Beauty is whatever we refer to and understand as Beauty.
-September
Submitted by Yosa:
I turn my Fear into Faith
-Jeff-boy
Submitted By Individuation:
This may be kind of cheesy, but being goth, for me, is seeing beauty, and its
coming destruction, at the same time.
For me..
It's the last dance as the walls are crumbling around you...
-Beatgrrl
Submitted By Treason Symphony:
And I've seen posts by Jealousy that make me think. And that's
not an easy thing to do.
-Brother Cadfael
Submitted By Dranith:
I don't fear death because I know the man.
And he's got nothing especial against me.
But I am afraid of not living enough to have a
good tale to tell him, on the long walk back home.
-Jealousy
Submitted By Twilight:
This isn't a poem,
for haven't I told you I hate poets?
And I have the sweat, grime and paint on my hands
of a working man.
And working men, bless them are free from poetry
(from at least 08:30 to 16:30)
And this is no computer I'm typing on.
It, is a still pond, having been reflected upon.
It rains outside,
and in side
me some
one wants to drown.
-Jealousy
Magic
With wings of dark crimson
A dragon flies overhead
But nobody in the busy city
Pays attention to the massive form
Too buy to care they
Pass it off as a jet plane
A winged horse gallops
Through a crowded park
Its coat a shimmering white
But nobody cares to look up
Too busy with their lives
To observe this pegasus' flight
On a street corner a burning
Red phoenix prepares for its pyre
But nobody around takes
The time even glance
Too busy checking the time
To see the reincarnation fire
People in this world laugh
At the mention of magic
And never stop to notice
That acts of wonder happen
Everyday everywhere right
In front of their eyes
-Leonora
You see, I have special eyes. They're overloaded with the little cones, or
possibly the little cones are oversensitive - if I can see light at all, I see
color. And there are no colors like those one sees under the moon. I'm
reminded of the words of the poet "thus mellow'd to that tender light, which
heaven to gaudy day denies" - perhaps Van Gogh could paint this. Perhaps he
did, one Starry Night.
And the moon is so amazing. Silvery - magickal, I want to be out in it - to go
play.
-klaatu
*WHY* did you subscribe to a group called "alt.gothic"
When you first discovered gothic or usenet, which every came last, what
made the group alt.gothic suddenly jumo out at you as something you wanted
to bother reading.
There are rare few who can honestly say they subscribed to this group
because they wanted to be a part of a giant online community of friends.
That they wanted to come in the coffee shop and make connections of the
soul.
No, most of us came on this group because for some reason "gothic"
appealed to us and we wanted to talk about it. We were more than willing
when we first saw the word alt.gothic to come on here and *only* discuss
what Dead Can Dance album we thought rocked. We thought perhaps we might
read some good poetry.
Essentially, in the realm of things you expected alt.gothic to be a dance
club and not a coffee house.
You don't get much soul searching done in the spinny lights and pounding
music of a dance club. Sure you might make friends there, but only on the
surface.
*that* is was most of us expected of alt.gothic when we subscribed to it.
...and most of us were pleasantly suprised to find out that this thing
that we thought was a dance club was really more like the local coffee
shop or the local pub (depending on your poison). Where discussions
weren't just a surface thing, where friendships were forged.
Where somehow the shared air of the place, and the fact that there is in a
figurative sense better lighting here than in a club, you felt you could
*really* connect with people. You felt that you could make friends. Real
friends, not just smile and wave and "gee what a nice outfit" friends.
I wonder then, why we complain when alt.gothic turns out to only be just
what we expected it to be: a discussion group about gothic...
I don't really think it is. I really do, and I hate to use a catch phrase,
consider alt.gothic an online community. A city of sorts floating in the
ether.
...and that makes it REAL. Like life... like a real coffee house that you
go to all the time. You make friends, you make enemies, you get into
heated debates about stupid shit, you sit in the corner and drown your
sorrows with a handful of people, you share with them your elation. And
periodically, you come in one afternoon and no one else you know is there,
and you take your seat in the corner and listen to what others are saying,
and you might jump in if they look inviting enough.
And periodically people have life circumstances that make them stop
coming, they move, they get a job, or they just bore of java. In any
respect they disapear. Someone else has a seat now.
