bloggers jerking eachother off is awfuly distateful! and arogant, it's absolut bullshit! 79% correct

"I know I'm better then they are" he said to himself in the bed room. She was in the bathroom getting ready for bed. "God has it gone that far?" he said, loud enough that she overheard him. They were both in a great mood, the show was awesome, dinner, the movie, everything went so well. That's what she was thinking when she came up to him, naked, chest first, breast heaving. He was pleased, she was a twenty four year old beauty. Why is she so good to me, he though to himself. She wanted him to tell his parents he needed the money to re finance the business. They were surviving, but barely she thought. Lowering herself towards him she helped him pull off his shirt. They were naked almost, he was still in his underpants, I'm better then they are, he thought to himself, starring at her, he didn't want her to know. "Come on baby, get naked" she demanded with a slap on his back. He laughed, fell back, looked at her gorgeous body. She was perfect, an overwhelming joy came over him. He looked at her and found he was very excited. "I thought of a really great idea baby" he said out loud, to her turned naked soul. She lay there amputated, relieved of her stagnation, her issue to probe was gone. He was done, and he hadn't even touched her. Everything was going so well, except she wasn't all there at dinner, she was with him. Their daughters best friends father, they played parents together. She was looking at his chest naked, turned to her, anticipating an embrace. Turning away, she said "I had a great idea, what's yours?" He was excited to say, but sad that she had braced herself, limiting his access to their play. It was just that the thought of that daughters friends father had and eventful impact on her. Their bodies were meant to be joined together, the two limitless were presented with such a lack of presence. "Touch me baby" he demanded. She obeyed reaching over to hold him then she listened to his rather amusing idea!

chew.

"I don't have preferences" she said, reaching out towards the bowl of fresh produce. The fruit was bare, bright shinning in the kitchen window's light. It was summer and the day's were growing dim, into twilight, lovingly, long. They, the two girls sat, together in the barren backyard, rehearsing, their method, their snap. "No' No' you must choose" said the girl holding her hand open. "I have no preference, I don't know the difference," the one said to the other. "Where is your mother?" asked the one who's friends home she was at. "We'll, she's out, she's out with her," a pause "her young, adorable, slim, slimy lover, but that does not matter." She said making a face and grabbing the Macintosh apple. "Why not the Granny Smith?" asked the friend. "Alma why do you have to bother me about this kind of stuff?" she asked her friend, who was standing above her, angry, reluctant to allow her friend to just eat any apple. "You just made the decision a little hastily you know?,  too quickly, you're almost a teenage girl" she stopped herself, smiled, picked the biggest Granny Smith out of the fruit bowl. The two girls stared at their decisions, "Alma" she asked, "Yes" answered Alma. She was heading for the terrace, the sun was shinning and she wanted to tan on their deck, but quite. Both girls had on sunglasses. It was the first warm day of the season. "So where's your mom? with her lover? What does that mean Niki?" Alma asked staring at Niki's apple reflecting the sun's light. Niki turned toward the sun and said "my dad loves green apples, he say's" she mentioned without more then an inclination just a hesitation, " he say's he likes them because they have a zest, they have a spice to them." The two sat on the lawn, beyond the small garden,  in the midday sun, both nodding their heads "yes".  "I like the green apples best Alma, I do." Niki said looking up at the Macintosh, "But I just love the color of this ones skin." then she rubbed the apple up against her cheek softly, quickly. Alma stared at Niki as she bit into the bright red apple, she could tell the texture of the fruit was crisp, it had that Crunch. The sound made her so hungry that her first bite of that Granny Smith was so meaningful, she ended up biting off more then she could

I fucking hated you for being

Her hands were wet, she was drunk, her face was in the toilet. There was her sickness, spewed, everywhere, "I'm not a little girl anymore" she whispered to herself through the elastic spongy cord of saliva still remaining attached dangling down from her lower lip. Her clothing was soiled with rubbish, probably from falling on the pavement after leaving the club, that stink like what must be the stench of some one rotting. She shrank to the porcelain bowl, confidently, where she sat contently. "I don't need to feel that bad," she said to herself drunk. Her eyes were closed, and her hair soused in effect in the same substances as  her unkempt soul. She was finished and it was her own fault. She was alone, it was twelve thirty in the morning. The house was full of kids, who knew her, who were in part the cornerstone. The dull reminder of her own demise.
The night was young, and the nausea was subsiding, "I can handle this" she said to herself.  Her shoes, three inch open-toed heels, lay sprawled behind her. "I'm almost nineteen" the words fell out of her mouth. Her head was thrown to every direction as she held her position as steady as she possibly  could in her condition. She was begging to get a grip. In that moment she remembered what drove her there in the first place.
-----
The three boys found themselves closer then ever, their relationship had grown into the full blown friendship that they all read about in the books. The type of connections they faced where the type Wolf  wrote about with Mrs. Holloway and Peter and Septimus too. All three of them found themselves together as a pact. "Joseph" the loudest of the three yelled to the tallest remaining, "Yes Adam" replied Joseph, his voice rasp from having been smoking cigarettes all night and drinking. "Yes, Adam what?" he asked annoyed by his so called colleague for even making him wait a moment more then a second. Adam, accustomed to Joseph's shrill sense, shrugged the attitude off to continue slowly. "What are we going to do about Lindsey" Joseph's thoughts began breaking through into his speech. Adam wasn't even thinking about her, she was in the back of his mind. The car was in the front, her car was a dream. "Adam!" Joseph yelled, turning to speak to Adam and their third companion, a thin, narrow boy with a frown that would turn a nun Jewish. "What do you want from me!" Adam snapped back. They were both pissed off at each other. They all loved her, and they all knew it.

