To absent friends, lost loves, old gods, and the season of mists;

I like this meme. So i'm going to repost it

(stolen from eatenbykraken)

1. Pick 10 of your favorite movies.
2. Go to IMDB and find a quote from each movie.
3. Post them here for everyone to guess. Guess the character too, if you can!
4. No Googling/using IMDb search functions.

1) More peanuts... please.

2) Now you listen to me, you smooth-talking son-of-a-bitch. Let me lay it on the line for you and your boss, whoever he is: Johnny Fontane will never get that movie. I don't care how many dago guinea wop greaseball goombahs come out of the woodwork!
-Jack Woltz in The Godfather (eatenbykraken)

3) Does it come in black?
-Bruce Wayne in Batman Begins (eatenbykraken)

4) As you know, l'm quite keen on comic books. Especially the ones about superheroes. I find the whole mythology surrounding superheroes fascinating. Take my favorite superhero, Superman. Not a great comic book. Not particularly well-drawn. But the mythology... The mythology is not only great, it's unique. Now, a staple of the superhero mythology is, there's the superhero and there's the alter ego. Batman is actually Bruce Wayne, Spider-Man is actually Peter Parker. When that character wakes up in the morning, he's Peter Parker. He has to put on a costume to become Spider-Man. And it is in that characteristic Superman stands alone. Superman didn't become Superman. Superman was born Superman. When Superman wakes up in the morning, he's Superman. His alter ego is Clark Kent. His outfit with the big red "S", that's the blanket he was wrapped in as a baby when the Kents found him. Those are his clothes. What Kent wears - the glasses, the business suit - that's the costume. That's the costume Superman wears to blend in with us. Clark Kent is how Superman views us. And what are the characteristics of Clark Kent. He's weak... he's unsure of himself... he's a coward. Clark Kent is Superman's critique on the whole human race.
-Bill in Kill Bill 2 (kessel)
5) What ain't no country I ever heard of. They speak English in What?
-Samuel L. Jackson in Pulp Fiction (eatenbykraken)

6) I trust my barber.

7) I know it's pretty damn weird to eat people.

8) I know. It's all wrong. By rights we shouldn't even be here. But we are. It's like in the great stories. The ones that really mattered. Full of darkness and danger, they were. And sometimes you didn't want to know the end. Because how could the end be happy? How could the world go back to the way it was when so much bad had happened? But in the end, it's only a passing thing, this shadow. Even darkness must pass. A new day will come. And when the sun shines it will shine out the clearer. Those were the stories that stayed with you. That meant something, even if you were too small to understand why. But I think, I do understand. I know now. Folk in those stories had lots of chances of turning back, only they didn't. They kept going. Because they were holding on to something.
-Sam in Return of the King (eatenbykraken)

9) He's no good to me dead.
-Boba Fett in Empire Strikes Back (as alluded to by gollum42)

10) If you're part of a crew, nobody ever tells you that they're going to kill you, doesn't happen that way. There weren't any arguments or curses like in the movies. See, your murderers come with smiles, they come as your friends, the people who've cared for you all of your life. And they always seem to come at a time that you're at your weakest and most in need of their help.

I'm shamelessly self promoting.
it's for creative writing. I need to type mini-personal essays. I'll try and keep it entertaining.

Arcane Trickster
33% Combativeness, 53% Sneakiness, 73% Intellect, 25% Spirituality

Brilliant and sneaky: You are an Arcane Trickster!
Score! You have a prestige class. A prestige class can only be taken after you've fulfilled certain requirements. This may mean that you're an exceptionally talented person, but it probably doesn't.
Arcane Tricksters combine arcane magic with rogue skills and sensibilities. They use their magic to confuse their opponents or to augment their more mundane, roguish skills. If you thought it was annoying keeping an eye that that rogue, the Arcane Trickster is probably picking your pocket from the other side of the room.
Both smart and sneaky, you're probably the type of person that loves planning practical jokes... either that or knocking over banks.

