What the Water Gave [m]e---to be a book
Just a little announcement to make before we get to the book:
>>>Darling, Darling, you rowdy soul and Sugar-Sweet! Do sit but a second, please, for I must divulge for the hearing of your head's ears concerning the details, words, and some-story of a recent yet on-going affair, enflamed by passions of novelty, no doubt:
This woman, your finest, feminine friend, verily the very Vaggina in your vision—and apparently, since your sight keeps slipping from it's straight-post, alluringly voluptuous that visions—you, naughty, Little-Nugget!
So, she, I mean, "I," for at least four new moons now, have been as a 40's Rosie hard at the riveting work of working-feverishly these little fingers of mine to frailty towards a whole new thing I'm trying—aaand, before you bring us down that diversion, no, not as if I were back at university experimenting with the exposure of my virgin-inexperience to what snakes' pits or hairy situations might be beneath the pressed and straightened seams of friend girls' school dresses, Silly-Slink! Save the slithers of sordid hisses for time when my tongue isn't soo tied-up in the excited endeavor of talking to tell you this tale:
far from dyke-dining, the fruitfulness feeding my mouth sweet-satisfaction today comes from the ever-growing contentment I find from wholehearted commitment of myself to my working-out this present labor of love, into which my fingers have been wholly laid, cultivating continual climaxes of fine-penning's ink spilled into well-writing words upon paper, thereby taking the first-step and then some, from which many sums more are to be stepped, and then swelling into fulfillment--from conception to fruition--crowning the final completion of my first novel! In near-daily dedication, I have partaken in a practice of piercing the depths of creation's cavern within myself, pulling out my individual-intercourse novel-ideas and improved-notes for plotting, growing, and, perfecting what was once only a small seed of imagination's-ejaculation into me, which shall be carried to it's full-terming—bearing whatever burdens wrought—to the turn the last page, finally finishing and birthing into reality the miracle of something coming from this nothing: the bundle of joy that is a new book!
Though right now yet to be completed, having roughly forty thousand words and probably not a fifth-finished, I will rejoice one day when myself and the masterpiece are both bound up and brought to the Promised Land, drinking dairy's white-nectar, feasting bees flown-sweets....<<<
If you could find some time to read the little bit of the introduction I have put in the post and let me know some thoughts, that would be totally-radical and excellent dudes! I'm somewhat afraid that/unsure if the way I like to write is a way of writing anyone—besides my psycho self—who likes to read would actually like reading....
❤️❤️❤️ Well what was mentioned above is below! Shout out to the fellows and the Femininities-Divine ❤️❤️❤️
EXCERPT:
.Nulla.--An Introductory Narration for Y'all
A curious man sparked an ornate, antique lighter he pulled from his oversized bag, not to smoke—to see the flame, light, I suppose—soon putting it out, he spoke to her, “I am Gomer. While you wait, let me tell you a story….”
Before she could begin to speak, he’d already begun his chronicle—it didn’t matter anyhow; nothing mattered anymore…
“Now, let me tell you, fiddling with the preciseness of timelines and truths is nearly as precarious as fiddling upon rafters and roofs, or so I’ve been told anyhow. Though I must take time here to admit, if truth surely be told, I’ve only ever dabbled in half-histories and hearsay and have never been much for a musician myself, so, I suppose, I won’t bore you here with very exact figures, flats, or faces—they wouldn’t help my rounded-about tempo and telling anyhow…. Oh, and it must be said, so as with any tale worth told by the telling, the relative facts and relevant fictions are ever in dance, tilting and twirling around, intertwining Myth with Reality: Persephone’s moonlit, melancholic kiss upon your Savior’s holy, holely hand, and so forth. Yep, in an otherwise normalish world, this has all naturally taken its place and part. By the end you shall know everything—everything you can know anyhow—everything I’ve seen and heard or otherwise had to confabulate…. I once heard it put, “Ficta voluptatis causa sint proxima veris.” Those are the words of Horace the Roman, though now I can’t quite remember their exact meaning, but I know they’re supposed to fit somehow…. And, hey! Maybe you’ll enjoy yourself in this tale along our Way—it’s an awfully long, long Way to where we’re headed, you know?”