----
"Before I loved you" she spat, angry. Her agony forcing itself out the only way it could by screaming out his name. Her ecstasy shattered into infinity, forever lost, into a madding sleepless abyss. She felt enough at ease that what was left of her stomach, her gut was empty, purged. She convinced herself  that she was able to sit up, she knew she could not stand. Her body was crying, not surprised, her attention was on him, sick, relentless, agony. Rendering her way to the surface of the seat she sat, acting on the impulse to ruin herself, she found herself on the toilet still having won, having prevailed. She sat sunk, riddled with ease and grease, sad, and drowning, but unable to die. "Witless!" she said to herself.  Her hands were still wet from her ambitions, wrecked. The thought of him burdened her at all time. It wasn't the fact that she loved him, it was what she had done before she had known him.

---
 Joseph turned to the two and pointed his finger at Adam and said "is she your girlfriend!" he waited for Adam to say something, "You fucked her." he yelled, the sound of his voice cold echoing forward and back again between the houses the boys were walking by. "He fucked her didn't he Jerry?" Joseph voiced, leaving Jerry to answer timidly "Yes!" They were in a rut, and there was no digging their way out of it, they were being brought down upon each other, they were a team.
Joseph stood, halting in front of the two as they progressed toward the light that was Lindsy's house. "Jerry," he repeated "Jerry, tell me again" he demanded "tell us both what you saw Adam do with my girlfriend" Joseph frivolously expressed.  Jerry stood back, hesitant and weak and began to speak at the same time as he lowered his head. He muttered five words that sent shivers up Adams spine "I saw him fucking her," Jerry was in tears by the time he finished the sentence.

---
She sat there, she had had a while to think about the two of them. But he made her heart yearn for relief. She needed to find a way to stagnate the pain. To cauterize what her heart felt and would not stop bleeding for. It was wrong, it had been wrong the whole time. She loved someone else. Sitting on the toilet there in the middle of the night all she could repeat to herself drenched in spoils was, "Before I loved you

imagine selling out to someone who sat you on the moon

You can't sell your soul really. I guess what I think you can do is give away the gifts your soul gives you. You're soul is like you're kite, sailing, floating, exploring, giving way to the wind in the atmosphere, our sky. Ok, a typical human soul should be capable of being able to navigate itself to the ends of our universe and back. Well that's the way we were built. But we've devolved since the start. two thousand years ago God told our Sun to come down and tell humanity not to look further then the closest fiery ball of radiation in space, and worship. This identity landed here to sell us those great indulgences, false prophecies for prophet. God lied! he doesn't want anyone who believes idiocy in heaven. The soul used to have more to work with on the ground. There is lots of people, believers who can see the end, and reflected back to their heart honestly, all the way from the ends of the universe, the ends of time, the the frigidness of space. The death of oneself should hit him from a lot further, then the hot ball of fire a few million unites of measurement away. Now there are those people out there who can see it all and don't know it, delusional, it's actually just something in the way of the light being sent to their heart from our soul. That thing in the way, is up to you to understand. Your kite, your sail is your responsibility, and there is no real strings to guide it with. If you translate the information badly, you're a waste, and it's easy, selling yourself to somebody, but when you do, they own you.

ever change something to avoid smashing one person to bits?

you changed it for everyone though, for one person,  just one.

