and then...animal

Pawed and retracted.

If we move to understand the mechanism's movement, we find control. Like buttons in a cockpit. 

I took notes today about weight and pressure. I forget my own importance. I read about the mechanics of unrequited love. Five years is too long. Ours undone. 

The Anchor hit his head, and he is again without a name. I miss miss limbs. I want to be a young person losing herself in finding herself but instead I'm writing a novel. I dream of cloud dancing and poetic, so. It's impressive, what the mind can do. It would shock a person. I'm going to paint faces today, under phrase edgebackedgebackedgeback. 

Anything dark and glossy will work, Alpha. Take out the camera. 

The Beta sleeps in an indoor hammock. It is cozy-spectacular and near windows. The Palace Nouvelle is a stunning place. 

If you have a void in your life, a void demanding the highest of its pedigreee, and tehre's nothing to fill it...the void remains a void. Unless, of course, you compromise, but what the hell kind of artist would you be then?

It's warm up here. Join us. We have space to work and play. 

What kind of life is this, where a highest dream is to build something around someone else? Give him a safe and beautiful place to live because you can not give him a name? And the horror of it, that I was able to give the Anchor a name and then, to have it taken away...and he's not even an Anchor, anymore. He is lust in a golden birdcage. And while frusterated and unsatified, he manages contentment where he had none before. He knows he is nameless, he doesn't know the name was stolen. There's no difference anyway. 

As a child I had a saying thus: no time for hatred when you have a third prescence.

Conspiracy Effect. 

and then...belongs

It he she belongs there here with me. Lust screeched likely. 

So I'll be updating this blog every Monday, then. Probably means shorter entries. It is impossible to send submissions this time of year; most contests and reading periods end by May. 

And we so often think of what we lack. It's a fallacy. I have this and this and this and if I think of something missing, then I must know of it, which means it isn't really missing at all. 

There are very few things. Once you conceptualize, you have most of what you want. And if you act enough, concepts make fruition. I wonder if "passion embodied" is an oxymoron...

Or perhaps there are flaws in our passion? Can you go back and change your concept and hope the manifestation, too, will change accordingly?

I used to make charts while writing. Each scene, each character, what they want, what gets in their way, how they may solve it, and mathematically it results in a lot of possibilities. Like if scene Q has characters A, B and C, and A wants A-1, but 1A-1 and 2A-2 are in the way, and B wants B-1, B-2 and B-3 but there's only 1B-1 in the way, TOO MANY CODES!

Then I could list out the options, use the codes for margin notes while drafting, and eliminate possibilities. Writing fiction is both limiting and liberating because of the infinite possibilities.

What I do now, though, see I make mind maps. On large spreads of graph paper. The organization is organic and it's much faster. 

Fast enough? We'll see. I have a deadline on National Man Day. I'm seeking publication like a rabid animal. I send at least one query/or submission every day...difficult in June!

Also I spoke to my protege today and geez her journals are spine tingling in their beauty. So damn proud, so damn proud. I'll make a name for myself then maybe pick up a couple more. Of the proteges, I mean. So proud of that girl she must be suffering at the hands of her peers being so brilliant and 

speaking of which I'm sick of my peers. Just sick ill...

Like, it happened, he said I want you to keep loving me but I don't deserve it. 

corruption, corruption, ideological nightmare come true. And yet I'm more than fine? Damn straight. Boys put me on a pedestal and don't climb up after me but I am so cozy up here!

and then...waves

Ocean loves in powerful, excited waves which climax white upon seeing me, sighing content as fizz around my ankles. Salt deposits foam immense!

What makes vulnerable, vulpix vulpine in love? Vulpine in love punches his headboard, olde headboard, with wired muscles pulsing. His body too much and too little for what he feels. In his pillow he makes moans until they become screams. Anchor Premier found baby bouts of woe. 

I spent a few days writing in a beachfront hotel. Money makes ocean view spectacular, money or luck. Sea lions bark with mythological frequency. My year of romance, men presented. Plants grow alive, they'll sprout eyes any second now with all that tropical character.

I drank milk out of a coconut. I now appreciate coconuts. Nautical imagery swims. I have too much writing to do in what must be enough time because too little time is not an option. My precious stalemate still called novel, write it finished! 

The Palace Nouvelle is gorgeous. New architecture breathes strong. Windows are tall, lights are up and down cohesive, breezes cool and plants blossom ecstatic. The flood is rising. We will have our own coastline soon and, Alan, you are my ocean.