HappyBuddha

squeezes your hand and gives you a hug

I had a lot of trouble with it at first, but once getting past the kinks in the system it worked fine...the main problem was connecting to IRC. Ultimately I found that the master server I was connecting to was being fussy, so I switched to another one and I was able to connect, at which point I could auth myself and join channels, etc. But the Cerulean Studios forums are probably a better starting point, as people's problems have been varied.

Thats really awesome Salinye, much relief on this end as well. Lets hope he comes along well from here on out

Buddha gladly swallows the blame "Mmm, blame...Christmas dinner served hot!"

Good holiday poem

(What I said on the main thread, moved to here): "The voices make an interesting dialogue, but I'm puzzled by their inability to influence his actions; they seem outside observers. At the point where they seem directly planted to exert an influence on his actions, thats very curious. Of course, that just increases the reader's curiosity. I don't think this can sustain itself as anything more than a short story; it starts too fast for anything super far reaching."

Very powerful and very moving; I agree with all the others in saying that this is an excellent poem worthy of every bit of praise it has recieved. A comment on the structure: - I like how the first two lines metrically start with a 1 syllable-2 syllable-1 syllable-3 syllable/1 syllable-2 syllable-1 syllable-4 syllable That subtly gives the poem a sense of building, unconscious except to the trained eye, and puts the reader into a rythm of sorts very early on, always helpful when reading a poem. The internal rhyme in line 3 is very clever, "How can I survive," I like how you neatly fit that little tidbit into the larger poem. It accomplishes its task effortlessly, and the word choice doesn't feel at all strained.

My crystal ball reveals no cloudy future, Only the stark bright stars so bleak, Shining from a million years of burial, Tomb that is my mind, claw at thyself.

Bites his lip and gently suggests some form of writing to excise the pain, or remove it from yourself...sympathies of course go out to you

This stanza feels a little uncomfortable to me - the 1st line of the doesn't feel quite right to me - it don't destroy my appreciation of the poem, but its important to start your poem off well, and I'm not sure this line does that. I feel like the first line needs an article "the sun," but I realize that would mess with the meter and writing style. It just feels too fragmented to me. The second line I like, as it gives me this interesting image of the night being the guilty party, something that establishes the narrator's underlying hesitation and unhappiness about having to go through with this. This is complemented by your use of "crawl," an exceedingly negative image, in the 3rd line. I think that your use of an article in line 3 would make using one in line 1 more acceptable and less disruptive. This unwillingness in turn breeds the sympathy that Salinye first highlights; one doesn't look down on the prostitute but rather feels sorry for her, and takes a new view of her profession and circumstances. It makes her less of a "thing" and more of a "person". I like how you canvass the senses and really establish the scene this way; its so tempting just to paint a visual picture, but you round it out instead, using clear, concise imagery that others can connect to. By using more of the senses than sight, you make the image more believable and relatable, an effective device. In the same way, you manage to make the image montage effective here, this time going solely visual, but once again utilizing familiar imagery that the reader can relate to. You have a talent for using these points of reference to make scenes of exceptional desperation/hopelessness believable and imaginable. I think you could make some really good stuff if you could make these images flow in a writing style that complements the language and is more appealing to the reader right off the bat - a hefty demand that's in truth is a little unreasonable for me to hoist upon you. No more time to comment, but I think this should be plenty. Hope this is helpful, in some small way.

The mischevious gust of wind ducked around my outstretched hand like a cheeky fairy, nimbly invading the yawning maw that was my mouth. The unexpected blast of wind tickled the back of my throat, forcing me to swallow, and I tasted the whispering emptiness of saliva as I felt it inch down my esophagus. Coughing, I looked away and tried not to notice the flowery smell the scent of fresh garbage that the wind was dumping on my nostrils like an unwanted package.

