Paper Lane

sweet world.

You have sustained us and brought us strange and wonderful things.

We have wasted time and spent it well,
our dreams and words have soaked into thee.

Our parties and artwork and strange constructions flit through you.

Leave us happy.

hello world

eric will have to fix this...

Beware of the Cult of the Screaming Trees! They are not your friends! Avoid befriending, talking to, eating with, or in any way interacting with members of the Cult of the Screaming Trees!

THIS IS FOR YOUR OWN GOOD!

Wow. And I though "The Illuminatus Trilogy" was weird...

Caterina's been playing GNE too much.

Stencilton in the early spring was a coastline on two planes. A thermal inversion had rendered the lowlands of the city proper a new sea of fog, and only the tops of the aging towers in the Glums could be spied from the peaks of Reference Pass. For the populace who lived in the murk, this stateless existence had persisted for nearly two weeks, and life had taken on a sort of dreamlike surreality that threatened to disrupt the very heartbeat of the city.

A violent storm gathered off the coast, hidden beyond the foggy damp. Those who ventured to the waterfront found it deserted, the animals of the shore having gradually disappeared as if a rumour of impending doom had frightened them away. The eerie quiet made the hypnotic ululation of the sea deeply seductive. The populace grew lethargic, indolent, even somnambulant--their shared trance a cloak of calm in the face of catastrophe.

On that particular morning, the air held an electric tang of danger and anticipation, hinting at thunder just around the corner. Dos Pesos trotted down Paper Lane, taking his morning constitutional. "It's a funny thing," he sniffed to himself as he trotted down Paper Lane. "The birds aren't making any noise at all today." And yes, the only white things fluttering in the boughs of the trees today were loose sheets of paper, barely visible in the morning fog.

Suddenly Dos leaped to the left of the path, without half realizing why. An ominous creaking noise ended in a snap that echoed through the woods as a heavy object crashed to the forest floor. "Boyoboyoboy! That was a close call!" he yipped and dashed over to sniff at the ream of paper now buried deeply into the soft mud of early winter. The ream had displaced an 8.5" x 11" rectangle of mud into the air, and the trunks around Old Pulpy were spattered with it, as was Dos's left flank... "Instead of mud, that could've been blood," Dos mused for a fleeting second, then was immediately distracted by a bright yellow butterfly that caught his eye by landing on the fallen ream.

Thoughts driftet through his mind and he came to wonder whether this butterfly was in fact the very cause of the strange weather everyone had become used to of late. He shook off this idea, it was not gonna lead him anywhere and, above all, this little animal looked quite the opposite - not like the powerful beast that theory would make him, but more like a vision of innocence, fragile and utterly damned to go whereever the next blast of wind would take it. But just as the butterfly was blown away it had served its purpose, a moment of glory as it had shed a glimpse of hope on Dos with its beauty, something he would need so desperatly in the hours to come...

For along the path and through the fog lumbered the fearsome Lich King of legend, drooling, enscrofulated, clutching its throat with its nasty grabbing grabbers, and peering with its one rolling eye, mapped with delirum, looking for its next meal.

Huh, the Lich King thought. I hate this kind of weather. All the really juicy animals stay indoors, and I have to make do with the little tiny neutered critters that need to pee. I hate that. And my back itches. And I'm out of tissues, too. Man, this drooling sucks, wish I would get over it already. What's that sound?

Breathing in labored snarls, drool gurgling on every inhale, the Lich King strained to identify and triangulate the source of the noise. The fog was the thick whipped bright kind that indiscriminately scatters light and sound. From a direction the King could not determine came faint echoes of the raucous calls of drunken wild cowgirls.

Mother Always Warned...
By: Kallese

Mommy always told me that I
should be more aware
never go outside to school
with holes in underwear...

for if i had an accident
and I was unaware
would i want the parameds
to see my pubic hair?

Brown in the treehouse
Green in the swamp
Blue in the ocean
Yellow in the desert
Red on fire
White all over

600 gr Mayonnaise
100 gr Mango Chutney
200 gr Yoghurt
20 gr Curry Powder (yellow)

Blend together in food processor
Fold in some whipping cream before serving

Serve with cold roasted chicken!

the one called Blotto
only writes notes when cleaning
his keyboard at night

taku face blast cone
capablanca was a bear
hence, he had no hair

Working on Christmas
Captain Boob ate too much cheese
At work on Christmas.

Plurp will kill me if I eat Esmerelda but this sounds good. I must ponder slaughter vs squeeze

1. You bring color paper to a bank for money.
2. You think your country's currency is shekels.

3) You write notes on blank sheets of paper, and hand them out to people on the street.

1. You think of a promotion as 'leveling up'.
2. You start trying to recreate the recipes.

1: Your friends and family start to wonder about your sanity because you relate to them that "Yogi" and "PolarBear" - {people not bears! no no not cartoon characters!) helped you make a GNE - when you explain what a GNE is, a Game Neverending that is made of 8 people, a rapidICONer pen, some funk, etc - they call the mental health hospital.

2: You forget to eat. Bathroom breaks are an unbearable annoyance. The last time you slept was 22 hours ago.

3: You spend more time in your GNE home than your real home. Your GNE home is more organized than your real home.

4: The most interesting non-GNE related activity you did was call the phone company to figure out why your DSL isn't working so you can get back on the GNE.

