The Fine Rabble

A Piece On A Writer: Philip Writes

The Reawakening Dragon From Furlough

Through this image, you see the anima of Plato, which may beg one to bethink much about this writer I’m about to portray in fashioned words; naught to mislead, by rather it is an image of endearment. Hearty is he as he strolls; Clamber yourself down from your reposting roosts, Acquainting yourself with the Plato of Seattle I lovingly say, yet remark not to incite the pressure which that sobriquet implies. Meet this sincere one: Philip.

Though tattered by the years, you glimpse the condition of his Hobble and the state of his Trampled Boots; you see the clarity afforded by his visage in the morning light of Washington State. Therein he commands you with a sneaking charm, the banter, and the affording accompaniment his presence brings — Philip ’tis his fine name, a name that brings back fond memories; a name associated with the Royal houses of Europe and their encompassing lands — surrounding; Yes, ’tis his name, a fine, firm one for such a rooting soul. Regardless of Man away from housing robes like his namesake would suggest, he affords you with the curiosity that you might just ask — and asked? You just did! Oh, you mightily firm cheeky chap, you!

Below, the order comes — I have curated together four of my favorite pieces by him, and if he continues to turn peculiar colors induced by heat whilst reading this back, may we afford him some cooling fruit to hush back the blushes!

Let his words and my surrounding tippling mentions take our burdens on the motioning Rail — shunted forth we are now, into the imagined vistas of Philip, who doeth Write — and he doeth Write finely for our tale!

GATHERED & TIDY, HIS FIRST PIECE COMES UPON US NOW:

A soul Redeemed indeed, Philip. I cannot remember when it was I first saw this piece — it was the first I ever saw of this writer, of the name of Phil;- excuse I and my inner joke. Here by this line, of humor he so does innately: “Hoping the dive shop was right when they said that gators don’t do sinkholes.” Follow thence the soul winsomely casts his endearing sincerity — The Players in order of appearance:— this rabble of friends: Whilst I take on an awesome, breathy tone, he, sculps together through what I presume was a midnight fever of energy; Published in A Smiling World Indeed —

Therein we roll, seemingly from a disquieted room into a place, containing said piece, spelling hope — blissful as the charms go — yet painful and expanding as all births seem to go.

At last whilst the afterbirth still remains to cover the babe’s head — But therein we roll. The bliss of colors from a grayed world whence the desire to know was subdued, slowly comes back to life — the dragon out from the slumber, and the belly emblazoned to fume vitality he so craves.

— I listen to a deeply 80s’ tune as I refine this piece —

I feel the significance for him in this piece, as though it was the bedrock for much mirth to come or rather wonderment or revealment — easily also being so for me and my impressions— including a fella player as he puts it, of Pericolo, a dear writer, and one I have my firm hopes for also; He paints her in the manner a friend dearly made — may I hope such cherished things for him are never few inside. Even if the beloved songs die down for a time, alight yourself well, my dear writer.

The following player is Anisa H. — the fine Librarian Extraordinaire herself as Phil pens her. A dear member of The Fine Rabble also, he gives her the generous care that he can afford her, in the naturalist compliments and analogy, he drives to you a creature of dearborn habits, and one he is clearly invested in hearing, and wishing dearly to live.

And the last player I shall mention is one I find myself quite acquainted with, no offense by omissions to the remaining two — but that writer being Joanie Adams, a writer I have come across in my spare time and was never truly bedazzled with; frankly, she could bud her lucky stars down some — but he instead says this: “with the mysticism of centuries many of her stories prod a gentle essence of Shakespeare” — a fine player he makes them out to be; the generosity is boundless when he decides it to be writ.

One can remark dearly the introspection and kindness he delivers here; wishing tomorrow, where shall this wild candle remain alighted in the breezy corridors of hope and fiction.

THROUGH THE TELLINGS OF A RABBLE—FINE IS THIS TALE:

The day was so young, yet so eager was his pen, we couldn’t shrill and repent such eagerness in his mighty zen! With or without awful rhymes to announce such a piece, we shall tittle burden and move on, because what a splendid piece to acquaint himself — not only to our Publication but also, it was the first time truly I had an impression of Phil as a friend and a fella who doeth write and writes out from the shadow of acquaintances.

Now, I did have a dab hand in crafting its final form, but to dare and say that the original draft had not an ounce of thematical worth with a brief belly of substance as its wit would be perfidy!