Round 2

Throwing open his flip phone he read "NEW TEXT" on the screen. "Fuck yeah!" he announced with an ecstatic jump. "What is it?" asked his ill represent friend sitting next to him, observing the emotional excitement. "from what do you suck life, your energy, I can't be that happy, how do you do it Mike?" the boy sitting, said, admitting  his folly to his friend, while taking off his blue cap and rubbing his forehead. Mike was tinkering away at his phone, typing a new text. "It was from Courtney!" he said energetically, "she wants me back!" he screamed overjoyed. "The two of us had a fight a week ago!" he said reprovingly. The memory resonating in his mind like wild fire. "Ha" he laughed, thinking. "You know I never felt as close to her when we were together, as I did when we were apart!" Mike said, his voice sad sounding. He sat next to his friend, the two, side by side on the bench waiting for the 7:30 train to the university. "What did you have the fight about Mike?" asked the boy still holding his hat in his right hand, crossing his legs. Mike looked into the face of his thin friend, "she lied to me!" he said. His friend recoiled in agony. "Courtney lied to you?" he said, taken a back, with a look of disgust on his face. The two sat there, Mike crossed his legs too. A passer by also waiting for the next train asked Mike for the time. "It's 12:42" answered the boy taking a look at his wrist. "So?" he asked, his thin face sullen, "I know her" he embarked, beginning to explain himself, their relationship. Mike stopped him, "don't worry about it, she just kept some things to herself." He said, finishing up his text message and pressing send. "It doesn't matter anyway" he said unwilling to divulge any information.
They waited in silence, until the train heading south showed up. Mike was anxious, "what's the deal?"  asked his friend "aren't you feeling good?" his friend insisted on inquiring, they were making their way up through the cars, to the back of the train, Mike's eyes were blood shot, and his mouth was dry. "You know" Mike said "we ate my whole prescription today." he wasn't making it up, the two of them had sat on the trains since the night before eating Mikes amphetamine prescription. "Yeah" said the boy with the blue cap, which he had begun spinning on his finger. "I got some more at home anyway" he stopped then hesitated, "hey doesn't Courtney have a massive prescription." The boy said resting his hat over his face, leaving him blind and feeling weak and senseless. Then Mike turned to him and said, "Yeah, except Courtney wanted to stop taking the Pill! She wanted to abort treatment, stop using you know?" he stopped realizing he was grinding his teeth. Took the hat off his friends face, and looked him in the eyes and said "hey Kirk, Kirk!" Kirk turned to him, his eyes in a pool of shallowness, burnt out, but listening. "I think I love her" Mike said. Kirk turned to him, and asked "hasn't she lied to all of us?" Mike just looked away and said "I think I love her. But that's cause I know I'm the only that ever controlled her" he sighed, "in that way, with the pills." He looked in front of himself saying "I controlled her enough to know her" repeating  "that's for sure," "enough to know I need her, like I need them!" They both sat back, and listened to the train then let their eyes rest and crossed their legs. They could both hear the vibration caused by the incoming message that had just arrived to Mike's phone. It read "Just finishing up at the clinic! need to see you, feeling bad, got the meds." Mike never felt so alone in his life. He looked up through the roof and said "thank God," then looked over at Kirk and asked "So how many pills you got stashed back at home?"

tokyo talkers

Imagine being an artist, limitless, endless, exactly the same, historically. You have your body and the medium, your hand holding the paint brush pushing the Paint on the canvas. Transferring your ....what is that it's putting on there? Yeah, your idea, your reflection, your tangible realization, your life I guess. What can you put on there, and how do you do it well? How do you make your ...(what was it?).. thought, the best. Well, you gotta know what it is, it's something that doesn't exist, right? (idiot) and it's really hard to make pretty. I'm not saying that it's ugly, but it (that thing you don't know) thinks you suck, which makes it appear nasty, it's something that tears you apart. Exposes your heart, something that exists and hurts and is ugly, red, and beating. Tangible, your tool. The hand holding its tool, your body, your heart. The heart, the part of us that surrendered to the gravity and separated itself from the non existent idea. The piece, an essence holding us together, uniting us to the universe. She is the settler, the story teller, our mother.  Our heart, is hers, she bears that gravity that holds on to the distance, her choice to stand, to remain herself. Heart, it just wants something it can never have. It wants that idea, that reflection, that vision of itself but tangible.  The way it really is, not the way our life appears. This body in comparison, to her perception, is weak and painfully mortal. We have her, and she is within us. I have a sweet body, fast, fast, a great paint brush. I really do, and I have a head, and it's like a hole. Know you can take, know you can take my head from me, my heart bleeds, to see, the pure, her companion, the un-obstructed, our dead and dear friend, the definition of idea...SOUL. Little bastard, cold as ice. a lust after. Space-less emotion, the know it all know it all, suspended in perfection. Seems like an expensive thing, but I think it's more individually expansive. Tiny to some, huge to others. And we all know how she feels about size boys. She likes the big ones...she likes Rock stars, hard, Diamonds, heartless isn't she? but only when it comes to following her deity, the Jesus's.  She has her playlist, it's pragmatic to think she can see past her chest.

