Harry Pays Homage To — Joanie Adams - Sightseer; Conjurer Of Words
If there is one writer, poet, or dramatist, I have a profound respect for, yet concede that so much of her work is a burden of research, it is the work of Joanie Adams.
I feel quite inadequate when I read her works, so mesmerizing, yet so far from my understanding I’m left holding a volume of all the words I never learned. I listened to a Ted Talk recently, and it was on the subject of people who have so much creative power and energy that the mere mortal, having dumped classes for the fields, can never appreciate.
Quote: “A multipotentialite is someone with many interests and creative pursuits. It’s a mouthful to say. It might help if you break it up into three parts: multi, potential, and ite. You can also use one of the other terms that connote the same idea, such as polymath, the Renaissance person. Actually, during the Renaissance period, it was considered the ideal to be well-versed in multiple disciplines.”End Quote: Don’t know. It was a Ted Talk.
I know that I’m attracted to her works, but I haven’t a clue why. Do I learn anything? Not really. I could sit in class all day, and not one of her works would turn my head away from the window. So what is it? There are smart literary people on Medium who do know, and respond with great appreciation, which I understand, saying things I don’t. Go figure.
It is a style and language beyond my comprehension. But fuck it, I thought. I’ll have a go at this bloody stuff. (I don’t know a better word for stuff, so you can see I’m already at a loss.)
Joanie will have something to say, I dare imagine. Do not take this as ridicule, luv, but my honest fucking respect and admiration.
I'm told that standing up and singing to the departed their favorite song is the most embarrassing form of love and respect if one cannot sing.
Being vulnerable.
What follows is a translation of a story where I’ve tried to mimic (poorly) Joanie’s clever use of terminology and word power. I’ll never do it again because it bored the shit out of me, but I felt I had to try.
Be vulnerable.
The story that follows is about King George the 111’s madness. After I share the story in a language of another period, the story is, as written in the first instance, below the first.
Thank you, Joanie.
I won’t get it before I die, but I’m glad I came across it.
I open the envelope. Inside, having nay elucidation, is an image of a
mistress. I edge closer to the oil lamp, as the dim lighteth in the drawing room doest not afford me the clarity of her real beauty. I went to mine own chair and sat down, still holding the photograph. I cannot pray pardon me to thee wherefore, but it wast the strangest feeling holding a photo of a mistress I never hath met. I check the envelope, correctly would it be addressed?
Wherefore I shouldst taketh this is unimportant, and I gave nay thought to the source, such was the affect it had on me.
Too, the beauty and dry sorrow of the image is of wee consequence. I knoweth this mistress to be nay longer of this earth, neither hast the lady ascended to the heaven that mere mortals killeth for, in the name of their god.
I knoweth this, for I holdeth her in mine own hands, and trembleth at the
wondrousness is of the lady. A glory far beyond aught sir with his
idols and celestial figures couldst desire to understand. I shall not
subject her to the moral putrefaction of the nefarious hordes yond
stalk this earth. Mine own home shalt be her sanctuary and I beseech her guardianship.
Food and sleep art naught but intrusions I cannot alloweth to cometh betwixt us. Therefore, and forever long, shalt days passeth without eating drinking. For I dareth not closeth my eyes lest her image shouldst from me be gone. I curseth and blesseth the hand that shapes her image, how dareth those gents beest in the same room with her exalted presence.
Yet I concede, were it not so, I shouldst never knoweth this most wondrous loveth that dwells within me. T’is not the loveth of romantic novelists, dreams of young maidens, anymore thine the herds in the fields knoweth the same loveth. There is nay yearning in mine own loins for this belov’d. The beast does not riseth to debase her. The lady is more than mistress, more than humanity, the lady is mine own eternal as I am hers.
The lady is here, standing before me. I prostrate myself that the lady may knoweth I am her servant. Her image is mine own sustainment, and I might not but feast on her magnificence. I standeth to greeteth her, but to mine own dismay, the lady is gone.
I falleth to mine own knees and begeth forgiveness, for I am impure and undeserving.
“Fear not mine own loveth, Ishalt did rid myself of these impurities. Seeth the blade in mine own handeth, the same blade to which I shalt dismember these foul appendages that offendeth thee. T’is is done, I am pure, cometh mine own loveth, I standeth before thine sacred plave from which thee hath appeared, alloweth me beest forever in thy glory.”
I am perplexed; thee doth not answer me, and a wretched creature is in thy
place, an abomination of nature so pitiful, wouldst be an act of mercy
to endeth its miserable existence. The creature mimics mine own every moveth. I am annoyed and venture forth to confront it until we standeth face—to—face. Its lips still, yet I heard a voice chastising and mocking me.
It accuses my own beloved of many injurious acts towards me, calleth her a harlot and purveyor of evil. I has’t nay desire to heareth of these things,
but I knoweth the creature, and that wouldst not forswear to me.
