by compound complex 26 Replies latest watchtower child-abuse
Thank you, my dear Taleisin, for a wonderful post!
So happy to hear your good news, but sorry about your ongoing pain -- may you find relief.
I agree with the need to await just the right time to commence a new read.
Off and running to meet with an author/client.
Look forward to hearing more on your own collaborations.
Love,
CoCo
mP - you are absolutely correct in your observation. Strictly speaking, if we - or anyone else for that matter - criticises the Watchtower for its secret storehouse of "forgotten" books, to be consistent, we need to also look at the huge "storehouse"of long "forgotten" books that were either at one time part of the Biblical canon or were 'in the running' for it. Of course, most people who criticize the Watchtower for its patchwork quilt approach to the "distillation" of what currently constitutes "Truth", consider it a step too far to criticize their beloved "Holy Bible" for the exact same reason. One of the hardest cognitive tasks of modern humans is consistency of argument from one setting to another.
Thank you, Steve, for expanding on what is real, whereas the original intent of the OP was simply a foray into the realm of fiction.
Good observation:
One of the hardest cognitive tasks of modern humans is consistency of argument from one setting to another.
CC
It seemed pointless -- no, it was pointless to proceed further into those inner recesses of an unfathomable yet very real book.
Scarcely possessing that sort of memory that sees the page and its precise layout of words and punctuation, yet I knew the story, the wondrous tale, that unfolded within pages requiring no hand to turn them. The brightest star in the night sky -- Sirius -- was the flesh-and-blood enigma whose multifaceted self populated bound paper not sufficiently north and south and east and west to rein in and safely harbor his otherworldly life form. Oh, he was a man all right, but inscrutable and inhabiting no prescribed, measured territories. Strange -- I felt at one with this man who lived a world across the ocean and my own time, the present.
Why my thinking has become clouded -- and I am not panicked by this -- I cannot ascertain. I am aware, and keenly so, of images and recollections that are etched in my brain in remarkably sharp relief. The volume (it is quite large, given the travels and adventures of one Sirius Macomber) remains within the hold of my trembling hands; I cannot let it go, putting it back upon the shelf whence I found it, but I dare not allow myself a greater delve into the enchantment I at one time knew and loved.
You see, I had been there, just as certain as I stand here now in the dark caverns of enlightened decay. Despite the gloom of this labyrinthine repository of ancient knowledge, light of lives past and recorded illume my personal darkness, while I recall with joy that I was once a part of those lives of Sirius Macomber . . .
Enchantment and entrancement both have
made their respective moves upon me . . .
I am crippled in mind, body, soul insofar as
perceiving upon what path I should set a foot
That, for too long, has been restless but not
poised upon any move to my front door and
Courageous enough to prod my unwilling self
toward life and love. It would seem that my
Sinking deeper and deeper into past lives
through pages now commencing to unfurl --
With or without any moves on my part --
should afford some occasion to get on with it.
Escape the entanglements of hopelessness
and despair that lash me to an unseen but
So very real fourth wall from which vantage
you see my pitiable state, you hear my cries,
But you are helpless . . .
more so than I. . . .
Isabelle loved Monty more than life, but her sentiments did not remain secreted away in the cloisters of her heart. A writer of no little renown, she put her mind and that overflowing heart to paper in order to give life to true love's expression:
O love of mine, will you ne'er take note of the one who loves you so,
you whose wandering heart takes flight while vacant eyes fix on me.
No matter her passion, her proffering of gifts and attention on the man she was enamored of, he paid her no heed. An unrequited love, to be sure, an admiration from afar though Isabelle was often in Monty's company. His attention, his heart . . . both were in a far off place where she could never inhabit.
She told her story through the vanity press but the books -- delivered to her cottage on Fairway Drive -- remain, to this day, in boxes gathering dust and eaten through by rats. . . .
