God's Comic
- A rope leash
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God's Comic
Juan Carlos was an inquisitive man. He was a very hard worker who often used his powerful logic to tediously examine and to vociferously speculate on every aspect of his life, and upon every general attribute of life itself.
He was always Juan Carlos. Everyone referred to him as “Juan Carlos”. He was intelligent and articulate, but then quite brash and foolhardy. He never wondered much why he never made it to just “Juan”, even with his closest of companions.
Juan Carlos always had a dog. Dogs loved Juan Carlos.
Juan Carlos considered himself to be an artist of words. He had made several so-called “sacrifices” in order to prepare and enable himself to create various works of poetic challenge. In most instances, these “sacrifices” amounted to extended periods of extreme partyhood, and the literary results were invariably obtuse beyond decipher. He toiled in trivial, itinerant employment for much of his adult existence.
When Juan Carlos was forty-five years of age, he decided to start a word project that would tell the tales of his disjointed life. The autobiographical tome would be cut into sections according to the various relationships he had tolerated with various women he had become associated with in his long and tepid travels. The aim of the creation was to be bluntly truthful about every inward and outward aspect of human reality.
Juan Carlos had a dog named Agnes, and a brother named Simone.
Just Simone.
Juan Carlos spent many years of spare time writing his book, and eventually came to catch up with himself, whereupon the autobiography became a diary, one in which Juan Carlos continued to nurture as the years passed.
Agnes provided a continuous line of scurrilous squirrel-hunting dogs for Simone and his brother, Juan Carlos. As the dogs hunted, so did Juan Carlos write his book.
It was charged with poetic justice. The prose had its own unique music, and the truth that lay in the bed of his heart was proudly exposed in the sheer, brutal shine of his talent and ability. Yet only he was aware of it.
He had kept the tome from everyone. He had learned from experience, and he knew it was for Juan Carlos only. Somehow, in the passing of his journeys, he had developed quite a cross hatred for his countrymen as a whole, although his soul still felt love both tender and lustful on an individual level.
He loved Agnes. He loved Simone.
He had strong feelings for others, as well. But, on the barge of his examined life, he could find no way out for mankind itself. Mankind was indelibly flawed, and while it may have once had some sliver of hope for its redemption, the facts of the new century was proving this hope to be fraudulent beyond defense. Juan Carlos saw the future often, his own, in dreams the day before they came true. Now those dreams were few and fewer.
So, Juan Carlos kept the book to himself, rationalizing with his self-buttered ego that the human race did not deserve the pleasure of viewing this fantastic epic.
Eventually, the squirrel dogs faded out, and some just disappeared, and Simone passed on to death in a way that left Juan Carlos dumb with disgust for his fellow man. The diary, now, he wasn’t sure. It was veering from art to rant, becoming sort of an odd call from the solid shore to the crew of a sinking ship he could see on the horizon.
Juan Carlos got some disease that no one could figure out. He continued on the diary until he became too weak to think clearly, and create. He contacted an attorney and arranged for some very specific requests regarding the disposition of his art and the processes of his internment.
Juan Carlos lived longer than any godless man should expect. On a very ill night of bad dreaming, Juan Carlos saw the empty black of death, and woke up shaken. He hated dreaming. He hated hating. He was glad it was over. He wrapped the huge manuscript in a brown paper bag, and taped it up securely with masking tape.
As the body lay at rest for viewing by his friends and family, under the arm of what was once Juan Carlos there was nestled the crumpled package of his life, a sweet and bitter document clutched tenderly to its still and grateful bosom.
Had Juan Carlos somehow survived the demise of his body, and was somehow granted his personage again in the form of a continued-consciousness seeing being that could have somehow been invisibly present at the occasion of his final celebration, he might have seen many of one of the most curiously satisfying of all human facial contortions, the subtly automatic expression of curiosity itself.
As the body entered the crematorium, what was once Juan Carlos clutched the document tenderly to its still and grateful bosom.
He was always Juan Carlos. Everyone referred to him as “Juan Carlos”. He was intelligent and articulate, but then quite brash and foolhardy. He never wondered much why he never made it to just “Juan”, even with his closest of companions.
Juan Carlos always had a dog. Dogs loved Juan Carlos.
Juan Carlos considered himself to be an artist of words. He had made several so-called “sacrifices” in order to prepare and enable himself to create various works of poetic challenge. In most instances, these “sacrifices” amounted to extended periods of extreme partyhood, and the literary results were invariably obtuse beyond decipher. He toiled in trivial, itinerant employment for much of his adult existence.
When Juan Carlos was forty-five years of age, he decided to start a word project that would tell the tales of his disjointed life. The autobiographical tome would be cut into sections according to the various relationships he had tolerated with various women he had become associated with in his long and tepid travels. The aim of the creation was to be bluntly truthful about every inward and outward aspect of human reality.
Juan Carlos had a dog named Agnes, and a brother named Simone.
Just Simone.
Juan Carlos spent many years of spare time writing his book, and eventually came to catch up with himself, whereupon the autobiography became a diary, one in which Juan Carlos continued to nurture as the years passed.
Agnes provided a continuous line of scurrilous squirrel-hunting dogs for Simone and his brother, Juan Carlos. As the dogs hunted, so did Juan Carlos write his book.
It was charged with poetic justice. The prose had its own unique music, and the truth that lay in the bed of his heart was proudly exposed in the sheer, brutal shine of his talent and ability. Yet only he was aware of it.