“But you don’t know where I’m going—you…you don’t even know my name.”
“All shall be known in due-time, Dear One, but just like the attendant who gave you that bus ticket hanging out your bag there, it’s told me a little more than what you’re telling at this time,” Gomer laughed. “I don’t need your name to tell you more of a story than you’re letting slip now anyhow,” Gomer said, chuckling to himself again, showing a sly, silly, little half-grin.
She looked down at her purse sitting in the outside seat beside her. Of course the ticket she hastily shoved in it hadn’t made much progress down into depths of the cavern within and, worse, was then shining bright with the light of the sun reflecting off the laminate, white cardstock for everyone to see the shameful, sorrowful fate and destination befallen her, toward which she was presently being driven—it didn’t matter anyhow; nothing mattered anymore….
“Come on; a story won’t hurt you,” insisted Gomer.
Should she really trust someone headed where she’s going? Could only be the worst sort of person. But it didn’t matter anyhow; nothing mattered anymore…. Besides Gomer seemed friendly, familiar, enough for someone whose life took them this direction to her—no need to presume judgement; we’re all here to suffer—so she took up his offering of storytelling, sharing the seat of that black leather pit who couldn’t keep secrets with him, tossing the naughty bag onto the floor, a just punishment for its betrayal she thought, then turned to hear what this traveler had to tell. “So, where does this real but unreal story of yours begin, Mr. Gomer?” she inquired her fellow rider.”
“Hmm…well, we’re not quite there yet, and it’s not just my story, but, I suppose I should start where many, most, of the supremest storytellers seem to believe where one ought start when starting at the beginning of the stories containing in the end their best books and epic masterpieces….”
“And that is?”
“Why, it’s invoking the Muse, that it is!”
“Invoking…the muse?”
“Precisely! We’re going to need One far more perfect than we to guide us, grab hold of us, so we can make it, in the end, safe and sound upon the Ground where we’re going. Plus, I’m sure a little extra inspiration for yours truly should ensure I don’t bore you to death’s door—no joy can be had if you’re going to die, as far as I’ve seen of the world anyhow.”
“If he only knew—it didn’t matter anyhow; nothing mattered anymore….” went through her head. “So how…how do we invoke a muse?”
“The Muse,” Gomer corrected.
“So how do we invoke the muse,” she asked again.
“I suppose like this….” Gomer replied, taking in a deep breath, closing his eyes, and bowing his head. Then he just sat there in silence as if no one was around, as if he hadn’t just taken her hostage to tell her a story…. As the silence began to get uncomfortably awkward, he raised his head. Gomer’s eyes lit ablaze with a great fire, not as those Canadian wildfires that burn even the lungs of those hundreds of kilometers and miles away south in Minnesota, not knowing the far-reaching harm of their horrendous heat and hate, but as the first morning light of a sunrise that softly, sweetly, with far more powerful a fire, revives and restores hope to that sad soul who believed hope was all long-lost, buried with everything, everyone, else that had long-left their life long ago, raising them up again to conquer mountains—to try anyhow—taking the first steps in escaping from that cavernous, dark pit that would swallow Everest whole, no doubt. And empowered by this Inner-Light, he spoke:
O’ Muse Mary,
come upon the East Wind and sing spoonfuls of sugar into me,
telling through this empty soul story of those grand places and greater people,
who, held in the Holy, holely Hands of Providence,
slipped and suffered yet overcame all the awesome and awful this mad, wondrous world
hides within and hands out,
since Paradise Lost,
fallen beyond the Water and West
“Do you think that did it? Will the Muse be on the side of our storytelling?” Gomer asked her with an inquisitive look. And he kept looking at her that way, staring into her eyes, as if he genuinely wanted her opinion on the matter.
To break the gaze of those fireballs from delving deeper into her, she shut her eyes tightly, looked away, and responded with the first thing that came to mind, “Umm…it seemed musey enough to me. It was…uhh…a solid invoke in my book, I think, yeah….”
“If you say so, I’ll go along. Better hope for your sake you’re right, or you’re about to be bored out of your mind and time because I don’t see any reason to change seats again—it’s filling up for now anyhow—nor do I see any reason to stop my yapping yet,” Gomer replied with that half-smirk again.
