New thingers.

So... I found this thing I started writing two years ago and left off on. It's called Blue Windows. The idea was that it would be a series of vignettes, the memoirs of a muse (mine) called Halcyon.

I only had written the first and second vignettes... and today when I found it in class, I decided to finish up the second vignette and write a table of contents to continue the process. Maybe there will be more than these fifteen... or less... or they'll be traded around or renamed. But this is what happened without me stopping to think about it.

One. “Genesis.”

Two. “Tiger.”

Three. “Burial.”

Four. “Spring.”

Five. “Coffee.”

Six. “Tea.”

Seven. “Ink.”

Eight. “Thread.”

Nine. “Godmothers.”

Ten. “Time.”

Eleven. “Stars.”

Twelve. “Magic.”

Thirteen. “Winter.”

Fourteen. “Storm.”

Fifteen. “Marlowe.”

Here is the first, and the second will be in the next post.

_________________________

One. “Genesis.”

On a day of sunlight that was bright and pure, back in the prepubescent days of the world, Morpheus the shaper of dreams, my father, met Elpis the winged hope, my mother, and there was a spark. Literally a spark, I say; light and combustion and color and heat. They courted; she gave of herself unto him, and he did somewhat of the same. And in their sleep, where they lay together after they had come together, a tenderness grew, like a flower blooming between them from the very earth itself.

I was this flower.

It glowed and grew and bloomed and then I Was. There I Was. I was young, but I Was. That was my genesis.

My name is Halcyon, and I was born the first child of Hope and Dreams.

I am a muse. I am not one of the Nine Muses of Olympus; they are my aunts. My godmothers, if you will. I apprenticed myself to them in hopes of learning whatever it was that they knew about my ability. I had not a clue as to where else to turn, or what else to do with myself; my father was too busy ever to greet me. His hands were the hands that made the dreams of all below the sky. My mother, too, had many places to go, hands to hold, eyes to dry with her soft wings. It is good to know my parents do things, and are eternally doing things for mankind, but it is difficult – when young – to grapple with as a general idea. Adolescent yearning for approval and all that.

But the Nine helped me in that regard; I became their protégé, or at least, one of them; in those days of my younger youth, the Nine took many fledgelings. And when I had grown and learned the lessons of their aged wisdom, they sent me away from them on Parnassus. They sent me away with a small care package and a single dress, and I went out into the world to see the things they’d spoken of. Sometimes, in retrospect, I believe that I learned more in that early time after the Nine released me than actually in the time I spent with the Nine themselves. But it doesn’t matter; what matters is that I learned things, and what matters is what I learned.

I learned to Weave. I learned to Dance, and Sing, and Paint, and Shape, and Drift, and Walk through the things of tangibility and mortality; I learned to Love and Care For and Heal and Grant and Give (acknowledging, of course, that Granting and Giving are two independent thoughts). I learned many things.

It was the weaving that set me on the right path, though. It is the thing that has stayed with me these many hundreds of years.

I weave stories. Literally. Literally and figuratively – the two are rarely separate to me – I weave these tales. I find things, thoughts and feelings and pictures and whole items, and I pluck them out of the air, and with my long fingers I twist and pull and spin them into strands, whole strands, long strands. I set my loom. I work the mechanics of it, sometimes in my head, sometimes literally (figuratively) physically in a room somewhere, with a real loom, but sometimes not. I weave the strands. Together they become wholer, holy, and more is made of them than they were before. Greater, stronger, more full they become, and I remove them from the loom and set them free to the air, or roll them up and set aside, or whatever it is I know then that I must do with them. Sometimes I don’t know right away, and have to stay still for a long time before the answer comes to me. I weave the way animals hunt; I weave because I must, because it is my duty to myself, in life, in Life and in Death; for as a muse, I am immortal to an extent, and until I die – if I die – I shall be eternal.

I do not expect to empirically present my existence to you with terms and structures you may recalculate and classify. I cannot. That is not within my power, you see. What is within my realm is poetry. Dreams. Flowing prose. That is what I have to give. And that is why I weave now a patchwork piece. This is for myself. This is for you, too, if you read it, if you follow me there, but it is mostly for me. I have never woven for myself before. It may be long overdue. We shall have to wait and see.

You may follow me through if you wish. Don’t feel you have to. But most importantly, please, you must understand; I am not like you. I can never be exactly like you. The things I say, the things I have done… the things I have yet to do, especially… you must not let them sway you. You must not try to comprehend what you cannot. You must not try to place judgment or questioning or any kind of pressure upon what you are allowed to experience through this. It will only unsettle you further. I am sorry I cannot be simple in this presentation. I cannot be simple in my own Life, so you shall have to excuse that part of me.

I am sorry, in advance, and in retrospect, for what may offend, or hurt, or puzzle you.

I am grateful, in advance, and in retrospect, for what you cherish, are encouraged by, or find truth in.

This is where I begin. I have told you the story – essentially – of my birth. My origins. My story of beginning. An introduction, at its most basic premise. Once upon a time, Hope met Dreams, they fell in love (for a time) and bore me. They continue to Live On through men and women and children, through the subconscious of the human collective as well as through the abstract. And I am Here now, weaving this for me. For you, yes, but for me. Mostly for me.

Be patient while I spin awhile. I must find the first tale, and open for you its window.

scenes from the young historians

2.18.10

Chels leaned in, adjusting the microscope lens with slow, delicate shifts of her hand, her glasses perched on her head amid a shock of black-brown hair. The leaf fragment, electrified by the microscope's lamp, gleamed before her, phasing slightly in and out of focus as she turned the knob.

