Mid-morning. Another morning with take out
McD breakfasts. Kim is coming home mid-afternoon to pick up Brennan for another
trip to the doctor's office. Last night's take out was from Five Guys Burgers
and Fries, the new one less than a mile away, the night before (Sunday) Papa
John's for supper.
Life
is always busy up this way, but it is enjoyable too. Nice to talk to Kim and
Paul and to play and talk with Owen. Yesterday we spent time rolling the ball
with Brennan but he was mostly unwell and his playtimes were trimmed
accordingly.
You feel bad about putting the photos on
Facebook. It reminds you of how solitary writing is. You were pumped about
being out there between Avalon and Elysium and this morning you more soberly
realize that most people have no idea where either of them are. - Amorella
Obviously they are fiction so I made
up locations. You have to be there (in imagination of course). Writing is
solitary, as it the great white whale. Parent in loco parentis not what I put
in Pouch 11. I have to change this immediately. How stupid. I knew better.
1043 hours. I should have known better
than to put those photos up on Facebook last night even though I thought it was
'your' suggestion. Missed translation, I'm sure. Wishful thinking. How does one
express exuberance and joy for something few if any can relate to? I tried to
delete the photos this morning, out of shyness and embarrassment, but it was on
my iPad so it didn't work. I am better off not writing my thoughts sometimes.
This is one of the reasons I don't really have much to say (except in the now
defunct classroom situations). I almost feel like leaving the photos and
comments up on Facebook as self-punishment, a reminder to me to think before
plastering foolishness for friends to see.
I thought it was good to put what you did on
Facebook last night because it shows your exuberance. - Amorella
Oh. Still, people cannot relate to the
situation.
So what? You were, as you say, 'pumped'. I
am pleased that you find great joy in this re-writing project. You are allowed
to feel such 'exuberance'. It is not wrong to feel so childlike when you are
creating, no matter what the creation. This is part of who you are. - Amorella
Brennan is asleep on the floor and has
been for an hour. Carol is out on an errand to pick up some special yogurt for
him. Yesterday was cool because BBC and others declared that the bones of King
Richard III have been confirmed found, and the he did not have the withered arm
that Shakespeare depicts in said play. Still, there are lots of battle scars.
I'm sure he had a rough life. I would hope he did not order his nephews killed
only because it wouldn't have been king-like to do so. But, alas, MacBeth
killed Duncan. In real life, of course, MacBeth was not so evil and Duncan was
hardly so good. In any case Duncan died in battle against MacBeth not as a
guest in his house.
You appear to be more your usual self now
that you could talk about one of your ancestors. - Amorella
I don't always believe the family tree,
Amorella, it is only the DNA that actually counts. But, I do feel better. Time
to move on. (1112)
Mid-afternoon.
You just dropped Kim and Brennan off at the Clinic branch just east of the
Beachwood Shopping Center and are waiting. Carol is home, you assume, sleeping.
Let's go to work on Dead 12. - Amorella
1952
hours. I have been working, though slowly. I have 258 mostly descriptive words
in four paragraphs. This is taking time but I am enjoying the challenge. Here
is what I have.
***
The Dead 12, first draft intro
Only a
moment or so ago I was saying I soared eagle-like among a Heaven of surrounding
nebula, mountain balloons of gas undeterminable in time and space witnessed by
the Living on Earth.
Behind
me, I noticed Avalon as a cumulus
cloud form for the first time. The pleasing reddish hues of such cloud reminds
me of the Malus domestica, a pleasant
apple-like pigment though not the similar shape as it now. Avalon, in this
further distance appears a well-weathering giant Cumulonimbus, ever so much shaped
as a broad-winged bird seen in angular flight. It lingers larger in my heart
the further I distance myself.
Merlyn
transferred his ghostly shape, his heartanmind and eyes forward to view the
prodigious distance between himself and the straight ahead moonlike light at
the dark tunnel's end, and at the small reddish cloud hanging before and above
the moonlike light as a prolonged thin fissure, an extended horizontal vapor of
sanguine tinted gold. That is Elysium, I am sure of it, rolled from soul to heartanmind.
I
have the memory of the apple myths in many earthly tongues while traveling to
the Dead of Ancient Greece. I think on the tales of Heracles and his travel to
the Garden of Hesperides to pick immortality in the golden apples from the Tree
of Life. The flourish of such grammar in any tongue runs as a golden thread of
heart and reason, our human fruit, our humanity, much older than a universal
branching of hanging stars designated also Malus
domestica ripe for our picking.
- 258 words, reading ease 95.8; 10 sentences
with an average of 26 words per sentence
***
Too
much description, I suppose, but this is all for now. I am done for tonight.
The Place where Merlyn flies has time and no time, distance and no distance.
How wide, deep and high is the heartanmind and where is, how far goes is this apple-like skin, the
soul of this humanity, this outer fruit of both reality and imagination?
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