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Impulse Reality 177
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.d""b. impulse reality press no. 177
[-- $$ $$ $$ -- ------------------------------------------------------ --]
$$ $$ "Loneliness, A Poorly Written Tragedy."
$$ $$ written by linear
$$ $$ released 3/3/02
[-- $$ $$ ------ ------------------------------------------------------ --]
The greatest work I've ever written was pure plagarism. I only got
half credit on it too, due to lack of a satisfactory rough draft.
I suppose that's how life is, though - you only get half the credit
for giving one-hundred percent of someone else's effort.
I think this is what some call poetic justice. But how can they do
that to me? The 21st century's greatest poet? Perhaps that's sarcasm - I
don't claim to be a poet anymore. I only take credit for everything I'm not.
I used to think I was a writer too. But not a real writer. I don't
like real writers. Or perhaps my problem is that I *ONLY* like real writers.
The ones that have never recieved a cent for the effort, yet struggle for
days trying to put out the NEXT BEST THING so people like me can sit in front
of a computer screen and go "ooooh" as a firecracker of literature explodes
in front of their faces but goes unnoticed by the rest of the world. That's
deep, isn't it? Or maybe it was just an allusion that missed.
I've never been able to answer that question.
"You like to read, Jared? Well, who's your favorite author?"
I'll usually give them an answer, too. The kind of answer that isn't
true, but you hope it will detour them from conversation. Maybe we can all
shutup now... YES, THANKS!
"Uh, Jack Kerouac. Yeah. I liked _Dharma Bums_"
How can I tell them about the REAL writers? Can I possibly answer
that with something like "Well, uh, yeah... I like Jason. Jason from _I Bleed
For This?_"
Jason was a real writer. And perhaps _ibft?_ was the greatest inside
joke to ever exist - maybe I never will to be able to comprehend it. Maybe
it's beyond me, as it is beyond you. But it was pure. And maybe he's not my
favorite writer, but I think everyone who's ever slaved in front of the glow
of a monitor for the sake of writing, all of them collectively, are my
favorite writers. Especially the bad ones.
And maybe all of us who work within this are doomed to obscurity (OH
MY! did you get it? did anyone catch that?). But maybe that's for the best!
Think if we started to get recognized! Think if somehow or texts were
suddenly MANUFACTURED! Or maybe this is just me trying to cling to anything
that will bring me justification for trying to remain, perhaps even revive, a
dying scene.
But that's okay too, right? Because I'm not a writer anymore. I'm a
revolutionary now. Not really. No more time for you or anybody else - because
I don't care anymore. I've always hated apathy - but these days I hate
*FEELING* even more.
I think I'm giving up.
I think I'm sick of obtaining my orgasms from fixes of ascii.
But I think I'm doomed to stay here, irregularly releasing batch
after batch of shitty text files to the amusement of myself and maybe,
hopefully, five other people. Those people are my best friends, and I'll
never know them. I guess you're always two steps to being alone.
You know, sometimes I still produce lousy poetry. And obviously I'm
still dumb enough to write silly little textfiles. And sometimes I still have
these dumb dreams about a humanity that I haven't lost my faith in, of some
utopian culture in some kind of distance (geographical? time?).
Okay, so maybe I still am a poet.
a writer.
a revolutionary (right?).
But I'm still alone.
Even when you're here,
alone with me.
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the clever thing to do here would be to put some sort of copyright. no.
http://www.phonelosers.net/ir
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