Looking for a sign

[Cate]

Don't get me wrong most people are just themselves... but come on you're a possessed chick who likes to sleep in cheap motel rooms and rescue people with ratchet straps.

Anyways sweetie - I gotta hit the sack, my man has closed the bedroom door and I'm a terrible sleeper aloner.

[Violet]

... you're confusing my fictional story with "me" but what's a writer to do...
night,
v.

[Cate]

Oh my dear you had just said,

since obviously you know a lot more about the deception that goes on here than I ever could have imagined, since if I thought about things like that, I probably would never have started this!

I think you teasing.
As far as I can see it's not much of a deception, occasionally there's a character, I should say caricature that will appear. They come with a small story and stir things up a bit in a fun way then float away. You seem to be doing the same, except all your characters are writing from one account and you share the same name as one of them.

Anyways, all the best to you V. and good luck with your story. If you do a final version I hope you post it.

Cate

[Violet]

Hi Cate,

No, that's not what I thought you meant. It sounded a bit scarier than that, as if we can't trust anything (or anyone) here. Anyway, if you look at my other threads along with this one, I can't imagine that you couldn't pick up on who "I" really am, since I really am not trying to deceive anyone. The story, meanwhile, is, well, a story... and actually, I have another installment to make on that today, then I really do have to take a break, or my "real life" will implode...

take care,
Violet





[third sentence of above post edited so to refer to "other threads," as was intended, as opposed to "other posts," which I had there previously.. then I had to edit this piece of verbiage... v.]

[Violet]

see next post...

[Violet]

AUTHOR: Okay, here’s the deal (again). I’m going to give an update here on Violet’s sad, sad story, but then I really have to get back to my REAL LIFE. I mean, I actually have a very ambitious REAL LIFE project to focus on, which should be consuming ALL of my time for many, many months -- so how is it I have SO much time for this?! Is this some ingenious form of procrastination? or something far worse? Are Manna and Cate really agents of some kind (metaphysical, political, or both) trying to undermine me in my REAL LIFE mission? I should have known.

Okay, on to our sad, sad story…


Violet, after a very distracted, though lonely day, writes in her diary…

Dear Diary,

I’ve been feeling so isolated lately, even though nothing in my life has really changed. Maybe I just need to get myself some new girlfriends. I wish Cate and Manna understood me better. Sometimes, when someone is smart -- or at least I thought I was smart at one time -- well, anyway, they’re assumed to be tough, as well. But a tough writer is not the same as a tough person, and I’m not even sure I’m a tough writer anymore. I feel daggers in my chest every time they slight me. It doesn’t matter that I realize how pathetic that makes me, I still feel these deep wounds in my chest… the kind of wounds that don’t let me sleep. I’ve lost my sense of humor, too. I mean, I used to be able to at least act like I was having fun. What happened to that part of me, I wonder? Why can’t I be carefree like Manna and Cate? I don’t even feel like working the ratchet straps anymore. They’re in the trunk, they’ve been there for -- God, I can’t even keep track of time anymore!!

Violet stops writing, realizing something.

Wait a minute, where’s that poem I wrote -- in that cheap motel room in one of those rectangular states? For some reason I just remembered it. Gosh, I haven’t even thought about that poem since I wrote it… [Violet looks through her suitcase, which she still hasn’t unpacked]… It’s got to be here somewhere. Let me see… here it is. Wait a minute… OH MY GOD this poem’s been CENSORED! Why would someone want to censor my poem?! Let’s see… I can't remember it anymore, but it seems to be about the local news… there’s a something in the area… and some sort of something took out that something… this can’t be good… why would I be writing this?

[Note: for original CENSORED poem, see last post of page 4.]

Wait a minute, I just thought of a dream I had a few nights ago where a voice told me to go my computer. That’s right, I was supposed to go to a search engine, then put my fingers on the keyboard very lightly, as if it were a ouija board, and just let the spirit do the rest. Maybe I should try it. Only, what if it’s an evil spirit telling me to do this?

Violet sits down on the couch a moment to reflect.

… God, if you’re so disposed to listening to me right now, or Leonard, if you’re not too busy with your recent re-ascent to stardom, maybe one or both of you could talk to your angels, let them know I’m doing all I can… only… well, maybe… maybe you wouldn’t mind my asking them for a little help right now -- that is, if your angels are so disposed, I mean… what with all the other important things they must have on their plates… hmm… I wonder if angels have porcelain plates?

Violet ponders this a moment, then picks up a novel that’s lying on the coffee table.

Maybe I’ll just read a bit before going to bed… I have to get my mind off of all this --

A glazed look comes over Violet's face. Slowly she gets up and like a sleepwalker goes to a little cupboard across the room, pulling out an old, dusty book. WE SEE it’s Aleister Crowley’s Book of The Law. Violet returns to the couch, and places the book on her lap.

