[Alistair's Scrapbook] Grinding your Gears

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The player scrapbooks forum is literally a place for writers to warm-up, brainstorm, keep little scraps of notes, or just post things to encourage themselves and each other. Each player can feel free to create their own thread - one per account - and use them accordingly.

[Alistair's Scrapbook] Grinding your Gears

Postby Alistair deGrey on February 13th, 2010, 11:21 am

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Story. Or possibly a poem. The quintessential quote, or wonderful words of world woes. The tangent thought thrives in this locale, bonded to the brainstorms and muddled musings of me. All made by the masterful minds and mad hands of men, I do so dearly desire your delight as you read on. May you enjoy your stay.


This is the thread where this one takes notations on nigh anything: poetry, prose, ideas, idioms, idiots. Though do not dally in derailing or decrying me as daft, or ostentatiously assume I need naught from you! Actually, the opposite is true. Now, then, and again I require feedback in the form of:
- Inventions! :D
- Threads you may want to do with me.
- Constructive Criticism!
- Nonconstructive Criticism!
- Thoughts that occur to you that you think I might want to hear.

And much more!

As all children need rules, I have deemed it necessary to legislate a few in this domain.

1) As always, obey the laws of physics. No need to break things.

2) Everybody is allowed to post here.
2b) Except for people who don't have an account
2c) And Eejits
2d) And the Pope.


3) Feel free to give me your opinion on anything! I enjoy hearing what you all have to say as long as you can keep it clear.

4) I do so love learning, and I love learning how I have failed the best. Please please please constructively criticize me here if you feel that I need it. Or just criticize me.

5) Please keep a modicum of respect, tact, whatever you would like to call it handy when posting. We need to keep up the charade, no?

6) Have Fun.
Last edited by Alistair deGrey on September 15th, 2010, 4:48 am, edited 6 times in total.
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Alistair deGrey
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Re: So you want to hear a...

Postby Gromhir on February 13th, 2010, 1:26 pm

Hey! Guess what?


FIRST!!!
The world can make you think that everything matters. But all that really matters is that the sun rises and you enjoy what you're given.
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Re: So you want to hear a...

Postby Alistair deGrey on February 13th, 2010, 7:11 pm

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Art is Hard

Because we can't all be awesome like Gromhir (He's first).

Today sucks. I just realized a mind blowing invention of mine won't work. It was going to be epic, and make me quite a pretty penny if I played my cards well. Alas, it cannot be so. Way to go guys.

Oh, and I'm fixing to finish Mathematics today, not that anybody actually cares about that skill.
Last edited by Alistair deGrey on February 13th, 2010, 8:24 pm, edited 2 times in total.
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Re: So you want to hear a...

Postby Malia on February 13th, 2010, 7:27 pm

I love how you emphasize the fact that you like criticism. Not everyone is strong enough to handle criticism, even if it's constructive.

So, here is it: The chess pattern tends to cause headaches to the viewer. At least to viewers like me. x.x
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Re: So you want to hear a...

Postby Alistair deGrey on February 13th, 2010, 8:43 pm

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This one is not to be outdone by Gossamer that easily.

Vital Statistics
    * Age: 68 seasons (4 seasons in a year)
    * Sex: Male
    * Status: Single
    * Nationality: American - British and French origins for the most part
    * Location: Oregon
    * Likes: Science (Biology, Physics, Chemistry, Technology, etc.), Spontaneity, learning, mysteries, reading good books, writing good writings, reading good writings, cooking, flora and fauna, the word "calamitous", music, Victoriana, and many other things that I cannot think of right now.
    * Dislikes: The human race, idiocy, ignorance, people who yell their opinions at you and call it debating, fundamentalists, compliments, certain people touching me, cliques and stereotypes, tradition, Christmas, my broken violin, television, lack of moral honesty, tact, and much more!
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Re: So you want to hear a...

Postby Alistair deGrey on February 14th, 2010, 4:58 pm

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Why are we so bloody insane? Nothing we ever do makes any sense whatsoever.

Anyway. I'm going to make a hoisting mechanism for the Valterrian Crafting Contest or whatever it is called (I heard Gossamer say she was making the thread soon or something). It will essentially be an improved method to hoist materials up to higher places, as opposed either carrying them up there or using a normal pulley and rope attached to a board.