And because our pub/coffee shop is open to the public we *do* get morons.
People wandering in just looking for a fight. People who don't know their
manners and the like. And yes, they need to be addressed. Sometime you
*do* have to defend yourself and what it yours.
But periodically alt.gothic is only a discussion group.
We seem to tied to this that we forget that at times. That people walking
in here the first time aren't expecting to encounter a complex and
sometimes confusing community. They just come on here to talk about
gothic.
-oddlystrange
I grew up the day I realized I wasn't a nothing.
-TSM
But I've lost that as well. Along with mystery, fantasy, and
dreams of what-may-be. If I believed I had a soul, I might
even say that I lost that, to "reality". Someone else's
naked, cold, painful reality.
A reality that scrapes at your dreams and wishes like
sandpaper at a baby's tender skin.
In that reality, there is no life beyond death, no faeries, no
possibility of ghosts, banshees, or vampires. Magic doesn't
exist, it's all a figment of one's wonderful, complex brain.
And so I've lost my muse. Basically by screaming at him that
he didn't exist, and never did.
Heh.
Basically, you shouldn't care about me, because I've told
everything that once kept me happy that it wasn't real, and
didn't exist. And so it went away.
I don't know if it will take me back.
-Carrie
This morning as Greg and I were on our way to work we encountered a man in the
subway.....
Normally I would have been one of those people rushing past, not noticing a
thing. In dire need of coffee, and surrounded by one of the things that I hate
most, a crowd, I too, would have been one of the people that pushed past him.
But as I got closer to him, I noticed that he was rubbing his right cheek. And
above his cheek there should have been a bright blue eye to match the one
above his left cheek. But there wasn't.
There was nothing... no scar, no wound... just an eyebrow and a patch of
fine white skin.
I immediately looked away... it was the polite thing to do... but
something, a twisted sense of curiosity, some societal urge to "gawk', drew my
attention back to him. And then it was over. I didn't stop, I didn't even
really slow down. I just looked and took it in and kept going. We got down to
the platform, and I remarked to Greg how creepy that had been. Not because it
was frightening, not because it was gross... I just kept thinking what it must
have been like to grow up like that, and felt an incredible sadness.
Now this man probably neither needed nor wanted my pity. He was likely
quite used to his situation, and possibly didn't even consider it an issue.
But something about him just broke my heart. The urge to go back and help him
was overwhelming... but who's to say he wanted or needed my help? So I got on
the train, and went to work, and did my job and sat in my ergodynamic chair
and looked at the toys and momentos given to me by people that love me. I fed
my fat happy little fish, and watered my plants and drank my much needed
coffee. I thought about all of the wonderful things and people in my life, and
how very incredibly lucky I am to be happy and healthy and have people that
love and care about me. And I came to the realization that I am a very, very
fortunate person. And that I am not nearly appreciative enough of what I have.
This man may have had a very rewarding, fulfilling life, even without his
right eye... that I'll never know. But the sight of him standing there so lost
and alone amidst the rush of people thinking only of themselves... it was like
a hard kick in the teeth. It was something telling me to smarten up and start
showing a great deal more appreciation for the things that I have. He could be
any one of us, given different circumstances.
It made me very aware of just how lucky I am. And it made me *very* aware of
what I take for granted. And how seldom we as a society stop to smell the
flowers, so to speak.
So, a word of thanks to all of you; for your friendship and generosity and
support and love; for the tins of Altoids, and funny soaps with frogs in them,
and boxes of obscure American breakfast cereal; for the 3 AM phone calls, and
the Christmas packages full of attack spiders, and the South Park postcards
and the many emails. You guys rock my world and I can't wait to do the
Macarena with each and every one of you at C4.
Thanks too, to those of you that *don't* necessarily rock my world, but at
least keep it interesting. I'm happiest when I have something to squabble
about, and you've certainly provided that. :)
-Sheryl
My philosophies are simple:
Those who can, must. And
My purpose in life is to make a positive lasting impact on the world
around me.
I have talents to help people, and I feel that those gifts were not
given to me at random. I have been blessed so that I may use my
talents to aid others. I can, so I must.