Wyvern's reply in this thread will let you know of your acceptance or rejection. This is what happens when you're introduced to The Pen by HappyBuddha - utter confusion

Lovely; I heartily agree with reverie and Zadown that this piece is beautiful. To give you something useful beyond simple praise however, I'd like to comment on some of the sections that I find particularly powerful: "respiration’s measured ease gives way to lisping memories" I like the way these images transition into each other, its like I can hear the breathing slowly merging with sounds from the memories, as faint as the breath and so initially merged, but then overtaking the sound of the breath. The use of "lisping" is really critical to this, as it connects back to "breath", (I think that comma goes outside of that quotation mark) since they're both connected to the mouth. "and the rigid instability of shifting sticks within the stream." - Its a tad confusing to me that you use "rigid" to describe instability, but what really bothers me is the "shifting" in the next line, as (and this may be due to a lack of imagination) rigid implies to me tightly bound immobility, whereas shifting feels fluid to me (something that works well with "the stream.") Its a purposeful juxtaposition I understand, but I'm not sure that it works completely here. I may be wrong of course; others should feel free to disagree with me and say as much. - Overall however I love these two lines like I love most of the rest of the poem; that "rigid" is the only thing that gives me pause in an otherwise great poem. "Cautiously she parts her lips" The literary critic in me wonders why she does so "Cautiously", but I think its good that you leave that open for interpretation, as it lets the reader determine for him/herself part of what this poem is about. The word works well but still gives the poem a bit of ambiguity open for interpretation.

Wow, I really like this one a whole lot; it really gets its point across well, and has a powerful impact on the reader. Reading other comments, I can see I'm not the only one who has that impression That being said, I also want to help you improve, so I'm going to give some constructive criticism: "Slow and deliberate you walk down the hall. Every step is measured. Every breath deliberate. Nothing seems to register but the white on white wall. Fear of what you can't fix waits to take away hope. A sound filters through. The click clack of hurried heels fall. The end of the corridor comes way too fast. Turn around, face your fear and time begins to crawl. There is little compasion on her overtired face. You try to make smalltalk in an effort to stall. No use, it's her job she has to tell you the news. Her perfectly set speach makes you think of a talking doll. Now you follow her into a room where monitors beep and blink. On the bed lost in tubes and wires your child looks so small. Carefully take his hand and tell him he is loved. How could all this happen? He was just out playing ball. " I love the image "the click clack of hurried heels fall" - I think it could be clarified further for greater effect. I have this image of an out-of-focus camera and the sound in the background.

There's actually a brilliant essay out there by a prominent but reasoned liberal that I read recently, which elaborates and expounds upon Reverie's idea of Patriotism being distinct from nationalism...I'll see if I can't scan that sucker this afternoon, its a beautifully well done piece, and the only argument for permanently instating a draft in the United States which I've been somewhat convinced by.

I considered doing so but decided this fit better under the aegis of "line-by-line creativity". Its borderline, even so.

Sitting at my desk, waiting for an idea; it eludes me, hiding in the long tall grasses of Distraction that sway gently in my mind, gently seducing me with their appealing beauty. I pursue this line of thoughtlessness but find it to be a viciously circular in nature - for is this grass not natural? Its not, and thats the rub - this baking sun has given it a ton of extra energy to grow. Surely there can't be sun - my Imagination has shrunk so much that only bitter cold could be the culprit. Must there be a culprit? I stubbornly insist on scapegoating, staring at the still-blazing sun hoping that it will blind me to the obvious. Meditating upon the pointless holds a nihilistic pleasure for me, moving me outside the messy realities of a day that bounced my check when I tried to spend it and into the disjointed realm of metaphors. Here my sorceror's pleasure awaits, obtained from a cagey demon summoned from the Beyond of my mind in return for the sacrifice of my time. Sacrificed perhaps, but here not in vain - my work is done. Constructive criticism and encouragement are both accepted; my only request is that it be truthful