right then she knew she was going to sleep with

"It's 2:30am mother fucker!" he said, awakening, tired, sleepy eyed, "You know how much I like to get woken up." He was getting out of bed, clutching his cell phone. "Where are you exactly?" He asked annoyingly while slipping on his favorite Rancid shirt. The stains left by the two of them, his first time, dried. He didn't care, she knows all about how they got there. He was her lover, "lean, mean," he thought out loud. "So she's stranded!" he said to himself as he placed the blackberry he so often found himself listening to her voice from into his pocket. She needed him and he loved her for it. It was 2:30 in the morning. "Where'ev you've been" he said, rehearsing his questioning, repeating them, the answers he wanted to hear, to himself. Then settling himself into the tiny hatchback, the smell of the car, the sense, a reminder of his innocents lost, drawing him back to their encounter not more then a few hours back.
"Kiss me" she demanded, they had just met at the party up the street. He was the cutest boy there. The instant they saw each other, they knew, both of them at the same time. "You know, I knew we'd end up together the moment you laid you're eyes on me," she said remembering the glimmer, the shimmering, shinning light of hope, of excellence in his sight. " You know what I thought to myself" she asked him, her naked chest pressed up against him, their bodies smashed in the compact car. " What?" he asked. "Well" she announced, pushing her face into him, taking her arms and wrapping them around his waist, reaching as far as she could, sitting, from the passenger side. "What?" he asked again, impatient. She just looked at him and laughed. The hesitation went unnoticed while the two held themselves together clutching one another. "Well" she said a moment later hesitating again, watching him, seeing through him, it being his first time, pondering the direction he intended to push her in. " Well, I thought what the fuck, why not? I could tell, you liked me, I could see we both felt it, but I also thought." She waited to see if he wanted to hear, she waited to see, to find out, to realized he had fallen asleep with her head on his chest. "Well, I wasn't sure if it was going to be worth it!" she said, noticing the hairs in his nostrils curl as he took in the air,

take me in alive alice evil ah canaaaaadians suck@ you how ever who am I?!

"Never mind I'll find someone like you" the boy yelled out, the two had just finished their quarrel. His father had just turned his back, "Run" his son yelled behind him. "Follow that hollow fact, run dad, it doesn't hear you! You know it." He paused, thought it over. "Go back snuggle up to her," he understood that the man he kept so close to himself, inside, was dead, "Go back, you've found your love, settling for that dream." he spoke infuriated, knowing full well that his grief was forsaken to fall on deaf ears. Ears, that have forgotten the sound of their own ambitions, their own portrayals of the lessons that hurt of awesome, of truth. Hurt the heart, saw the soul gloriously flame, stay, wave, remind us that forever we are to never mind ourselves. To stay souvenirs, regrets, mistakes made of memoirs of sweetness. "Nevermind" he yelled "Forget me!, I'll find someone like" he stopped, reacted, then said thoughtfully "someone who wants to rear the facts, be a grandfather. A member in all honesty" He squandered this speech aloud, persistently, precisely, watching his elder maneuver, toggle, tinkle himself forward, then saw the old man look back. "You've been manipulated!" his face exchanged the words deeply in-honestly. Drawn back, re counting the words that reminded himself of his past, his resistance to affording himself his own fault. "I don't regret being myself dad." He said watching his father run, observing the resistance of heart,  his intent to turn, "I love you old coward." he whispered watching, listening to the old plead with his inside, that implicit soul, trying to forget to hear, to compare the mistakes, his re perception, then get into his car, heart broken. " Run dad" he whispered to himself, "I'll find someone like you. I wish nothing but the best"

taxitalk: Vagina

taxitalk: Vagina
read the past

new cock on its heals

The look on his face was disastrous,  he was as usual infuriated with the world around him. "Life" he yelled "is becoming an epidemic!" they all stood there and stared. "He has an audience" she would say, watching him from beyond the stage. He was becoming belligerent, upsetting everyone, including the investors. "They think that it's the finances that run this organization!" he began, a group of people in the front of the theater threw a book at his head. "He's making a fool of himself!" she could hear them whisper in the back. Peoples opinions were beginning to change. "Money!" he yelled, listening to the sound echoing through the hall. Then glancing down and seeing that the Book thrown at him was really a copy of TIME magazine. On it an image of a dictator in execution. The image forcing him to recede, pulling back, the image of the man on the cover startling him, because it's an image of himself. "I'm no coward" he thought to himself, out loud in monotone, the voice on the stage and spoken into the microphone. The group surrounded him, there were others, in the offices that could hear his whisper. "It's a mark of a new era" she said, watching him pull back. His life was stiffened, thinned,  cut short, recklessly in abandonment. He over enjoyed her enthusiasm, as they knew he would. She was a cunning temptress, a young powerful; a dreams defilement of decadence in love. "Epic" he said turning seeing the whole, the ditch dug for him by himself in her. "Victims" he said raising his eye's, tuning to his obligation, rolling with the punches, harmonizing. "O Henry" she sighed, aware, able to understand him from that far, to see his feeling being crushed. Still he smiled, something she couldn't see. She loved him, she knew just! yet, he was aware of her beauty and the resentment she wore in her degradation, her conscious submission to him for them, he could see her because he truly did adore her. It was his belief that her presence dumbfounded him to his senses, his arrogance to lead. She knew him because he loved her. He gave himself away, and in doing so he made himself aware that the results will end bad, unpredictable. "She was, she was, my dear friends" he spoke, reveling himself to the other. He stood there tender, revolted and stick driven, her puppet run down by to many people, her children revisited. He was finished on that stage, his rage subsided. Acknowledging what happened, realizing his vision for excess was driven from the heart, the soul overlooked, forgotten to see. Returning to its duty, its mission to reflect the sea of expression. Taunted, tainted and tugged at, "I knew" he said "You'd love me" his heart was broken, rocked, solid in its rhythm. "The change has come"  she thought to herself, her voice smooth, receptive, alone. Her tone in pretentious indifference, unhappy and pleased.

