Echo's Love be not Forgotten

It is so hard to pinpoint the muse, and just how much she can influence a life. A few years ago I had a friend named Chelsea who was a young co-worker and artist. She, at that point, had already accomplished more with her art than I have yet with my writing, but I was attracted to the style of her work. Around that same time, my mythological studies were surrounded by the ever present Greeks, and as much as I deplore their omnipresence, they are also the seed to many writings and deeds and history that cannot be ignored. I came across, not for the first time, nor for the last, the tale of Echo and Narcissus. As I was reading, I had the vision of an idea; a portrait of Echo in Chelsea's style. I was really excited by the idea. I was even more excited to commission the piece. I broached the topic, and she was intrigued, but she did not know the myth. I explained it, wrote down the name and such so she could research it, and we went our separate ways. I decided to write a poem containing the myth, to give to her to assist her in the commission. I didn't have any specific ideas for the piece; I just knew I wanted her to paint it, but I wanted to make sure she knew the myth. Below is "Echo's Love be not Forgotten," which was written for that purpose. I love the painting and have it to this day.

But that was not the only thing grown out of that commission and composition. I was so taken with the idea, and I was so enchanted, indeed I still am, with mythology, that it birthed in me a new series of poems. Tentatively called "Women in Myth," the series, which is still underway, broached Greek, Roman, Celtic and Norse mythology, along with folktales from around the world. The tales range from a single page in the shortest, to an in-progress piece that is over 40 pages long. All because I commissioned a single piece from a fellow artist. Mighty is the muse, and I love her, even if I can only hear her echoes.

Echo's Love be not Forgotten

Mine love, dost thou remember me?
Remember me?

Dost thou remember olden woods

Where summer used to find us twined,

Where springs sang warmly unto we?

Unto we...

Remember I how came to thee,

How rivers splashed so merrily

And what those glens inspired in me.

In me...


baci n. 30

So, I have been working up some characters for a new play I'm concocting, but I cannot seem to figure the main character out. There is no doubt in my mind that she is the main character, or that this is her story I'm going to be telling, but I'm having problems figuring out who she is. Most characters we, as writers, bring into being are wonderful amalgamations of people we have had contact with. Even minor personal traits of a person we have met only once can find their role in a character. Sometimes we use people we know as a basis for a character(though I've only really done this once, with permission). Most of the time, at the beginning, I think; "Who does this Character remind me of?" Even if the character (as often does) turns out little like the person whose memory inspired at least part of their being, at least it gave me a good starting point. I have used myself a couple of times, and those unfortunate characters have had far more miserable lives than mine can compare to.

So, I suppose, that is part of my problem. I cannot figure out who my main character reminds me of. Creating a character out of thin air is much harder than anything else I can think of. I think about all the different writing "tricks" I know; different lectures I've heard, and I find myself at a loss. It is interesting knowing you have a story to tell, and knowing at least a little bit about the character, but knowing that, unless you know the character, any conceit at a plot is useless. It is the character's story after all, and if she is not here, than her story really isn't.

So, talking about characters, the one below is based loosely upon myself, although in this case, his world is much better than my own.

Baci n. 30
“A kiss is the sweet prize, long sought after.”

How long had he sat there disconnected,

Plugged into cyberspace, yet still alone;
Closed to a world that shunned him long ago.
Could he ever be free of such a world

That assails all through pop-ups and bill boards

Selling sex and love to those who have found none?

He dwelt in both worlds; and though lived in none,

He was not from desire disconnected;

He sought love, not lol-cats on message boards.

He sat in the coffee house near alone

'Cept the barista who shared his small world...

Had she smiled at him a moment ago?

He had caught her glance once, so long ago,

At a time when he was plugged into none,

A look that invaded his ev'ry world.

He could not from her be disconnected,

On WOW, when tech-ing, and when all alone

She'd posted on all his mental message boards.

Could he see beyond his cubical boards

And see the life he dreamed of long ago?

Was he really trapped behind them; alone?

Yet she saw a truth where he could see none

And would not let him stay disconnected

For she did love him most, in all the world.

She moved to bring him into a new world,

Beyond illusion's false partical boards

That kept him forever disconnected.

He had caught her, fair nymph, so long ago.

Found love when she had been looking for none:

It pained her, now, to see him there alone.

She joined him as he sat there all alone

To bring light into his dark little world;

And because without him, her world had none.

She saw his obsolete mother boards,

And his OS out of date long ago...

Her kiss, old ENIAC disconnected.

How disconnected, lost and alone,

A moment ago... Her kiss claimed his world,

Beyond those broken boards, for love needs none.


Baci n. 42

It is hard to say where inspiration comes from, because it comes from everywhere and anywhere at anytime. The trial of the writer, or any artist, is to be ready when the muse strikes; to be open to the idea presented.

Sometimes Inspiration couples with the Muse, and such moments an artist lives for. We rarely feel so alive as when Inspiration and the Muse are in the throes of passion. The rest of the world ceases to exist for a while, and we might as well be as the prophets in "Heroes" for all the attention we pay the world. It is the strongest drug; and it is a drug with no proveyers; no way way to find an easy fix; the only redemption in fulfillment of the dictates of the Brain-child.