My test tracked 4 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender:

You scored higher than 13% on Combativeness

You scored higher than 73% on Sneakiness

You scored higher than 68% on Intellect

You scored higher than 23% on Spirituality

Link: The RPG Class Test written by MFlowers on Ok Cupid, home of the 32-Type Dating Test

The Boy Next Door
Random Gentle Love Dreamer (RGLDm)

Kind, yearning, playful, you are The Boy Next Door. You're looking for real Love, a lot like girls do. It might not be manly, but it's sweet.

We think the next three years will be very exciting and fruitful ones for you. Your spontaneous, creative side makes you a charming date, and we think you have a horny side just waiting to shine. Or glisten, rather. You enter new relationships unusually hopeful, and the first moments are especially glorious. If you've had some things not work out before, so what.

Your exact opposite:
The 5-Night Stand

Deliberate Brutal Sex Master

On paper, most girls would name the Boy Next Door as their ideal mate. In the real world, however, you're often passed over for more dangerous or masculine men. You're the typical "nice guy:" without just a touch of cockiness, you're doomed with girls. A shoulder to cry on? Okay, sure. But never a penis to hold.

More than any other type, Boys Next Door evolve as they get older. As we said, many find true love, but some fail miserably in the search. These tarnished few grow up to be The Men Next Door, who are creepy as hell, offering backrubs to kids and what not.

ALWAYS AVOID: The Nymph

CONSIDER: The Maid of Honor, The Peach

Link: The 32-Type Dating Test by OkCupid - Free Online Dating.
My profile name: beezly1234

Two new (old) poems.

Genesis

“Your hands are cold” she shivered
and I reached across her
stomach, stealing
warmth.

I then thought
myself death, and moved a lipless mouth
to kiss her neck, pressed
bones into her and felt
nothing,
except
her body relax.

Museum Mile

Scaffolding on skyscrapers hid their scars like bandages, pressed into
a single shade of blindingly dull gray, a sky that didn’t have a set distance,
both oppressively low and infinitely high.

Her hair smelled like silence, drawing blank in a way I didn’t understand. The smell
was flat like a cigarette butt pressed into the sidewalk and it wrapped me
in associations to nothing.

My mouth tasted like after a nap, as if coated with dust, my tongue
surrounded in cotton and the glinting insulation that hides between walls.

And my hand reveled in the simple vibrancy of hers.

Tell me where my icon is from, win a prize.

I expect four of you to know.

(Prizes for everybody who gets it)

I hath been summoned to list my 6 favorite songs. Here we go:

Alkaline Trio- Cooking Wine
Catch22- Keasby Nights
XTC- The ballad of peter pumpkinhead
The Shins- Saint Simon
Against Me- Those Anarcho Punks are mysterious
Arrogant Sons of Bitches- So lets go nowhere

Close Runners up:
Alkaline Trio- Sorry about that
Antiflag- 911 for peace
Weezer- El Scorcho
Cake- Shadow Stabbing
Say Anything- The Writhing South
The Shins- Kissing the Lipless
Led Zepplin- Fool in the rain
The Postal Service- The district sleeps alone tonight
Saves the Day- Holly Hox forget me not
Reel Big fish- Beer

I summon Alice (if she doesn't read Jesse's LJ) Maggie, Mai, Olga and Hillary to do the same list

New Years Eve

Seagulls hung in the wind like plastic bags blowing across the parking lot, their calls reminding me of the summer at the shore. I paused and closed my eyes, wanting to smell wet rocks and brine, suntan lotion and the sand, but the only thing that entered my nose and pooled on my tongue was the slick smell of gasoline and the overbearing fake strawberry perfume emanating from the large woman who had walked by me, speaking in quick high pitched words to her large friend as they got into a large, blocky, ugly brown van that sputtered backwards from the parking spot in front of my car.