the oldest son of an immigrant whore

What a turning point for the two of them, she was happy again. The two of them had been riding the roads along the west coast of Canada. They would get lost in the backwoods of the their nations national parks, never really knowing where they were. The two of them enjoyed the dream that year, it was a turning point. That year they realized how lucky they were to have one another. The two of them had worked together in the cafe for months before they could even speak to one another. He was a fun, blond young man, a run away. She was a vision, a movie star, an industry caught on by the unique transcendence of pure irresistibly. Her heart stole his souls. He was back on on the ground in that cafe, and in those first months of working he was in heaven. "I iconalizied you?" he laughed, "you were my world" he'd say to her. She was out of his league. Her father, was king in trends. A man who's authority drove the demand for more, for more of him exclusively. She was a victim. He knew that. She worked at the cafe to get away. "I want out" she would hint at him. Turning to him, away from him, serving the customers, He would stare, she would gossip with the other co workers. They would laugh together, single him out. She was becoming accessible. She was giving herself to him. The two did run together, in his old car, the two of them left the first night they made love. They were the young ones, and they wanted to run in their leather Jackets and Jeans. Beautiful the two of them packaged, in sync with their existence. She was hungry, he had been threading him self thin, the prescription was emaciating them. But the drugs were the designer, in their journey of pearls, young and full of body. She was hungry the morning the drugs wore off. And he wanted the little black dress, having had the shift in mind make it's mark.
"can we pull over?" she asked "I need to pee."
he pulled over under a bridge, they could hear the river running, fresh water running. It had been raining since the two had been kicked out of the hotel. They had not slept in a while.  "You've smoked two packs of cigarettes, baby!" she mentioned, "Baby it's time form bed!" she told him. She couldn't settle him down, he was anxious and high strung. Looking over at him from the bed in the hotel in the mountains along their countries west coast. She wanted him to stop, she wanted it to beginning again, she wanted to redefine herself in culture. She wanted to go back to dad, and she knew she had mainstreamed herself to him. Becoming his sex devouring his soul like a capitalist in the city.
"You fucking dirty bitch" he yelled angry, not at her specifically, he was frantic, he needed rest, and he was in the car, they were alone together. She knew he loved her. It was a glamor that she marketed and stole, then sold and got high with. He scared her, and they were alone. She was outside peeing, the sun was coming up over the horizon, it was cold and over, she was sober, he was psychotic.
"I saw my God mother last night in your dream" he would say, she would laugh it off, like he was making sense. She had motivated the whole trip, gathered the extra pills from her friends to manipulate him with. He came alone like a recycled, fascinated little robot, sick with pills. She used him, she had a style that could devour his presences and self, they were alone out there.

Eatin Dick distracted my an ugly womans feet

Loves Little Indecencies Tickled Pink

Through an omniscient descriptive narrative manner, D.H. Lawrence uses two protagonists to describe the way in which love uses its graces to triumph over its usual nemeses, class, intellect, and gender, to attain and maintain existence in a world that seems to insist on its demise. Neither Mabel nor Dr. Fergusson are quit prepared for the way in which love takes root, both are overwhelmed with their current states in life. Then one day while going through the drudgery of their painful daily routines through reality they encounter one another three times. It is during the third encounter that Lawrence’s use of prose encompasses the characters and begins to establish the stage in which their love will be played out.  Lawrence presents the opportunity for love as an unmistakable sensation that has risen past societies impurities, judgments and is defined by its complexity and the consequences of its union. Lawrence displays the evolution of love and shatters the prototypical preconceived construct of true Love and the way it works in real life.

In the day’s preceding the death of Joseph Pervin, his estate began to fall into a state of decline. Times were tough and in death Mr. Pervin left his family with “nothing but debt and threatening”(320 Lawrence). Mabel found herself at a loss, “She had suffered badly during the period of poverty.”(321 Lawrence) In her suffering, through the abandonment, she faced the daunting task of finding salvation through her own decisions, 

Mindless and persistent, she endured from day to day. Why should she think? Why should she answer anybody?  It was enough that this was the end, and there was no way out. She need not pass any more darkly along the main street of the small town, avoiding every eye…This was the end. (320 Lawrence)

Mabel is on a fast track to hell, after the death of her failed father, with her willingness to succumb to “her own glorification, approaching her dead mother, who was glorified”(320 Lawrence). The sentiment of life itself seem to be moving out of reach for Mabel, this seems to Lawrence to be an appropriate time to have her be stricken down with the justification of love.