Actually, I don't even know what is used to hoist heavy materials at the moment, so this could be improbable. However, the goal is to make one or two people able to life more. So I need to know the effectiveness of the current equipment. It sucks having to ask a mod these things every time I have an idea -.-

See, this is a problem I constantly face. How can I invent things when I don't know whats already been invented? I have guesses, sure. But there is no time line of Mizahar technology to tell me if a Hoisting Crane has been invented.

Anyway
I'm trying to add music to these posts, but I cannot find a mp3 hosting site that consistently works. So thats a WIP.

EDIT: Scratch that, this idea is dead.
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Re: [Alistair's Scrapbook] So you want to hear a...

Postby Alistair deGrey on February 15th, 2010, 7:36 am

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Gossamer has quite a few good ideas, posting her favorite poem was one of them. Here is my favorite poem. I enjoy the imagery apparent in this poem immensely, and the writing style of T.S. Elliot appeals to me in this piece. As with Gossamer's, and many other excellent poems, this poem evokes discussion and inquiry. Who does this poem refer to? Where are the places referenced? Then there is the matter of Mistah Kurtz.



I

Mistah Kurtz -- he dead.




A penny for the Old Guy





I



We are the hollow men
We are the stuffed men
Leaning together
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!
Our dried voices, when
We whisper together
Are quiet and meaningless
As wind in dry grass
Or rats' feet over broken glass
In our dry cellar

Shape without form, shade without colour,
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

Those who have crossed
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom
Remember us -- if at all -- not as lost
Violent souls, but only
As the hollow men
The stuffed men.


II



Eyes I dare not meet in dreams
In death's dream kingdom
These do not appear:
There, the eyes are
Sunlight on a broken column
There, is a tree swinging
And voices are
In the wind's singing
More distant and more solemn
Than a fading star.

Let me be no nearer
In death's dream kingdom
Let me also wear
Such deliberate disguises
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves
In a field
Behaving as the wind behaves
No nearer --

Not that final meeting
In the twilight kingdom


III



This is the dead land
This is cactus land
Here the stone images
Are raised, here they receive
The supplication of a dead man's hand
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this
In death's other kingdom
Waking alone
At the hour when we are
Trembling with tenderness
Lips that would kiss
Form prayers to broken stone.


IV



The eyes are not here
There are no eyes here
In this valley of dying stars
In this hollow valley
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places
We grope together
And avoid speech
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

Sightless, unless
The eyes reappear
As the perpetual star
Multifoliate rose
Of death's twilight kingdom
The hope only
Of empty men.


V



Here we go round the prickly pear
Prickly pear prickly pear
Here we go round the prickly pear
At five o'clock in the morning.

Between the idea
And the reality
Between the motion
And the act
Falls the Shadow

For Thine is the Kingdom


Between the conception
And the creation
Between the emotion
And the response
Falls the Shadow


Life is very long


Between the desire
And the spasm
Between the potency
And the existence
Between the essence
And the descent
Falls the Shadow

For Thine is the Kingdom



For Thine is
Life is
For Thine is the

This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
This is the way the world ends
Not with a bang but a whimper
Last edited by Alistair deGrey on February 15th, 2010, 9:31 am, edited 1 time in total.
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Re: [Alistair's Scrapbook] So you want to hear a...

Postby Alistair deGrey on February 15th, 2010, 9:31 am

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I once heard the assertion that time does not exist. That it is naught but a theoretical concept invented by organisms to help rationalize the progression of events. So does time exist? How do we know? Wherein lies the possibility of conceptualizing something you have never experienced or felt? How does a blind man see blue? Its lovely to think that a scalar rules our world.

I now make the assertion that time does not exist outside our perception. Upon first inspection it seems idiotic, and the rest of this scenario probably will as well. However, clocks no longer exist. Gears no longer turn to signify seconds, the "tick tock" of escapements and anchors never graced our ears. In fact, not even sundials record time anymore. You have felt that perturbed notion that pops up when sitting alone in a room for an extended period of time, I am sure. What time is it? Am I late for something? You continue to wonder what time it is, so you look out the window to the sun. However, the sun and moon no longer signify the passage of time. They are just celestial bodies moving in the sky. Day is when your side of the earth faces the sun, and night is when it does not. There is no passage of time through celestial bodies.

