Late morning. You had cereal and half an
apple for breakfast as well as a glass of orange juice after shoveling half the
driveway. You finished the driveway after breakfast and by that time the Sunday
paper arrived much later than usual. You read the paper somewhat disturbed that
your order of things did not materialize as expected. Even and added inch or so
keeps the snow virgin white which you and Carol both enjoy while watching the
cardinals, Carolina wrens and finches nibble at the seemingly never ending food
supply. Most of the squirrels are eating next door as Tim has a larger food
supply, especially of sunflower seeds. – Amorella
1156
hours. I am ready to work on chapter eighteen. So, first to find a chapter
theme.
1224
hours. No such luck. I never
passed Dead 18. How could I? To edit was to cut the passion by a word or two.
Sultry. I am bound by periodless definitions running hotter than anything
friction can reply to. To go to wordless is to go to touch alone Merlyn. I
could not be thee for one of a thousand days. Only old wise Merlyn can walk the
beam of a threaded love from eye to eye, from a Master Druid to his Druidess
and back again. She has all the charms and he has not a ball on the table. –
Wow. Where did that come from?
You are caught in Merlyn’s moment, boy, and
you can readily see you don’t hold up. Such humor is a delight to see through
crystal and with not the hint of shadow. Add the segment and post. – Amorella
***
(final) The Dead 18 ©2014,
rho GMG.One
I, Vivian, re-consider never forgotten memory of waiting on love once again deliberated from
heartansoulanmind with a brooding lip, I am vivacious and uncommonly forever eighteen. I am young in years but half a divine moonth along in years rather
than days. I am as a babe though unslaughterable and ready for the capturing
this older man, Merlyn; this great Bard and Druid of our own Caledonia. My thin
soft white linen robe drapes suggestively tight or loose where welcome for a
visual shadowy enrichment the dark triangle outlined below and subtle fresh
fruit-sized bosoms, taut nippled to further enhance this Merlyn's questing
imagination. Glancing down her breasts tingled of the goosiest of small bumps,
each as a firm faery stem ready to flower for pollination.
Happily
glad, trooping seelings, the blessed faeries, conjure me a-musing . . .
wondrously and sprite-like they, a piloerection of tiny hairs about to shoot a
feminine succulents for capturing love's quick aroma in this Master Druid's
most deserving nostrils.
I,
a druidess spectacular, swell in mind, shape-shifting my supple young heart to
sway to the natural craving of our two druidic souls to reunite from Beyond to
intertwine in ancient and naked worldly ways. In intuitive grace we shall be
one and invisible but for the subtlest sighs of a gentle breeze at play among
the highest leaves on the Oak.
Bay
tree laurels, like reason, are not for this momentary crowning. Pray today, no
victors here but for Merlyn's plowing into my wholesome wet earth. A virginal
seeding is not so much a soulful clutching, as it is the outreach of hot
passionate desire.
It
is this enraptured youthful wish of mistaking mind for heart that leads young
Vivian into the gravest error, an accident of unforeseen and unpredictable
circumstance. Faeries, Vivian should have known, have greater trooping smiles
in a spiritedness bordering on lasciviousness compounded by obsession rather
than love-in-reason which in this earthly reality all living consciously are
bound by even in Death.
She
stands forever if it suits her, a young lady-by-the-lake, ready to walk up and
out the forest path exit ready to greet the man she has known for lifetimes but
never once on Earth.
Perchance
here is Merlyn. Likewise, he stands a pace or two from the forest path entrance
like a physics experiment in
quantum entanglement. Merlyn's soul instilled in heartansoulanmind has no need
of memory. Merlyn feels those still recent dreams are manifestations of Divine
Justice whether he thinks it so or not.
In
an earlier time in life plods Merlyn, I was sitting on a recently fallen log
minding my own business wondering how I would think as the second common
element, air. Everyone knows how it is to be made of Earth and neither Fire nor
Water would be so fully comfortable for its burning up or running off. Air;
nothing is so intimate, long lasting and invisible. What I could be and do? He
smiles soul contented, knowing intuitively that to be naked and running, the
woods invisibly clothed in Air the most free and natural of Aristotle's magical
four. The breathe of God will be my Heaven. That was my wish in those days when
I measure these thirty-six years.
