The Answer.

The Necessity of Unnecessary Actions.

"The Meaning of Life is unnecessary.

Women are unnecessary,
Love,
Friends,
And family are unnecessary.

Necessity in itself is a fraudulent concept.

All that exists is you, and yourself,
And what you choose to believe,
What you choose to be.

Because by the very act,
You validate yourself."


Oh, I don't know. I can't help but try, even if my philosophies are already someone else's.
I wrote this in reply to a public message that my mate gooch posted on myspace, about why he couldn't find any answers.

Anyway, that's my post for today.
Hope you all had a very nice NYE.

Emotional Parsimoniousness

"I invite you now to read some
Pseudo-Intellectual rot.

And I know you will,
Because you can't get enough.

And you hear the phrase,
'Emotional Parsimoniousness'

And you don't care
What it means

Or whether it actually
Means jack at all.

But then,
Maybe that's just me."



For Your Information, Parsimonious means frugal, but I'm pretty sure it's only used in regards to fiscal responsibility =) So emotional parsimoniousness is just a really wanky and incorrect use of the thesaurus.
Interestingly, I heard this word from my mother last night, and so I knew what it meant and I am now less of a wanker than you thought.

There There

On the day of your funeral,
I left the house,
And the sun was white.

Stroke.

"I was trying to remember.
Thinking through the pain in my arm,
I was trying to remember,
Which arm was the warning bell
For a stroke.

But maybe I'm not dying,
Because maybe the pain,
Is just coming from that old
And coppery ring,
The one I never take off.

I pause here and try to think
Of something meaningful,
With which to accompany this,
But the best I can come up with
Is 'you can't marry a dead guy'.

On second thoughts,
I'm not having a stroke.
I suppose I'm just trying
To get out of writing anything
That means anything."


Haha. This used to be two seperate pieces of writing, but they were too similar for me to get away with using both of them.

"The Doctor Spoke a Cloud. He Rained Out Loud" Elliott Smith

On the art of Measuring Everything. 29. 12. '07.


Genius is a word far too overused in our society.
You can measure genius,
In
Little
Numbers, ratings,
That come from questions,
"What,", They ask,
"What is the next shape in this pattern?".

A?
B?
or
C?

I Wonder what option D would be.

One day, they will take little scrapings
From your elbow while you
Sit
At
Home, oblivious,
Place it in a little test-tube;
Multiply.

“The person lives most beautifully who does not reflect upon existence” - Nietzsche

A stab at some bland and bitter open poetry.



Being a writer and a thinker is nothing more than farce,
Empty, lazy bastards with time and hell else,
Influenced by Lady B, and Lady P.
Before pay-day they lie at their remote
Surrounded by tissues and handcream,
A pile of peeled-off Beer labels,
And wish for an idea, pray for an idea,
Even though they're kept in house
By blaming religion for our troubles,
And scorning the faithful with
Drunken, blundering blows,
An attempt at Oxford Logic.
But you think that you're different,
Oh, young man. With an Underwood
And a love of the world,
And open contempt for those bitter old
bastards and their hypocritical prayers,
You think you'll be the new darling,
Hemingway with soul,
Bukowski with direction,
But months drag on,
And you've been at the magic goon,
And one night,
Because you don't know what to do
You put your head down and get on your knees,
And you tell yourself that you're doing it
'For Art'
And that you're trying all the ways of life,
So you can truly be the master of
'Writing From Experience'
But you know you're doing it because
The beer is running out faster than the money,
And you're afraid.
Not that there's anything wrong with that.


Not that there's anything wrong with that.

...

On Writing From One's Subconscious; An Introduction

I have a problem.
It's a build-up, an accumulation of cerebral dirt, which is starting to rot my poor brain.
It is my desire to write out a bunch of my random, detached thoughts, combatting with genuine (and not unfounded) hatred of my own writing.

Anyway. That was just an explanation of why I started this. My name is Phillipa R. Ellis, and I have too much time on my hands.

Now,

A few words on Writing From The Subconscious.


On writing from one’s bed.

I think that writing is supposed to be like Déjà vu.
It’s really something you’ve already written in your mind
In the depths of your subconscious.
Most likely in a dream.

When I was balanced on that point of limbo between wake and sleep this morning, I was thinking lovely, detached thoughts about garbage trucks, and- like some Pavlovian reaction, as if I were a dog hearing the bells of supper-time – I felt the most curious reaction of utter dread.
To explain, one ought to know that Monday is garbage day in Ferny Creek, and of course, Monday is that most hated day of the week when one must face the drama, work, and trouble that threatens their person.

Over and again throughout the day, I kept remembering little pieces of this literary masterpiece, and subsequently feel them trickling away.

Which leads me to think I never really though about very much at all.
Perhaps the extent of my thoughts agout the garbage truck and its connotations was "That sounds like the garbage truck. But it's not a Monday. Hm."

I never really know what I'm saying.