The Secret Diary of Janey Jones

Lover's Trees

"The Beech-Tree's Petition" (1800)

O LEAVE this barren spot to me!
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!
Though bush or floweret never grow
My dark unwarming shade below;
Nor summer bud perfume the dew

Of rosy blush, or yellow hue;
Nor fruits of autumn, blossom born,
My green and glossy leaves adorn;
Nor murmuring tribes from me derive
Th’ ambrosial amber of the hive;

Yet leave this barren spot to me:
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!
Thrice twenty summers I have seen
The sky grow bright, the forest green;
And many a wintry wind have stood

In bloomless, fruitless solitude,
Since childhood in my pleasant bower
First spent its sweet and sportive hour;
Since youthful lovers in my shade
Their vows of truth and rapture made,

And on my trunk’s surviving frame
Carved many a long forgotten name.
Oh! by the sighs of gentle sound,
First breathed upon this sacred ground;
By all that Love has whispered here,

Or Beauty heard with ravished ear;
As Love’s own altar honour me:
Spare, woodman, spare the beechen tree!

~Thomas CAMPBELL


 
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:heart: I fuck an old tree. :heart:

This is me licking the bark of my hard maple lover. I kiss a pump hole in his heart trunk and tap semen syrup with my sweet sap mouth.

It is ring around the wet year ages and he gets big and bigger. His rings are close and closer to my love.

:heart:This is the growth factor analysis of blow job loving. :heart:
 
:heart: I fuck an old tree. :heart:

This is me licking the bark of my hard maple lover. I kiss a pump hole in his heart trunk and tap semen syrup with my sweet sap mouth.

It is ring around the wet year ages and he gets big and bigger. His rings are close and closer to my love.

:heart:This is the growth factor analysis of blow job loving. :heart:

You just gave me wood
There is only one cure
:devil:
 
It is that time of year again: quick check the local weather! Is it alright to hang the laundry out to cool dry, or will they get a rain rinse?
The towels get stiff and the jeans are hard. It’s all hard like us.
“I love my jeans stiff off the line.”
The rough towels are a secondary loofah.

The fleas are going to die. There will be no flies sneaking in the door that has no screen.

I am fucking books and rubbing my ass clean with A- research papers because I forgot to buy toilet paper.
 
It is a strange and unusual thing to wake up and suddenly feel alone.
It is the end result of self capture.

My Dad cuts the grass in the middle of the night sometimes.

The cat rubs on my leg and it gets on my nerves. He goes outside to poop and he brings in bloody mouse heads. He comes inside to eat. Isn’t that enough?
 
I am cycling seasons and forcefully yet willingly putting pills into my mouth. It’s all about risk management, but without risk there is no chance; without danger there is no safety.

I listened to him speak with these glazed eyes.

“She wanted me to choke her and beat her, and all I could think about was getting locked up for assault.”

He: “I don’t mind trying out whatever my lover wants.”
Me: “Did you like it any of it?"
He: “Not really, I was too worried that I would hurt her.”
 
And he is indescribable. He just calls up every few months rapping-tapping on my chamber door. He says he is fat, pale, freckled, and made of paste. Only this and nothing more? I would love him enough for himself and myself, but I am not the girl for he; there is always some other crazy she. In between his lovers he finds me. We don’t fuck.

It is a childhood love affair. I don’t beat up girls on the playground, and he doesn’t punch holes in walls and break his hands anymore. I sip a rare Scotch plain times one, and he tips the Jameson again and again. I act so dumb, and he yells: don’t bullshit me! He’s not impressed with my acting skills.

At the house wee little mouse I am on the couch, he is on the cott. And I forgot to suck his cock!
I couldn’t wake the sleeping man, with mouth on dick, or hand in hand. I put him to bed and removed both socks. I tucked him in with blankets.

“You should have slept with me,” says he. I couldn’t, I wouldn’t contaminate him with the disgustingness--- that is me.
 
We love to be in love. There is no loving each other, we just want to love desperately. So, we make it all up. We extreme make believe that there is no living without loving. We love ourselves more and more, but we want to love each other even more than that. It’s the pursuit of love like young love. I will pout and it’s not attractive. You will slap my face off. There is great acting. The playwright lives in our heads. It’s the idea of dramatic loving that we love. We are the innamorati. It’s all very funny. It’s a comedy and we laugh to the tears.

You write beautifully. :rose::rose:
 
Every once in a while he types a letter to me. I think he does this when he is drunk and the memories of me happen to jump into his head. He was crazy. I was crazy too. It was the “happiest time in his life.” That was until it wasn’t happy anymore.

The happiness ended when I ran away. He was jealous, obsessive and possessive and I didn’t know that I liked it, till I didn’t have that ever again.

He moved away soon after he climbed up the fire escape to my bedroom and watched me fucking some other man.
 
Me: I want you to kiss me. I want to know how to kiss.
He: I am going to sleep now.
Me: Maybe you will dream about kissing me.
----
He: I had a dream it was more than a kiss.
Me: Did we make love?

He: No, not at all. We got into a car accident. You got a broken arm. I was killed. It was pretty graphic.

Me: That is a nightmare.
He: It seemed peaceful. It just seemed right that I died.

And he will never love me, other than the sister love of the childhood past.
 