5: Your name is inspoetica.

1) When finals become secondary to quenching GNE thirst.

2) You start "dealing" other people GNE crack; you encourage them to sign-up and join in, addicing many, many more.

3) The insane clicking of making a GNE at night wakes up your poor roommate.

4) You fall victim to carpal tunnel syndrome.

this is a game?

I was in a submarine, fifteen miles below the surface of the ocean. There was an enourmous colony there, three miles in diameter at least. Nobody knew what it was for, who lived in it. It was my duty to find out. There was no entrance, it appeared to be hermetically sealed, made of a strange translucent metal. I could see light and vegetation inside. At the very top of the spherical colony was a tower with a blinking red light, blinking at a rate of 60 per minute.

Suddenly, the entire structure imploded in a nuclear blast. The submarine was sucked into the maelstrom that was once the sphere and I lost conciousness in a wave of panic.

* * *

I awakened moments later on the surface base, a ship by the name of the USS Mesclum. A tsunami rocked the boat, the emergency signals were flaring and I didn't know what to do.....

(add on to the story, then pass it on)

"On your feet, private!" I heard a voice shout.

I turned my head slowly. God, I haven't felt this hung over since college. There, standing in the doorway of my cabin was...

The sexiest, most topheavy female wrestler I'd ever seen, dressed in nothing but soem dental floss and two dixiecups. She bent over, grabbed my...

... fish.

'This is not a robbery.'
'I am an.'
'Magdalene, hand me that fish.'
'FISH ME THAT HAND!'
'Yesterday.'

(what?) I shake my head once again.

The female first sergeant, appearing quite normal in green fatigues, was screaming now--"on your feet, private. I won't say it again."

I snap to attention. My body moves routinely in ways completely foreign to my brain.

The glass of water on my nightstand quivers,
as if in expectation of some foreseen peril.
My gaze flickers from the sergeant's ocean-blue
eyes to the automatic pistol held in her
perfectly-manicured hand.

My world skips a frame, and like a sucker-
puched boxer my rigid legs struggle for
purchase on the steel deck. The sergeant takes
a half step backward, and points the weapon at
a point two feet to my left.

...

the one called Blotto
only writes notes when cleaning
his keyboard at night

taku face blast cone
capablanca was a bear
hence, he had no hair

Here We Go
John Brion
Punch-Drunk Love Soundtrack

You've gotta hope that there's someone for you
As strange as you are
Who can cope with the things that you do
Without trying too hard

Cause you can bend the truth
Till it's suing you

These things that sure happen all around you
You never know what they will amount to
If your life is just going on without you
It's the end of the things you know

Here we go

You've gotta know that there's more to this world
Than what you have seen
Cause we all have a relative view
Of what it can be

As we move along
With our blenders on

Each one of us feels a little stranded
And you can't explain or understand it
Each one of us on a different planet
And amidst all the to and fro
Someone can say hello

Here we go

Feeling that someone really gets you
Is something that no one should object to
It could happen today so I suggest you
Skip your habit of laying low
It's the end of the things you know

Here we go

Cause someone can say hello
You old so-and-so

Here we go

gne is passing the middle stages of development
gne is run by volunteers only
gne is looking for dealers
gne is essential to understanding the structure of matter
gne is best known for its chateau
gne is november 13
gne is essential for testing quark models of particle structure
gne is not an encyclopedia
gne is released under the gnu free documentation licence
gne is building paths
gne is here and now
gne is located between collingwood and wasaga beach
gne is a company that researches
gne is the glottal to noise excitation ratio
gne is not intended to cause disruption in any channel or chat room
gne is just a great location for us
gne is not perfect
gne is part of richard stallman's latest venture into the world of "free information"
gne is less than 10
gne is assigned an ip address within the central office lan and is physically connected to the lan through its lan port
gne is my freind
gne is showcasing the products in an exclusive showroom in south mumbai
gne is given
gne is divisible by infinitely
gne is a pioneer in remote control engineering using both infrared and radio frequency signals
gne is that in real life i've been more motivated to make things
gne is made possible through globally networked teams that include technologists and entrepreneurs as well as managers
gne is lower by these amounts
gne is a disconnected graph then 3

this note is 18 of many, can you find them all?
(sign below and leave it for others to find)

faux reves

:: ten ::

2nd found

# 2 for me.

three

3 4 me 2

me

ollie ollie oxenfree
i never understood that . . .

That's a lot of notes.

Joe was here

I wrote this note on a piece of paper that blotto gave me. :-)

me too.

and me.

I wrote this note on a piece of paper I found in the Library. Other people had already written other things on it.

She swallowed it one day.
The Doctor gave her ex-lax
Just to pass the time away.

The ex-lax didn't work,
The time it didn't pass.

So if you need to know the time
Just look up Mary's Uncle Fred
(He has a clock-radio.)

... this is NOT metababy. Things I write on these notes will NOT be anonymous ...

*8)

Calm, stillness, a lack of defenses and the ensuing corruption.

Journeys begun, Journeys ended, tears, wealth left behind...tears apart.

a pervasive stench

silence

Sorrow, pain, delirious joy from the ordinary

Time is slow when you are apart, moves too fast when you are together.

an enveloping glow, inner warmth and peace, an everpresent smile - and wanting to spread it to all the world

art, music, poetry

a warm whisper, carried on the edge of breath, and soft kisses on the shoulder.

