themnax
03-01-2007, 01:03 PM
how i met frank of the emerald woods
when walking in the emerald forrest i met an young man who was quite old, or was it an old man who was quite young? well you see the thing is, he was his own ghost, but quite solid and real just the same. he said his name was frank. he'd had a heart condition all his life. had been in live theatre and run a hardware store and ended up writing books for a living. really odd quarky sorts of storys with all sorts of improbable things in them. he was calm in a strainge way. not like some saints and teachers i have known. yet not unlike them either. he was also in his way a bit simple. never really trying to be like them, and i don't think he entirely understood, or had in his earlier years, that people who'se fathers and mothers had always lived in different ways then his own, were just as much the in the same way people as himself, while at the same time, giving unnatural life, in his story telling, to objects one wouldn't normaly think of as alive.
not unlike this forrest i found him wandering arround in. he was also fallowed arround everywhere he went, by human or mostly human looking persons of short stature. not youthful of contenence either. not for the most part anyway. although among them always there were also one or two larger people who did appear to be youngish, even children.
one and all they seemed to have a favorite slogan, with which they eternaly regailed him: "tell us a story mr frank", they would repeat whenever he ran out of words, and always he would start in again. far from being annoyed by this, he seemed to rellish it with great enthusiasm.
still i had to be getting on myself as the shadows were lengthening on toward evening and who knew what would lurk in the dense thorns beneath the trees when full darkness decended and i was understandably anxious to seek out a place for the night or set up some sort of camp in which to endure it.
i need not have bothered for we came in due course to a settlement of one rather ordinary if large seeming house and surrounded by many and many smaller and even miniature ones. these latter it seemed mr frank's many fallowers made their homes, while the larger was his own, and in which he invited me, most unexpectedly, to remain the night.
an invitation, lacking other plans and not knowing otherwise quite where i was, i quite readily accepted.
it was an odd house by the standards to which i had become accusomed. rather like something out of a history. and one even of those written before my own time, yet comfortable for all that, with its fireplaces and great morris chairs and other acoutraments.
=^^=
.../\...
when walking in the emerald forrest i met an young man who was quite old, or was it an old man who was quite young? well you see the thing is, he was his own ghost, but quite solid and real just the same. he said his name was frank. he'd had a heart condition all his life. had been in live theatre and run a hardware store and ended up writing books for a living. really odd quarky sorts of storys with all sorts of improbable things in them. he was calm in a strainge way. not like some saints and teachers i have known. yet not unlike them either. he was also in his way a bit simple. never really trying to be like them, and i don't think he entirely understood, or had in his earlier years, that people who'se fathers and mothers had always lived in different ways then his own, were just as much the in the same way people as himself, while at the same time, giving unnatural life, in his story telling, to objects one wouldn't normaly think of as alive.
not unlike this forrest i found him wandering arround in. he was also fallowed arround everywhere he went, by human or mostly human looking persons of short stature. not youthful of contenence either. not for the most part anyway. although among them always there were also one or two larger people who did appear to be youngish, even children.
one and all they seemed to have a favorite slogan, with which they eternaly regailed him: "tell us a story mr frank", they would repeat whenever he ran out of words, and always he would start in again. far from being annoyed by this, he seemed to rellish it with great enthusiasm.
still i had to be getting on myself as the shadows were lengthening on toward evening and who knew what would lurk in the dense thorns beneath the trees when full darkness decended and i was understandably anxious to seek out a place for the night or set up some sort of camp in which to endure it.
i need not have bothered for we came in due course to a settlement of one rather ordinary if large seeming house and surrounded by many and many smaller and even miniature ones. these latter it seemed mr frank's many fallowers made their homes, while the larger was his own, and in which he invited me, most unexpectedly, to remain the night.
an invitation, lacking other plans and not knowing otherwise quite where i was, i quite readily accepted.
it was an odd house by the standards to which i had become accusomed. rather like something out of a history. and one even of those written before my own time, yet comfortable for all that, with its fireplaces and great morris chairs and other acoutraments.
=^^=
.../\...