---He won't tell me---
I told him to love me. He told me he would never love anyone. I told him I would love him instead of him loving me. He told me he does not want to be loved. He told me he only wants to fuck as much as possible. I told him to fuck me. I told him to fuck, fuck, fuck me and that I would not love him.

He did not told me anything after that. I knew he would not reply.
 
The Christmas tree lights flicker but they are not the flickering kind. It is easy to pretend that they are the flickering kind so that I do not have to skip to the power box in the black basement. Half the house flickers lights and it looks like a disco party from the outside looking in.

It is twenty amps of sizzle and the hardware store is closed on Friday nights after a certain time. It is twenty amps of powerlessness. The way to the box is by balaclava and boots. The snipers do not live in the cellar but you have to slip through the spider’s webs houses.

It is fucking dark. Loose lines have a specific sound. Electricity, and not the static kind is scary. The only thing to do is break off the breaker and investigate, scrape and replace.
----
~ from the living novel: "This Story is not a Book." by Jane Doe F2014
 
The time is near here and the pages are stacking. I am the no-editor typist and in my life I rarely look back at the words. I am trying. I find an extra letter or a misplaced word. The thoughts are always accurate. I will not stop. It is not easy to chapterize my thinking.

In the middle without an end yet: Perversions of the Original Kind.

It is hard to resist the desire for feedback. I do not have an editor to call my own.
 
Me: The heat went off. The blower would not blow.
(silence)
Me: It was flashing a lockout. I reset it and it is working now, just calling in case it is important.

He: There’s plenty of wood to burn in the wood burner.

Me: I know.

I remember the three shop dogs and their frozen water bowls--those days, back then, remember when--
Waiting inside for kindling till crackling.
 
The furnace did not last but it is warm under the five blankets with two sweaters on, two pajama pants on, two socks on, and a head topper warm hat. It is 28 degrees outside and 49 degrees inside.

It is a lockout! The oil can might be empty! The last thing I want to do is be in the basement bleeding the lines but if that is the only problem, I will be happy.
----

I have a crush on him. I whispered close to him: Can I put something in your pocket? Are your pockets deep enough?

I bought him a silver yo-yo man toy and slipped it into his lab coat. He promised not to tell. He promised not to look at it till after his 24 hour sign out. I know it was a silly thing to do. Surely it proves nothing more than my lunacy.

Who doesn’t love a yo-yo?
 
Jane, I've read this entire thread through twice, and the writing quality is exceptional with a style that is completely unique.

Simply hanging those 1st person journal entries onto a 3rd person narrative would yield a ready made novel.

I will be in the queue for your first signing session.
 
Jane, I've read this entire thread through twice, and the writing quality is exceptional with a style that is completely unique.

Simply hanging those 1st person journal entries onto a 3rd person narrative would yield a ready made novel.

I will be in the queue for your first signing session.
Thank you. :rose: I am not educated in writing format. I have been typing pages of content. Does this mean writing the whole thing in the 3rd person voice? I need direction. I hope you respond with advice.
 
Thank you. :rose: I am not educated in writing format. I have been typing pages of content. Does this mean writing the whole thing in the 3rd person voice? I need direction. I hope you respond with advice.
There is always a danger that anyone interfering with your writing style will accidently remove its uniqueness.

Looking at the entire thread and the comments, particularly early on, the hook that drew people into your world was the whispering in your head as a juxtaposition to described events. That altering of perspective between actual and desired outcomes is at the heart of the uniqueness in your writing.

In an expanded novel form this would mean the author having two voices - different ways of achieving this:

The omniscient author in 3rd person telling the story counterpointed by the personalised thoughts (whispering) in first person.

Doing all of it in 1st person using Jane and Janey as separate voices.

Whichever narrative device you choose, remember the hook that will draw people into your story is having two distinct voices that are very different from each other.

Also remember to treat any external advice on narrative technique (such as this) with caution - this is your story.
 
There is always a danger that anyone interfering with your writing style will accidently remove its uniqueness.

Looking at the entire thread and the comments, particularly early on, the hook that drew people into your world was the whispering in your head as a juxtaposition to described events. That altering of perspective between actual and desired outcomes is at the heart of the uniqueness in your writing.

In an expanded novel form this would mean the author having two voices - different ways of achieving this:

The omniscient author in 3rd person telling the story counterpointed by the personalised thoughts (whispering) in first person.

Doing all of it in 1st person using Jane and Janey as separate voices.

Whichever narrative device you choose, remember the hook that will draw people into your story is having two distinct voices that are very different from each other.

Also remember to treat any external advice on narrative technique (such as this) with caution - this is your story.
Thank you for the advice! I did not know the meaning of juxtaposition but I searched the definition. I have never had any narrative critique or advice before, I have just began to start searching on the internet about formal writing for novel format.

The novel type that I am writing seems messy. My ideas are maintained but the content is all over the place from childhood memories and learning the sense of things about the world around me. I am trying to link each experience to my love laboratory failures.

I just keep writing but the further I get without a clear voice plan the more I will have to edit to achieve a consistent pattern. I just keep writing raw. It is time and effort. It is a lifelong history of writing for myself and writing something that others will read.

All my life I have perceived words as nothing more than some kind of food, it tastes good going in but in the end it always turns to shit. The good thing is that there are no calories.
 
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