Idiosyncracies make character

[CharleyH]

Idiosyncrasies are the spice of what makes us unique from one another. Idiosyncrasies are also the make-up of our best characters. With this in mind, an exercise: look out your window, sit on your balcony or porch and look around. What do you see of character around you?

I see:

His jeans are too tight and too short to make him sane. I know when I look at him that he is not like me. He hasn't experienced a woman, or a man, or anything intensely sexual; I know that when I look at him. He is not retarded. He looks normal, seems normal, until you notice him. When you notice him, you realize he is freer than any of us will be. He doesn't care what we think, he just is, as he dances happily in the sunny street, or even as he stabs at ghosts with his umbrella in the rain. Why is he so carefree? Why does he not care what I or anyone else thinks as he humps the telephone post on the corner in glee? He knows something no one else does. Maybe that's why he's there every day, no matter what. He knows.

 

[lesbiaphrodite]

I see her look at her watch incessantly, as though somehow in the looking, she will either move time forward or backward ot make it stand still. Her eyes are of the loveliest green hue imaginable, but they bear evidence of great sadness. She has soul-marks beneath them--little shadows showing the hands of time etched there on her once-beautiful face. She keeps looking at the watch. It's not like she is expecting anyone or she has anywhere to be. I know that. Her hands won't be still. She reminds me of a moth standing there by the streetlamp, flickering around the last vestiges of light it throws off before going out finally.

 

[voluptuary_manque]

idiot-syncracies? I got a lot of 'em.

 

[CharleyH]

wrong thread

 

[lesbiaphrodite]

And now, Sweet sub, you see. Intelligent asks are wasted in th AH. If I had asked what colour is your dildo, I'd have garnered 300 idiotic posts.

Ouch. I tried, Charley. Geez.

 

[CharleyH]

I see her look at her watch incessantly, as though somehow in the looking, she will either move time forward or backward ot make it stand still. Her eyes are of the loveliest green hue imaginable, but they bear evidence of great sadness. She has soul-marks beneath them--little shadows showing the hands of time etched there on her once-beautiful face. She keeps looking at the watch. It's not like she is expecting anyone or she has anywhere to be. I know that. Her hands won't be still. She reminds me of a moth standing there by the streetlamp, flickering around the last vestiges of light it throws off before going out finally.

Fabulous observation - sad, and intriguing, yet fab babe! Truly, this is a good start to a great story.

 

[lesbiaphrodite]

Fabulous observation - sad, and intriguing, yet fab babe! Truly, this is a good start to a great story.

 

[Liar]

Looked out all day, saw no people.

---

For three hours, the dumb bird kept coming back to the orange bucket standing like a piece of dadaist public art in the centre of the well manicured lawn. A big white seagull and even bigger bucket in the staredown match of the century. Two beady eyes would peer incredously at the non-existent stoic gaze of the plastic monument. Then the eye's owner would hop, fidget and skip, maybe peck a little at the handle, before resuming the stare, or taking to the air. One would be tempted to imagine an inner monolouge for the white winged Don Quixote, to play Pancho and let the orange windmill do it's thing. One would be wrong though. I've seen a thousand gulls and I think I've got them figured out. They think of three things and three things alone. Eventually, the bird never came back. I guess it finally figured out that orange buckets on lawns is nither relevant to Fish, Fucking or Flying.

---

 

[tickledkitty]

Looked out all day, saw no people.

---

For three hours, the dumb bird kept coming back to the orange bucket standing like a piece of dadaist public art in the centre of the well manicured lawn. A big white seagull and even bigger bucket in the staredown match of the century. Two beady eyes would peer incredously at the non-existent stoic gaze of the plastic monument. Then the eye's owner would hop, fidget and skip, maybe peck a little at the handle, before resuming the stare, or taking to the air. One would be tempted to imagine an inner monolouge for the white winged Don Quixote, to play Pancho and let the orange windmill do it's thing. One would be wrong though. I've seen a thousand gulls and I think I've got them figured out. They think of three things and three things alone. Eventually, the bird never came back. I guess it finally figured out that orange buckets on lawns is nither relevant to Fish, Fucking or Flying.

---

This is great.

 

[voluptuary_manque]

"Think," she said, "think of the most comfortable place you could possibly be. Imagine yourself there." And so I relaxed, like the good graduate student should in a seminar and closed my eyes. Suddenly, before me opened a wide vista of rock and canyon. I sat in a great stone chair on the open mouth of a wind cave. To my right, beside me, languidly sprawled a great bear and a white wolf. Swallowing anxiously, I turned to the left and there he was, my alter ego, the golden dog.

"Nice move, smart guy." The dog sneered up at me. "Next time be a little more careful when you sign up for so many units."