Waiting
for the white dressed druidess by the lake Merlyn brushed the back of his head
as if an ant had fallen from a tree leaf and was taking flight. My virginity
contains naturally cultivated creative powers and one day I will know what it
is to be invisible. On that day I shall become the sovereign's Arch Druid's
master.
In
the interval Merlyn glances through himself to see the billiard table clean and
empty of balls and he wonders if it is fair and just that reasonable cause and
effect appeared to be eluding him. How can it be that when I ponder on my first
meeting with Vivian there are no balls on the slate?
I
am thirty-six and a virgin and this would-be-druidess is eighteen and not. We
are about to meet for the first time. I see her stealthily walking through the
woods two arms outstretched from the lake's touch. She knows I see her for more
than she is, a true druidess in the making. He glances down and sees two goose
feathers, one pointed towards her and the other pointed towards him.
How
can it be we share the same pinion feathers when they point quills opposite? Is
this event to be calligraphic as our two minds forever meet? Mind to heart and
heart to soul – is this but a practice for full sharing. Open-minded I am ready
for anything but the losing of self-discipline in this world or the next.
***
Such
a closet romantic am I that I cannot fully close the door. The only way to let
it go is to let each wordy bird fly as a flock and hope they land upright and
together. Naked humanity must see the world as it is. To envision better is to
escape the bonds of biomass and bones. Here is a tip of my old black beret to
Vivian and Merlyn in their exchanged enchantment. Thanks for allowing me a
peek. I am the wiser and more conservative writer for it. (1244)
Yet, on you go my young man, walking with the
romantic poets of the ages. – Amorella
I am no romantic poet plus I am culturally bound in a double or even a triple fiction.
No, you are not, but as far as I am
concerned you may walk among them. – Amorella
I am a law-abiding conceit.
1640
hours. I have Brother 18 re-read. I can’t think of how I would change it – to me
it certainly shows a slice of life and character quirks as it is/was in a small
town. Not much passion though.
Add
and post. – Amorella
***
(final) The Brothers 18 ©2014, rho
GMG.One
The two couples sat on the front porch
across from Central Ohio's John Knox Cemetery. Connie and Cyndi sitting on the
wood stained gliding swing chair for two and Robert and Richard were sitting in
sturdier charcoal black chairs one on either side of the porch glider.
Robert
and Richard had just adjusted themselves on the warm but cloudy day. Robert
spoke first, "Where are we going for supper?"
"Let's
go uptown for a change, I'm tired of the chains," commented Cyndi.
"That's
a good idea, how about Jimmy John's?" added Connie.
"And
we could have ice cream for desert," said Cyndi in retort.
"That
was quick. Sounds settled then," commented Robert shaking his head with
the hint of a grin. "What did you want to do, Richie?" he added with
a hint of sarcasm.
He
grumbled, "Like it would make a difference." Noting the sharp looks
from both women, he mimicked his brother's dry grin. "Where did you want
to eat, Robbie?"
He
shrugged his shoulders, "Hey, Jimmy John's is fine with me."
"Why
do you two not speak up? Why didn't you suggest where you wanted to go,
Richie?" asked Cyndi.
"Why
didn't you ask a minute or so ago?" His shuffled face explained he had
made his point.
"We
can't read your mind, Richie," said Connie with some irritation.
"We
can just let them scramble up some baked beans and hot dogs for
themselves," reinforced Cyndi.
"Mind
reading would be illegal because of privacy laws," quipped Richard.
Both tightened their lips and jaws.
"Let's go to the kitchen, Connie." Both left without another word.
Richard
felt a tinge of guilt for instigating the squabble, thinking, 'I'll pay for
this incident later,' but said, “How’s your cemetery poem coming?”
“I
haven’t been working on it, but I have another I’ve dressed up.”
“Let’s
see it.”
Robert
left the porch for a few moments then returned. “I had it in the folder under
the car seat along with a few others I like to work on from time to time.”
“Like
where do you work?”