            Jack Fergusson a rather intelligent, aimless, un-charismatic individual finds himself in the fairly mundane existence he has grown to accepted and embraced. Working under the local doctor Fergusson “was a slave to the country-side”. The author portrays the young man in a torn fashion, as disgusted with the burden of the people themselves, but thrilled by the lives they maintained,

Nothing but work, drudgery, constant hastening from dwelling to dwelling among the collier and the iron-workers. It wore him out, but at the same time he had a craving for it…moving, as it were through the innermost body of their life…into the lives of the rough inarticulate, powerfully emotional men and women… he said he hated the hellish hole. But as a matter of fact it excited him, the contact with the rough.

Furgusson’s mission is to survive from day to day trying to explain himself, to himself. He is an upper class fellow working the trenches of real life, burrowing through the turbulent obstacles of the everyday and honestly enjoying it, but not knowing why, not understanding his love for it all.

            The Two characters meet three times throughout the story, each time in a different circumstance.  The first meeting is in the home of the Pervin family. Fergusson visits unannounced, but is welcomed by the sullen group of siblings. He takes interest in in Mabel’s case but continues on about his life. Mabel is planning her suicide.  Their second encounter presents itself as Fergusson is hurrying through life. He spots Mabel as she is washing her mothers grave,

Their eyes met. And each looked again at once, each feeling, in some way, found out by the other…There remained distinct in his consciousness, like a vision, the memory of her face, lifted from the tombstone in the churchyard, and looking at him with slow, large, portentous eyes.(321 Lawrence)

Lawrence is foreshadowing, bringing into perspective her ominousness over him. Her present’s holds an authority over him, even though she is a lower class woman, with no education. Their engagements excite Jack leaving him invigorated,

There was a heavy power in her eyes which laid hold of his whole being, as if he had drunk some powerful drug. He had been feeling weak and done before. Now the life came back into him, he felt delivered from his own fretted, daily self. (321 Lawrence)

The Third time their paths cross Dr. Fergusson’s “quick eye detected a figure in black passing through the gate of the field, down toward the pond.(322 Lawrence) This meeting dares to confront the doctor with his soul mate, the key to his heart and the connection he needs to bare the burden of his decision to work with the needy.

            Fergusson’s decent into the pond begins Lawrence’s explanation of the characters process of falling in love. Initially it is an earthly procedure, the doctor is forced into the depths of “the dead cold pond” where he is faced with his darkest fears, commitment to risking his life for what his heart desires. In pursuing Mabel into the pond and jeopardizing his own life for hers he begins a metamorphosis. Judith Roof states “ Lawrence’s fiction deploys the significant events and detail about the physical environment as ways to work through the conflicts that beset modern humanity.” (327 Roof) Upon saving her life the doctor is forced to bear her, to carry her dead weight back to the house she had run from to die.  There he washes her and revives her.

            Throughout the experience Fergusson is able to ignore his own deficiencies by focusing on Mabel.

He began to shudder like one sick, and could hardly attend to her. Her eyes remained full on him, he seemed to be going dark in his mind, looking back at her helplessly. The shuddering became quieter in him, his life came back to him, dark and unknowing, but strong again. (323 Lawrence)

Their union seems to have an effect on the poor doctor, an affect he consciously tries to deny throughout the entire story. She intrigues him, in almost every regard, yet not once does he let in that he is more then a doctor to her.  Antonio Traficante’s D.H.Lawrence’s Italian Travel Literature and Translations of Giovanni Verga calls this reaction to women “Lawrence’s fear of women, and the desire to escape their influence is due to his wish to escape the M(other).”(148 Traficante) Jack eventually realizes that her will over him is stronger then his own “he had not the power to move out of her presence, until she sent him. It was as if she had the life of his body in her hands and he could not extricate himself. Or perhaps he did not want to.”(324 Lawrence) Barbara Hardy opens her essay “Women in D.H. Lawrence’s works” with “it’s easy to see Lawrence as the enemy. He is hard on women. He creates saints and monsters as he sheds and fails to shed his Oedipal sickness, admitting, denying and readmitting his mother’s stronghold”(133 Hardy) It’s clear here that Mabel is both a sinner and saint. It’s clear that in Fergusson’s case Lawrence’s character is overcoming the fear of commitment and is beginning to embrace a new way. Much like the way Fergusson over coms his fear of the pond, he submerses himself in her “It was horrible to have her there embracing his knees. It was horrible.  He revolted from it violently. And yet- and yet-he had not the power to break away.”(325 Lawrence) He calls the love she transcends through her expression a “frightening light of triumph” (325 Lawrence).

            Now looking back at the way Lawrence forced love upon his characters, neither poor young Dr. Fergusson nor stubborn Mabel Pervin, were given on option to consent in the act, it just happened naturally.  It was the social construct enforced in the time that made Mabel proceed and do what she did, after all  “the sense of money had kept her proud, confident.”(320 Lawrence) not who she was but what she belonged to. Whether Fergusson admits it or not, just by the act of saving her from the pond he toke responsibility of her, she belongs to him now. He realizes his love for her the moment she brings him down to her level just like in the pond, but now he is being submersed in her passion and in her love.

Her hands were drawing him down to her. He was afraid, even a little horrified. For he had, really, no intention of loving her. Yet her hands were drawing him toward her...He had no intention of loving her: his will was against his yielding. It was horrible.”(325 Lawrence).