 

[Guest]

And now, Sweet sub, you see. Intelligent asks are wasted in th AH. If I had asked what colour is your dildo, I'd have garnered 300 idiotic posts.

Did you get up on the wrong side of the slab again?

Just for that I'm not going to write anything coherent on your thread.

You've been in a "pull wings off flies" sort of mood the past few days.

I don't want to play.

 

[Stella_Omega]

All of his movements are jerky, abrupt, with none of the grace that I usually see. He's cursing under his breath as he stands over the toaster-- willing it to pop up now. There is nothing under his foot, yet he stumbles anyway; "fuck!" and his loss of balance sends him into the edge of the table; "fuck, FUCK!"

Torn between laughter and sympathy, I play the Placating Woman; "Calm down, honey, it's just our wedding. Give me the keys-- I'll drive."

 

[jomar]

I walked along Mallory Square and a cross movement caught my eye. A middle aged white man wearing dingy clothes, nothing but patches, really, stepped out of the crowd toward the curb. His head twitched to the right and his fingers flicked the air. He asked to borrow the street performer's guitar. He sat down and began to play. As he gathered the rhythm his dreadlocks flowed and his twitching smoothed. The scars on his face reddened as he bore into the chords. He rocked and stomped and his heart was full of the music. He barely nodded at the passersby applauding and filling the bucket with money.

 

[neonlyte]

Proficiency on four wheels, yet he can never repeat the same move no matter how many tries. Tumbles, skilled in falling, rolling sideways, looking around. Girls or boys first... depends who's there. He wants to be best. He wants to impress his buddies and the girls with slow effortless glides. He's cool, in control... until he tries to repeat the jump that won him cheers. Gets jeers as picks himself off the floor... his skateboard fleeing from the embarrassment down the slope. Not his. Not my fault. Stamps the tail, grabs the nose, walks head down for scraped elbow kisses from the girl in white biting her lower lip in in studied sympathy beneath dark glasses hiding her laughing eyes.

 

[JAMESBJOHNSON]

Yawn. Boring.

 

[cloudy]

Red dust kicked up behind the old pickup truck as it jolted down the dirt road. It took a small curve a little too fast and started a slide. The driver expertly kicked the gears down a notch, the skid corrected itself, and the truck continued on, a shriek of laughter echoing out the window. Daya Two Eagles was late for the meeting at the rec center on the reservation where she lived, but that was nothing new.

She pulled up at the end of a long row of cars, and slammed on the brakes, throwing huge plumes of red dust into the air around the truck. The last few chords of “I Fight Authority” played over the growl of the truck’s engine before she turned it off, and swung out. She tucked a few strands of black hair that had escaped her ponytail behind her ears, and headed for the door.

Heads swiveled at the noise her cowboy boots made on the tiled floor as she entered, but people relaxed when they realized who it was, and turned back to face the front. Her Uncle Joseph frowned at her as she made her way to a seat in the back, but she just grinned and winked at him as she sat down. He shook his head in disgust, and then focused on the man at the podium, Chief Vernon Robinson.

 

[lesbiaphrodite]

Her eyes looked lost. She stood at the counter hoping the pharmacist wouldn't notice that she'd just refilled the little pill bottle only a week ago. She stared at the empty pill bottle and her eyes looked empty. She kept shaking the bottle, hoping one more little pink jewel might shake clear of the plastic. Oh God, she wanted to know the bitter taste of the pill hit her tongue again. She wanted not to think. Wanted to feel free and unafraid like she felt when the little pink pill came on.

"May I help you, M'am?," the kindly little man behind the counter asked. She shook her head and shook the bottle and walked toward the door.

 

[Roxanne Appleby]

Idiosyncrasies are the spice of what makes us unique from one another. Idiosyncrasies are also the make-up of our best characters. With this in mind, an exercise: look out your window, sit on your balcony or porch and look around. What do you see of character around you?

I see:

His jeans are too tight and too short to make him sane. I know when I look at him that he is not like me. He hasn't experienced a woman, or a man, or anything intensely sexual; I know that when I look at him. He is not retarded. He looks normal, seems normal, until you notice him. When you notice him, you realize he is freer than any of us will be. He doesn't care what we think, he just is, as he dances happily in the sunny street, or even as he stabs at ghosts with his umbrella in the rain. Why is he so carefree? Why does he not care what I or anyone else thinks as he humps the telephone post on the corner in glee? He knows something no one else does. Maybe that's why he's there every day, no matter what. He knows.

I dunno . . . Human thriving involves a heckuva lot more depth and detail than this individual seems to exhibit. This individual sounds free like a dog is free. He doesn't worry about anything except his next meal (if that), doesn't strive or plan, doesn't feel the satisfaction of accomplishment when goals are acheived, doesn't celebrate others accomplishing goals because he can't appreciate what that means - I could go on. It doesn't sound like a very complete life for human.