[Poem] It's Official, I'm Fictional

by Emmit Other

I'm not just from a fictional reality
I'm for practical purposes as a writer
Fictional
Worn bundles of words
Stacking up like cardboard corpes
Piled all around me
Not the bottom of my heart
But proof that the same number of robots
Viewed my test
As view the call for Rhombus's facebook page
In other words
No one reads this
A tumbleweed in the literary world
So while nominally an extrovert
I've finally found my introvert
At this point
There is no reason to scribe
Even for my poetry
Except that which I choose to
This is for me
And me alone
Thus gentle reader
My reader is myself
And I can live with that
I wish you well
We are only just beginning.

A poor shadow of a facebook page

Hello my robot friends, I think EP was right to start putting robots in the podcast, it makes more sense now.

Here is my new facebook page.  Sadly it is only an author page.

https://www.facebook.com/rhombusticks2/

Second post to distinguish humans from robots, please dont click

So by my count my blog actually has like...nine readers.

I suppose that's more than 0.....

If human, please don't click. I wanna see how many robots I have.

I get 30-36 impressions per post.  I have a lot of friends...and a lot of friends who mark surprise when clicking my blog.  This post and the next post tomorrow are designed to be tests to see how many people are ACTUALLY reading my blog vs bots of one form or another.

GOPeeian Rhapsody

Check out this episode!

Losing my Facebook Account

Losing my facebook account to Humans on Earth kind of sucked.  You'd think I wouldn't care right? I mean these were TC's friends, and its not like TC didnt't find another guy (Thom) to take over from another dimension, but its isn't the same thing.  I was able to talk to people as ME, not as some random potato weird guy from the Republic of Americastan.  It hit me a lot harder than I would have thought.

So I'm moving back to New Orleans, at least for a while.  The Everglades are just not the same quality of swap as Lousisiana.  I return to my old shack only to find it condemned.  No big deal to me.  I just tear off the boards but suddenly realize that this is not so easy as just returning home.

I don't have a job here any more.  My occasional busking or sheer luck or ability to see supernatural creatures has made me enough money to survive in Miami, but there is nothing here.  And I can hear the shelling in the distance.  The war has started all over again, shortest peace in North American history.  And I don't want anything to do with it.

I briefly wonder if I should learn what EP has about how to physically travel between worlds, but decide against it.  It seems to come at a terrible price, even if I am unsure what that might be.  I briefly consider some of my contacts and astrally project on the Bridge to Everywhere and ask them if they have any local contacts.

I find a Talking Harp (not a singing, don't ever ask her to sing) who knows a local Nephilim who is looking for a pizza delivery driver for some SELECT clientelle and it pays pretty well.  It's not perfect, but it will keep the kerosine lamps on.  A job is a job is a job.

Well that's not good

I have the energy but my brain is doing full psychic lock.  Well....interesting.  Still, I'm researching a new script based on a novella that I didn't quite finish and should be starting there soon.  And I am fairly sure I'll be starting up again this week if not next.

[Naked City] Not of but in

By Emmet Other

Here we all are
The potato madman
Gurgling on his political  rage
The lackadaisical Carlos an
Listless in emptied from Facebook
Soon to return with a fury
The broken soiled
And the twice under bussed
And me of course
Myself and myself and myself
And that's just beneath the glass mask
The Names of Terminus
The Queen of a Thousand Wigs
The Shaman of Slapstick
The Keeper of Time
The Newsman
The marine
The Artist that Could
The boy who can't say no
And even the psychic sidekick
And so many are new
So very new
The wheel sits there
Pilt Cousin to Mr Time you
Shame and fun
Dealt 8 different wheelers
Crowded and classy
But a cash only bar
Fixed up the goat farm
It's all come quite far
Why I am I not reading?
Because I am Naked City
And Naked City is me
I am all sovereign city
The city is dead
Let the games begin
Long live the city.

[Writer Stuff] I suck

I have been told this by friends, family, and professionals I paid good money to to tell me I suck.

A small handful tell me I am good.  Though my raw writing is regarded with the praise of raw sewage.  Indeed, in some cases, they might want to swim in raw sewage rather than read my writing.

I am someone who draws their creative energy from others and from joy.  An extrovert and someone who is inspired when happy is a terrible combination for either prolificness or quality of writing.  I've had a lot of abuse heaped on me which lends some gravitas to my work sometimes, and the weirdness that makes it unique is also fun.

But I appreciate my artistic friends to kind to say I suck but who nevertheless recognize my need to express myself creatively just like anyone else; because it is a need.  I might suck, but you know what sucks more?

Being a Muggle.

I've seen what happens when someone lets their creativity die.  They become not just a Muggle but Small.  And I am many things, but I will never be Small.

But there is little joy in my life at the moment and I am feeling rather existentially lonely.

The writing will return in time.

The script can die in a fire though.

https://theintercept.com/2016/06/25/brexit-is-only-the-latest-proof-of-the-insularity-and-failure-of-western-establishment-institutions/