h2g2 The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy: Earth Edition

So, last night I said to myself, that self who is the ghost of my wise self , that imaginary friend that walks around with me, drinking coffee in the cafes that exist in the valleys and roadstops of my brain, who says inspiring things to me, even if it doesn't mean them .. huh?



erm ... I said to myself,



And my Wise Self replied

.

And then it said and it told me to write the Dream Stream in my journal, every now and then, as if it were the painting of my life, written with joy, from my heart.



And maybe sometimes people might come in and offer me ideas from their dream stream, which, in turn will inspire me, but its OK if they don't, because in fact I get a bit shy anyway, and I would rather just write this and then run away. .



And if a poem or a story comes out of it, then I can send it to the Post, but if it doesn't, the extractor fan in the bathroom will like me anyway.

So, from now on, these journal postings will be fragments from the Dream Stream.

(Written within the bounds of House Rules, of course, and edited accordingly, and with good intention, and zap me if I fail).

I have been axed by skeleton reapers, and faxed by skeleton seekers, because I thought it was poetic to rhyme axed with faxed.

I have stolen the word yellow from the rainbow, and kept it in a jewelled box, with seven white gull feathers, and a fading postcard from a fictional seaside resort, to keep me alive in the zone of despair.

I have woken at 3 am, and whispered Accept the luminous! We are all luminous! to the shadow shapes that dance all over my aching eyes.

The best way to contribute to the site, oh ravishing desert goddess, is to be yourself and bring your unique perspective to all of us wanderers and seekers of the mysteries of the universe.

You are soooooooooooo inventive. Would that I were half so.

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poemsthat might lead elsewhere

Ah yes, and the road that starts somewhere, or maybe nowhere, might lead elsewhere, unless of course it remembers everything about that night it spent in a bar in the town of Elsewhere, getting drunk on the possibility of somewhere. ... .



I think I could qet quite annoying in his journal. (heads out to find rubber mallet, for to knock Wise Self on head). ..

... and Hyp my dear love you are here! and holy roses I must email you. How late I am with my emails, wandering around in the garden of holy roses, saying to the bees, well hopefully to the bees, because if I said to something (or someone) which wasn't a bee, I might bee misunderstood. .



And now I wish to celebrate my plastic tree.

If I knew how, I could post a photograph of my plastic tree to this journal, which would be interesting in a certain way, and yet perhaps lacking in other ways. .

In my room I have a plastic tree.

I love my plastic tree. I love real trees too, but a plastic tree is more convenient for my lifestyle. It inspires me. It sits atop my desk, in a plastic flower pot.

This marvellous creation is about three foot tall, and at the top it sprouts into a neatly rounded bunch of dark green plastic leaves.

The trunk looks exactly like bark, but it is fake bark.

Curling around this trunk is a plastic parasite plant, kind of like ivy or bindweed, although it is a fictional plant with a different kind of leaf, and a few straggly roots.

Erm right.



Now I must devote the next few days of h2g2 computer time to checking out the work and the voices of others, because this site is a goldmine of wonder,and it helps me to view life from other perspectives, not just from the vantage (or disadvantage) point of my own (plastic) tree. . haha. hmm.

Of course, I might sneak in here just to lay down a couple more paintings, in the middle of the night, or day, because I am a painter on the verge of extreme peculiarity.

11/11/11

Remembrance Day. Two minutes silence in the coffeeshop. Poppies grow where tears fall. In my mind's eye I see a beautiful, yet broken person, wearing a crown of poppies. A golden light surrounds him/her.




My visions feel inadequate sometimes. The history of the world is so awesome and vast. However, I have to let them through as the healing force of creativity keeps me right, even though the way of the artist is tough sometimes.



On a lighter note, this reminds me of a dafty rhyme I wrote in the night, which I will eventually turn it into an origami paper swan and float it gently towards the open sea of my trashbin. haha. I like turning my creations into origami paper swans. I don't know why. I got bitten by a swan once. My relationship with swans is somewhat strained. . Perhaps that's why I do it. haha. hmm

Anyway, it is inspired by a conversation on another thread, with mvp and Dmitri. about writing haiku type poems on the subject of an Olympic sport, and variations on that theme.

I think its a challenge that might appear in the Post, in fact, advertise, advertise, if anyone happens to read this.



To wrestle with an artform is a sport of noble glory
So I'll be in the gym today, to kickbox with my story
I'll race with rhyme in record time, sweat visions rare and fragile
For to wrestle with creation, I must keep my senses agile.



Actually, that last line makes less sense than the rest of it. hahah. OK off to the gym.

I sense swans approaching. . Swans! Swans!

Sorry! I mean duck!

No, swans, you daft Yorkshireman.

Swans is poetical.

we ain't got a swan smiley

We need a swan smiley.

How can CC keep blessing us with her poetic thoughts, if we don't have a swan smiley?

'There was a young man from St John's
Who wanted to...'

The rest of that involves swans, but is too vulgar for h2g2...

(Cambridge students are a bad influence.)

we need a special "A" page for ideas for smiley's, we had a page a few year back when there were a few to be "programmed"