Fear, irrational distaste, failure of empathy, loss of objectivity

Trembling, fists clench, unclench, picturing a million deaths of them...

Holocaust, apartheid, 9/11

picket fences

This is fair warning for Outis
who's intellect he loudly toutis
he has found in me
a new enemy
his ego I intend to floutis

*turns other cheek*

...

and then *slaps* loli really hard

I love Loli.

THE GOLDEN GOOSE

Once upon a time . . . there was a woodcutter called Thaddeus, a dreamy, foolish-looking lad though good-hearted. One day, his father sent him to a distant wood to chop down trees. Thaddeus thought that these trees were a kind he had never seen before and that it was hard work trying to hack through their hard trunks. Sweating after all his efforts, he had barely sat down against a sawn-off trunk to have a meal, when a strange old man with a white beard popped out from behind a bush and asked him for a bite to eat. Kindly Thaddeus gave him some bread and cheese and together they cheerily drank a flask of wine.

"Of all the woodcutters that have tried to fell these trees, you're the first one who has been nice to me," said the old man, stuttering, perhaps after all the wine. "You deserve a reward. If you cut down that tree in the centre of the wood, you'll find that all the others will fall down by themselves. Have a look in its roots where there's a gift for you! You see, I'm the Wizard of the Woods!"

Not particularly surprised, Thaddeus did as he was told, and in a flash, his work was done. From the roots of the tree the Wizard had pointed towards, the woodcutter took a golden goose. Slipping the bird under hls arm, Thaddeus set off homewards. Now, it may have been too much wine, or maybe the fact he was new to these parts, but the fact remains that Thaddeus lost his way. At dead of night, he reached a strange village. A tavern was still open, so the woodcutter went in.

"Something to eat for myself and for the Golden Goose that the Wizard of the Woods gave me," he ordered the innkeeper's daughter. "That's a bite for me and a bite for you," he said, sharing his food with the goose across the table. The innkeeper's other two daughters came to stare at the strange sight, then all three dared ask: "Why are you so kind to a goose?"

"This is a magic goose," replied Thaddeus, "and worth a fortune. I shall stay the night here and I need a secure room, for I don't want to be robbed."

However, during the night, one of the sisters was persuaded to steal at least one goose feather.

"If it's a magic bird, then one of its feathers will be precious too!" But the second her hand touched the goose's tail, it stuck fast, and nothing would unstick it. In a low voice, she called her sisters, but when they tried to pull her free, they too stuck fast. A little later, Thaddeus woke, not at all surprised to see the three sisters, ashamed at being discovered, stuck to the golden goose.

"How can we get free?" they wailed. But the woodcutter coolly replied:

"I have to leave with my goose. Too bad for you if you're stuck to her. You'll just have to come too!" And when the innkeeper saw the strange little procession trip past, he shouted "What's up?" and grabbed the last sister by the arm. It was the worst thing he could have done! For he too found himself attached to the tail of the little group. The same fate awaited a nosy village woman, the plump curate and the baker who had placed a hand on the curate's shoulder as he rushed past. Last of all came a guard who had tried to stop the procession. People laughed as Thaddeus and his row of followers went by, and crowds soon flocked the roads.

Close to the village where Thaddeus had spent the night stood the Royal Palace. Though rich and powerful, the King had a great sorrow: his only daughter suffered from a strange illness that no doctor had been able to cure. She was always sad and unhappy. The King had once proclaimed that the man who succeeded in making his daughter laugh would be granted her hand in marriage. But so far, nobody had so much as brought a smile to the Princess's lips.

As it so happened, the Princess chose that day to drive through the village square, just as the woodcutter with the goose under his arm, solemnly marched by with his line of unwilling followers. When she heard the people chuckle, the Princess raised the carriage curtains. The minute she set eyes on the amazing sight, she burst into peals of laughter.

Everyone was amazed to hear the Princess laugh for the first time. She stepped down from the carriage for a closer look at the golden goose and that's how she got stuck to the baker! Laughing and chattering, the procession headed towards the palace, with the crowds at their heels. When the King saw his daughter in fits of laughter, he could hardly believe it.

"How amazing! How amazing!" he said.

But in spite of all the mirth, it was a serious situation. That is, until a large man with a tall peaked hat and a white beard stepped forward and snapped his fingers three times. Suddenly, Thaddeus and the others all became unstuck. The woodcutter was about to thank the Wizard of the Woods, for it could be none other, but he had vanished into thin air. And that's how the simple woodcutter, Thaddeus, found himself married to the King's daughter.

Laurie Anderson: Mister Heartbreak
David Sylvian: Dead Bees on a Cake
Jeansandatshirt.com Nov 2002 monthly mix

White Stripes: Can't remember the title, but the new one
Mood Elevator: same thing, it was GREAT though!
Cibo Matto: Birthday Cake EP

nick cave: murder ballads
avril lavigne: let go
eat static: science of the gods

1. Sigur Ro's: "( )"
2. James Carr: "At the Dark End of the Street"
3. moby: "18"

Bob Dylan: "Good as I been to you"
Spearhead "sStay Human"
backspacing is not working at present so I will stop there...

aS i BEEB

Peter Gabriel's new one, Up, has been on repeat for weeks. It takes a while to get into, but boy, when you do.....It may be his best ever.

Can't remember the other two.