(Lorca, who has once again taken over Violet's conscious mind): You can’t believe how hard it was to get her to buy this lousy book in that Polly Anna of a used bookstore she found out West. Actually, I was surprised they even had this crummy old tome (some kind of first edition or something). I mean, with all that other spiritual crap these insipid little bookstores are always pushing. Anyway, don’t get me wrong -- even I think Crowley’s a jerk (though kudos to all you Crowley corralled minions, it certainly makes my job easier!) Any case, at least it beats Violet’s precious Wuthering Heights -- I mean, can you imagine? Jesus @*#&'n Christ, what PURE HELL this boringboringboring-little-nightmare-of a-princess has managed to put me through! (and I mean pure). Now let’s see [opening Crowley’s book and paraphrasing the near arcane, pretentious sounding language of its brittle, yellowed pages]… oh, so menstrual blood is the very best blood to use for blood ritual... (I did not know that!)… next comes babies’ blood, then the blood of other losers… hey, maybe this is not as bad as I remembered it being… where’s the sex magick stuff… or is that the same thing?

[TO BE CONTINUED] (hopefully in a substantial amount of time from now) (in the meantime, remember to clap for Violet) (that's the Tinker Bell reference, lest you missed it)

Oh, what the heck – here’s Violet’s latest poem, the one she writes after FINALLY finishing Wuthering Heights.



Kindly, dear Heathcliff,


running to yonder moors –– yours
to break that will
in us
that tries to
stand.

That which knows our losses,
or living’s middle ground, finds

simple pleasures gained (am I for this
condemned?)

But you who’d run
would take me from my
chosen obligations;

in ruins instead you’d take me,
in ruins you’d take me home.

And still, I’ve held my gains. I’ve given you
no reason. The menace of the wilds
won’t here disturb my mind.

My clothes refined, my customs
quiet, my love though warm is not exalted; it
does not break the bough.

So, kindly, dear Heathcliff, your truth
derides my own,

and heaven needs decide the reasons
for
just such reasons formed.

[dated: some time in the future, still in 2008]


(Violet): hmm… I wonder if, instead of Cathy and Heathcliff, this isn't really about me and Leonard?

(LORCA): Isn’t she a pistol?

(Violet): Bye for now, Imaginary Friend.

[latest edit: see prior notes] [just seeing what to leave here at this late date]

[imaginary friend]

Violet,

If there ain't no law against being smart, + pretty + young, then hell, there ain't no law against having a thin skin, especially if you're a writer, putting your heart out there for perusal. Rock on.

[Violet]

Thanks Imaginary Friend... I'm not supposed to be on line right now, but thank you...
Violet

[Violet]

WHILE ON BREAK… unexpectedly romantic feelings arise…

Speaking here as the Author, on break at the moment from the more taxing matters associated with Good vs. Evil... (or maybe not, actually). ANYWAY, what I thought I'd bring to your attention is the fact that… (God, this is embarrassing)… what I mean is, it seems I’ve somehow become unaccountably attracted to -- that is, romantically speaking -- to those indivi –- uh, entities whom I’d previously thought to be my two male nemeses (although believe me they still are, this changes nothing) (almost), the two (probably not in question) being this near invisible Poppy person, along with that other guy (whom I’ll get to later on).

So to explain this unexpected turn of favor I would note (somewhat in my defense) how this Red-Inflamed Poppy Person (since it seems he’s the instigator in all this) has been able to (quite alluringly, I’m afraid) remain a ubiquitous presence throughout this thread, and yet has masterfully kept himself in the shadows, thereby becoming something of an inverse, black hole version of that illusive Scarlet Pimpernel, who, as I recall, at least had the decency to show up once in a while. (Thus, the Poppet is actually nothing short of That Infernal Embodiment of Leslie Howard’s Evil Twin.) As to his “Is he in hell, or is he in hell?” (not very) mercurial manner of maneuvering, I suggest it encompasses that age old tactic (at least relative to the history of this forum) of ensnaring unsuspecting newcomer writers such as myself with a viper-like seductive magnetism (as was first detonated, if you recall, through a rather gaseous attack of unfiltered, and yes, Evil, Red-hued, quite disarming charm).