He had kept the tome from everyone. He had learned from experience, and he knew it was for Juan Carlos only. Somehow, in the passing of his journeys, he had developed quite a cross hatred for his countrymen as a whole, although his soul still felt love both tender and lustful on an individual level.
He loved Agnes. He loved Simone.
He had strong feelings for others, as well. But, on the barge of his examined life, he could find no way out for mankind itself. Mankind was indelibly flawed, and while it may have once had some sliver of hope for its redemption, the facts of the new century was proving this hope to be fraudulent beyond defense. Juan Carlos saw the future often, his own, in dreams the day before they came true. Now those dreams were few and fewer.
So, Juan Carlos kept the book to himself, rationalizing with his self-buttered ego that the human race did not deserve the pleasure of viewing this fantastic epic.
Eventually, the squirrel dogs faded out, and some just disappeared, and Simone passed on to death in a way that left Juan Carlos dumb with disgust for his fellow man. The diary, now, he wasn’t sure. It was veering from art to rant, becoming sort of an odd call from the solid shore to the crew of a sinking ship he could see on the horizon.
Juan Carlos got some disease that no one could figure out. He continued on the diary until he became too weak to think clearly, and create. He contacted an attorney and arranged for some very specific requests regarding the disposition of his art and the processes of his internment.
Juan Carlos lived longer than any godless man should expect. On a very ill night of bad dreaming, Juan Carlos saw the empty black of death, and woke up shaken. He hated dreaming. He hated hating. He was glad it was over. He wrapped the huge manuscript in a brown paper bag, and taped it up securely with masking tape.
As the body lay at rest for viewing by his friends and family, under the arm of what was once Juan Carlos there was nestled the crumpled package of his life, a sweet and bitter document clutched tenderly to its still and grateful bosom.
Had Juan Carlos somehow survived the demise of his body, and was somehow granted his personage again in the form of a continued-consciousness seeing being that could have somehow been invisibly present at the occasion of his final celebration, he might have seen many of one of the most curiously satisfying of all human facial contortions, the subtly automatic expression of curiosity itself.
As the body entered the crematorium, what was once Juan Carlos clutched the document tenderly to its still and grateful bosom.
Last edited by A rope leash on Thu Aug 19, 2004 7:53 am, edited 2 times in total.
- lapinsjolis
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- A rope leash
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Reasons
I don't really know what the deal is with Juan Carlos. There were a bunch of words jammed up in my head, and they came out in this dense wad.
Thanks for reading. Is the revenge folly?
Funny you should mention gloomy afternoons...
Thanks for reading. Is the revenge folly?
Funny you should mention gloomy afternoons...
- Gillibeanz
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- A rope leash
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Edit your head!
I fixed a couple of typos, so now it makes even more sense!
I have quite a few little stories that I would like to bring together for a volume entitled Daytime Stories. Reading one will be like a nap of sorts...
Maybe someday! Perhaps in the daytime!
Y'all ever seen this place?
http://www.artchive.com
I have quite a few little stories that I would like to bring together for a volume entitled Daytime Stories. Reading one will be like a nap of sorts...
Maybe someday! Perhaps in the daytime!
Y'all ever seen this place?
http://www.artchive.com
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- A rope leash
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Dimensions
Yes, it's an autoboigraphical tale about a guy writing his autobiography...
Juan Carlos is based largely on myself. I disguised him for my own benifit my making him Spanish.
There are three major ideas or concepts working here. One is the idea of an autoboigraphy turning into a diary. The other is the joke itself, which is sort of a strange yet understandable mystery. Then there is the concept of the record of life being consumed with the body that led it.
After all, it was Juan Carlos' life, and no one elses. Perhaps he just wanted to vanish...
Thanks for your kind comments, Mr. Miz.
Death in this case is just death, LCrow. Now, what about the bananas?
Juan Carlos is based largely on myself. I disguised him for my own benifit my making him Spanish.
There are three major ideas or concepts working here. One is the idea of an autoboigraphy turning into a diary. The other is the joke itself, which is sort of a strange yet understandable mystery. Then there is the concept of the record of life being consumed with the body that led it.
After all, it was Juan Carlos' life, and no one elses. Perhaps he just wanted to vanish...
Thanks for your kind comments, Mr. Miz.
Death in this case is just death, LCrow. Now, what about the bananas?
- bambooneedle
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That's partly why I burned a big bunch of personal thoughts I'd written, and because I'd be hung if anybody ever found it. I like the idea of codifying some ideas into writing like this though, and thoroughly enjoyed it.Then there is the concept of the record of life being consumed with the body that led it.
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- A rope leash
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Slip-up
I was going to send you a raunchy picture that would make you feel better about bananas. I see now that a photo of this sort might only make things worse.
Bananas. Nature's funny!
Bananas. Nature's funny!
- A rope leash
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The Elvis Zone
Hey Bamboo! You can write the screenplay!
Good note on the codifying aspect. Thanks for reading!
Good note on the codifying aspect. Thanks for reading!
- mood swung
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- bambooneedle
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- A rope leash
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Some guy...
I think the novelist was Henry James (?).
He burned all of his personal letters shortly before he died. Nobody's business, I presume.
I burn paper from time to time. Strictly administrative...
He burned all of his personal letters shortly before he died. Nobody's business, I presume.
I burn paper from time to time. Strictly administrative...