June 9th 
I am a humble traveler who often gets lost in my seaward journeys. It is not such a stretch. Those of us who scriven with any seriousness know that there is much chaos and uncertainty in the research for any completed project. My scrivening was also rooted in a desire for sound. As a musician, one walks along the sandy beaches and picks up little shells not hoping to hear the sea, but to hear symphonies. 

Inspired by Melville’s Pacific adventures which seemed to dip into the very stars themselves via their reflections in the oceans. I am additionally beholden to Platonic dialogues and French comedy of manners, and the poems hidden by shoji and a variety of other shades, ghostly and not. In Shakespeare, boys play the universe queerly and thus become the universe themselves. Reading big classic novels and poems in my studying days meant I was old enough to venture out on my own, I never could leave the love I carried for those verses behind. Not when classics departments continued to shudder their doors and end their programs during my doctoral candidacy days. Not when I watched the shorelines, wide-eyed and skin-kneed, alone in foreign places, always foreign myself to others. Not when I watched alluring art house films or listened to Risaulka on many very different continents of this world, and certainly not when I began to go on excavations to strike out on my own. 

Yet, when I journeyed last, something had changed. Swimming in the ocean, I found that I had not only been flung from my little West coast perch, but I had wandered under the tides for quite some time. The tides did not burn within my lungs, so I kept going. I wrote to my editor and asked the nearest diver if there was a post office where some pages could be delivered. They said  Of course. However, We take bronzen coins only. So, I wrote to my editor to let them know I would be taking a strange sort of journey where I had never gone before. I traveled under many waves and heard the loveliest of sounds. I had no map. I wanted only to follow the sweetness of music. 

The tides were not always clear. Schools of fish in bright colours could have been danger or salavation– I hardly knew!

After a particularly tremendous sea-storm, I washed up upon the glittering wave-lines of a seaweed patch that seemed utterly enchanted. Had I drowned? Did I misremember my walk upon the shore and some tempting siren had dragged me down with a kiss? Did my exploration of The Deep leave me and I was merely floating to be a skeleton discovered by whales and giant squids?

All such worries ceased when a delicate hand fanned my forehead with a cool-drenched towel. I was surrounded by a group of boys within a palace. A dressmaker, with curls of gorgeous hair and a scowl fretted over me. I tried to explain, but instead, found myself listening, magnetically drawn into this tiny kingdom. The iridescent shells seemed giant to me and yet I had not shrunk down. How marvelous! 

Reader, when I thought myself lost, I really found, for a time, a new place to journey. Though I had always been a writer, as I stepped into that shell-strewn kingdom, I realized I was also an explorer. 

June 15th 
Illyrial. Is what the lovely courtier in tangerine coloured robes tells me. It is pronounced I-llyri-al. Do you understand? We all come from here. No titles of patronage shall ever separate us beyond this. For instance, there is no Batiste De Beaulieu, there is only Batiste of Illyiral. It is why we may move freely, in our hearts desires and outside–anywhere in the whole, wide sea!

I try it. Illyrial! It sounds as a strong C chord, then an A minor 7th does. It sparkles and is filled with bells. 

We broke bread and drank the most sumptuous, sparkling waters I had ever tasted. I could choose whatever I liked to have this water underwater. I selected a handful of pink rose petals, some camomile, and a spritz of lime. 

From the balcony seat of a comfortably plush abalone, there is quite the view; seaweed gardens, wildflowers in swirls of brilliant lapis, pathways made of currents and tides that veer into nothing but deep ocean– and the shells! So sparkling and different now that they were up close. From afar it looks as though it is nothing but a tiny sweep, a handful of clinking periwinkles and oysters. 

But oh, those oysters were such boisterous coves! These lands stood in marvelous arrays, augurs and cowries as wide as Australian opera houses and tea houses in central London. There were urchins as lovely and decorated as boardwalk carousels. Whelks and wedges and tellins fanned out in dwellings, ship flags, and tapestries of life as rich as they were aquatic.

 Yet, none of the man made horrors ever touched this trick of the eye!

What was even more lovely was the sound; the bubbling of the deep sea! The chatter of galleries and operas, musical cabarets and unearthed paintings, recitals and dance rehearsals, dance parties and lavish, private greetings exchanged between lovers in the open air…everywhere!

These tiny creatures swarmed by many shapes and sizes of hybridity sea-life thrived. These non-human and most human of all… how splendid. 

