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for the rest, you gotta find it yourself!

I don't buy anything for myself, and thus give away all my gold, through my contests.

If I am given something I can wear, I will wear it.

If by wearing a given item, I am forced to no longer wear a different Item, I shall either return the said item, or give it away, as per the owners wishes.

I will never owne an item, I just borrow them.

[Wow, sounded all serious and stuf, lol.]

(aka Benjamin Gruey)

Howard P. Lovecraft was born on August twentieth, eighteen ninety. His father was a traveling salesman who sold jewelry and precious metals. His name was Winfield Scott Lovecraft. His mother was Sarah Philips Lovecraft, and could trace back her ancestry to when her ancestors first landed in America from England, in sixteen thirty. He was by no means born into a wealthy family, but they did ok. They lived in Providence, Rhode Island.


His family was a conservative one, of British ascendance. Something that shows up often in his writings.


Lovecraft was a child prodigy. Already interested in and reciting poems at age two, his future looked bright. By age four he was reading stories from his grandfathers library. He read lots of fiction, and mythology was a favorite of his. By age six he was composing complex poems.


However, like most prodigies, Lovecraft was sickly. He was afflicted by a rare disease called Poikilothermism. This disease made him sick often and cold to the touch. As skilled as he was in literacy arts, he was sick often, and therefore didn't do well in school because of it. Home often, and curious, he spent almost all of his sick days reading from his grandfather's library. In addition to his sickness, his nights were plagued with horrible nightmares.During the day however, this never slowed his reading.


He spent many days pouring over his favorite subjects. These included Greek and Roman mythology, fairytales and fiction like Brothers Grimm and Jules Verne. He also read a lot of eighteenth century Georgian verse. These verses gave him alot of inspiration for his own poems. His father gave him such works as Arabin Nights, and The Oddyssy and The Illiad. The Oddyssy and Illid were both children's versions however. In addition to his readings, his grandfather told him gothic horror stories. While reading Poes story, a biography of sorts, Lovecraft's eyes changed immensly, so he claims. He always regarded this as his downfall, because afterwards he never looked at the world the same.


Though he never graduated high school or college, he had a huge library of knowledge from reading. Even his college graduate friends admitted he had quite a store of knowledge in his head.


When lovecraft was three, his father went psychotic in a hotel in Chicago, Illinoise. From then on he was raised by his mom and two aunts, along with his grandfather. His father returned from Illinoise to live out the rest of his days in Butler Hospital in Providence Rhode Island.


In nieteen four, his families financial advisor died, and due to poor financial handling, his family had to move down the street to a smaller less comfortable house. This loss of his birth home completely devastated Lovecraft. By days he became worse, as his depression strengthened. He contemplated suicide on more than a couple of occasions during this time in his life. In nineteen eighteen, he suffered a mental breakdown, and failed to recieve a high school diploma because of it. This also shattered his dreams of attending Brown University.


His mother was commited into Butler Hospital, wher she died of a surgery malpractice in ninteen twenty-one.


After writing poetry and essays for a number of years as a break from fiction, Lovecraft returned. He returned to fiction in nineteen seventeen. He got his first professional work published, in that same year. Dagon, a polished version of one of his earlier stories, was published in Weird Tales.


Shortly after his mothers death in nineteen twenty-one, he attended an amateur journalist convention. There he met Sonia Greene, a Ukranian Jew, who was seven years his senior. They married in nineteen twenty-four, and moved to the Borough of brooklyn New York. Lovecraft never liked the city life much, and a few years later, he and Sonia agred to an amicable divorce. Lovecraft returned to Providence to live with his aunts for the rest of their days.


Because of the unhappiness in their marriage, some biographers accused Lovecraft of being asexual. However, none of these accusations were ever resolved.


This last decade of his life, after returning to Providence, proved to be his best, from a literary point of view. He wrote his best known works during this time. Though his works were being published, and he was writing more and more, he became poorer and poorer. This caused him to move into smaller and smaller lodgings with his last surviving aunt.


In nineteen thirty-six, Lovecraft was diagnosed with cancer of the intestine, and malnutrition. He died the following year, nineteen thirty-seven.


Lovecraft was listed along with his parents on the phillips monument. However, die hard fans wanted more for him. In nineteen seventy-seven, a group of fans pitched in and got him his own headstone. They chose a plain black granite slab, and inscribed his birthdate, death date and name. They also added the phrase, "I AM PROVIDENCE." A phrase from one of his letters.