If I spoke candidly of this piece, which I am endeavoring to do, I would say it's a remarkable chance for a writer dashed away by the hardships of many years — certainly, his form and style are early in his late yet ever-fruitful days, if he so concerns himself to keep on moving, keep on pressing to see where he can stand that day compared to the last.

Given the time and true critic to judge himself well, he may so flourish into the form I spout; but the piece itself is a remark to tales of yore, and to friendship newly flourishing for him.

A voice speaks up from the ground it seems to be a passing farmer on the path, wherein it concludes with the idealized hope of the journey — he continues on, the encounters are brief, and contained, but like seconds that elapse on a clock’s face, they’re no less important than the total whole.

Regardless of the number of grasslands, brooks, and hillocks affronted rubber-souled boots, and sweated slog, the visitations are no less important — I just wish it went on further! And further, he shall go. My hope for this one is large; Here is such a writer’s young-held, though aged-hope:

“It was called The Marches Of Gold and while none, save for one who knew why the others enjoyed the knowledge, who chased it, led them on.”

A PIECE OF MUCH-CONTAINED HOPES — AWAITING ITS RELEASE:

The Room was large by some standards, much too small by others. There were no walls, just a space that for some felt ever-growing yet for others ever-shrinking. The Peoples in The Room behaved exactly as people will.

So he states, and begins likewise, as we do so here. So here are his words, solely flowing from a cup — perhaps made half-full; or too large for him to fill. Renting or made abject, the Elephant metaphor of such common usage packs himself strongly within Phil’s room — I shall rehash my original comment I left on his piece, as I do hate to repeat myself, especially when the ideas remain the same, and tactfully induce my indolence to something grand:

The myriad amount of reasons and notions on why an individual may become homeless, is too large to simply sum up; and without taking each case individually, the idea of homelessness shall never abate.

I’m liking the posture of your Elephant — double-metaphor - I’m feeling however, it is aching for a snapper style, bring it down to precise points, perhaps a suggestion forthwith for a following piece.

An extra degree on flow is where I make my suggestion to you, my friend.

And I stand firmly by these considerations and let us remember the difference between Criticism done with love and Scrutiny done coldly to simply rebuke. Not the time to intermittently impose this on you.

This has such potential and that potential is what I broach to you — to see it, witness it, and remember it before it is dispelled by such crudely assured force.

Please, see it as I do first, then make up your considerations, and remind the writer to endure the barrage of these strange anomalies of the writing course — being the ones of the blank paper awaiting ye.

THE HEART JOURNEYS — AND HOW FINE I FOUND IT:

Coming to our last piece of today’s conversation piece, it is one I remember reading deeply within the blankets of the twilight zone, between saga and prince, and resting snuggly upon this piece.

What to utter without spoiling something that I recall was writing at its pure experience level — to be ingested and accompanied with, especially if one is laden deeply within the hours that do stalk us unkindly with the habit of dreams.

So soundly I retreat from revealing anymore but the personality of someone's writing is being revealed by such a candid piece.

Such a piece I do fondly recall, and especially, I repeat, is the moment it can encapsulate for you —Goodness, why don’t you give it a try now.

SO COMES OUR HEDGING QUESTION OF DESIRES WEAVED:

My IMPRESSIONS of PHILIP; intriguing and curious Phil!

As I have alluded throughout, and if I have done my goody’s task of concluding an image I have, then this will be pitched on opened ears; if not, go back in-between the lines once more, before coming here so.

If not, then laud insolence above my name for my injustices done against the Phil.

But it’s one of hope after being housed away in the darker quarters of Seattle. Of being dashed from certain dreams by the binding done by the lack of something else — especially outside one’s control.

It’s one of hope, truly, but not naively, as to falsify hope is the worst crime than not to give it at all —such is the thrill.

My hope for him is there, now I give that prestige over to him of hope, if he so chooses and allows within and around himself. To give yourself that chance Phil, if you so do, where could this lead you; where couldn’t it?

That is all upon you, and let yourself be the sincere act, even if the day is late in its ticking, and for you, dear Reader, to be sincere in whatever act, at whatever time.

There is my hope — and it is hope for him. Simply said — now, it’s all upon you. Upon you now…

COME ALONG WITH THE DOCTOR’S NEWSLETTER

OUR POET IN QUESTION:

ANOTHER WRITER OF THE FINE RABBLE:

Marches Of Gold; Our Publication:

Come To Medium:

As ever, Dear Reader.