The seagulls called again and this time I looked at them. They tumbled upwards and perched on dark, curveless lamps, blending in with the flat gray sky. They came without the bell of a buoy, without the feeling of sand or wet wood on my feet. They came without bringing the blinding white of waking late in the morning and the even more blinding white of relaxing, pale, bodies. Their calls came without the tautness of a kite string and the distance of the association made me shiver. It was too cold and too far away.

So this was freedom. A new license sat in my wallet under forty three dollars and an expired library card. And it was disappointing. I could traverse Route Four and Seventeen and Eighty, go to any store I wanted to, and spend any money that I had on whatever I wanted, and the only restriction was whether I felt like going there or not.

But as I walked slowly into the Goodwill I had always been curious of, I was struck by the stark reality of the place. I hoped to find a little thrift shop where arrogant hipsters picked with long skinny fingers at trendily used clothing. I hoped to see the young and the dimly lit, but the fluorescent lights were harsh and uncovered and the smell of tired clothing dried out my mouth. Humility reflected off the sweat of the plump hispanic woman picking through the shirts in hopes of cheaply clothing her plump hispanic son who was gazing around, idly detached and clad tightly in a faded yellow sweater.

An old black man moved through the broken computers and televisions, a dark ghost with a limp. He mumbled to himself and I wondered if he was speaking to the machines, trying to find memories in their outdated husks. His pale blue jacket was worn and it looked as if it had never been new. The wrinkles on his face were the echoes of water dripping through an empty cavern.

The man with a baseball cap behind the counter looked at me and smiled, but the melancholy carried in his graying moustache and wrinkled sweatshirt smothered any friendliness. I glanced at old shoes slumped like the homeless, staring at the sidewalk and shaking a ragged Wendy’s cup. I imagined their dejection and as I turned away.

I wasn’t going to find anything I wanted here but I felt obligated to at least look around. The racks scratched out wheezes and screeches as I pushed hangers with mock interest. The shirts carried too much gravity.

One shirt, blank, faded white, except for a small brown stain on the right shoulder, looked worn and weary. Its rough cotton blew out dust that tasted of wonderings. Who did the person love? Did they take off this shirt quickly and clumsily as a precursor to a fit of passion or had it lounged lonely on the floor after being pulled off with a yawn by the owner, who had woken up after falling asleep in front of the TV, whose light reflected off of cold containers of Chinese food? Did they open a store on the side of Route Four that was not remotely appealing, selling bedding or office supplies? And did they watch the cars go by when business was slow? And when they defaulted on their loans, who did they tell? And did that person care? Were they abandoned when they were most vulnerable, lacking a job and money and companionship? Did they donate all of their stained clothing to goodwill while they packed up their possessions to move to an apartment, because the house was too expensive? And in that apartment on some scattered point on the east coast, sitting as a failure in their room, what did they tell themselves so they wouldn’t lose hope?

Thousands of possible paths and pasts sprung up to me as I held the shirt in my hands and felt the cloth between my fingers. The dust swirled with somberness, and I breathed it in, getting lost in the vastness of somebody else’s life.

I heard the blaring of two quick digital beeps. It startled me from my reverie and heat rushed to my face when I realized it was coming from my jacket. I glanced around to see if anyone had heard, and sure enough, the hispanic kid and his mom, the limping back man and the smiling man in the baseball cap had their eyes on me. I looked down and searched my pockets. In the breast pocket I found my cell phone, which flashed “low battery” and turned off.

It was only a ten-minute drive away from home, but, squatting in front of a rack at the Goodwill, with the eyes of strangers on me, I was isolated, cut off from everyone I knew. I got up too quickly and the blood rushed from my head. Swirl. Upside-down. And I grabbed hold of a rack to stabilize, my hand grasping something small and plastic.

I opened my eyes and stared at it. It was a small action figure of Batman. The face was stern and the muscles were stylized and fake The arms down at his side and the paint of the yellow bat logo was chipped. I picked it up and walked to the counter.

“Two dollars” The man in the baseball cap said. I paid and walked out.