This is Lawrence’s view of the process in which love is created. The doctor’s inability to execute his judgment over the woman, because of the deeply rooted emotional attachment he created by just understanding his surroundings. Fergusson is forced to see Mabel for what she is, and by presenting himself as her rescuer and resurrecting her from the dead he is forced to unite with her, to bond with her.

            A description of the entire line of events that leads to the joining of the two main characters in “The Horse-Drealer’s Daughter” puts the emotion of love into perspective. Lawrence conveys the message that love, itself, is in control of its own destiny.  Love has a reluctance to give in to the resistance-received form an intellectual snob, and his position in life as a man. Love finds a way past social statuses, and financial instabilities. But the most miraculous effect love has over the characters is it’s ability to transcend death and evoke itself into the lives of these characters, who willingly and unwillingly find themselves caught up in it. A storm of emotion that is going to leave ripples in the lives of the people it affected.

Works Cited

Hardy, Barbara, “Women in D.H Lawrence’s Works” Modern Critical Views D.H.

Lawrence. Ed. Harold Bloom. Philadelphia: Chelsea House. 1986: 133-46.

Print.

Lawrence, D.H, “The Horse-Dealer’s Daughter” Understanding fiction.  Ed. Judith

            Roof. Boston: Houghton 2005: 316-28. Print.

Roof, Judith, Understanding fiction. Ed. Judith Roof. Boston: Houghton 2005: 316-

28. Print.

Traficante, Antonio , D.H. Lawrence’s Italican Travel Literature and Translations of

Giovanni Verga. 2007. Peter Lang, Print

tasts good to the weak

Life only exists because of drama, without it we'd be... old dead corpses. Well she thought to herself, then looked around the room, looking at all her class mates, she was one of the oldest. She liked to distance herself from the others. Not because she was different but because she knew better. At least after scanning all the adolescence in the class, that is the feeling she kept getting. "Knowing better" he whispered to her "is the perfect example of complete ignorance." They sat close together, really close. There were far to many students in the English class. An Intro to modern Lit 101. The teacher was sold by everyone. Anyone who had had the Prof blew chunks about his curriculum, they said "what a load of knowledge. He'll leave a scare, a wound of truth" He looked at her, all he could see was the back of her head. She was turning away form him. "What?" he asked. She shied away and looked at the prof. Then he scanned the room and saw them, in all they're innocents and ignorance. Some of them knew, some of them pretended, but everyone wanted to submerse themselves in the professors lectures, his speech. "She was an optimist" he stood at the podium at the front of the class and insisted. One of the younger students, a woman, said "how can a suicide be optimistic?" She asked the question right out of left field, she did not even raise her hand. He was expecting that type of questioning, he understood their way, the way they restructure the literature. They try to make it conventional the prof thought to himself. "His suicide is a release, it grants him freedom form what he is inside." he told her, standing, waning, punching his palms against the front end of the podium. He was sweating, they all were, that's what she could see, she knew he was watching her from behind. She felt self conscious, and there was nothing she could do about it. She wanted to turn to him, but felt ashamed because she spilled coffee on her pants and there was a fresh stain.

is way to much

'I just wanted to say good night',  she wasn't having it. It was a bad night. Oh well blame it on her youth I guess. It's over the end. Now there is going to be others, interests. Heartthrobs, little stabbing pains till, the next jab. The atmosphere is already changing because of the seasons, seasons can change us. This winter busted people, straight up broke their heart, made them give up. The booms gonna be back too. A bunch of things seem to be changing again. I wounder if I'm going to be thrown a bone. Yeah I know, I'm sitting through life watching while gnawing on the fattest bone of them all. I'm actually optimistic, not that the people around me will help the world become a better place but that I'm not going to be to miserable, I really was just going to say good night, sometime it's not enough, and sometimes not enough 

acid

Imagine being born to tell the truth, imaging selling yourself short and living your life out without having a dream. Our dream separates us form the monkey's. Those of us with a dream have a heart that lets us see, that lets us stop and blow our mind with the thought that we fall on forward toward a sun, the light. A Reunion of spirit. Dreams sore, and aspire and die. Our dreams die our heart stops, its what I see. The soul is ever reaching the encounter the speech with and reflection with a deity that never responds. Souls that get lost have a dream, angles that fall have a dream, Ghost dream, Man sees. Honestly there is nothing here except our imagination, are vision further, past the sun, past the light, into our own minds. Now don't accept my words go find out for yourself. You suck, you stink, and you're gonna want things that your gonna either have to lie about, expose or be ashamed of. You're human right. Can you see why it happens, what you've done to yourself, the compromise that makes the dream, the dream we live to compromise, while our soul leaps at the chance to taste of wisdom's bosom. She's a slut that my heart can't handle, what a tragedy, what life. Fact is a fiction, I don't believe in politicians, magazine subscriptions. To meet your neighbor you gotta go door to door. Try to talk to God guys try to avoid that pain in your gut, the one you feel when you neglect yourself. Break your mind, drop it, the world.

im in colege in my late teens

I was sitting  there reading, ignoring, alienating everyone. I'm beyond them and they mean nothing to me, I've been alone for so long now. When I look back I try to remember my family, my friends.  I remember them pushing me into the institute. The thought repelled me but for them I pursued.  As I recall I was out reaching, but looking back I pushed them back as far as I could. I knew better! The medium is changing and there is nowhere to reflect. No one to blog with even. The professors agreed "it's a new medium sure." Newness! New Nesssssssss! I miss myself, not really. I didn't need to vocalize that, well I do but not in public.

