Of Style Overplayed

A Refinement In Prose; A Confrontation Of The Inking Pain — Morning Papers XXVI

Where To Place Style; Where To Beguile; Where To Refine; Where To Be Purely Understood — What is the Lie and What Could be True?

©Joanie Adams — Joanie Adams; Gift A Tea: https://ko-fi.com/joanieadamms

THE LAST PAPER:

Throughout The Blunders Of The Day, The Resettling Act Of Writing Comes Back — Ever-refining, Ever-steering, I come back to that!

Small, blue portrait, bouncing in its finely rippling sea; there she is on the wharf, as he closes in, and there you all are, staring, ogling from the far shore, hoping to peep an unforgettable scene. I am being facetious with the wading hope that begins us to the tale, merely to be Inked down by the prescribing scribe.

I may not speak the words of all, yet, untangle my way of conveyance and therein you may reveal the ideas that make life brimming with richness, with the effort traded in with your time, to make worthwhile for you; I know it can be, it was for me, in an oh-so-passed plain, in the slender scope of time.

So there I am, scuffing out the rough misshapen path, fondled by the havoc of upsetting tides and gales severe that turn all muddled shapes into the desire of breasts.

You cannot be roused anywhere else without the setting image of Mother following you around — but I may be smirking at you by this point.

I often wonder about you, and what you’re thinking about, what is entailing the need of your mind as of now — of all this imagery, do I hear you calling out Why?

I can become subtle, I can become sly, I am shrewd and I dare to understand the implications of my words, by the seeking eyes of all — I fortunately see the world as it is, away from the usual demand for self-happiness — to an extent of course.

O; there is such a danger of meeting a being of utterly cold and purely brilliant Logic —logic being the curse word thrown around by those who need quick and tolerable justifications of their Eagerness.

Quick comforts that is quickly sought for, and doubly quick, they are used up, barring this particular self to this consumption, like the malady that turns the body to a playfully bright hue just before death; I am a selfish writer, and a selfish person, I have always been and why I have so many rules, so many reasons for temperance, I’ve never been too awfully tried to pick a tempting side — or blindsiding as I prefer to know of it.

The pedantic tiss of getting the right curving knife, you see, I’ve got you hooked with all these muddled thoughts; Now, to revise and say what is needed by cares to be said. Ideas, ah yes, shall we be to that, because as we share this moment, I am conjuring up a Refinement of a past song, sad old-timey America —those wide labrador wet eyes, huddled into old New Haarlem; With that spoken of, I most likely have refined these ideas even more. I have, I’m toying you with the sometimes disregarding chides of rhetoric.

I come back on my words, my Never Publish First Drafts comes to jaunt me with the tactfully whipping finger under the right ear: A Refinement In Prose. After many ruminations, today harks the need for a new mensing age after the previous ones; what has once gone before won’t necessarily work today in verbatim. So may we begin, where?

Where To Place Style; Where To Beguile; Where To Refine; Where To Be Purely Understood — What is the Lie and What Could be True?

The cursing trope of enviable ideas to be had all of the time, never just some of the time, or a reason now to be heard and at another to be silent — the humility, in a wide and grand scheme may not so exist, are we just this mere, fickle thing, without any might for loyalties; and I mean loyalties not fervent loyalists, be careful how you press your words, the insurance of insinuations by others, of putting their happy-concluding meanings into your words, especially depending on your position, is an ace to be encountered—

Trouble arises, even in the most peacefully instructed places, there are things, beings of utter chaos there, like a rogue atom that’ll shake things around, just as long there isn’t a stable catalytic being in control of them, then all meaning dares to become lost.

I steer and I harper, I need to confront, otherwise I cannot understand what it is in need within myself, let allow to even have the possibility of understanding it in another; life doesn’t coil around one main terminal, I am a mere form to the larger Machinations of this wide market —take that image, thick, rich and deeply saturated in the desires of every stall-owner and trader who floats in and out of this space of life only to return.

But there I be the Doctor, as I shall always be, admittedly, getting lost in what I intended in the title which I spouted on some spot, a month or two ago —must be, perhaps I was leaning against my console, flipping up the phone as it becomes the desirable fashion, again, today; Oh, you do love to bring back the dated classics don’t you.

A rotatory phone, in British racing green, with a big friendly button in the middle that says: Sentimental tech, get rid! But I am delaying, as I hate a goodbye. Yet I close now. There, I am going.

Ta-ta Now, that is all —for now.

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