The action figure’s joints weren’t moving, but I forced its left arm to a forward position. Sand fell from the shoulder and lodged itself under my fingernails. A salty breeze blew from the road and it carried the sound of distant bells. And the cars, for a fleeting moment, sounded like waves crashing on the shore.

You scored as Existentialism. Your life is guided by the concept of Existentialism: You choose the meaning and purpose of your life.

“Man is condemned to be free; because once thrown into the world, he is responsible for everything he does.”

“It is up to you to give [life] a meaning.”

--Jean-Paul Sartre

“It is man's natural sickness to believe that he possesses the Truth.”

--Blaise Pascal

</td>

Existentialism

85%

Kantianism

70%

Utilitarianism

65%

Justice (Fairness)

65%

Hedonism

60%

Strong Egoism

40%

Nihilism

35%

Apathy

10%

Devine Command

What philosophy do you follow? (v1.01)
created with QuizFarm.com

Four Noble Truths

I.
This is the life of livable suffering, dripping with
presence and perspiration. Aches
are stripped from our bodies like clothing rushed
up and off.

II.
Suffering is caused by the
glistening maw of desire.
But it is easily sated; feed it bits
of piquant delight and draughts
of syrupy indulgence
and it lies.

III.
And after time, we gorge, choke
it with gluttony,
gaze down its
throat and listen
to it wheezing and dying,
saturated.

IV.
We will leave suffering to rot
along the eightfold path.
We have enlightenment to reach, and
we are getting there faster.

Obsolescence

I dreamt of her in sepia. We sat
at my kitchen table and talked about silent
movies, her voice coming out popping and mid-range
like vinyl. She called me a “tomfool”
and got up to leave.

I blocked the doorway. “Don’t be such a harpy,” I said, and
tipped my fedora in her direction.

She grabbed a bottle of Squirt Cola
and smashed it over my head, the noise unsynchronized
with the splintering glass.

Nothing Grows in Snow

The sky was roaring with jet engines
hidden behind dirty clouds. The top layer
of snow hid the walkway like a shell.

The dirty white reminded him
of the seagulls in the parking lot of the Friendly’s.
They hung in the wind like screeching plastic bags. Calls
he associated more with boats than birds. And
when his watch read
11:10 pm, he waited for a minute and eleven seconds
for the numbers to match up so he could
wish for somebody to call. Then he looked around
to tell someone so
it wouldn’t come true.

As he pushed away his empty glass of Coke (no ice),
he met eyes with someone else’s waitress
and smiled. He wondered how old she was, where she lived.
He wondered whether she lived at home,
and if it was real, how her hair looked
like alternating bars of sand and chocolate powder. He wondered
which parent gave her eyes the color of apple liquor and a nose
that pointed upward slightly. He smiled
as he asked her what route he was on
and what town was nearby.

“Route 46, by Elmwood Park” she said, and her smile
favored her right cheek.

He got here on routes and streets that he didn’t read the signs for,
back-roads and main-roads, to-roads and fro-roads,
and roads that made him wonder about the people who lived
with them, always behind a barrier of trees.
Maybe he’d ask how far the shore was,
and see what February beaches were like. Maybe he’d ask her if
she’d like to drive with him there. Maybe they would make love
in the backseat of his father’s Honda Civic. But he paid and tipped and
said “Thank you” to his waitress, who was chewing gum and counting money.

Walking out of the door and listening to the seagulls, he paused
with his keys in his hand and let the wind rush over him, a
permanent sigh that scattered his mind with the splashing
of dirty snow and the roar of the dirtier maroon sky.

The Role of Political Parties in the Sectional Split.

My homework is cold from
the two nights it sat in the
trunk of my car.
"My cellphone was off." It
rang silently with our cancelled plans, lying
under the seat as I parked in front
of her house.

It feels good, refreshing,
as the rigidly lined
paper presses against the heel of my palm,
and I begin to state things
not untrue.

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