HOW THE RINGLETS GOT FAMISHED
By: Iris P. Concepcion

The recent journey which produced the entry prior to this yielded the not so badly taken shots and belatedly placed arrows to the book-reading community and visual technocrats. I had the most superfluous supply of anecdotes in paragraph forms that I didn't go out of my room, joyfully, to read them. Except of course when I post-do the pre-fart thing human beings do.

I am looking out, searching, exploring for new words to use. The dictionary is no longer enough a word bank to letterize what's practically screaming to get written.

As I was writing, I got freebies, sweets, clothing but I was itching for my hands to touch, bookwhore that I am, a selected short story collection. I will not name its author because, I mean, well, it is a dead give away. I also fear that the writer will escalate his popularity level to mass appeal, someone so generic like salt and ordinary like lips and peck-able, one you can pinch your ears to connote coziness---I don't like him easily reached that way. Why? It is way too corny.

So here:

The Book
A review by a bookwhore (there fairy sis, is your word hahahaha)

The number of stories is 14 which is a deliberate, conscious selection to name the Nimble. wide-hipped (an uproar!!!) blast from the blog.

The first story was definitely meant to astound. To lend meaning to its cover. The author was correct, the hoofing sound through the horse's nose got my forefinger saying : "Yes, yes, yes, this was drawn pretty good..."

The author, in another time capsule had been homaged when he drew a diagram where a whale peeked out from the blue ocean. As the reader was reading, she felt euphoria that the x mark in the not so scientific table as unpredictably Einsteined, was truly, where the whale emerged. This, from a book about pain. That's absolutely a genius work.

Hence, when the magical style of narration, the horse's sniffing air (what do you call this?) round and un-animated (like a comic drawer would, perhaps, in the 1940s), the reader sensed a Proustian remembrance. A classic nose hoof there. It really looks like it moves.

More than that, however, I adore the little hair surrounding the gladiatored upper half body of the animal. It was drawn like rays of the sun, but for dwarfs. Without possessing a 20/20 vision, you will miss the spectacular, mind-expanding drawing of little porcupines on the horse's head. It can blow the planet away.

The first story was picked, I am just hunching of course, similar to a mind picker because it is superbly vagued and the author knows probably that he has a silent, vague-fixated audience so he chose this particular story. The author now thinks, helplessly: "I am quite esteemed to have this kind of reader." The man and the horse decided to fly and so they flew. As Updike's advice was heeded. Just like that. There is Kafka reference (I don't want to die like a bug), social dynamics (the kings entombed) and artistic inadequacy (exterior magnificent; interior, drab) if the pyramid was a symbol.

Story number 2 is exactly the way one should feel about poems that are NOT written. That amazing grasp of disgust.

Story Number 3 is the best there is since Hugh Hefner perhaps bedded 1,001 bunnies or something. This is the most discreetly explosive tale of the hormonal unknown. Yes, this is surfing (some b.s. wanted me dead, they ought to fix their butts first, perhaps?) and since I write, the awkward but marvelous, nonetheless, explanation to sanitize, clinically, something that is already damp, is laborious (I feel that, weird Al hahaha).

Director Scallop whose mouth was tickered off does not have this kind of problem. The struggle (The author thinks: Will this offend? Am I such a jackass for writing this?) is exactly, rightly, this writer's written toothache also. I always flinch when I attempt verbalizing the waves. What the heck : (K: Jesus says you're a prig!). They should have printed this in Playboy to cater to grannies while they gasp : "Que Horror!"

Story Number 4 is an ode to carpentry (hahahahaha). So J.U.

Story Number 5-9 moved like pretzeled wind, articulating what people go through in anger, pain and that most horrible thing of all, loving. The QT ending, I know I have seen or read this before, shooting the shitty cow and pulling its severed head and attaching it on the shooter's own, you'll get this kind of gore if you put Tarantino and Scorsese in one film. I love the "Silent" equivalent of one short because the nickly moon talked in a dialogue. He is horned-brimmed, of course. All that fidelity and devotion. Yes, special tape it is. These stories have very finite sentences. Fluid, short but so exact. It ended with a moon which "began to speak." Everything is possible as it is.

Stories 10-19. Hodgepodge. One gets a Heller type of writing here. The title is about mothers. Ahem.

And death and mountains (close to my own lake essay) but this is a woman's tale. I was waiting for Colin Firth to appear but he didn't. There was a line about zebras. Do I like zebras? Yes, Arundhati, and my name is Tarantula. I like zebras because they are painted by a color blind man who can only recognize two colors correctly : Black and white.

I also swear like a convent girl would once outside the convent, that Doyle was sneaking a line or two in between the paragraphs, like a thief restoring the stolen sentences. I think I got the process rightly. Absolutely an act of faith.

Thank you for lending this writer's little entity a literary voice. About time. He made the writers sing like nightangles. I didn't expect that. I expected you'd all conk out but no. You all leapt like princes in tight pants. Now, you can kiss each other sick. Hehehe. I think I sang with Casey's brother. It is spooky, remembering the dreamy, icky music video of that gay past. Hahahaha.

Damn miss the real writers. Double films cost much these days, donchathink?