As seems obvious, given the profoundly grave nature of her own uncertain circumstances, I dare not let ‘Violet’ know of this perplexing situation concerning my own weak-willedness, nor do I want such dizzying distractions to effect my copiously objective portrayal of Lorca (The Obvious Center of All Despicableness in the Universe). Lorca, after all, as is befitting of her Most Low Status, still holds this Poppy rascal (and his M.O. attachment, to be discussed in a moment) in pleasingly imperious contempt. Furthermore, as Lorca is no doubt aware, It Has Been Written (somewhere important, I should think) that the lowly Poppet (and that other guy he emulates for some mystifying reason) surely can rise no higher than That Crummy Mid-Range Echelon Comprised of Evil’s Many Power-and-Knowledge-Impaired Minions, also known as TCMRECEMPKIM (for those of you who favor the short-hand convenience that acronyms afford).

Actually, before I move on from this Red Devil to the second of such of my paradoxical attractions, I would offer to Mr. Cohen (should he succeed in making it this far into this miserable maze of the misbegotten) (and if he has, I suggest he immediately find something more edifying to do with his most valuable time), in any case, I’d offer Mr. Cohen my heartfelt assurances that the emergence of such (unwanted) romantic feelings towards such minor nuisances holds no real weight whatsoever -- I mean, when compared with how Mr. Cohen, himself, stands in my undying affections. In fact, to drive home the point, I suggest it would like comparing Timelessness itself with the temporary discomfort of a Red-inflamed, throbbing itch in need of nothing more than some libidinously engineered literary lotion with the potency (mid-range, to be sure) to obliterate the Red stinging annoyance, hopefully for the first, last and -- which is to say, for good.

As to the latter object of my unwilling affections (since we cannot always control where romantic inspiration sets its sights), I have the following poem to offer (truly a mid-to-low-range poetic effort), hoping this indeed provides enough poetic potency to do the paradoxical-alchemical-romantical proverbial trick, as it were... (as to a Poppet poem, we’ll just have to see where and how Evil’s inspirational winds blow).

And so, with at least a minor quotient of further ado...



Oh, mickey_o


Oh, mickey_o,
I’ve gathered that you’re British,
(Lord of One) mickey_o mickey_o

the soft end of your gun –- well, it could
undermine us (though
your thumb
might
just as easily
do)

Oh, mickey_o mickey_o mickey_o,
oh, mickey_o mickey_o…

[more verses to follow] [if needed]

[much later edit: I can't believe I wrote this stuff! [??].. [anyway, I think such comic bits benefit from massive trimming] [I probably haven't even trimmed enough]

[Violet]

FURTHER NOTES FROM THE AUTHOR

On the matter of certain (red/blue) entities’ silence…

It seems my two male Nemeses have decided to prolong their tactic of utilizing an insidious form of silence against me -- a very strong choice, I’m afraid, which is no doubt part of their well-versed lexicon of psychological warfare. Yes, I have tried to undermine them with my seductive, poetic prowess, but it could be that I underestimated the potency necessary for obstruction when it comes to arresting these soulless types in particular.

But fear not, dear reader (or those readers interested in the side of Good prevailing), as I have withstood far more daunting dangers than this.

On the matter of conversing with myself…

I wanted to recall here a moment how I’ve been accused (at least once during the course of this thread) of having “fun” on these pages all by my lonesome, as it were. Of course, I wouldn’t call it “fun” exactly, but I’ll try not to quibble. The point is, I have obviously been doing some serious outreach, which I’ve done at least in part to amend this insular situation, and so I can’t see how I can be held responsible for the fact that this dark game of sorts seems to have gone subterranean on me (or perhaps airborne, as seems more likely) (historically speaking, that is). This is to say that if I am, in fact, conversing with myself at this point it’s because that’s how things have turned out here. It’s not by design, in other words.

I would add, however, given the interest this particular thread seems to be engendering out there among my (probably for the most part) unknown readership, I can only assume that this conversation I’m having with myself is at least of passing interest. I feel compelled to add here as well that I am truly grateful for such unspoken yet seemingly enthusiastic support, as it has given me the courage to continue with this multi-tiered adventure into the Unknown.

So, on that hopeful note, I’ll sign off for now -- with a good-night kiss to my very blue (I do hope you’re at least somewhat dashing) Lord mickey_o (I realize it’s still early yet on your dreary little island, but for that reason alone you might as well turn in prematurely)… oh, and a long and lingering kiss to Lord what's-it's Red-hot (though small and very yellow) jumping Mexican side-kick, Pepito --

Sweetly, (though tired of all this mushy, secretly undermining maintenance),

Violet

p.s. I apologize, dear reader (and you know, by now, who the dearest of you are), for this fairly awkward final request, but still I’d ask that you all keep clapping for Violet, even if only lightly, under your desks, maybe, as you see to the other tasks of your day. I’m sad to say that poor Violet could really use this help right now -- that is, if she is ever going to survive to the point in time where I can finally finish her story... (Evil's despicable Lorca, you see, knows no rest).