It wast not dry sorrow in her likeness, but contentment from foul deeds,
that giveth her pleasure. Foolish men to loveth a mistress as I has’t, to
do so is to empower her and the lady shall useth the purity of that loveth as a bludgeon ‘gainst thee. I feareth I am dying and therefore might not removeth the evil from this house.
The malevolent spirit shalt not gloat upon mine own demise. The lady shall leaveth as the lady cameth, for I has’t not in mine own heart to destroyeth her.
I shalt prepare a carriage bearing the nameth and did abide of her next victim, and be sure that gent is a most wondrous distance from mine own cousins.
“Soon, evil one, thee shall meeteth his most gracious majesty, King George the third, King of England.”
Original Story:
I opened the envelope and withdrew its contents, a single image of a
woman without explanation. I edged closer to the oil lamp, as
the dim light in the drawing room did not afford a clear view of the
image. It is a strange feeling to hold a woman I have never set eyes on.
The beauty and sadness of the image are of little consequence. I know
this woman to be no longer of this earth; neither has she ascended to
the heaven mere mortals kill and die for in the name of their god. I
know this, for I hold her here in my hands, and they tremble at the
wondrous glory that is she. A glory far beyond anything man, with his
idols and celestial fantasies, could hope to understand. I will not
subject her to the moral putrefaction of the nefarious hordes that
stalk this earth. My home is her sanctuary, and I am her guardian.
Food and sleep were intrusions I could not allow to come between us.
Days would pass without my eating or drinking. I dared not close my
eyes lest her image should leave me. I curse and bless the hand that
shaped her image; how dare they be in the same room with her exalted
presence. Yet I concede, were it not so, I should never know this great
love that dwells within me. It is not the love of romantic novelists or
dreams of young maidens I speak of; the herds in the field know that
same love. There is no yearning in my loins for this beloved. The beast
does not rise to debase her. She is more than woman, more than
humanity; she is my eternal as I am hers.
She is here, standing before me. I prostrate myself that she may know I
am her servant. Her image is my sustainment, and I must feast on her
magnificence. I stand to greet her, but to my dismay, she is gone. I
fall to my knees and beg forgiveness, for I am impure and undeserving.
“Fear not my love, I shall rid myself of these impurities. See the blade
in my hand, the same blade I used to open the carriage that brought you
here, it is with this I shall dismember these foul appendages that
offend thee. It is done, I am pure; come, my love, I stand before the
sacred place from which you appeared, Let me be forever in thy glory.”
I am perplexed; you do not answer me, and a wretched creature is in your
place, an abomination of nature so pitiful, it would be an act of mercy
to end its miserable existence. The creature mimics my every move. I
am annoyed and venture forth to confront it until we stand face-to-face. Its lips are still, yet I hear a voice chastising and mocking me.
It accuses my beloved of many injurious acts towards me; it calls her
a harlot and purveyor of evil. I have no desire to hear of these things,
but I know the creature, and he would not lie to me.
It was not sadness in her likeness but contentment from foul deeds
that give her pleasure. Foolish are men to love a woman as I have, to
do so is to empower her, and she will use the purity of that love as a
bludgeon against you.
I fear I am dying and, therefore, must remove the evil from this house.
The malevolent spirit shall not gloat upon my demise. She will leave as
she came, for I have it not in my heart to destroy her. I shall prepare
a carriage bearing the name and abode of her next victim and be sure
he is a great distance from my friends.
“Soon evil one, you will meet his most gracious majesty, King George the
third, King of England.”
Adrienne Beaumont, The Sturg, Vidya Sury, Collecting Smiles, Trisha Faye, Karen Schwartz, Nancy Oglesby, Katie Michaelson, Bernie Pullen, Michelle Jimerson Morris, Amy, Julia A. Keirns, Pamela Oglesby, Tina, Pat Romito LaPointe, Brandon Ellrich, Misty Rae, Karen Hoffman, Susie Winfield, Vincent Pisano, Marlene Samuels, Ray Day, Randy Pulley, Michael Rhodes, Lu Skerdoo, Pluto Wolnosci 🟣, Paula Shablo, Bruce Coulter, Ellen Baker, Kelley Murphy, Leigh-Anne Dennison, Patricia Timmermans, Keeley Schroder, James Michael Wilkinson, Whye Waite, John Hansen, Trudy Van Buskirk, | Dixie Dodd | Joanie Adams — Sightseer; Conjurer Of Words | Adda Maria | Dennett | Men.21times@gmail.com | Nancy Santos | Jenny Blue | Jack Herlocker | Love | Barbara J. Martin | Audrey Clifford | Maria Rattray | Jerry Dwyer | Denise Shelton | Trisha Faye | StorySculptress | Katherine Myrestad | Deborah Joyce Goodwin (Red:The-Lady In Blue) | Kelly Corinne Elliott
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