Ashley MacIssac
Rolling Stones
Nigel Kennedy

LASZLO with Norah Jones: Laszlo
Bis: Social Dancing
A Camp: A Camp

pinback: pinback
mojave 3: out of tune
piano magic: low birth weight

Eric Clapton - The Clapton Chronicles
Jenny Choi - ???
Sigur Ros - (Forgot the Title)

snowglobe- our land brains
queens of the stone age- songs for the deaf
beatles- revolver

Avril Lavingngngigiignnge - Let Go
Shonen Knife - Happy Hour
Mannheim Steamroller - some xmas thing

* Broadcast - the noise made by people
* Hefner - residue
* Beck - sea change

Pulp - We love Life
Barenaked Ladies - Stunt
Mahler - 1st Symphony

Manu Chao - Radio Bemba Sound System
Youssou N'Dour - new one
Misty in Roots - Live at the Counter-Eurovision

If you believed this note, shame on you!

Call me Ishmael. Some years ago - never mind how long precisely - having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off--then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can.

This is my substitute for pistol and ball. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly take to the ship. There is nothing surprising in this. If they but knew it, almost all men in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards the ocean with me. There now is your insular city of the Manhattoes, belted round by wharves as Indian isles by coral reefs--commerce surrounds it with her surf.

Right and left, the streets take you waterward. Its extreme down-town is the battery, where that noble mole is washed by waves, and cooled by breezes, which a few hours previous were out of sight of land. Look at the crowds of water-gazers there. Circumambulate the city of a dreamy Sabbath afternoon. Go from Corlears Hook to Coenties Slip, and from thence, by Whitehall northward. What do you see?--Posted like silent sentinels all around the town, stand thousands upon thousands of mortal men fixed in ocean reveries. Some leaning against the spiles; some seated upon the pier-heads; some looking over the bulwarks glasses!

of ships from China; some high aloft in the rigging, as if striving to get a still better seaward peep. But these are all landsmen; of week days pent up in lath and plaster--tied to counters, nailed to benches, clinched to desks. How then is this? Are the green fields gone? What do they here? But look! here come more crowds, pacing straight for the water, and seemingly bound for a dive. Strange! Nothing will content them but the extremest limit of the land; loitering under the shady lee of yonder warehouses will not suffice. No. They must get just as nigh the water as they possibly can without falling in. And there they stand--miles of them--leagues. Inlanders all, they come from lanes and alleys, streets and avenues, --north, east, south, and west. Yet here they all unite. Tell me, does the magnetic virtue of the needles of the compasses of all those ships attract them thither? Once more. Say, you are in the country; in some high land of lakes. Take almost any path you please, and ten to one it carries you down in a dale, and leaves you there by a pool in the stream. There is magic in it. Let the most absent-minded of men be plunged in his deepest reveries--stand that man on his legs, set his feet a-going, and he will infallibly lead you to water, if water there be in all that region. Should you ever be athirst in the great American desert, try this experiment, if your caravan happen to be supplied with a metaphysical professor. Yes, as every one knows, meditation and water are wedded for ever.

But here is an artist. He desires to paint you the dreamiest, shadiest, quietest, most enchanting bit of romantic landscape in all the valley of the Saco. What is the chief element he employs? There stand his trees, each with a hollow trunk, as if a hermit and a crucifix were within; and here sleeps his meadow, and there sleep his cattle; and up from yonder cottage goes a sleepy smoke. Deep into distant woodlands winds a mazy way, reaching to overlapping spurs of mountains bathed in their hill-side blue. But though the picture lies thus tranced, and though this pine-tree shakes down its sighs like leaves upon this shepherd's head, yet all were vain, unless the shepherd's eye were fixed upon the magic stream before him. Go visit the Prairies in June,