July 26th 
After a hearty recovery, I spent a few days exploring the borderless kingdom in my own aimless way. I did not fear its strangeness any longer, if ever I did. I traipsed through bakeries and bookstores, rose gardens and repairs of kitchen sinks. I was curious as to how anything ran, but that beautiful, musical hum wherever I went solidified it for me. Whatever boysong was. It was strong. It held. The natural world took care of itself and those who cared for it. I met many boys, many men— many creatures who encapsulated all of them. 

It was easy then, to see why this place had remained undiscovered for so long: If there is no peace here, then we have failed. If something happens to us in these stories please…who wants the world to remember anyone as suffering or resistors, as political posers in a game? That is the world of The Above. 

The tides beckoned with such a desire:

Here, you must tell stories for the sake of there being real art. You must speak of Love not as a space of praxis but as a glittering origin of its own. 

Later, on one of my evenings with a wide, sprawling banquet, I found  after much convivial, tender conversation I was speaking with the sitting prince at the time. What night! After all the dancing and poetry exchanges, the fans that passed back and forth…and the kisses! Well…it is a story for another time. 

He was quite in repose after the evening’s unformalities. He was dressed in these exquisite opal-coloured scarves that formed a delicate toga, and a pair of seaglass sandals. He wore a diadem of pearl, and a long, cream-coloured ribbon with a portrait of his twin. 

Yes, he said simply, after finishing the last of his tea. 

Not I have been thinking about your earlier question or Let us talk. Simply Yes. 

I see no reason not to allow it. Heavens, do not let my brother get wind of it right away though. He is too good at business deals! And our history is sacred. 

Of course. I nodded, with a little bow. Thank you. 

I had been here for a few weeks and knew of the principles of this kingdom. I knew this was an honour to undertake, and I should ask the lingering question I had now. For no shell or pearl formed without great pressure, after all. 

And what of all the books that are …quite gone?

You see how well stocked our artistic libraries are. What you write of tides and ashes and the Above…we can only say what is in the blue of our veins and the blue of our earth. And we are here, and we are free. 

And what if, one day, the world had ended as I knew? How do I go about writing of such things, relaying them to others?

Tell everyone not about those who caused such destruction. I imagine they get enough press in The Above. Instead, tell them about those who were innocent along with the winds and tides, the soils and seas evening rise. Tell them about those who cared about love more than any other title, even poet or prince. 

What if… you tell me a terrible tragedy? 

My time in the The Above could easily tantalize folks, that is, if they are small minded and do not wish to hear music. 

What would I not face for the heart of my brother? What trouble could my brother not find himself in when trying to do anything but face his own?

Tell them of the sea. And of our music. 

And what about The Shallows?

Like when my brother was stolen and we were tortured in a detention centre? Do they demand scenes of horror for us to be extraordinary? Should I recount every sin upon my kingdom? No, tell them instead of how we spoke gently and mended things at last–how I opened him like a truly royal soul. 

And when…

Oh the miseries of Vinesdam and its stony nature? From the watchfulness, what once was panopticon and zoo? It is almost monastic really. Only tell them of Vern’s bravery in freeing our favourite Dimitri from that terrible fate! Tell them of all the boys we were able to take in. Tell them of Avi and Edwin— and of our charming Thomas of Illyrial! 

What of The fiery Guyot?

Tell them of my love for Adrian and his enduring flames. 

What of the ink that could end everything?

Tell them of the dreams that keep all the waters flowing into Eternity.  

I wrote it all down on my dinner napkin with a gull’s quill. We exchanged words over the latest sonatas and ballets, and a few suggestions for brunch later that week. 

He embraced me in a most princely way. According to the customs of Illyrial, it was noble, even, and very dignified. 

Then, he kissed my forehead with gentle remove, and grasped both my hands in his with a certain gentleness. 

 Be clever, darling. He pressed the words against the shell of my ear. But mostly, find bravery in your kindness. 

August 4th 
The moon’s rippling reflection through the spiraling, sepiternal petals of waves bloomed into so many sea-roses. Spring dusted the royal gardens with magnificent splendor. I was quite recovered. I ached with such clarity in my dwelling. Soon, I journeyed to other places under the sea. I often returned to Illyrial. I sent post to my editor with ease, and it was no trouble to reiterate some of the tales I had been so privileged to listen to between the other places I was trying to explore. 

I am on board a different ship now, sailing somewhere a little warmer, closer to islands. It may be months or weeks before I wander back there. However, when I swim now, unsure and wandering, I think of that beautiful, pearlescent kingdom and know, no matter how tumultuous the tides turn, there is always a way back. 

These stories live in the waters of my queer heart forever. 

Travel On, 

West Ambrose