The mushrooms hang in the air for a millisecond before being swallowed by a flying HappyBuddha, who has dived out of the shadows of the party, having put on an unusual display of sneakiness and restraint in getting to those shadows. His hunger appears to have gotten the better of him however, and those mushrooms quickly find residence in the dark labyrinth that is his belly Reflex saves most of the guests from being landed on by the monstrous bulk of HappyBuddha, but one unfortunate server gets crushed by his weight, not recognizing the sudden enormous shadow engulfing him for what it is. After finding his vital signs miraculously OK, the other servers display their perverse humor by stuffing his body in a coffin, arguing that it "adds to the spooky decor". Meanwhile HappyBuddha stands and dusts himself off; it is at this moment that the others get to see his costume, an enormous toga. Fittingly last minute for such a notorious procrastinator. "I take fashionably late seriously ladies and gentlemen, and I'm always one for a spectacular entrance. Who's ready to party?" Met by a bedraggled chear from a somewhat drunk crowd, he nonetheless plunges into it (or does the crowd plunge into him?) with characteristic abandon, having shrunk himself (he was only at full size for his entrance, to add some pizzaz to it) and made a mandatory snack run first.

While I'd love to do both, I'll probably only be able to do the special Halloween WW. I'm more than kinda strapped for time, so I'm really pushing my luck by trying to do one WW as it is.

I agree with both Valdar and Tanny - Valdar totally sums up what I like about your writing in a way that I didn't have the time to put into words earlier, and Tanny's comments ring true in my head as well.

Overall I like this, and think its very promising, but I really think you need to fill in the details; there are numerous situations where I wince because something good is ruined by being brushed over too quickly, when there's plenty of opportunity to exploit the situation in an interesting/humorous way. Fuller descriptions of encounters and conversations would really help this peice, not to mention the character's impressions. I understand that maybe you're just being lazy in not doing many of the conversations (I'm that way myself ), but trust me, the promise underlying this story is tripped up by not doing them. You can explore the characters so much more thoroughly; for instance, maybe give Artak some character or speech ticks that come out when he's telling Leif about his upbringing, or maybe some secret he won't tell Leif. Another example is near the end, when the mayor draws Leif aside and the two chat - you pass over their agreement in 1 sentence, when you could devote half a page to the conversation in a way that would really establish a character to the mayor, not just a figure. Personality lacks in many of the characters, including Leif, because you don't indulge in conversations nearly enough. That being said, I think if you take this advice to heart and apply it, then you could really turn out some great stuff; the stories themselves have definite promise and the writing style is easily readable.

The reason the story comes off as so surreal is because, in truth, I'm telling a memory, not a story; this is how I remember the story, and so thats how it comes across. This isn't an apology, just a clarification - I kinda like the dreamlike state, in that it conveys the utter, unmarred happiness I associate with the moment.