His grave is commonly graffitied with the famous phrase from The Call of Cthulhu.


"That is nor dead which can eternal lie
And with strange aeons even death may die."

Sheimah and the Carpet

Once, long ago in a great land of fairy tales lived a young farm girl. She lived a lonely life. No more company than the animals she cared for. The one change to her daily routine came on sundays. When all of the town near where she resides scurried off to church.

And on Sundays, she would wander off down to the Warehouse of Literature. The Warehouse of literature was a massive stone building, with huge columns of stone holding up its roof.

The Warehouse of literature housed any literature any one happened to drop off. It held some of the greatest poems ever written, along with stories and songs. No literature was ever denied, so it held literature from any author. From the great Williamus Shakspearoh, to the lowly greaseball of metropolis trying to earn a quick buck. Of course it also held works from any where between as well.

On Sundays, Sheimah, thats the farm girl, would wander on down to the Warehouse of literature, and browse. She would spend all day, reading over works of literature, great and small.

One Sunday, Sheimah was browsing through the song section. She came upon an anonymous song, that filled her heart with joy. he didn't know why, nor could she put it into words. But her heart was so much lighter while she read it. And so she read it again. And again. And again. She read it and read it, and not until the keeper strolled by, to tell her it was closing time did she stop.

"Who wrote this beutiful piece of art?" She asked.

"Alas," Replied the keeper, "Had you asked me of any other piece, I shoudl ahve been quite happy to give you a name, or at the very least, a description of the composer." He shook his head and sat down next to Sheimah. "This piece was found on our steps, not four days ago." He picked up the song, and began to reroll the scroll. "It was a rainy day like today, and I had just returned from the market, when i found a carpet, rolled up and laying upon this buildings very doorstep." The old man stood up and put the song back onto its rightful place. "I wondered who would leave old carpet upon this doorstep. And I was just about to wander off and get Big Fredrik to deal with it, when I heard a sigh escape it. I swear to you it sighed." The old man began to pace softly, so anf fro.

"I looked down it, into its center, and saw nothing. But I couldn't shake the feeling. So I unrolled it." He stopped suddenly, and seemed to be listening. Satisfied he began again. "And there, written upon the carpet was this song." He touched the parchment scroll he had just set back. "But oh the horror, here, this old piece of carpet, with such a wonderful song, was written in blood. Not scrawled by a md hand, but done with careful deliberation. It beutiful, but I couldn't bring myself to allow blod inside the halls. So I rolled it back up and took it to my house.

"Long hours I spent, copying the lyrics, to this piece of parchment. At any rate, it is time to close today, and you need to get home before it gets dark." The old man picked Sheimah up, and set her on her feet. "C'mon, I'll hep you to the door."

"I want to see the carpet." Said Sheimah.

"Tommorrow dear, it is time to close today." The old man wandered off towards the door.

"Well, I can't come until next Sunday, but if that is it, then so be it. I must see that carpet!" Sheimah thought to herself. She shuffled off towards the door.



Next sunday Sheimah was up and out of her house before the church bells rang. She arrived at the Literature Warehouse just as the old man was unlocking the door.

"You are up early aren't you?" The old man slid the bolt out of the door and opened the door. "Come along then. I have the carpet in the back shed. I can't let it in the warehouse, you understand." The old man walked reverantly through the halls, until he came to a small door. "This leads into the back yard, the shed is to your left." With that, he ushered Sheimah through the door. "You can either coem through here, or use the back gate."

Sheimah trembled with excitement as she neared the small shed. Finally, she may get some insight as to what, or who, made such a wonderful song!

She opened the door to the shack, and a large whiff of dust hit her in the face. She sneezed, not once, not twice, but thrice. Each bigger and louder than the last.

Whoohah! Another journal, haven't been here for awhile.

Myspace

Haha, I have music there, my music. Check it out.

I am re openeing the Contests 500!!!!

Hooray!

I have utterly failed to save any amount of gold towards the guild I so desperatly want, but I give too much gold away.

So I am going to give away all the posessions I have that I wasn't given, and begin again.

I wil be sure to let every one that is subscribed to know when I will host the next one.

See ya there soon.

[Okay, found a page of cramped writing of mine, so I am gonna deciopher it here. I wonder what the helk it was, I don't remember writing it.....HHhmmmm... I'll put comments in brackets like this.]

