hello dear regulators, dug in on rest for the weary
starting my redpen today, novel starting to feel good to me - finally
worked
on my endgame this morning and im gon share it with you
dear regulators, hate to give novel away like that but i assume it
will be different by the time im thru with it anyway, revision is forever
and i just feel like sharing it cause im tickled with it, novel finally starting to feel real
as i move into closure i will be sharing more passages with you
i really shouldnt put the endgame out there but hey i dont have that
much readership that i got to worry about giving it away do i
i may take this down later but im feeling good today -
do this redpen and ima have a real draft, 15 years i been working on
this novel, folk been dissing me for the last 10, been treating me like i
aint serious - like i aint a contender,
just for you dear regulators: endgame: rest for the weary
all my love: rickydoc flowers
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9TH MOVEMENT: WHEN YOU NEED ME, YOU CALL ME
The letter find him sitting on the landing of the steps that run up the side of house. He put he roots down and walk he neighborhood one more time. He get as far as Parkway and Third before opening it. Friends it says. She doesnt think hes ready for a real commitment. Real life. Real world. She isnt a real woman to him it says. Say she wont be no mans fancy. You have control issues she say. Too fond of headgames. And finally, she say, I am committed to somebody else and am unable to give you what you need. Can you she say, can you really quit.
He withdraw to the park and behind him the holyground he has so carefully nurtured is transformed, house by house and street by street, into a little beatup urban neighborhood. Musty and tired and ragged around the edges. By the time he cross the bridge, Ms Turbees house is gone, the library, Riverside Baptist and the Hole in the Wall. All gone. John Henrys workshop silenced, neighborhood bottletrees just jagged glass necks hanging on frayed strings, and he just a bedraggled Viet Vet sitting on a driftwood throne wedged into the fork of a lightning split tree.
Day and night he can be found sitting there, staring out over the river and handling roots in a calloused hand. Neighborhood kids vie for his attention, challenge each other to disturb the hoodooman, go touch him why dont you, double dare you why dont you, but he ignore them as he does curious adults - those who have heard, those who know, those who see. It become a neighborhood thing to picnic around him, to bathe in the curious peace to be found there on the bluff of the Mississippi.
But as it sometime do, a hurricane come to the Gulf and Memphis brace itself. That eerie stillness that proceed a storm, the earth holding its breath. Folk wait until the last minute but the storm do break and the delta wind come moaning. Time to go. The park empty out and through rear view mirrors he can be seen still sitting there as around him trees bow homage. Windsong whistling in great gusts through the trees shift he roots ever so faintly and lift he dreads in a whipping halo. Branches brush the wall of he aerie in arboreal symphony, the sky open wide and the rain it come.
Stormbringer raise I man head to the cooling spray. I man see the stars.
Over time the chair root itself, roots spreading from its base deep into the delta mud, he beard grow twiggy and vines wrap themselves into he limbs, ravenous worms aerate he legs, he foot root deep, a statue carved of smooth and exotic wood that gradually become one with the earth. A dreamer casting he greatest dream, he greatest spell. One that remake the world as he would it be. One in which he dreams come true and he soul be saved.
One that would be rest for the weary.
That say to all the generations
When you need me you call me
I will come
I am the Conqueror
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