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Lingual Diversity

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"hot tango in the land of ice and fire and rock" [Apr. 12th, 2009|11:38 am]
Lingual Diversity

zombiedisco101
The indirectness of their exchanges had become even more elliptical. He's following his thoughts into the colon of a social beast he can't come close to loving. She's holding hands with love on a visit to the barren edge of life.

"They're like fire and ice," Alice Adams, their editor in London, had told her colleague. "Except they keep taking turns. Switching back and forth. Being one thing, and then another. Sometimes in the same paragraph. Like it doesn't really matter."

Daniel Trim, her senior editor, had asked why she thought they'd even bothered. Starting something with no direction, that didn't seem to be going anywhere. She'd asked herself that same question. More than once. So in a phone call with the boy about something else, she slipped in the question the editors all had.

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(no subject) [Apr. 11th, 2009|06:40 pm]
Lingual Diversity

chainsofgold
The country, the landscape, everything was different. A cross of the Pyrenees, the arctic and Hawaii. Hawaii is said to have a lot of different climates, sub arctic to tropical, but not even the volcanoes, to use an old cliché, spewing ash into the air making the countryside harsh could even compare to harshness of the countryside here.

There were little doors on some of the rocks, rocks bigger than an oversized SUV that the stereotypical American drives. They say elves lived in the rocks, a small detail that made the countryside seem magical instead of one of the last outposts of humanity in the modern world, where even now not everyone had running water.

It is possible to believe in luck or in something else, and the rock fall that surrounded the house made it possible to believe that they had been kind to the elves. The owners weren't the luckiest people in the world officially but they were close.

The landscape made the adjectives run out, all words long ago used by others and did not help in describing a countryside that had to be seen, experienced, walked through.

The colours were different, more vivid brighter, or maybe it was just the hand she was holding, the person she was with all the time.

In the end, hormones will do a lot.
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"out of gas, and other economies of metaphor" [Apr. 9th, 2009|11:26 am]
Lingual Diversity

zombiedisco101
The boy was out of gas. "Out of gas" being an expression used, sometimes, in the boy's "mom and apple pie" of origin. Which was a place where mom and apple pie was used as a kind of loosey-goosey at the waistband and drooping south to just below the north pole of your butt crack, synonym for "country." 'Tis of thee.

Out of gas was similar to being "out of steam," but used more often after petroleum products made it possible for engines that didn't run on steam. For a while, steam was the thing that drove the "industrial revolution." This was the revolution where the "captains of industry" overthrew the dukes and earls of "arts and crafts." Arts and crafts still existed, but only at small fairs, usually near holidays, where people in vans with little white semi-tents set up shop and sold stuff you could find at "WalMart." For less.

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(no subject) [Apr. 2nd, 2009|10:13 pm]
Lingual Diversity

chainsofgold
To write what she didn't know, to find out what she did know, seemed impossible.

She couldn't write about being homeless, she hadn't tried it, and so she didn't think that her feelings would be vivid enough. Though she felt that writing was often an uphill struggle the words flowed easier when she had a real experience to think about, something that had just happened. The easiest thing was writing what she ahd wished happened.

Her approach was very practical and Alice Adams hated it.

The first book, a joint effort between two dreamers separated by an ocean of words

She stares at the screen, wants to erase the words, realises that the feeling she had the words she was looking for, that she thought she had found aren't happening.

She decides to marinate things. Let them simmer for another couple of days at a low temperature, waiting for inspiration.
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"write what you know, part b" [Apr. 1st, 2009|10:30 am]
Lingual Diversity

zombiedisco101
The boy reads the phrase and thinks several things.

1) The first is that hearing these words echo back to him -- from a new-world-old-world girl more clever than her social nestings want to let her think -- is like hearing music from a party in the night. A party in the graveyard. Where western civ is cranking up the volume on its sinking crystal ship, as it dances on its grave.

2) He wonders who coined the words. A student? No chance. Struggling writer? No chance x2. Struggling writers, by the definition of their struggle, have no voice. Someone European? Nopesters. It's a literary homily as 'merican as apple pie, mom, and Hondas assembled in the fragrant, toe-jam hollers of a vowel-long Tennessee.

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(no subject) [Mar. 31st, 2009|12:13 pm]
Lingual Diversity

chainsofgold
The only reason I leave is because I want to know if you'll follow.
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You should write what you know. [Mar. 27th, 2009|06:48 pm]
Lingual Diversity

chainsofgold
They say you should write what you know, and she does, or she tries to. And sometimes the words end up empty, just a shout into a padded cave so there are no echoes. Sometimes someone hears what it said, someone not only hears it but tries to listen and a feedback loop is created.

For without feedback we are not even human, we are just strangers lost in empty space. It's other people, the collective reactions and changes that makes us human.

But writing what you know seems empty, sometimes. Sometimes she would rather that she could pull the words out of a hat. Orginally this was mispellt as hate. Just a typo, but maybe also a deeper sense, that without feelings, without a world to hold on to the words dont exist. They become meaningless, as they are not written with feeling. Sometimes though she wished the words weren't written with so much feeling, where reading a text a year ago would transport her back to that exact feeling, though she had tried to mask the event writing in third person.

She didn't know where the line between reality and fiction was. It was blurred and she suspected that most times she was writing what she knew, merely changing reality so that it fit her, and the resemblance between characters (living or dead) was not entirely coincidental.