So does time still exist? What is time outside these devices we use to measure it? Our only interaction with the concept of time is through its measurement. If measurement of time does not occur, does it still exist? Similar question to the quintessential, "If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?" question.

Debunk said hypothetical scenario, or just think about it. I enjoy playing the devil's advocate.
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Re: [Alistair's Scrapbook] So you want to hear a...

Postby Alistair deGrey on February 16th, 2010, 4:51 am

Fireflies in the Stratosphere
They said never again



The date was 1931, midsummer. It could be seen from a mile away, a blemish silhouetted against the sun. We heard it from half as far away, gears churning and valves shrilly grating. My eyes were fastened upon it, and they protested as I continued to stare at this entity like a child stares at the sun in those contests of bored summer days. Warm, acrid smoke wafted across my face, I wrinkled my nose. I knew what it was but continued to gaze regardless; entranced by its unexpected size. Steam spurted from the mass, effectively blurring its edges, reminding me of a mirage. As we drew closer to the thing in our old Ford Roadster, I started hearing more and more sounds of humanity. Laughing children, gossiping wives, and smiling husbands camped outside the landing pad, waiting to board. The awesome presence of this machine drew people by the hundreds. We were all sheep to the slaughter, I thought, and this beast was the butcher. It was monstrous, it was an abomination, and it was fascinating.

I stood a little apart from my family, staring up at a broadcasting room with nervous eyes. Our pudgy, red haired captain was jovially looking down at us through a dirty window, holding an intercom in his hand. “Hello folks, and welcome to the R102. We here who operate this fine piece of equipment represent the highest of technological innovation England has to offer. Boarding will begin shortly.” The intercom crackled off and our captain graced us with another affable glance before walking to the back of the cabin. Directly in front of me was a thick slab of metal that resembled a lifting pad. It was essentially a rusty slab of iron that lifted its passengers up into the ship. To either side of that were two massive propellers that spun on their axles lazily. I stood watching them until I was shaken out of my reverie by a brief announcement from our pilot, returned from his mission. “Boarding will begin now, thank you.”
Last edited by Alistair deGrey on February 16th, 2010, 5:02 am, edited 2 times in total.
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Re: [Alistair's Scrapbook] So you want to hear a...

Postby Alistair deGrey on February 16th, 2010, 4:54 am

The open sided elevator visibly shuddered as we were lifted up into the belly of the beast. The short lift seemed to take an eternity as the people around me bustled excitedly. Looking up revealed the dark maw that would soon consume us. We were lifted into the dank, lightless interior and a heavy silence fell upon the group of twenty. The screeching gears could still be heard through the sheet metal walls and the room smelled of mildew. It was not a comfortable experience. Then, a series of naked light bulbs clicked on to dimly light a rectangular room with one long, grimy carpet down the center. Thumping feet were heard approaching and I spit on the carpet to get the metallic taste of fear out of my mouth. Then, a tall thin skeleton of a man entered the room and my fears were dismissed as silly, everything was going to be fine. This man had a great Roman beak, shifty eyes, and wore a trench coat so that many of his features were masked. Spindly legs emerged from the bottom of the coat, granting an almost comical appearance. His voice grated much like the gears around us as he asked us to follow him to our quarters.

Our group exited the room to find ourselves on a shadowy iron catwalk that hugged the core of the ship; the smell of mildew was replaced by that of crude oil and coal. Black smoke attacked me with a passion, made my eyes water and my throat itch. “The Walks” as we heard the crew called them, was a breeding ground for chaos and calamity. Directly to our left was the dirty gray of the frame (upon inquiry, I discovered that it was made of aluminum and canvas), and to our right was a spectacular view of the world below. Cars and people looking like droplets of water being funneled towards the premise of this eyesore. But I could not take in the details, as I was forced to move by the impatient people behind me. We continued walking down the rickety walk and the ship seemed to tremor, compounding my anxiousness. At one point, a pair of gears had completely rusted over and refused to function. Another place revealed a frustrated mechanic wielding a chain that must have once been able to support some device. As we passed a storage cabin, a janitor was cursing loudly as he tried to pick up a box of spilled nails as they slipped through the catwalk grating like stale bread crumbs. Then we were at the passenger’s quarters, the largest cabin by far. But the skeleton man could not find the key, and was heard grumbling to himself as he stalked down shadowy skywalk to get it.
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