when for scores on scores of miles you wade knee-deep among Tiger-lilies--what is the one charm wanting? --Water --there is not a drop of water there! Were Niagara but a cataract of sand, would you travel your thousand miles to see it? Why did the poor poet of Tennessee, upon suddenly receiving two handfuls of silver, deliberate whether to buy him a coat, which he sadly needed, or invest his money in a pedestrian trip to Rockaway Beach? Why is almost every robust healthy boy with a robust healthy soul in him, at some time or other crazy to go to sea? Why upon your first voyage as a passenger, did you yourself feel such a mystical vibration, when first told that you and your ship were now out of sight of land? Why did the old Persians hold the sea holy? Why did the Greeks give it a separate deity, and own brother of Jove? Surely all this is not without meaning. And still deeper the meaning of that story of Narcissus, who because he could not grasp the tormenting, mild image he saw in the fountain, plunged into it and was drowned. But that same image, we ourselves see in all rivers and oceans. It is the image of the ungraspable phantom of life; and this is the key to it all. Now, when I say that I am in the habit of going to sea whenever I begin to grow hazy about the eyes, and begin to be over conscious of my lungs, I do not mean to have it inferred that I ever go to sea as a passenger. For to go as a passenger you must needs have a purse, and a purse is but a rag unless you have something in it. Besides, passengers get sea-sick --grow quarrelsome --don't sleep of nights --do not enjoy themselves much, as a general thing; --no, I never go as a passenger; nor, though I am something of a salt, do I ever go to sea as a Commodore, or a Captain, or a Cook. I abandon the glory and distinction of such offices to those who like them. For my part, I abominate all honorable respectable toils, trials, and tribulations of every kind whatsoever. It is quite as much as I can do to take care of myself, without taking care of ships, barques, brigs, schooners, and what not. And as for going as cook, -- though I confess there is considerable glory in that, a cook being a sort of officer on ship-board --yet, somehow, I never fancied broiling fowls; --though once broiled, judiciously buttered, and judgmatically salted and peppered, there is no one who will speak more respectfully, not to say reverentially, of a broiled fowl than I will. It is out of the idolatrous dotings of the old Egyptians upon broiled ibis and roasted river horse, that you see the mummies of those creatures in their huge bake-houses the pyramids. No, when I go to sea, I go as a simple sailor, right before the mast, plumb down into the forecastle, aloft there to the royal mast-head. True, they rather order me about some, and make me jump from spar to spar, like a grasshopper in a May meadow. And at first, this sort of thing is unpleasant enough. It touches one's sense of honor, particularly if you come of an old established family in the land, the van Rensselaers, or Randolphs, or Hardicanutes. And more than all, if just previous to putting your hand into the tar-pot, you have been lording it as a country schoolmaster, making the tallest boys stand in awe of you. The transition is a keen one, I assure you, from the schoolmaster to a sailor, and requires a strong decoction of Seneca and the Stoics to enable you to grin and bear it. But even this wears off in time. What of it, if some old hunks of a sea-captain orders me to get a broom and sweep down the decks? What does that indignity amount to, weighed, I mean, in the scales of the New Testament? Do you think the archangel Gabriel thinks anything the less of me, because I promptly and respectfully obey that old hunks in that particular instance? Who aint a slave? Tell me that. Well, then, however the old sea-captains may order me about--however they may thump and punch me about, I have the satisfaction of knowing that it is all right; that everybody else is one way or other served in much the same way -- either in a physical or metaphysical point of view, that is; and so the universal thump is passed round, and all hands should rub each other's shoulder-blades, and be content. Again, I always go to sea as a sailor, because they make a point of paying me for my trouble, whereas they never pay passengers a single penny that I ever heard of. On the contrary, passengers themselves must pay. And there is all the difference in the world between paying and being paid. The act of paying is perhaps the most uncomfortable infliction that the two orchard thieves entailed upon us. But being paid, --what will compare with it? The urbane activity with which a man receives money is really marvellous, considering that we so earnestly believe money to be the root of all earthly ills, and that on no account can a monied man enter heaven. Ah! how cheerfully we consign ourselves to perdition! Finally, I always go to sea as a sailor, because of the wholesome exercise and pure air of the forecastle deck. For as in this world, head winds are far more prevalent than winds from astern (that is, if you never violate the Pythagorean maxim), so for the most part the Commodore on the quarter-deck gets his atmosphere at second hand from the sailors on the forecastle. He thinks he breathes it first; but not so. In much the same way do the commonalty lead their leaders in many other things, at the same time that the leaders little suspect it. But wherefore it was that after having repeatedly smelt the sea as a merchant sailor, I should now take it into my head to go on a whaling voyage; this the invisible police officer of the Fates, who has the constant surveillance of me, and secretly dogs me, and influences me in some unaccountable way --he can better answer than any one else. And, doubtless, my going on this whaling voyage, formed part of the grand programme of Providence that was drawn up a long time ago. It came in as a sort of brief interlude and solo between more extensive performances. I take it that this part of the bill must have run something like this: Grand Contested Election for the Presidency of the United States. Whaling Voyage by one Ishmael. Bloody Battle in Affghanistan. Though I cannot tell why it was exactly that those stage managers, the Fates, put me down for this shabby part of a whaling voyage, when others were set down for magnificent parts in high tragedies, and short and easy parts in genteel comedies, and jolly parts in farces --though I cannot tell why this was exactly; yet, now that I recall all the circumstances, I think I can see a little into the springs and motives which being cunningly presented to me under various disguises, induced me to set about performing the part I did, besides cajoling me into the delusion that it was a choice resulting from my own unbiased freewill and discriminating judgment. chief among these motives was the overwhelming idea of the great whale himself. Such a portentous and mysterious monster roused all my curiosity. Then the wild and distant seas where he rolled his island bulk; the undeliverable, nameless perils of the whale; these, with all the attending marvels of a thousand Patagonian sights and sounds, helped to sway me to my wish. With other men, perhaps, such things would not have been inducements; but as for me, I am tormented with an everlasting itch for things remote. I love to sail forbidden seas, and land on barbarous coasts. Not ignoring what is good, I am quick to perceive a horror, and could still be social with it--would they let me --since it is but well to be on friendly terms with all the inmates of the place one lodges in. By reason of these things, then, the whaling voyage was welcome; the great flood-gates of the wonder-world swung open, and in the wild conceits that swayed me to my purpose, two and two there floated into my inmost soul, endless processions of the whale, and, mid most of them all, one grand hooded phantom, like a snow hill in the air.

dude, this is like my favorite book of all time! Bhikku, I love you.