But she did worry that the train that had the destination A (the name of train A was "A whole new country") was going somewhere that was not as much fun as the one she could have been on going to destination Q (known as "Neverland"). And she is worried that choosing the train towards A meant that she had forever lost the possibility of going on train Q, though she knew that R ("Second star to the right and straight on until evening") left from A and ended almost the same place as Q just a few years later. She also worried that picking train A would make her too late for train B (spray painted on the side, "Delayed studies and missed exams") which would in turn mean that she would never catch train C ("Neverland 2"), and would forever be expected to ride train N ("Now"), which was the one she was riding now, which shuttled backwards and forwards between A and M ("Nowhere.")

Sometimes the electrons met other electrons causing sparks to fly and the world to fall apart as she worried too much. Worried about things that would never happen.

And all the time she translates her life into stories. As she cuts onions she thinks about how they allow her to cry without any strange looks, and lets the tears run unchecked, the acid stinging her eyes. When he texts she thinks about the worst case scenarios, hating herself for it, but emotionally preparing for something that will always happen. Everyone leaves at some point, everyone lets you down.

The writing ends up being half writing, half fiction, half feelings, half words, and suddenly the probability adds up to more than one and she has a feeling that he understands. And even if he doesn't understand completely understand everything, she doesn't either, and reads everything twice. It makes her think, makes her reflect on things that were unnoticed before.
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"belief and doubt, guessing, pissing, and orbit sharing in electron world" [Mar. 27th, 2009|10:36 am]
Lingual Diversity

zombiedisco101
Alice is standing in the doorway to Tin's office.

He's slumped down in an arm chair by the window. Legs and feet in gray socks, out straight and crossed, resting on his desk chair. Dressed in mid-gray chinos, a blue-striped cotton, button-collar shirt.

His hair is tossed like light brown salad with no dressing. His posture, attitude, are just a longer-taller version of how he's looked while reading since the age of ten. The body shell kept growing. The inner workings of the neural apparatus grew by filling in the blank spots on the page.

He's reading "It's in What You Write." She's watching.

Somehow the outside parts of reading-writing have evolved -- or devolved, take your pick, in this tiny corner of the print empire set in business motion by The Great Progenitor -- to a kind of voyeur sport. Readers watching readers watching writers watching something.
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(no subject) [Mar. 23rd, 2009|08:03 pm]
Lingual Diversity

chainsofgold
'I got over the first hurdle.' The voice is quietly exstatic, trying to contain an excitement that cannot be hidden. The first hurdle is the hard one, but sometimes it's always the first hurdle, it keeps being the first hurdle all the time.

The trick is believing in yourself, in allowing yourself to write words that are believable.

Living life by the philosophy 'If you never show up, you don't get anything', she had applied, with a letter that she believed was complete bullshit, she had edited it so many times that it no longer sounded like her, allowed it to pass through other hands that mangled it further, until it seemed like those safari parks.

They're supposed to show nature the way it was, the lions lazy in the sun, dangerous but beautiful. Instead it's a mockery, nature chained up, idealised the way humans believe the way it's supposed to look, roads carved in, and grass cut short, so we can see what really there. Except what was there no longer has a place to hide and disappears.

The application was what they wanted to hear, she had a technical background and had avoided mentioning the fact that she wanted to learn language, that they were a passion. She thought the country was beautiful, she loved the capital, the history, everything. Instead she had waxed about the learning possibilities, and not about the personal growth she thought she would achieve. In world where published papers were what counted the softer sides of life went unappreciated.

She enjoyed what she did, but only the 45 hours a week, she did not live, breathe her education. It was merely a place she showed up every day.

No wonder she was disillusioned.
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"under leaden london skies" [Mar. 18th, 2009|09:47 am]
Lingual Diversity

zombiedisco101
Gray sky sunlight is shining through the blinds of Alice Adams' office. She's bent over her desk like a swing-arm lamp wearing sturdy, black-rimmed reading glasses. On the desk is a manuscript, "The Tortious Heart" by Alexander Flemer Pool.

Initially called "Lawyers on Parade," it's a story about the legal industry. Suits with suits, and mountain stacks of snow white paper etched in Times Roman twelve-point. Whole forests leveled, pulped, pressed and cut to give a canvas for a style of writing that aspires to the highest level of pronouncement. But as tiny, legal armies continue to verbally disembowel each other daily on the battlefields of justice, the lofty pronouncements sound more and more like: (claim) "Did!" (counter-claim) "Did not!" (motion to suppress) "Did too!"

"You stupid fuck!" Alice mumbles, one-handing off her glasses. She likes this author the way children like Brussel sprouts smothered in spinach gravy. "I can't edit this. I can't READ it," she'd told Daniel Trim, the senior editor she reports to. "Do your best," he'd said, smiling.

It was punishment for her success in finding "It's in What You Write" on the web. She knew it. He knew it. Barry in the mail room knew it. Everyone knew it.

Alice looks up. Standing in her office doorway, silent as an editorial church mouse, is Daniel Trim. And another guy. They've been watching her, a girl twisting in the word wind, for almost a minute.

"You like watching people suffer, don't you, Daniel -- you sadistic bastard." Alice says, smiling.

Daniel smile laughs. "We're pretty informal here," he says to the guy standing next to him. "Alice Potty Mouth, this is Phillip Martin French, also known as "Tin." He's fresh off the boat from America. From the New York office. We're putting him in the empty office across the hall, and we thought you could show him the ropes, handcuffs, whips and other apparatus we find useful here. For a starter he could help you launder all the foul and stinking language briefs in 'Tortious Heart.'"

Alice's face brightens, like a sun break in a leaden, London sky. "You are my sadistic bastard hero."

"Always nice to be admired with restraint. Alice? Tin?" Daniel says, turns and walks back down the hall.

20090318 08:44 Wed (375 words)
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