive juices slop about in wide arcs, their goo splatters everywhere once our heroes inevitably blow them up. That’s us. It’s not the unknown that really scares us, it’s ourselves. It fascinates us too.
I’m in the food court of a mall in San Antonio, watching people eat. One guy in particular, a fat old geezer in one of those motorised wheelchairs. He lifts the cheeseburger up to his face. As he bites into it the crumbs stick to the grease surrounding his mouth, the oil runs in rivulets down his face, little specks of gristle wedge themselves inbetween his teeth. When he eats the skin hanging down from his neck sways from side to side. Ripples pass across it, as slow and solemn as the tides. He’s not looking in any particular direction, he just stares into the hazy distance, his eyes moistening with – with what? Regret? Shame? Self-loathing? I wish, but it’s unlikely. I don’t really care. It’s hard to feel sorry for him.
I can see it all. I can see the blood rushing through his fat-clogged arteries, the phlegm in the back of his throat that gives his breath its laboured wheeze, the yeasty cells swarming in the pits and folds of his belly. His jeans are rubbing against his thighs; the skin there is breaking out in livid sores; the pus bubbles away just underneath. His ears are caked with wax, slimy stuff, clotted with particles of dust. Somewhere in the fetid depths of his gut the walls of his gut are pulsing and contracting, squeezing a half-formed turd along inch by gruesome inch.
The burger is finished; now he’s moving on to the chips. He grabs a couple with one swollen hand, he smears them in the ketchup, he shoves them roughly into his mouth. A big gulp of Coke. More stray liquid drips courses down his cheeks, collecting in little puddles around the stubble that bristles from his skin. I see the burp shuddering in his chest before it bursts out and his lips wobble about like plates of jelly. A light spray of saliva splatters against his plate, mingling with the juices from his meal.
A few tables down two girls are eating with their mother. They’re seventeen, maybe; their cheeks are flush with enthusiasm, their chatter fills the air with spittle, their nostrils are plugged with mucus, stringy conduits squirm and writhe inside their bodies. They seem to hardly notice that the spectre of their future is just across from them. She sits glumly, her sour, defeated look telling me all I need to know: she has a wardrobe full of polyester pantsuits and a big grey minivan, there’s a bottle of Diazepam on the bathroom counter of her sprawling bungalow in the suburbs. Eventually she’ll grow tired with it all and die; the kids will cry about it for a while, then they'll slowly start to forget. The microbes will disperse her fluids through the soil.
I don’t eat much these days; some dry crackers, occasionally, with a glass of water. I’ve given up on sex entirely – all that grunting and sweating and squirting; I don’t miss it at all, it’s better to observe people from a distance. I’m smoking a lot; I’ve grown quite attached to amphetamines. I've learned to make do with one or two hours of sleep a night. My friends tell me I’m wasting away; they say it in voices dripping with self-righteous concern. I’ve never felt more alive. Once you detach yourself from the world you can see it for what it is. It’s a joke. It’s all one big joke, and only I seem to get it.
deadken
deadken
penitent
Post rating:
~
tentativelurkeraccount posted:
do you guys mind if i rez this thread? i just feel like posting
i really like this..... your conceit is cool, kinda cyber-borgesian..... you use really long sentences as well, which some people dont like, i do it myself a lot though & think its an interesting method.... i also like the way you just kinda sketch in personal details of your characters life on the periphery of the narrative... noice... n0ice
Groulxsmith
Groulxsmith
drivel of drunken hags
Post rating:
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deadken posted:
i like it. middle-american suburbanites have had a cultural free pass for far too long. turns out they have their own problems; all that glitters...? hardly.
deadken
deadken
penitent
Post rating:
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its not a critique of suburbanites its an exercise in psychopathy, the assignment was to write a passage with a 'raw, distinctive narrative voice'
mudcrabs
mudcrabs
Post rating:
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I need to come up with a Narrative Essay and an Essay about some video today and I can't bring myself to care
aerdil
aerdil
Post rating:
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i got ur raw, distinctive narrative voice right here bro *clutches my crotch*
mudcrabs
mudcrabs
Post rating:
~
For my logic course I have to do "reflections" on any video from a list of videos, and I was a bit confused as to what that means, so I emailed my instructor:
"So what are we supposed to do for reflections exactly?"
"It's outlined on the syllabus. Basically, "What? So what? Now what?""
"So is it an actual essay?"
"Yes"
I still don't know what kind of essay I'm supposed to be writing or what the point of the essay is.
"So what are we supposed to do for reflections exactly?"
"It's outlined on the syllabus. Basically, "What? So what? Now what?""
"So is it an actual essay?"
"Yes"
I still don't know what kind of essay I'm supposed to be writing or what the point of the essay is.
littlegreenpills
littlegreenpills
Poronto
Post rating:
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post the videos
mudcrabs
mudcrabs
Post rating:
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littlegreenpills posted:
post the videos
Here's the list:
PHIL 103: Reflection Videos
Artificial Intelligence
Artificial Intelligence and the Mind
Artificial Intelligence: The Common Sense Problem
Bacon's Method of Scientific Induction
Brain and Religious Experiences
Brain in a Vat (Part I)
Brain in a Vat (Part II)
Chess: Humans vs. Computers
Chomsky and Language
Computer Simulations
Computers, Consciousness and the Brain
Consciousness
Cosmological Proof for God's Existence
Distinctions Between Computers and the Human Mind
Does the Big Bang Prove or Disprove the Existence of God?
Gilbert Ryle and Logical Behavior
How a Child Learns Language - Part 1
How a Child Learns Language - Part 2
How Language Makes Human Life Distinctive
Hume and Causal Relationships
Hume and the Necessity of Experience
Is There a Scientific Method?
Kuhn's Challenge to the Cumulative Progression of Science
Language and Religion
Language, Meaning and Truth
Language, Truth and Happiness
Memes
Merleau-Ponty and the Intentional Arc
Observation Sentences
Popper's 20th-century View of How Science Works
Popper's Criterion of Falsifiability
Pragmatism, Language and Reality
Reason, Reflection and Language
Reason, the Source of Knowledge
Testing Computers Against the Human Mind
The Brain
The Role of Language
The Turing Test
Thomas Kuhn's Paradigms
Wittgenstein and Language