chapter ii THE CARPET-BAG

I stuffed a shirt or two into my old carpet-bag, tucked it under my arm, and started for Cape Horn and the Pacific. Quitting the good city of old Manhatto, I duly arrived in New Bedford. It was on a Saturday night in December. Much was I disappointed upon learning that the little packet for Nantucket had already sailed, and that no way of reaching that place would offer, till the following Monday. As most young candidates for the pains and penalties of whaling stop at this same New Bedford, thence to embark on their voyage, it may as well be related that I, for one, had no idea of so doing. For my mind was made up to sail in no other than a Nantucket craft, because there was a fine, boisterous something about everything connected with that famous old island, which amazingly pleased me. Besides though New Bedford has of late been gradually monopolizing the business of whaling, and though in this matter poor old Nantucket is now much behind her, yet Nantucket was her great original - the Tyre of this Carthage; - the place where the first dead American whale was stranded. Where else but from Nantucket did those aboriginal whalemen, the Red-Men, first sally out in canoes to give chase to the Leviathan? And where but from Nantucket, too, did that first adventurous little sloop put forth, partly laden with imported cobble-stones - so goes the story - to throw at the whales, in order to discover when they were nigh enough to risk a harpoon from the bowsprit? Now having a night, a day, and still another night following before me in New Bedford, ere I could embark for my destined port, it became a matter of concernment where I was to eat and sleep meanwhile. It was a very dubious-looking, nay, a very dark and dismal night, bitingly cold and cheerless. I knew no one in the place. With anxious grapnels I had sounded my pocket, and only brought up a few pieces of silver, - So, wherever you go, Ishmael, said I to myself, as I stood in the middle of a dreary street shouldering my bag, and comparing the gloom towards the north with the darkness towards the south - wherever in your wisdom you may conclude to lodge for the night, my dear Ishmael, be sure to inquire the price, and don't be too particular. With halting steps I paced the streets, and passed the sign of The Crossed Harpoons - but it looked too expensive and jolly there. Further on, from the bright red windows of the Sword-Fish Inn, there came such fervent rays, that it seemed to have melted the packed snow and ice from before the house, for everywhere else the congealed frost lay ten inches thick in a hard, asphaltic pavement, - rather weary for me, when I struck my foot against the flinty projections, because from hard, remorseless service the soles of my boots were in a most miserable plight. Too expensive and jolly, again thought I, pausing one moment to watch the broad glare in the street, and hear the sounds of the tinkling glasses within. But go on, Ishmael, said I at last; don't you hear? get away from before the door; your patched boots are stopping the way. So on I went. I now by instinct followed the streets that took me waterward, for there, doubtless, were the cheapest, if not the cheeriest inns. Such dreary streets! Blocks of blackness, not houses, on either hand, and here and there a candle, like a candle moving about in a tomb. At this hour of the night, of the last day of the week, that quarter of the town proved all but deserted. But presently I came to a smoky light proceeding from a low, wide building, the door of which stood invitingly open. It had a careless look, as if it were meant for the uses of the public; so, entering, the first thing I did was to stumble over an ash-box in the porch. Ha! thought I, ha, as the flying particles almost choked me, are these ashes from that destroyed city, Gomorrah? But The Crossed Harpoons, and The Sword-Fish? - this, then, must needs be the sign of The Trap. However, I picked myself up and hearing a loud voice within, pushed on and opened a second, interior door. It seemed the great Black Parliament sitting in Tophet. A hundred black faces turned round in their rows to peer; and beyond, a black Angel of Doom was beating a book in a pulpit. It was a negro church; and the preacher's text was about the blackness of darkness, and the weeping and wailing and teeth-gnashing there. Ha, Ishmael, muttered I, backing out, Wretched entertainment at the sign of The Trap! Moving on, I at last came to a dim sort of light not far from the docks, and heard a forlorn creaking in the air; and looking up, saw a swinging sign over the door with a white painting upon it, faintly representing a tall straight jet of misty spray, and these words underneath - The Spouter-Inn: - Peter Coffin. Coffin? -Spouter? - Rather ominous in that particular connexion, thought I. But it is a common name in Nantucket, they say, and I suppose this Peter here is an emigrant from there. As the light looked so dim, and the place, for the time, looked quiet enough, and the dilapidated little wooden house itself looked as if it might have been carted here from the ruins of some burnt district, and as the swinging sign had a poverty-stricken sort of creak to it, I thought that here was the very spot for cheap lodgings, and the best of pea coffee. It was a queer sort of place - a gable-ended old house, one side palsied as it were, and leaning over sadly. It stood on a sharp bleak corner, where that tempestuous wind Euroclydon kept up a worse howling than ever it did about poor Paul's tossed craft. Euroclydon, nevertheless, is a mighty pleasant zephyr to any one in-doors, with his feet on the hob quietly toasting for bed. In judging of that tempestuous wind called Euroclydon, says an old writer - of whose works I possess the only copy extant - it maketh a marvellous difference, whether thou lookest out at it from a glass window where the frost is all on the outside, or whether thou observest it from that sashless window, where the frost is on both sides, and of which the wight Death is the only glazier. True enough, thought I, as this passage occurred to my mind - old black-letter, thou reasonest well. Yes, these eyes are windows, and this body of mine is the house. What a pity they didn't stop up the chinks and the crannies though, and thrust in a little lint here and there. But it's too late to make any improvements now. The universe is finished; the copestone is on, and the chips were carted off a million years ago. Poor Lazarus there, chattering his teeth against the curbstone for his pillow, and shaking off his tatters with his shiverings, he might plug up both ears with rags, and put a corn-cob into his mouth, and yet that would not keep out the tempestuous Euroclydon. Euroclydon! says old Dives, in his red silken wrapper -(he had a redder one afterwards) pooh, pooh! What a fine frosty night; how Orion glitters; what northern lights! Let them talk of their oriental summer climes of everlasting conservatories; give me the privilege of making my own summer with my own coals. But what thinks Lazarus? Can he warm his blue hands by holding them up to the grand northern lights? Would not Lazarus rather be in Sumatra than here? Would he not far rather lay him down lengthwise along the line of the equator; yea, ye gods! go down to the fiery pit itself, in order to keep out this frost? Now, that Lazarus should lie stranded there on the curbstone before the door of Dives, this is more wonderful than that an iceberg should be moored to one of the Moluccas. Yet Dives himself, he too lives like a Czar in an ice palace made of frozen sighs, and being a president of a temperance society, he only drinks the tepid tears of orphans. But no more of this blubbering now, we are going a-whaling, and there is plenty of that yet to come. Let us scrape the ice from our frosted feet, and see what sort of a place this Spouter may be.