I also feel that the only truly worthy people are those who have
touched others' lives positively, leaving a lasting impression. If I
am not remembered in a positive light after my death, I will have
failed. Although the centuries will erase all traces of my existence,
I do not wish to be merely another name on a stone, with no history or
good deeds to mark my travails upon the earth. Working in a Victorian
cemetery has shown me how fleeting fame can be, but how good deeds may
last decades. We quickly forget the socialities and the minor
politicos, yet the poor woman who organized an orphanage is still
revered for her saintliness. I only hope that in my lifetime I can
help enough.
May you find the peace of a balanced burden, and may the wisdom of
self-reflection help you to lay down your pains when they block your
path.
-Juliann
"What are you supposed to be?" was the question the average-looking
mundane man asked me while I was standing in line at KFC tonight.
Being somewhat surprised that someone even spoke to me (it doesn't
happen often, due to my intimidating demeanor, I suppose), I still
managed a quick comeback:
"A damned weirdo-- isn't it obvious?"
It didn't seem to be the reply he was expecting or even hoping for.
Looking somewhat confused, he said, "oh," and left with his dinner in
hand. He seemed disappointed that I didn't attempt some longwinded
explanation, and also that I didn't appear flustered by his big
"confrontation."
As I sat eating my dinner, I started to ponder the question. Just
what the hell AM I supposed to be, relative to J. Random Mundane?
I'm a bit of colorful (not literally) background to their otherwise
drab and routine lives. Wouldn't it be that much more boring if
everyone they encountered looked, acted, and spoke pretty much the
same way they do? I provide their day with something memorable;
they can say to themselves, "Oh yes, I remember last Wednesday. That
was the night I saw that tall weird guy in KFC."
I'm an example. They can look at me and be thankful they're not
weird like me; that their god made them and their family and their children
good, wholesome people, and not some black-clad weirdo who probably
drinks blood and does drugs and worships satan. Just by looking at me,
they can feel superior, and this makes them feel good about themselves.
They can pity me, and pray for my soul, and be all the better for it.
I'm a scapegoat. I, and those like me, embody everything that's wrong
with the world these days, all rolled up into one convenient, evil-
looking package. Drugs, violence, AIDS, moral decline-- all the fault
of people like me, and nothing to do with them. They're just the
victims, the poor innocent citizens whose world I'm ruining.
I'm the villain. They're frightened of me; I might attack them at
any moment. Or their children, or their spouse, or someone else
they know. So they're cautious when they see me, wary of the crimes
I'm going to commit, of the killing spree I'm about to go on. They
don't stop to notice that most such crimes are perpetrated by people
who look a lot more like them than like me. When the evening news
interviews the killer's neighbors, they rarely say, "He always
wore black, listened to strange music, and was really strange." It's
always, "He was so nice and quiet. We never suspected he could ever
do something like this. He seemed so normal."
So, Mr. Flannel-n-jeans, that might not be what I'm supposed to be,
nor what I intended to be, but that's what I am to you. I'm more
purposeful than you even realize.
-JeanCroix
*sigh* It's sad to see that no one really follows the rules of poetry anymore
One can say that there are indeed certain rules for writing poetry, but ever
since man has had the ability to write, these have changed. There really are
no hard and fast rules for writing poetry.
-Sunekh
The reply...
Here's one:
Be an *improvement* on the blank page.
-David Gerard
So, I am sitting here, reading my morning CNN. I read CNN religiously, I
click on it about a million times a a day. Just me and my Dr Pepper,
listening to "Bites"...song: "Assimilate" Main Story:
"Scientists to Reset Doomsday Clock"
Of course, I look. It doesn't say in what way the hands will move, but
I'm betting my money on closer to midnight, the hour of final
destruction.
Click on the story, start scrolling down to look at the pictures and
reading the story at the same time. I start getting very saddened, I
suppose. I don't know why. Suddenly, I stop and sort of stare for a
second at a picture of a nuclear explosion, and all of a sudden good old
Ogre starts screaming "Death! Death! Death! Death!' in my ear.
Freaked me out, highly. So highly, I started to cry.
I know, it's just a symbol, I know it's not real, and can't possibly
decide when the end of the world is near.
But it just reminded me of how close we really are. I mean, I'm one of
the most cynical, bitter, jaded people you can find, but the thought of
the total destruction of all people and the rest of god's creatures just
makes me want to hold my head in my hands and give a good cry.
