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Articles from MYGT
iggy Posted: Wed Dec 17 23:19:05 2003 Post | Quote in Reply  
  as usual. a lot of treasures in there.
just in case you missed that treasure chest hidden in GT, here's a some of my favourites


 
iggy Posted: Wed Dec 17 23:19:52 2003 Post | Quote in Reply  
  Vistas
May
21 Oct 2003

I long for vista to look over, a great expanse reaching to the horizon to peer out at from a window or gaze upon from remote point. I am beginning to understand why people flock to these places, why they actively seek them out. Spending so much time engrossed in our own lives, in our own problems shirnks the world, confines us to our own self-built microcasms of existence. These vistas, however, allow us to glimpse out upon the rest of the world, if not another world entirely. While we look out we escape our own shrunken worlds and lives and are reminded that we are a seemingly infintesimally small component of the world, of the universe. While humbling to most, humiliating to those with egos; there is peace in this knowledge. For when we accept our inconsequence to the universe and to much of the world, our problems which are always smaller than we are, cease to exist. When we reach this conclusion, we find solace.

MYGT - maywinchester


 
iggy Posted: Wed Dec 17 23:29:47 2003 Post | Quote in Reply  
  Writing in Search of Self
Rosencrantz
2 Sep 2002
ďWriting comes more easily if you have something to say.Ē ĖSholem Asch

And itís very true. We all write for a purpose. To entertain, to enlighten, to inform, to criticize, to observe, to record, to tell to those blank leaves what we arenít willing to tell to others. Itís all done in the attempt to do something, to say something.

I only really write when I read. Reading good pieces of writing gives me the inspiration to write. I started reading Moby-Dick or The Whale recently and have gone completely overboard about Melville. And as such, I feel not only inspired to read more (Walden and Leaves of Grass are next on the hit parade) but to write as well.

I have a sketchbook for my Art class thatís supposed to be filled with wonderful sketches of things that come to me in moments of inspiration, when the muses are working their magic (All my muses are femaleÖ) and yet, the sketchbook, while it does have some pictures or ideas of things floating in it, I find the words I scribble in there to be some of the best Iíve ever written. I hate journals and yet the sketchbook has become one.

And in a sense, these essays I write are journals as well. Topics for ideas come to me based on events and experiences in my life and it just so happens that, for some unknown reason, my senior year is looking to be the most profitable of my writing age. Iím writing more than ever.

But why do I write? Do I write because Iím miserable or am I miserable because I write? Would I have to deal with these insane feelings if I didnít write them down? Sure I would. Would I feel these things if I didnít write them down? Sometimes Iím not so sure.

Writing, Iím discovering, places things in perspective and allows for a clearer viewÖthough this clearer view is occasionally more distorted than the original view, which leads to more analyzing or more thinking or more feeling. Itís cheap therapy, enough introspection to make Wilhelm proud.

But if I write because I have something to say, to whom am I saying it to? I am not writing to entertain by any meansÖthough Iím sure some of you must get some twisted pleasure in knowing that I too feel the wrath of a heartbeat. Iím not here to inform or to enlighten. Iím only criticizing myself. Myself. Iím writing for myself. But if that were trueÖwhy post it on a website or write a piece as if I were addressing someone else though theyíre not here (Thatís called apostrophe).

Iíll admitÖI just donít know why. Iím sure on some level I do know why but Iíve not reached that level. Not yet. Iíll know soon enough. Out of the writing Iíll learn. And Iíll continue to learn because above all things I crave knowledge and understanding of things that would otherwise elude my grasp.

Like that of a poem, or of a person, or of myself. I elude myself. I run around, scribbling lines of random thought and piecing them together in hopes of grasping whatever it is that is me. Iíve probably stumbled over it already and just gone on my merry, miserable little way. Myself is probably sitting back some years ago, waiting for me to turn around and realize that Iíve left me somewhere. I wonít say that I left me behind. Perhaps I tossed me forward or to the east.

It all comes pouring out sometimes. The ideas, the thoughts, the feelings, the emotion, the joy of life, the misery of life, the absolute recklessness of love, lust, and passion. At some point it all has to be told and explored and felt and understood. And I intend to do just that.



 
FN Posted: Thu Dec 18 06:33:36 2003 Post | Quote in Reply  
  Hmm thx chanz, the fact that a great mind like you liked something I wrote is one of the greatest compliments I have ever recieved :o)


 
mat_j Posted: Thu Dec 18 21:19:51 2003 Post | Quote in Reply  
  cool shit


 
iggy Posted: Fri Dec 19 00:03:24 2003 Post | Quote in Reply  
  An Honest Conversation
Kira Howe
20 Nov 2003
Some days all I can think about is the need for an honest conversation. Most days it can't be had. Honest people are hard to come by, and often they're your parents, which just won't do.