“Sometimes
when I am out for a short drive I will go down to the park, sometimes just a
parking lot, or park under an old shade tree down the street. I can dig out a
poem and see if the setting helps change my attitude towards the words. Here’s
the poem.”
Richard
read Robert’s poem intently, recognizing his own parallel patterned thinking
while reading.
**
TRANSPLANT WAITING ROOM, CHIIDREN'S
HOSPITAL
Parents
pace among the scarred tables,
settle
anxiously into shell craters,
stare
about for tonic comfort.
New
magazines paint the litter of butchery:
more
reminding of a holocaust
with
one picture, a girl,
middle
of a row, gently smiling
at
a sweet, treasured thought
lost
to the ashen grass of Auschwitz;
it
was the Christians, at Chatila--
broken
rooms, stray dogs lapping
blood
from pools, furnishings line
the
roads, the gray remains compose;
children
sled, tumble, cane to rest
in
the red snow of Sarajevo;
good
intentions stick to poles,
grim
advertisements for aid.
Western
Art in gilded frames haunts the walls:
still
life with ripe fruit; poppies
bleeding
a hillside; myths of Primavera
down
the bright corridors of morning;
yet
in one scene, parents perhaps,
bending
the will to stoop,
glean
the fields at evening --
they
could be Arab women
sorting
clothes at Kasserine Pass,
or
thin fathers picking rice
among
the limbs near Camranh Bay, or
Parents,
bent at the bed of human future,
who
have sent the organ-gathering troops
to
scour the farms of combat,
and
who have willingly bowed
toward
the any-price of child salvation.
**
“I’m
not sure what to say about this. It leaves me organizing thoughts and
speechless at the same time.”
Robert
gave him a sardonic look, saying, “That’s really quite a helpful criticism,
Richie.”
Richard
returned with, “Sarcasm is a slice and dice scalpel, Robbie boy.”
“I
got the pun, Dickie.”
Richard
retorted slowly and more seriously, “That’s the problem with words sometimes,
you think they mean one thing in context, and it turns out they mean something
else again.”
“That’s
what was good about being a surgeon,” said Robert. “I was in and out, and the
body being operated on was never my own.”
Richard
had a twinkle in his eye, “You can’t cut your thoughts, like it or not, the
brain just keeps on working and producing.”
“These brains of ours will stop one of
these days, then where will we be, bro?” said Robert, who almost always slammed
in the last word.
Rob's
content with having the last word, sighed Richard, and frankly I can't think of
anything else to say. We need the girls out here to liven things up. How is it,
I wonder, to be completely wordless?
***
You are having trouble with the conclusion.
You are sad because your friend is no longer here to partake. – There, you added
a last sentence. – Amorella
1700 hours. A word for this chapter’s theme,
passion?
Brevity is the soul of wit, is it not? How
about ‘Brevity’? – Amorella
How do you do this, Amorella? How many times have I thought this. I
have ‘passion’ or nothing, zero; then ‘Brevity’ falls into place from the
ceiling of my brain. It adds a dimension. Each of the chapter words adds a
dimension to the meaning or interpretation of the story segment. Thank you,
Amorella
You are thinking, ‘I could complete this
chapter today.’ – Amorella
I am, but thinking is not doing. I have not had a nap. And, now it
is questionable as to whether we are staying home tomorrow or heading to
Worthington. I would just as soon get it over with. Carol is washing her hair.
That makes me think she is still considering on driving up.
Add and post. – Amorella
‘Brevity’ is the theme word for chapter 18.
Carol is watching the Olympics and you just had a glass of cereal
for supper along with your nightly pills. As not much is happening let’s go
work on Grandma Eighteen. – Amorella
1954 hours. Grandma 18 is complete and I hope more easily
understood.
I think many a married man will understand
my boy. Add and post. – Amorella
***
( final) Grandma's Story 18 ©2014, rho GMG.One
This
is Grandma. Bloodlines were important to the Royals of Europe within their national
identities of political power. This story’s legendary bloodline traces to
Pharamond, King of Westphalia, who died in four hundred and thirty of your
common era. King Pharamond is about to declare his love to Argotta Genebald of
the East Franks an important bloodline link.