I am Eric This message is meant to get to DEATHS WILL if you see DEATHS WILL online when you see this message send him this message.

AHH YOU PICKED ME UP......damn you!! err i meen heads up there is a meat luvin frog behind you.

I am Satan is You would like to join my army just leave your name below and we will fight god togeather i have many minions on my team as we speak. WE WILL WIN

How CUTE!

Actually, Santa Clause is derived from Norse mythology, whereas Satan is a Christian invention.

what if we have our own army and don't want to join yours?

What color uniforms will we have?

They oppress the poor! :P

They impress the rich! :R

they neglect the homeless

They have a terrible selection

Their name could be more clever :D

But how else can I get a house to call my own?

Variety and options are limited too none. But I guess the early bird gets the worm.

darling of the past unite
its time to leave again.

Everyone must love the typos

If not please for a untied front and file your complaint with the mayors office so it may promptly be ignored, please leave this note for public viewing.

Your Mayor,
(Rubberstamp)

I hope that whoever finds these items (hopefully with this note) will be making their first, or hell even second, GNE. There's enough to make everything five times; well at least when I leave this note here there is.

Best wishes!

Now there's nothing GNE-making-related here at all! We need tape to attach notes to things.

you see the ring.

well you haven't lived if you haven't seen the original trilogy.

... you live.

GNE helped me open my eyes. Hoping it continues to do so. Touching everyone. Moving everyone.

It's not just a game.

It's life

stop scaring me you nutball

ok, now you are really freaking me out, lil freakshow

we're all crazy

*shivers*

I understand completely. (Both of you.)

We never should have made this game.

1. Memento
2. Wonder Boys
3. Shawshank Redemption
3. The Game
4. Taxi Driver
5. Requiem for a Dream

That's 6 !!!

6. Buttman 5 - Buttman Goes Wild

The Usual Suspects
El Mariachi (w/Beadhead)
(have to go look at collection...)

1. Battlefield Earth 2. What Dreams may come True 3. The Beach 4. SW: The Phantom Menace. 5. Face Off

1. Very Bad Things 2. The Avengers 3. Battlefield Earth 4. SW: The Phantom Menace 5. Scary Movie 2

1. Leprachaun In Da' Hood
2. The Skulls
3. Not Another Teen Movie
4. Varsity Blues
5. Michael

1. Gummo
2. Zoolander
3. Coyote Ugly
4. American Psycho
5. American Pie 2

Seven and Howard the Duck are the 2 worst movies I've ever seen.

here's my not worst but disappointments list this year:

minority report
spider-man
star wars attack of the clones
scooby doo
signs
the ring (US remake version)

To Shahara-Zah nightclub:

1. Simon Rex
2. Toby McGuire
3. Jake Gyllenhaal
4. Julian Casablanca
5. Brandon Boyd

I'm taking Ewan.

an eighth note lovely as a tree.
Ta-ra-ra BOOM de-ay!
Have you had yours today?

O GNE, I cannot hold thee close enough!

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood

And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;

What GNE item do you each want for Christmas?

I think I want another Dos Pesos, I lost the poor thing.

I'd love a bike or a hemp hanky.

I'll take 12,589 massage certificates.

If not Dos Pesos, then my long lost skateboard. Better yet, Dos Pesos on a skateboard!

I'd like a beautifully handcrafted wooden pipe for the Afghan mash.

Selva is letting me crash in the solarium while I'm homeless. Help yourself to some absinthe and MMORG away :)

Hey, thanks Eggy! See you in the MMORG.

Squatting till I get a real home!

Would you like something to drink?

odd thing, this pink stuff
kingmakers and bumshakers
can't resist it's call

And the final Sentence of the The Books of Bokonon reads thusly:

If I were a younger man, I would write a history of human stupidity; and I would climb to the top of Mount McCabe and lie down on my back with my history for a pillow; and I would take from the ground some of the blue-white poison that makes statues of men; and I would make a statue of myself, lying on my back, grinning horribly, and thumbing my nose at You Know Who.

shut up.

My corey doll

My first sheet of paper.

All the friends that were listed that have now gone.
All the friends that cant get listed because their lists are full.
All the threads now broken...

that brass thing with the straps I found in a forest clearing.

Over 100sheep + 100cows + 100chicken + 100pigs in master bedroom. (heehee)

2700+ Absolutely Absinthe in kitchen (plus all kinds of booze).

