The Game that Nobody Understands Game

(dròm, you are constantly motivating me to write more. Let's see if I can come up with something...)

I look forward to it .

(As for my motivating you to write; you do the same to me.... it's a strange exchange.)

(You're too fast in all the other threads! I can't get enough time to write! )

(I have to go for about 12 minutes, so here's your chance to get enough time to write !)

(Will you still be here, do you think?)

Do you have to eat, and get your hair cut, in heaven?

(I've used most of those 12 minutes just to catch up, dròm! And I'm still here )

(And cjhsa, I just hope that I don't have to sleep in heaven.)

(Ok, writing now...)

Yay about both things! I'm being anti-social tonight so that I can be social here .

(I wonder what people would dream of, if they were sleeping in Heaven? -- whether the sort of subject matter would change.)

Before my grandmother died, she gave me an old violin. I play various string instruments--viola, mandolin, bass, guitar--although I was much more active and talented in the past. She had found this violin in the basement of the old New England apartment building that she owned. It only had six apartments, and they normally stayed within the family. Her father used to both collect and construct his own violins, and he stored them all in the basement. They were rough, the ones that he made, but it was still very moving to see them all.

The particular violin that she gave to me was small, three-quarter sized. The bow and the old case were both full-sized, though, so I had to pad the front with foam to keep the violin from breaking more as I took it back home with me (it already had a large crack down the middle). The instrument was not made by my great-grandfather; it was part of his collection: a copy of an Alexandrius Emilius Ira violin and made in Germany.

I don't play it because it is too small for me, especially compared to my viola. But, I just took the violin out of its case after, well, it must have been a few years. The G- and D-strings have almost fallen off, the E has dropped almost a full octave, but the A is still close to an A (I'd say that it's around G#). Not bad, considering this old violin is still cracked and that the A-string is really the only important one to maintain.

That was outstanding, Smog. I told you that you could spellbind .

Your turn!

'The child; well? I kinda understand you, Naiara, my friend had many disorders, a bipolar one amongst them... It didn't imply being agressive, but anyhow that's not a way of treating anyone. They're still humans and deserve respect, don't they? Sure as hell...

I really think most of this people need just friends, someone who listens, with love and a lot of affection. That's what I did with Naiara for half and a year (and through this I think that I gained access to Heaven, if there's any, heheh) and she now writes or calls every once in a while when I can't get to see her, and she's quite happy, fine as the most.

About that child's mother.... I really think you should get a license to be a parent. Actually, Naiara's mother never noticed her daughter was bullimic, never noticed she cut herself everyday, never noticed her repentine mood changes, never noticed she lied at every single moment and chance she had, and never noticed any of the things I saw the very first day I met Naiara - until I told her. And when I told her, she would just burst into tears and repeat once and once again how bad she was as a mother. "Change that, then" I said. What would you do if you're 18, have to courage to call into the house of your friend's mother, who you know doesn't like you at all, and then sit have a cup of coffee and suddenly a 40-year-old woman is crying in front of you? That really freaked me out. I can't stand to see people crying; it breaks me inside...

So, to Naiara I gave love, tender, affection, and anything she needed to be happy; gave it all for her while her doctor would only make her take those prozac pills... As if the drugs were fine...

(I've had to talk to crying parents about their children before too, although it's never been my choice.)

(I have too, but not in this instance-- I made the whole of that story up.)

(Did you work with children, or were friends, or something?)

(Parents of friends. And pretty soon, I'll start making up stories to post here too, once I get a bit more comfortable with my writing. I have some made-up stories, obviously, but I can't think of them that quickly.)

Child-mind, kind,
a reminder of the love
that brought you in
to a world of sin and kin
without memory,
and misguided thought
about "should we ought"
to follow the train?
So the rain fell,
and happy birth became
a living death,
a corpse in paper mache,
but hey, it's really your world,
your heaven, your hell.
When the bell tolls
you will know
it tolls for thee,
because you'll know
"It's me!"

(Fantastic-- though I really like your observations too... it's amazing what some people disregard..)

(Obviously not fantastic about friends' parents . Were there lots of libertines around you, growing up?)

(Yes, I can make random useless stories up, quickly...)

Two years ago today, about an hour or so before I was going to go to bed, I was fixing my wardrobe: the last job that I do before my room is spotless again. In the middle of putting things on hangers, this huge glass thing, like a belljar, into which I had once put spare change, fell down off the top of the wardrobe-- my halfbrother put it there-- and whacked me on my left temple. It was a huge blow, and all I can remember is falling down. My room is weirdly shaped: in the upper left corner, there's only a small gap between the wardrobe and this bit of low wall that comes out. So, not only did I get a whack on the left temple, the back of my head was cut open due to my falling. I had no dreams last night, I was knocked out. My mother found me about three hours after it had happened, and her resolution was to leave me where I fell. Anyway, I woke up that morning, luckily there was no damage to me apart from the cut on the back and the potato sized bruise on the front, but I felt rather disorientated.

Interesting poem, Cav-- who wrote that?

(Enough happens in our daily lives to write volumes, even in my life where not much action occurs. It's just a matter of noticing it.)

(I suppose you could say that there were some libertines, but also just kids like the one in your story. For some reason, older people often end up confiding in me, even now.)

(Nice random story!)

(Breaking some sort of record, I'm going for a 4th parenthetical phrase in one post! I must be on my way out again, this time for more than just 15 minutes. It was fun again, as always, dròm, and perhaps I'll return before you sleep [doubtful, but possible].)

Erm, I did, just now.