The Fanfic of the Book of the Movie [There is Nothing Left to Say (On The Invisibles)]
We say goodnight to the thirteen chapters of There is Nothing Left to Say (On The Invisibles) Section Two. Water! Whatta theme! Right?
There Is Nothing Left to Say On The Invisibles
2.13
The Fanfic of the Book of the Movie
The old gray mare, she kicked on the whiffle-tree.
I’m tired, folks. Wiped out.
Water should be a hard slog, though, for the person traversing it first. It is my fault, or my responsibility; I opened the floodgate. I chose the course.
About seven years ago, I fell in floodwaters and nearly drowned. Only a few feet high, the water swept me and three young women with me right off our feet, and I could not find them, or the ground. I could not get the ground. My glasses found their way to my hand immediately, but I could not touch the ground.
Police fished us from the water, and I was taken home. The diner downstairs of my apartment told me they were sending someone up with hot food, and when they arrived I was sitting in my clothes soaking my sofa, depressed, and scared, and starting to find it bitterly funny that I was glad when under the water that it was not bowater, not sewage. Fresh rain and the salt swollen from the nearby ocean! Woo and hoo!
Daughter of the diner owner entered my apartment and told me I could not eat until I took off the clothes, had a hot shower, washed my hair, brushed my teeth, and got her approval. That will save your life, having someone to tell you to take care of yourself and brooking no guff.
She sat and watched me eat and drink tea, snacking as I devoured.
I want you all to eat well. Water of life is water of death, but none of us have to die right now!
I opened us with the Page of Pentacles.
Closed us out with the Ace of Pentacles.
Pentacles, or Coins, for trades and for trades. Practice and exchange.
The youth, the student, cash and job in hand, but not actually in hand because it floats at the fingertips of that sensory-stoned giant in the foreground of a golden land.
The Fanfic of the Book of the Movie, seeping us from Water to Wood, carrying us to be drunk up by our book’s Section Three, does not begin to cover how much and how plurally influences are influenced by confluence of influences.
Is that an irony in a serial called There is Nothing Left to Say? I think it best not to definitively answer. Saving my back bacon for a ham and pineapple pizza.
Fanny's patron deity is the quadripartite Tlazōlteōtl, who eats shit. Also a god of bath houses, confession, luxury, death, lust and purification. Gain and loss.
Xipe Totec, whom Orlando is not anymore than he is Roland, only using the name, is in parallel to Tlazōlteōtl, as a spirit of aging, sickness, healing, maturation.
Xipe Totec is angry, reactionary.
Tlazōlteōtl is patient and methodical.
They both wear masks, drag, and flayed skins.
Pinocchio has not only a cricket, but an owl and a crow. They play conscience, they play doctor.
"When the dead weep, they are beginning to recover," said the Crow solemnly.
In one of the two Alice books, Alice says she once got so mad at herself cheating in a game of croquet she played alone she hit herself for it.
We divide and are divide. We split and cache.