Here we are in a
forest clearing. Princess Argotta of the East Franks sits on the trunk of a
large fallen walnut tree and faces east. King Pharamond wishes to sit beside
her, but under the circumstance, he sits on a smaller oak log facing her.
Pharamond thinks
(in this time of muddled and muddy politics and religion) -- I am attracted to
all that I see -- beauty, but not beyond compare. Argotta sits as a friend, and
as a possible lover and mother; yet most important, as I muse she sits a
princess. First, I must tell her I love her, and second, I must ask for her
hand in marriage, a state marriage already secretly approved of.
Should I wait
until he speaks, thinks Princess Argotta? It seems only polite to do so. I
don’t know why he wants me to be his walking companion in this forest? He has
not made any advancement for which I am grateful. I appear to be the handle of
the sword. The king is the point and he is sharply double edged. I am no flat
of steel though. I can exchange a blade handle easily enough. Harmonies exist
in a marriage of such royal metals. It is odd for me to have such a quick
thrusted thought to feel. I should up a shield for his silence, but now,
strangely, I do not care for one. Normally I feel the need to speak. It is the
job of a Princess to speak her mind. Others need to know what to do. I am built
to instruct.
“We haven’t seen
the owl today,” said King Pharamond.
“No, we haven’t
milord.”
“You
are beautiful when your cheeks are red, my Princess Argotta,” disclosed the
king.
She
smiled pleasantly while as she looking to Pharamond. She said, “M’king, did you
know I am skilled in the art of blacksmithing?”
Pharamond
laughed from the unexpected, “I did not, m’Lady. I had no idea. Where did you
learn the arts?”
“My
father, the king. He is skilled in the old arts.”
“I
did not know.” . . . along with what other secrets, he thought.
She
stood, straight and ancestrally proud, “Yes, when he discovered I was
interested in the arts he taught me. I have created a sword with my own hands,
milord,”
“I
did not know,” smiled Pharamond more warmly. “And, your father, he is of the
old ways? I always considered him a follower of the Bishop of Rome.”
“That
he is, and so am I. We do not agree with the Visigoth tribes to the south. We
accept Jesus as God. I understand the Visigoth question this.”
“True,”
said the king. “Some people have doubts.”
Without
thinking or even flinching, Argotta immediately replied, “It is not a fact,
milord.”
Pharamond was taken back
momentarily confused, “What do you mean, my Princess Argotta?”
The
king's unusual tone took Argotta by complete surprise. Her eyes darted side to
side and appeared to roll back because the royal tone came so quickly, she
answered, “You cannot doubt a fact, milord.”
The
king replied in relief. “You are skilled in the academics also, I see.”
“Of
course, milord. What would you expect of a princess?”
King
Pharamond blurted, “I would like you to be my queen, if you so desire it also.
You will always be free to verbally respond to me as a man would respond,
Princess Argotta. In public and in private.”
“This
is not the Catholic way, milord.”
“In
private we each are not the Catholics we are perceived in public. We have more
in common than I suspected.”
“We
do, milord,” answered Argotta as took a step towards the king. She knelt
automatically and drew her right hand forth as if it held an invisible and
magic sword, “I accept your offer. You may thus kiss this queen’s hand, King
Pharamond.”
Old Grandma knows which way
it goes
Along the genetic path
petal-filled with rose;
Hand in hand from any
solitary Eden left
Is an ancient story of an Eve
and Adam bereft.
***
2027 hours. This Pouch segment was more awkward
than I remembered. The ‘brevity’ fits in, in my mind, where Blake realizes he
and Yermey have death in common because both are the oldest on board of each
species. There is a kind of game ‘play’ on Brevity is the soul of wit in this.
The soul being immortal and all but wit comes a mortal’s tongue. It is
interesting word play.
You let your mind carry you away; you are at
times that light-weighted. Add and post. No more tonight. – Amorella
***
(final) Diplomatic Pouch 18
©2014, rho GMG.One
"Who
would have ever thought we would see this live?" uttered Blake Williams
quietly.
"Never
in a million years," declared Justin.
"What
does this mean?" asked Pyl.