More often than not, however; we will be struck by one or the other; Muse or Inspiration. These, though lesser drugs, are enough to carry us; an oasis in the desert as we search for Shangri-La. We must ever be ready to take advantage of these moments, whether they are addressing new projects and new ideas, or simply moving our current project to its next phase. The time can be great between the Inspiration of an idea, and the fruition brought by the Muse, and though there is a real satisfaction in finishing any project; no matter how proud and happy we are of such finished works; we pine for the True Child, the Artist's Messiah; Born of the God Inspiration and Mary the Muse.

The last two posts were such True Children; but we love all of our children, so I will leave you with "Baci n. 42," a child whose Muse lived long before it's Inspiration, and a fitting piece with all of this talk of the Muse. With no further ado:

Baci n. 42
“With your kisses have I painted my starry sky.”

I was lost and lonely til I found her;
An aimless wanderer in search of love,
Thinking that I knew just what it should be.
Homeless, I traveled following my heart,
Guided by the moment and wayward thought
And chasing an ever elusive dream.

But then she came to me as if a dream
Filling my head with bold visions of her
And stole my breath far beyond any thought.
She granted me her favour, which is love,
And awakened me to the depth of my heart
Showing me just what I was meant to be.

Yet knowing that, knew not how I should be;
Out on the ocean as if in a dream
Aching to do what I felt in my heart.
So here I am, filled with whispers of her,
And I'm coasting on the currents of love
Driven to pursue the most fleeting thought.

She is the fuel behind every thought
And see now the visions of what should be,
How my stories will fill the sky with love.
I sail now in an ever waking dream
And in each is a star born of her
As I seek the wind with all of my heart.

Tis with my pen that I follow my heart
Watching each moment pass as a brief thought
Bringing all of my soul in line with her.
My pen, as sextant, shows where I should be
And I leave behind the words of a dream
Guided by her favour; her thrice blessed love.

Her favours are kisses; my stories her love;
And I willingly go with all of my heart
Receiving them; welcome as any dream.
Such kisses are inspiration's true thought
Encompassing all that I will e'er be
Because out on the sea, I am with her.

I am lost in her, filled, now, with her love;
As well it should be. She has kissed my heart
Giving birth to thought and a star filled dream.


Double Dating with God

It seems only fitting to follow "An Ode" with another beast born of inspiration's seed. Written years ago, "Double Dating with God" is still one of my favorite pieces, and I remember when the muse struck me how torn I was over what form this piece could take. I was clear to me then, as it is now, that it fit well as a short story, and could be an exceedingly brilliant play. I was a much younger writer then, and I found that the number of silly ideas I had and wanted to incorporate into the story would have been difficult to bring to life on stage. I suppose I could adapt it to a short film, but I think, looking back; and looking forward; that I like it just as it is. This was one of those pieces that leaped from the tip of the pen to the paper, and I remember chuckling wildly as I wrote. I chuckle reading it still, come to think of it. So, without further ado, and hope fully a laugh or two;

Double Dating with God

Stan glanced in the mirror uneasily as he attempted once again to straighten his tie. It was one of those beautiful affairs, cross-hashed black on white, but one couldn't tell as the cross-hashing was so fine that the entire tie looked grey. Neither of these details explained why his tie looked crooked, however. It was crooked simply because Stan had inexpertly tied it that way. Yet; somehow it managed to compliment his shirt as the buttons were all one off. Stan simply hadn't realized it yet. It might have been because Stan was nervous. Bob "Teh 60d" Henderson was his programmer friend and he had set Stan up with his friend Alice for a double, half blind date.


an Ode for a Bic pen

Every once in a while, the muse strikes us with the most innocuous ideas... ideas that make us giggle at the idea, and drive the writer's itch so deep into the brain that we can feel it in the fingers. We know we HAVE to do something with it. We are driven to DO something with it. And, sometimes(read rarely) when we sit down with the pen in our hand or our fingers upon the keyboard- we disappear and the muse takes over.

I have many BIC® pens, but there are only a few that I consider "collected." They are old friends from the days when I was not so fortunate as to have my fingers rest upon the keyboard. I remember those days fondly, and the empty corpses of Crystal BICs® that I have kept are a testament in and of themselves of my dead-ication to the written word. It seems only fitting that I should title my blog, and lead my entries with this earnest lament for my fallen friend.

an Ode for a BIC® pen

How do we say goodbye?
How sad, dear friend, to part.
Do we measure your life in inky blood?
Do we commend your duration?
Or are the tracked thoughts
Words across a page
Written in your blood
A testament to your time?
How brave the mighty BIC®,
How clear.
We see your veins
As we bleed you;
Word by word,
Letter by letter.
You are the voice,
The Bearer,
The Apollo of thought;
An avatar to the world.
We cherish as we remember
That ev’ry colour is yours.
All black.

Now the rainbow dresses in black,
In homage;
In sorrow.
They say a picture is worth
one thousand words…
How much greater, then, is
the stately BIC®?
So vivid its details
Its expressions
Its lines upon the page…
It is an analog truth
a fortune teller
a historian
a soul.
Should we torturers be guilty
As each drop
Of viscous blood
Becomes a culture,
a revolution
an idea?
Do we pity the BIC®,
A martyr to the cause,
A brave and heroic villain,
That we wield without
a second thought
Against an unthinking world?
Or do we relish
spilling the BIC®’s life-blood
writing comedy
celebrating vanity.

Is each drip of
inky blackness
slowly kills the pen
necessary sacrifice?
Do we make trophies
of the
bloodless BIC®?
Do we count it a victory
To empty our maker
and deliver its corpse
to the garbage?
The BIC® has made us
And it will break us
For what can the writer say
when the BIC®