|Chap 1.2 - Page 2||frangles: Skip book 1: Writer's Bricks|
Too interdependent and self-begging. How is anyone supposed
know what a 'brick' is if they don't know what a 'frwoa' is?
whole art of poetry is just plain useless for writing anything but a
self-recursive lump of slop."
lack of anything better to think about, Skip thought about poetry some
more. He thought of wordplay and puns and incorrect grammar
pawned off as radical innovation. He thought of rhythm and
rhyme and meter and metaphor. He thought of the unseen intrinsic
web of tapestry connections binding well-crafted poems together.
"Like a literary Jedi force," Skip might have said if the
copyrighted term for "space cowboy" was worth the risk of
thinking. A force, a duct-taped spider web, an unseen
puddle of literary gravities and symbolic
yarn and beams and boards without which any poem would fall to
pointless pieces. Pieces having as little intrinsic worth as
a plain old boring old brick, valuable only in the hopes that someone
else might come along and make something magnificent of them some day.
"A poem is like a magnetic poetry
set," Skip declared. "Or rather, a poem composed with a magnetic poetry set, because it would be a pretty lazy poet to toss a bunch of random shit up on
the fridge and call it art!"
you're a skilled bullshitter and can fool everyone into thinking
it was intentionally crafted! Something you've
certainly accomplished quite
well today, I must say Skip!"
suddenly realized his train of thought had strayed so far from whatever
it was he was originally thinking, that he'd stepped off both entirely
into the strangest tot station he'd ever seen (or at least since the last time
he thought he'd stepped into one). On a station bench with his
crossed on a high rail and hands folded behind his head was a very
and satisfied looking person. A vague idea for a metaphor about a
cat and a canary came to mind, but since Skip wasn't sure if it was his
already as confused as a newborn infant in a mid-life crisis support group--he got
straight to the point this time.
"Who the hell are you?"
337 mots spent with the weight of the known universe on your
back, fighting off the greatest artistic apocalypse to ever threaten
Flutonia, and you haven't lost a gram of wit! I must say, Skip, I
can't remember a hearing of anyone in the history of Okuaka who could handle stress like that and
still come out with flying colors! As a phylor and a fan of your
work to boot, I must say I'm impressed. Why, I doubt even the
great, mysterious phylor lost to the eternal winds of kuic myth who
supposedly accomplished exactly what you did, except with
near-total memory loss to boot, could have-- could have--
'A deathly shadow swallowed the phylor's mirthful countenance as he
realized Skip wasn't laughing, but just blankly frusing at him,
whatever the hell "frusing" was. The man himself even frused,
with the look of death-black anti-mirth already there which
was actually impressive to begin with given that his utter psychic terror
already seemed beyond the saturation point that a living being was
of portraying in a single expression. Then he just rudely stared
at Skip some more.' Was that any good?
I don't think I've tried that before. It seemed to come
natural, though, what do you what I just did, Mr. Phylor?"
of hell and heaven and every lame deus ex machina plot twist dependent
on some freak PTSD amnesia anomaly including Teri's in the first season
of 24 and every episode of Doll House and every other scene of Memento
backwards from the first!! Are you-- are you-- please
tell me you're
not-- dear god, you're actually--"
" 'Serious'? I'm not
even sure quite what the word means but I get the gut feeling it's the
you're looking for. From your fumbling for it, might I suggest
you try an audio program or vitamin supplement to help your
memory? I think Focus Factor is relatively inexpensive if you
find the right street dealer. I get the feeling it helped me
once, but I can't seem to remember when that was. Do you
"Gods of Florbb. Quick, what day is it! No, what time is it! What mot is it!?"
"Right. How the hell would you know?"
" 'The man who'd called himself a phylor had the
instinct to glance at his wrist watch, but, realizing there were two
there, decided not to risk alluding to the 1985 Stephen Spielberg film
Back to the--' "
"Stop it! Gods, that
comes like breathing to you. Come on, follow me, Skip. I think you're going to need a very stiff drink."
"--Future Hitchhiker's / Frangles Infringement Lawsuit MCVIX."
"Hurry, we've got no time to loose!"
"Would you please?"
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