(Oh, and good night, Leonard, where ever you are... v.)

[much later edits: as per above notes, I'm trimming, this one only slightly]

[Violet]

Author’s note: Although I’ve said my good-byes to many of you at this Forum, I’ve yet to make my resolve stick for some reason (is it that I’d actually miss you all?) (oh, God help me). Anyway, by a parallel formation, this latest post purports to be my, well, "sort of good-bye" to this particular thread, at least for the time being. (If you knew the work that’s facing me right now, you’d understand my “time” predicament.) In any event, if this writing has been a good read for some of you then I’m glad to have afforded you that pleasure. I do apologize in advance for Lorca’s rudeness, but after all being despicable is her job and so it’s really out of my hands. As for future postings, I do hope that some day in the not-too-distant future I will return again to continue Violet’s sad sad tale, especially since I’d kinda like to know what happens to this fading flower myself.

BYE FOR NOW – MINIONS…

Lorca here (in case you didn’t already guess). Now, to get us up to speed here, it’s only just come to my attention that some of you lesser minions (which is pretty low on the totem pole, let’s face it) have decided to trouble Violet with some ill conceived -- how to say it -- trial by “testes,” as it were… a good tactic, actually, since she’s such a pathetic princess. Speaking of, it seems that Violet has convinced herself, given this dump is connected to her oh so sacred you know who, that the level of conversation around here might actually be… well, never mind. The point is, keep it up. You seem to be upsetting her, and that only aids moi in my stated mission. That is, to destroy what’s left of her withering soul, and take her over for good!

With that in mind, here’s the deal. Given the metaphysical/alchemical/polemical, etc., properties of poetry (something you minions, for the most part, are very vague on), I am presenting you with one of Violet’s last poems (as you’ll see, she really is losing it) in order for you to, well, have your way with it, as it were.

Oh, and Poppet (and your precious-British pariah-appendage, Blue-Lord what’s-it), given the rabid feast is about to commence, don’t hesitate to USE THE RIOT GEAR if you have to -- I’m about to install my new regime of ORDER around here… (I’ll bet you mindless minions never saw that one coming).

Oh, and by the way, Mr. Big Shot L.C., there ain’t nothing you can do for this pretty little Violet flower now!

... let me see, where did she squirrel that pathetic little poem of hers? Ah, here it is, buried inside that Wuthering Heights tripe…



Keep dreaming me


Keep dreaming me.
Perhaps I will awake.

I don’t know where I am, it
seems, but
feel you sometimes, opening
me as you will.

keep
remembering me

even in your
dreams

keep
waking me

even in your past

your eyes
shine

only

of

memories of me.



Violet […date?]



Let’s listen to Violet’s thoughts (her very last, perhaps, if no one intervenes on her behalf) as she writes them down in her diary…

Dear Diary,

Once again, I don’t know what’s happening to me, but I see through the poems I’ve been writing that I’ve not long now. I feel myself to be fading, only I can’t understand where it is I’m fading to. It’s true I feel a darkness closing in, and I fear for all of us here, especially those who are truly of good will and conscience.

God bless and keep you, my dearest Leonard, wherever you are,

Violet

Lorca: isn’t she a pistol?! Now, chop chop, minions! Oh, and by the way, if your feeding frenzy doesn’t finish the job, I’ve other things in store for our precious “wuthering” Violet, so stay tuned.

THAT SAME NIGHT…

Violet’s room is illumined by moonlight... slowly, she gets out of bed and makes her way to her computer while still seeming to be asleep. She finds herself a search engine (still blind to what she’s doing), then she places her fingers ever so lightly on the keys, as if they were a ouija board… a moment passes… then slowly, firmly, she starts to press down the fateful keys of her destination.

TO BE CONTINUED…


[much later edits: still trimming this stuff]

[Violet]

[much later note: I don't know what I had here, as I removed it long ago, but it seems it inspired this Virginia person]

[sigh]

[Virginia]

Have you considered getting a real job?

[mickey_one]

Have you considered getting a real job?

as a self-appointed intershammos on this forum may I ask you, Virginia, the real nature of your issue with Violet. I'm interested but not that much so if you don't feel like answering there will be no "aha!" responses for me to your silence.

When Judith Fitzgerald posted with her incredibly long waffles and pathetic punning I usually wanted to scream and throw-up but I got confused as to the correct order of those 2 reactions and stayed silent pending medical guidance.

For ages I ran a free lit. crit service here until I remembered this was not an egoless poetry site (such as the "egoless poetry site" to mention one random example) so I mostly ignore poor writing here but occasionally respond with my own as revenge.

[Violet]

[edits: As per the editorial decisions I've made in my above post today, this post no longer had any relevance, and so I removed it. v.]