I was awakened by the hand of Jack Finnegan nudging my slumbering form and his words “Wake up Robert, we’ve got to ride” rolling in my head. They tumbled into the tumultuous valleys of my dreams, but somehow made it through to register in my brain, a Pony Express rider venturing through the unfamiliar and tortured landscape of my dreams. I opened my eyes and was met with his; they gazed back at me with a look of recognition and purpose that has lived on in my memory long after those eyes departed my world. I said no words; I climbed out of bed knowing what to do, and donned the clothes I had set out for myself. He left me asking if I would wake the others¸ and I went about doing so, raising all the last-years in my cabin, before getting them to go to the other cabins as I did and rouse those cabins. Soon all 17 last-years were gathered at the Senior Camp fire ring, waiting, shivering in the unusual cold that stubbornly insisted that the season was not in fact summer, contrary to evidence otherwise, but fall. Jack showed up then, drawing us after him across the creek and out of Senior Camp. We walked on the path we were all ever-so familiar with, going up to the Horsemanship range. We donned our helmets at the bottom of the range, and then hiked up the hill to the barn where the horses were stabled every night. The sun was just beginning to get over its hazy-red period of flirtation at sunrise and mellow out into a gentle yellow, a soft and curvaceous lover. I sought holes in the shade as we climbed, basking in a warmth that felt positively divine. There were not 17 horses, and so some of us were forced to ride in the wagon out to the breakfast site; remembering my mother’s talk of breakfast rides when she was a camper, I insisted on riding a horse. They packed the saddlebags, brought out the horses, we mounted up, and rode off. I had no idea where we were going; despite knowing the entirety of camp like the back of my hand, it was clear that we were going into adjoining property about which I had no idea what to expect. We shortly arrived at a ramshackle stable that looked (and smelt) like it had been built in the 30s. It lay at the end of an open field, giving me the opportunity to turn and face that glorious sun, smiling and laughing at me as if to suggest that whatever comes next, here is happiness, here is love. I smiled back, and went to the breakfast prepared for us; it was delicious, even better than the French toast (my favorite camp breakfast) I would have later in the morning with everyone else. We concentrated on trivial matters, we joked and laughed and played and were our old selves, the same traits as normal life clung to us but now their cloth was of gold, and every movement shone when formerly it would have stained. That morning was the last time we were all together as those glorious creatures clothed in gold; the next dawn would bring a return to the sewer, to the people we came here to escape. I would come to treasure this butterfly for what it was, innocence and sincerity. Jack came among us and we all hushed up quick – Every single one of us who held Jack in the highest respect and loved him intensely, not to mention hero-worship him to a degree (and I’m willing to bet most of us still do so, to an extant). He came to make a small speech but we had other ideas, and clustered around him in a big group hug that squeezed him deathly tight, yet could not prevent him from laughing with the rest of us as we burst into song, singing “You Are My Sunshine”, an inside joke between us and Jack that stretched back 4 years – an eternity in a life comprised of moments such as this, netted and put in a bottle like a child’s pet butterfly. We ended it laughing, and he motioned for us to spread out a little and give him room to talk. We obliged, smiling and laughing a little but with all attention focused on him (Jack was a master at that, getting your attention and rewarding you for keeping it on him). “I’m sure you all know that this is the last day of Camp, the last for good for all of you. We brought you out here this morning as part of a tradition and as part of something larger than yourselves. You were happy here; remember this. You were satisfied here; remember this. You were with friends, with brothers here; remember this. Tomorrow is The End. I hope all of you enjoy this last day, that you spend it like you’ve meant to spend every day here. Make this day something you’ll want to look back on for all the good times you had and all the good things you did.” Jack’s speech would have sounded incredibly corny in another context, overblown and absurd, but to me it sounded like my thoughts echoed aloud, bouncing back from the perimeter of my existence and aimed straight at my heart. I felt then the beginning of the feeling that would consume me at nightfall, the desperate longing for the past to stay and a mortal fear of the future I would have to lead, a biting sadness that racked my body and left me numb. But that was later; that was the fall. The innocence was here, the innocence which flooded me and caused me to laugh and joke and just stare off into the distance at the sun, my companion ever-bright. I knew what was coming, but I didn’t care at that moment, I didn’t care that the world was about to end because at that moment, at that place, I was happy where I was – to know a happiness too great to be outdone by any further thrill is to be the happiest man alive, and surely such an honor went to me that day, that morning, at the barn. Any and all commentary, criticism, is appreciated. I want to improve, not boost my ego; that being said, if you really feel its worth compliments, then I could hardly argue with that !

I hugged him, and let the tears that had been threatening all the long night I had stayed up come through, there early in that last morning in paradise I could not summon the strength to speak for a long wait, and then I finally croaked out a few miserable words, words which could not capture the totality of what I wanted to say to a man I might never see again He replied; his few words somehow capturing everything I needed to hear I released, I drove off; the tears would stay

I like it Finnius, its works really well in my estimation. A bit of constructive criticism: If I were you, I would ditch the line "And lets me drown," it seems slightly superfluous, and more importantly I think it would be better for the reader to catch on to the drowning part on his/her own - its not terrificly subtle about it, and an astute reader could probably catch that. Also, it breaks the flow of the poem, as "Envelopes me" is clearly meant to connect with "My thoughts and fears" and the lines after it, but the "And lets me drown" breaks this up and makes "My thoughts and fears" and the following lines confusing. Otherwise, good job!