Not to mention all the harpsichords (700+)

Chat is silent
and ever still
even GOD does not dare
to interrupt the dream

colored paper everywhere
in the trees, on the ground
we wander mute
through autumn in GNE

some picking
some wondering
but all marvelling
at the sight

I hereby declare this forest clearing to be the northeasternmost place of Game Neverending.

There is nothing but epileptic wookies and perennial snots northeast from this place and it is a living proof that the world is in fact not round-shaped, but rather a big pancake.

These findings were sponsored by the Worldwide Geographical Exploration and Documentation Authority as part of the Living Planet Project.

Signed,
Tier nan Gorduin

I hereby declare Yoni to be the central place of Game Neverending.

According to our research, this place is the geographical focal point of the world, and as such, should be worshipped and praised, and held in utmost respect, since it is a living proof that the world is in fact not round-shaped, but rather a big pancake.

These findings were sponsored by the Worldwide Geographical Exploration and Documentation Authority as part of the Living Planet Project.

Signed,
Tier nan Gorduin

I hereby declare the Swamplands to be the southwesternmost place of Game Neverending.

There is nothing but singing syrens and dancing satyrs southwest from this place and it is a living proof that the world is in fact not round-shaped, but rather a big pancake.

These findings were sponsored by the Worldwide Geographical Exploration and Documentation Authority as part of the Living Planet Project.

Signed,
Tier nan Gorduin

Once, three rocks were found on a table owned by a recently deceased monk. Elsewhere, a story was written on the living flesh of three children who were born without feet. In a nearby city, a stonemason discovered stones which had been involved in a heinous murder. Long ago, so long ago as to not be important to this story, the members of a religious order swore a solemn oath to cease taking actions that had meaning. In the catacombs of an ancient church, just days before her death, a storywriter will discover three babies who never lived.

What is the point of accumulating, of enumerating, things? Or even abilities? Or friends? Or experiences? If, that is, it all ends, and ends soon.

Or is the experience itself the Point Of It All, presuming that things that ultimately go away are of limited value, whereas the experience, fixed forever in the past, cannot go away? Or is it the memory of them, which can and will go away? And if the latter, isn't it all meaningless once again?

If it all ends tomorrow, what, then, should we do today?

Cool! Thanks, you have a beautiful solarium!

You have a lot of rooms here PB. I know that you will make the most of them!

So interesting! May you hibernate in health and comfort!

This is awesome -- I don't know which I like more, the sewing room or the solarium! :)

'squeek'

PARTY!

What JB said.

Thanks for the leg-up and the purple paper when I first started and the help to the other CD newbies.

Oh yeah... I "borrowed" the drink cart :-)

I wish I had a solarium. Great den!

Thanks for the hospitality, Polar Bear. Your house is gorgeous! (Sorry about the grape juice on the carpet.)

I love your house! Mmmmm, the lap of luxury. Well-stocked and well-decorated.

About the cow and the sheep (or the electric one) in your bedroom... I s'pose you need your "creature comforts" on those cold lonely nights when you can't hibernate. We accept you anyway! ;)

lurrrrrvely....

what a pad!!!

nicely done... messy but nicely done

Thanks for your help in the game Polar Bear. Your hospitality is second to none.

You have a lovely home. Hope you enjoy the flowers!

Life in a day: he took his girl to the ballet;
Being shortsighted himself could hardly see it -
The white skirts in the grey
Glade and the swell of the music
Lifting the white sails.

Calyx upon calyx, canterbury bells in the breeze
The flowers on the left mirror to the flowers on the right
And the naked arms above
The powdered faces moving
Like seaweed in a pool.

Now, he thought, we are floating - ageless, oarless -
Now there is no separation, from now on
You will be wearing white
Satin and a red sash
Under the waltzing trees.

But the music stopped, the dancers took their curtain,
The river had come to a lock - a shuffle of programmes -
And we cannot continue down
Stream unless we are ready
To enter the lock and drop.

So they were married - to be the more together -
And found they were never again so much together,
Divided by the morning tea,
By the evening paper,
By children and tradesmen's bills.

Waking at times in the night she found assurance
In his regular breathing but wondered whether
It was really worth it and where
The river had flowed away
And where were the white flowers.

- Louis MacNeice

Cornbread, James Holloway

Samantha.

jean baudrillard

majick, Alex Massie

Kallese

When we all crammed into Bentown for the failed screen shot. I laughed so hard that night! Cornbread kept passing me bottles of massage oil and repeating 'it puts the lotion on it's skin'. Somebody streaked through the shot. Everybody kept talking in chat when we were supposed to stand still. After about two hours of this nonsense, inspoetica's server crashed. We never did get the shot, but man, did we have fun!

Reading this made me laugh my ass off! Wish i could share a memorable moment like this with you guys.

We sit here, huddled in the ruins of this stone manse, awaiting the merciful end. The denizens of Stencilton in their mad rage, stand outside, ready to burn us in the fires of renewal. Learn from our mistakes! Repent, lest ye be lost!

For a golden fleeting moment in time, there existed a comunity of artists and free thinkers who were given awesome powers and shown shining glimpses of infinite possibilities. Some were enlightened, some could not handle the newfound knowledge; but all were changed forever by the experience.

It is moments like these that give birth to legend.