Justin
quickly rebutted, "Why does it have to mean something, Pyl? Jeez. We are
here in space witnessing the dark side of the Moon."
"There
is a purpose,” grimaced Pyl. “What do they want from us?"
Yermey
seemed to pop up from nowhere, "You ask a good question, Pyl
Burroughs."
"Here
it comes," mumbled Justin unthinkingly.
"What's
that?" smiled Yermey.
Blake
grinned sardonically, "He means Pyl will be direct.
Yermey
chuckled, put his hand on Blake's shoulder and said, "Let's go in here and
sit for a minute where we can talk comfortably."
The
relatively non-descript empty room had two chairs and a couch roll up into
place for sitting while the ceiling and upper walls created a soft lighting.
Blake enjoyed Yermey's brotherly touch and said, "All this needs is a fire
lit fireplace to appear from the far wall."
Yermey
laughed softly, saying, "No fireplaces here but I could arrange for one.
I’ll be right back.”
"No,
that's fine,” responded Blake.
Pyl
sat on the couch with Justin fitting in beside her, "I don't know what's
fine, Blake,” she said. “We don't know, but I assume we are going to be used by
these people."
Justin
realized Pyl hardly knew he was there and comforting is not what she needed. He
off-handedly fell into Pyl’s mood, "Pyl's right, Blake. We need to know
more before we get cozy with these people."
Yermey
returned quickly and sat, looked at each earthling and commented, "I
appreciate your honesty; really, we
all do. Cozy is not a word I know
well. We want you to feel safe and secure. First, we respect your species. This
is the reason we came here. The greater ThreePlanets family is not happy we
have arrived here, and even less so for inviting you onboard as guests."
Jokingly
Blake mouthed, "Good cop, bad cop."
I
think Friendly might be able to better explain. "I am neither a good cop
or a bad cop. We would like, if you three accept, to have you teach us more
about your culture from your personal standpoints. We want . . . "
"I
understand you would like some help Yermey," interrupted Friendly.
"It is not often Yermey asks anyone for help. That is what he is doing.
Let us give you some private time to talk this over among yourselves.” She
stood and Yermey followed quietly.
In
the course of the conversation something stuck out to Blake that would change
his life, Yermey had said, "the machinery allows us to see who we really
are," to which Friendly countered, "it helps us to analysis are
private agendas in advance of action."
"What
do you think, Blake?" asked Pyl, "Are we ready for this?"
He
looked up, "Ready for what?"
"Ready
to help," replied Justin. "Do we want to help these people help
themselves to our ways?"
Confused,
Blake smiled sheepishly, "I think I am missing something here." He
saw Hartolite passing by, called her in and asked, “Do you think we can really be helpful to you people and
helpful to our own species also?” Suddenly Yermey re-entered quietly.
"This
is important to us, to have you be our ambassadors of sorts. We have come all
this way," reinforced Hartolite. "We four are the rebellious ones by
being here on our own. Our visit was and is not officially sanctioned. We
cannot come out and say 'Hello, we are official representatives from
ThreePlanets."
"Why
have you not used SETI?" asked Pyl. "It seems to me this would be a
natural first place to communicate."
"We
prefer one on one personal contact," answered Yermey, "because we are
trying to avoid the cleverness and bullshit. We don't have time for
nonsense."
"You
live five hundred years," responded Blake. "I think I smell some
bullshit right there."
"I don't have time," declared
Yermey bluntly, "because I have lived those five hundred and some years
already."
Blake
caught the look in Yermey's eyes; no question, he thought, these people are
human. "We have death in common. I understand.”
"Our
Parents-in-Charge would use machinery to deal with Earth if it is forced upon
them," said Friendly.
"Communication machinery, not as
sophisticated as Ship," added Hartolite. "We have no weaponry. We
need none. When we think 'run' or Ship thinks 'run' we do. We are very fast
plus invisible when need be."
Surprisingly
even to Pyl, she commented, "We have too many machines on our planet. We
are willing to listen to what you would have us do. We want to remain on good
terms in any case."
"Good,"
smiled Yermey, “we like those terms.”
***
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