He's always such a new sense in the room, exotic, I like em. He knows it. I yelled at him today, they were all being loud. It wasn't a joke he was teasing. Voicing his conceptions, the conclusions, psychotic rants, sex, me. Asshole, fuck, I'd have him. "SHut up!" I shouted at them, I looked at him. He laughed.

We laughed. She was upset. It scared me how much, mmm, no more like how far she was willing to go. I could tell that she liked me. He could see himself being with her too. All that passion, she was a girl "you're vicious" I told her. She knew it. He could see her looking at him, her reflection staring back at him in the mirror. He knows, "I was born to use her."

I love you, baby was all she could think, looking at him, through that reflection, she knew he was watching her too, alienating herself from him was infinitely satisfying a never ending undertaking. But because of him she hated everyone. She was alone.

I ignored them.... fuck they were all assholes. She was such an idiotic bitch, I loved her. She knew it, but she kept letting him get in the way. What a joke..Right? I'd still have her. I think about my family. I think about why they sent me here. Why? She was so perfect, angry, but at him not me. Whatever, I've been sitting here watching them. I can ignore them.

butterface escape

The good always comes right after the bad. I felt my love for her explode the moment I understood that she was never coming back. "I don't love you anymore." He said to her, she could see, while staring into his face, by how cold his eyes were that he wasn't lieing. "I don't. I can't, we should stop this." There was a crowd of people around. "No" she answered  "you're mine." He knew she was right, she had her hand twisted, her fingers gripping him from the back, she was holding his belt. "Stop holding me back, I can't stay with you anymore." He didn't love her anymore. He started walking out of the crowd toward his freedom, he could see the people watching him, he was dragging her behind him. "You're not going anywhere" she said emotionless. She didn't look like herself, the sunglasses, the makeup, the black tights. She looked like a girl, at least she wanted to look like one. He could see it, appreciate it, but he knew that the others surrounding them could see her for what she was. He stopped amongst the people, she was close,  linked to his back end. From a distance they must have looked like they were in love as he turned to her, "Let go" he said grabbing her by the waist. She smiled and drew him in, "Give me a kiss." she said. He wanted to, it would have been easier. He could have forgotten himself in her, "No" he said. "We're over." She pulled him even closer and dug her long fake nails into his side. "Kiss me" she demanded. He was seized with the desire to give, he didn't love her but he wanted to. "You're sick baby"

this makes it right, it is a reference ART, it explains what the soul is tryin to do Rock and fuckin roll

im hungry, like the name I dare you to judge

KeranGuesser, is by far the fastest and most analytical of the bunch. It's history in his mind, the record. I can see it's the love of Truth that runs rampant in his eyes. Terificante, is terrific, I mean there is Terror and it is epic. Thank God for a man that you know, understands there is something that he can't really say. To this master, the attempt to define the undefinable becomes something, well you know. Of course there is also, MacnaMera, the man is correct, knowing how to define the genius, showing me James Joyce. They all do know. Imagine reading everything and analyzing it with everyone. What fun! KeranGuesser  is right, understand the past, through literature. It's honest to God. So is school in general, it's a great place to reflect with others about nothing and everything. School lets you grow wings, kinda, if you can commit to the experience of wisdom. The professors I got this semester have shown me lots this year. Well I mean, I've brought a lot of my own thoughts into a, ah, ah peaceful place. A place I have began working on, a perch for me to sit upon watching the process of my life unfold. I use my body as the fuel for my heart and soul. I got a good heart, and honestly I haven't really understood how to feed my soul till this semester. Words are very good ways to define life with, draw it out, they can document and they can make Fiction from fact. The teachers have helped my growth. but the best way to feed the soul is through love. Letting go giving into the heart, then releasing yourself through your soul and watching, listening, tasting, hearing, using yourself allowing your soul to synthesize, analyze and re interpret  to give back your life's impressions honestly to others. For them to gain this in site, a piece of your soul, an experience of how you existed, a glimpse at the heart, its reason for passion. It is a morbid process of illusion, because often you put your existence in the hands of progress. But progress is limitless, and it wears at the body, and pains the heart. But once the soul gets a taste of the absence, of the distance and perspective it creates judgment and pursues it's tastes separately, it peruses the sense of it all. I'm not sure who runs it, the soul. I'm not sure the Professors know either, but they've all helped me think about it.