Questions of Jue Eddervant

Wat is this rambling?What is to this here problem I feel? Perhaps to srat at the beginning. I t was some three weeks ago. Maybe more, maybe less. My brother was leaving next monday, so we were going to six flags. We went. [This is about that trip? Ok, I remember this now.] I hang out with my family, or what same for two is here in CA. [HHmm... I dunno what that said, the writing is damn cramped.] Me my father and my visiting brother. So I am with my brother and his friend he brought along. They were off to the bathroom I believe, or maybe they took the coaster in front with no room for me, I don't remember. Any way, I was alone and endded up riding with two girls. Yeah, me. We hit it off pretty well and kept riding. It was grand, they were cool. Something I had given up finding in this day and age, but they were. So eventually they had to leave, which for me I expected that to be the end. But we traded IM, E-mail and phone numbers. Well safe to say I kept in touch with them through IM. Now that I write it, it all sounds rediculuous. But you are only young and dumb once right? So we kept in touch, now I had been thinking it for awhile. I wanteed us to live closer for visits. I had given up hope on wishes as they are all so bad any way. Wishes, always coming true and always causing more pain than they heal. So thne she says we should hvae lived closer togather. I wa stunned. How am I that much better? Surely there are cool people there? Surely this is just a joke on me? But she affirms no it is not. So I begin to think. Visit! I am not ashamed to say. I very much wanted to visit. I never wished. I haven't wished for a grain of salt since they to my life. I do very much want to see them again. So my crazy head says why not? You could get your liscense right? But I am off track. My problems inside... I am plannign on going to Seattle. So there is no question, I will go. [I didn't go.] Now I am guessing most would call it first love. Probably is, how would I know? But for me, I do not take such things. Problem in my life anso domiois peayed because people my age don't have problems. [I ahve no clue what that bit that doesn't make sense is...] We have drama. Nthing here really matters, we are too young. We will just laugh later in life. That is what it is all about.I don't fear people really. People are just dumb, no need to fear them. But myself? You cannot really escape that, your memories will always stay. I fear to look back on my life and cringe. I hate it. I hate my younger self, I will cringe at this on day. I will tear it apart and burn it. But for now, this is my wisdom. I hold myself back for fear, not of others. others will laugh for a minute then lose interest. Other wil remember years later, remind themselves and have a nice good natured laugh. But I will always remember. I will always know, and that is the real fear. To know will carry this memory for the rest of your life. That is the feeling? What is its? I cannot put a name on it for fear of later hating myself for thinking such a thing. So what will others call it? I won't guess, I could not admit that others would call it such a thing. It cannnot be, I will not call it such, it cannot be so named. So this feeling shall remain until such a time as it will change into something I can acknoledge.

-Jue Eddervant, August, 2005

Ok, well that was kinda a waste of time. It was me wishing I was a lunatic and writing mad rambling in books. I do that alot cuase I think it would be cool to scare people that read it once I pass on.

Sorry to any one who was bored by reading this. I ahve sorted out most the problems in there, so I feel better. Pretty dumb of me to write it, but live, and...live again, until you can't any more I guess.

Ok, I am a 17 guy that has a complete distrust in humanity.

Yeah, I pretty much despise humans.

So, basically, I ahve looked at the shape of the world today. I don't like it, not at all.

The TV shows physical "beuty" so blown out or proportion that its a wonder people stil actually loock for other humans.

Drugs pretty much rule most of the kids. Almost all of them do something. I smoke a little pot.....thats pretty much my extent.

Sex is no longer even considered sacred, love, or anything other than "fun"

So I began to look at my society.

I began with my generation. We are pretty much ********. We don't really care about much of anything, and what we do care for should probably be burned in hell any way. yeah you, wandering teen cruiser, I mean your car!

I looked at my generations parents. And realized I know nothing about them really. Yeah, they tripped in the sixties, thats about ther extent of my knowledge.

I looked at my generations little siblings. Doing the same stuff we do...escept three years, or more, younger.

So by this I blame my generation.
I despise my generation.
They have created a hell hoel for their children, their family, their friends.
I realize I am of my generation.
So, I am also to blame.
Some of you may have read my earlier thread about my sister.
An example.

So, with my generation leading the way, or perhaps driving, the hand bassket to hell, I have come up with my way of coping with this mass devastation.

I ahve found that in helping others, and giving what advice I can, I can battle against the overwhelming pessimistic views I hold.

Humanity may be doomed, but I shall fight till the end of it all.

I hope some of that made sense, as I am sure it is very broken and long.
Thank you for reading this far.
And my apologies at any typos.