So I sit and stare and think, and I figure that any minute now someone's going to appear out of the far wall, walk over, sit down and start talking to me. He must, because otherwise something bad will happen. I'll start throwing all the dishes down to shatter on the kitchen floor, or I'll climb into my car and drive into a tree. Not to hurt myself, just to vent frustration.

It's very frustrating. It's worse than trying to remember the face of the friend you met in last night's dream, worse than trying to remember the future. I watch the wall and curse the someone who isn't walking out of it, because I can feel my secrets floating up and up, to hover behind my teeth and under my tongue. I would reveal them to the first fool to say how-do. My heartbeat is the ticking of a bomb.

And all I need is someone to nod and say, "That's rough."

Bomb diffused.



 
iggy Posted: Fri Dec 19 00:03:57 2003 Post | Quote in Reply  
  Rain
[redacted]
6 Nov 2003
Itís the gloomiest rainy days that make me feel most myself. They work on me in the same way those perfect, peaceful summer days do. The ugliest days of fall and winter make me more creative or, at least, they give me a stronger drive to attempt creativity. The cold, wet, despair the weather imparts on me makes me into more of an artist than I am at any other time of the year. I want to sit in front of a fire and submerge myself in someone elseís art by reading a book. I want to write, daydream, create stories in my head to shout, someday, to the world. The weather should really make me sad; make me want to give up and not work at anything. Instead, it pulls out the smallest hints of the artist in me and drags that to the outside, making me dreamy and out of touch with reality during these dreary days. Thereís no use trying to make me do something normal like shopping or doing math homework. I will loose my train of thought almost instantly and look out into the rain. The miserable appearance of the trees outside whose small feathered occupants sit crouched, waiting out the storm, makes me want to hear a heartbreaking story or, if there is no story for me to hear, I will make one of my own. I imagine what a person I would be if the days were always like thisólost in my own head, distracted, unable to perform everyday tasks but still willing to reach desperately for the unimaginable. The rain brings out the part of me that dreams like nothing else can.



 
iggy Posted: Fri Dec 19 00:08:40 2003 Post | Quote in Reply  
  Christophe said:
>Hmm thx chanz, the fact that a great mind like you liked something I wrote is one of the greatest compliments I have ever recieved :o)

:) you're most welcome. i dun write too much these days but i really love all the stuff that everyone writes here.

keep up with all the stuff u guys are churning up cos it's definately much better than a lot of bullshit books out there.

this thread is just to highlight some of the stuff that really made me sit back and think, and go 'woah'

i'm still going thru all the stuff in there piece by piece.

i would encourage all the forummers to take sometime and just go in to MYGT and go thru everyone's stuff from #-Z, who knows u may find the treasures i found in there.

i'm still discovering so don't worry if ur stuff is not here haha.... it's just not read yet


 
iggy Posted: Fri Dec 19 00:10:21 2003 Post | Quote in Reply  
  passenger
jamie hribal
28 Jan 2003
it was a harsh winter the year i realized no one had ever told me they loved me. that was ok though. for now, anyways. december came in with snow and amazing people that year, so i had other things to focus my attention on. we were on our way to anna's house, jason, meg, and i. there was never anything to do in these dying towns, but if you found the right people, it wasn't so bad.

he drove too fast. he always drove too fast. but not to the point that it scared me. he knew the roads and he could handle the car. i'd only ever been afraid of his driving once, and this was not it. i was alone in the backseat and my knees were braced on the seat just so, that the car never threw me around, but rather, pulled me with it through every curve.

the windows were slightly fogged up, giving the stark landscape a softer edge as i watched it disappear one telephone pole at a time. megan had said something but i didn't hear, and that was ok. between the speed, the heat of the car, and the bass line of the music grinding into my back as i sank deeper into the comfort of the seats and the warm scent of Curve cologne - i was nearing sensory overload.

we were on the highway when i saw jason lean back a bit to attract my attention. i followed the line of his arm down to the tip of his finger where he tapped on the dashboard. the speedometer went to 110 and he had buried it.

i heard my own light laugh join theirs and, oddly enough, i wasn't afraid. i settled back into the seat and realized, in a frighteningly non-chalant manner, that i could very well die that night. that moment, even. but i was ok with that.

and in that instant i fell in love with life, with death, with the moment. i fell in love with myself and all the people i already loved. i fell in love with music, with sound, with the soft, warm shell of perfection that the car had become. i fell in love with the thought that happiness didnt' come in the form of roses or romantic dinners or other things i'd never been given, but in individual moments so alive, so ethereal that they can take you from this world to the next.



 



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