I have no idea why I even care. My own live is really of not much
importance to me, when I die, I die. That's it.
But for christsakes! How can people be so fucking callus, so cold, so
angry and bitter to destroy ALL of what beauty we have here? WHY? And you
and I both know, this is not some exaggerated thought in the mind of some
over excited and sleep depraved mind. Everyone here has had this thought.
How can you stop it? How can you, one person, change it? Do you just
become apathetic and closed off, not really caring? Or do you try your
hardest to do something about it? Is it worth it?
I think so.
Human's are selfish, greedy, uncaring animals, but they also love and
feel and live and give. Everyone feels something, be it joy, pain, or a
gamut of other emotional goodies. How can anyone want to destroy such
beautiful creatures, even if some of it is ugly?
Hell, FUCK the humans...how can you destroy the things that make this
place beautiful? How can anyone want to kill and obliterate all of the
nature in your intended target, just for a bit of dick waggling?
God, it's so stupid. It's all so very stupid.
-Lady Greycat
I walked through a rainstorm once, in my barefeet, letting the rain soak
my clothing, splashing in the puddles, cartwheeling down the street....I
felt alive then. It was glorious. So free, and cleansing. I even wrote a
small passage about it.
twirling in the drops.
they wet my face
and cleanse my soul.
splashing in the puddles.
they soak my skin
and fill my mind.
escaping into the storm.
it tears at me
and frees my heart.
I think I have some more living to do. And then I will come back and
hopefully be able to answer that question, to my own satisfaction.
faile, waiting for her life to begin, and realizing that she can't wait,
she has to just jump in....
-faile
How many of you keep a journal? I do. Silly, maybe, but it's one of
the few things that defines me on the outside. I lost a lot of them
from various means; from stupidity to computer related problems. Right
now only a few hundred pages exist, most of which are from the last 1
1/2 years or so. Anyway, I try to write in it as often as I can.
Sometimes I miss a week or more, other times I'll do three entries in a
day. It all depends...the fact that there is no set schedule makes it
more natural. Compared to some of the other writing some of you may
have seen from me the past couple of years, the writing sometimes gets
very messy; stream-of-conscious-style...and not polished up, fresh from
the skull. Anyway, I was reading through it tonight...if you keep a
journal you should do that...it helps sometimes. Just a few words or a
paragraph could bring an entire memory flooding back to you. If it's a
bad one you'll probably think how much better things are now. If it's a
good one you'll relish it. So it's a win-win situation, really.
Anyway, tonight I decided to read entries dated exactly a year ago. And
on 6/28/97, two days shy of a year, I found this. Thought some of you
might like it. It's about my Mom. I've only mentioned her maybe 2-3
times on the newsgroup, and usually fleetingly, in all the time I've
been here. I was very close to her, she was my best friend. And I miss
her.
==============
The Sixth Journal of Marcus Pan
Entry # 39 - June 28, 1997 @ 12:53AM
It was a rough day today. Today we went to Jenny Jump Forest to deliver
Mom and Aunt Edie. It was a rough thing to do…to touch her ashes, touch
HER in a way. I have few wishes…very few. The ones I've had I used up
trying to get various things, none of which worked. And my final wish
is something that can not naturally be. I only wish, that somehow, Mom
could see me now…see how I've found a family and Laura. See her first
granddaughter. See…and just know that I'm ok. Today was the first time
I was able to say "goodbye." I was working when she passed on. And to
toss her ashes into the trees of Jenny Jump from the top of the
mountain…it was, finally, a goodbye. I threw her one of my cigarettes
too. And, somehow, I could almost hear her bitch at me for not smoking
a menthol brand. And then I broke down.
-Marcus Pan
Submitted by Nightshade:
Suicide is romantic with its intimacy.
Just you and whatever you imagine.
-++Allison++
Submitted by David Gerard:
The re-evaluation of ones beliefs and hopes and trust
is an automatic response when one is betrayed, even if, in
Carrie's case, the betrayal is minor. It colors the world
in shades of cynicism and brings a person that little bit
closer to hermitage. That's what molds us, in part.
-eloquence
If you know who said any of the anons, have any clearups, snide comments, rude remarks,
or want to babble about love and life eternal, email me at Medakse@concentric.net
