and then...dust

Dust settles. Words gather. Brilliance in tiny gems and phrases hide behind every age old desire. 

I am meant to harness what I have no control over. I wait heroic for a hero. And writing without a hidden agenda has never been more difficult.

Where I don't drown in love for a hero my lust moves to paper products. At the end of the day, I always return to the Moleskine because it is my spouse. But at the bookshop my hands move over and through dozens of other potential journals. 

Welcome to the Palace Nouvelle. I am King Fikshin, the Alpha Muse. Please have a seat with this paperwork. 

Where do we eat sleep discover interview cry love etc? Where is my home? What do I need to say? What do I need to say? I had a real partner most specific. An intellectual and creative challenge. His body, it seems, is made for me. What do I need to say?

We craved a real partner most specific. An intellectual and creative challenge, satisfaction in passion manifested. We craved him to these words YEARS ago: 

My mind was his skin clean/unmarked

My thoughts are his pain, bruises/marks

My words are his relief...

My ideas are his bones, teeth included. 

We crave things made real. What is this horrid world what steals from us? I crave the mechanism made man, the mechanism who kept my world alive and intact. I miss him. What do I need to say?

I need to say Anchor Apocalypse, my first serious memoir piece. The neo-mythology is a matter of rebuilding, not new building. I can not abandon my passion, I can't pray it away. And I can't control its behavior or its treatment of me. I can only push it to manifest, manifest by my ideas teeth included. 

I have overcome my psychosymatic fear of being underwater. I'm all on my own and without a home. What do we need to say?

and then...flux

I have enough for ten, twenty, thirty blog posts at this point.

His eyes looked heavy looking eyes, look. everything becomes his fault, flux, "FLUX! FLUX!" I hardly and doubt it. Arms have gotten so warm, and I wonder him. What all that my Anchor Premier used to know. 

Newborns, the mess of it. It's fantastic. We have been moving, really for the first time. I am a woman without a home and I had to pull a short story out of it. Boys come from water (we know that) and water rises. My Anchor Premier has been wet for all life and then. flux, he says. 

He stands on flux one leg here the other standing and doesn't know either side. Legs strain. I have him in bed to calm, mostly. Under sushine which stretches to reach his aspect and he smiles at it. Imagine giving birth to a real child! As if brainchildren didn't busy enough! This one has bigger eyes when looking up. His nose twitches like lost animals. 

What? Anchor Premier because he is the first Anchor. Anchor meaning he has representation in the outside world. Yes, it appears that characters can do that. The hell it gives, though. makes me saying things: "it's not possible!" and my boyz crying when they hear it. 

Everything was blue...all my fears, in this tangled mess of archaic blue, archetypes screaming, resurrecting, here's an element, there's another, boy+boy+boy quintesscent? No. Sometimes the world is just that beautiful. Sometimes we really do get exactly what we want, in exactly the way we imagined. And age from the date of conception. 

You better believe the Beta is satisfied! We need a tip of the day now. here's a tip. Write in pictures. I'll put pictures in all the posts from now on PREPOSITION STOP.  

and then...flood

It's so strange how people get shook up. Boy gets shook up 16 frames at a time, sped up. 

Why do people change? Why do they stay static? It's absurd. Adapt. Water fits its container and it flows but it's still water

which makes a speaking of 

water is coming. here comes the flood he wakes screaming FLOOD, FLOOD, FLOOD! and he steps to the rim and wants drop. 

Call him silent and gentle. You don't want to surprise him, he'll stumble, says Alpha. gentle, gentle, my Beta muse, come here now....

It was a dream. We have dreams. In his visions, floods happen. I tell him, but that's good. Floods give us water. You are water. Don't drown, beta muse. Every day you find a way to show me you love me. Every day you give me patience and every day you give me a chance. Every moment that I work to speak for you, you speak for me in nature, in people, and mostly in water. 

My protags wear copyrights like dogtags. Some of them are scared to go out without the dogtags. Can they swim? Oooh, let's not test that. No, really. Enough with the hazing. 

Ricky Moody wrote a story called BOYS and I like that story a lot. Aw, isn't she cute what blogs as distraction? I read Shelley's MONT BLANC and it was uncanny, flood-like. Loft, who knew? And the inventory! Drives me mad. The muses need this and that and that....take notes.

Alright, alright, the question is: what grows so high up in the mountains? What could, possibly?