The door to the lab swung open as Ioan pushed through. "Chips," he called out triumphantly, waving the bag at her across the room.

"You mean crisps," corrected Chels, smiling into the microphone.

"Nope," Ioan said, mouth full. "Chips."

"What did you have to do to get them this time? Show your bum?"

"Very funny," Ioan grunted, flopping down on a swivel chair and shaking his head. "Nah, just pestered the lower-downs until they slipped me a bag."

"Big Brother is watching," Chels reminded him in a singsong tone. Ioan snorted disdainfully and wheeled over to her, shaking the bag.

"Not all the time," he said, with dark relief. "And not everywhere. But I wonder how much longer it'll be before the eye turns inwards, y'know?"

Chels sat back from the microscope, looking at him shrewdly, but with a more serious gaze. She reached over and took a small handful of chips, thoughtfully.

"I know what you mean," she said softly. "The other day, this lower-down stopped me on the way in, and asked to see my card. Like I wasn't already dressed for a jump. Like the gear didn't identify me anyway." Chels looked thoroughly troubled. Ioan frowned a little.

"Seriously? That's..." He shook his head, taking a few more chips. "Jeez."

"I didn't bother to even ask why, or what it was for, I was just... so surprised." Chels shook her head. "I wrote it off as just a mistake. Haven't heard of anything like it from anyone else."

"You're probably right." He was nodding assuredly. "Prob'ly got fired right after that. Easy as chips."

Chels caught the mischievous glint in his eye. She tried to hide a smile -- and failed somewhat. "Crisps."

Ioan pulled the bag out of reach. "Nah! If you're going to call them that, you don't get any."

Chels planted a foot on the base of the chair and shoved hard; Ioan's balance tottered and he went sliding across the floor, the chair swiveling as he rolled. Chels laughed at him as he tried to regain control, and turned back to the leaf under the microscope slide. Ioan stopped the chair, grinning to himself, and glanced at her across the room, expression fading into one that was fond but troubled by what had been said. Then he got up, put the near empty chip bag down on the countertop, and sauntered out, whistling and feigning a casual air, as if Chels' experience with the lower-down didn't bother him in the least.

be the fish.

(Response to a writing prompt here)

The sun doesn’t beat down, like a drum, it simply hangs, its warm weight pressing me all over into the beach. Pale grains cling to my damp skin as I push my feet back and forth slowly in the sand, relishing the heat and thinking dimly of my distant, frozen Chicago apartment. I smile, lying on my stomach on a towel, and touch my sunglasses with one finger to adjust them on my nose.

Light catches the plastic lens and I notice the man standing about thirty feet away, straw hat broadly shading his face, the light breeze rippling his lightweight shirt and trousers. He is facing the water, but it becomes apparent to me that he is actually looking in my direction. After a moment he turns fully away and continues walking down the beach. As he does, I realize I’ve seen him before; yesterday, outside the hotel, and the day before, at the grocery store down the road. This is a really touristy area, of course, so I guess I didn’t think of it at the time, but three times in three days is significant enough to make me want to sit up, gather my things and leave.

Only…

The sun is so warm, and I’ve only got one more day. He’s probably just a local. I find my eyes drooping close, the sound of the water pulling me gently into a sun-soaked daze of half-sleep and dreamless peace.

“Sascha? Sascha Wilbur?” A man’s voice, musical, good-natured and gentle. I rouse myself, blinking behind my sunglasses and squinting in the brightness, even with their helpful shadow.

“Yeah,” I groan, rolling over slowly. “I mean… yes?” Then I sit up sharply, too fast; it’s the man I’ve been seeing, the one who has been watching me. He sees my startled look and raises a weathered palm to reassure me.

“My name is Jonah,” he says, calmly. “I work for de hotel. Please, do not be alarmed. I did not mean to wake you.”

I’m confused. I thought I saw him walk away, and then I fell asleep… I don’t remember. I have no sense of how long I was out. I clear my throat, unsure of whether or not to believe he works for the hotel.

“My brother is de head cook at de hotel,” he goes on, “I run errands. Go shopping. Send messages. Please.”

He’s about as old as my father would be now, and there’s something really calm about his eyes that makes me believe him.

“So, do you need something?” I ask, awkwardly, not meaning to be rude but unable to help it. My sleepy mind is racing. He nods, reaching into his shirt pocket as the breeze picks up again across the water. He holds out a small clownfish, carved out of balsa wood and hand painted. I stare at him, not understanding.

“Five dollars,” he says, quietly. “If you want to see the reef. Fish eye view.”

“No thanks,” I say, and start to gather my things. He does not touch me or interrupt, but stays calmly nearby.

“My brother, he de cook. My sister,” he says, “she know tings.”

“Great,” I say, putting my magazines into the beach bag and reaching for my flip flops.

“She tell me, you find dis girl,” Jonah continues, unaffected by my hurry, “you give her dis fish, tell her, for five dollars she see all de reef. All underwater. Like a fish.”

“Your sister wants me to go snorkeling?” I ask, as I stand up to shake out the towel. He shakes his head, still holding the wooden fish in his fingers.

“She want me give you dis,” he repeats. “Say, if you want, for five dollars, you be a fish.”

“Wait,” I say, stopping with the sandy towel half-raised. I squint at him. “You’re saying if I pay you five dollars, I’ll turn into a fish.”

He nods. I stare at him. It’s preposterous. It’s like I’m still asleep, still dreaming. It’s so stupid. It’s the kind of proposition a little kid dreams about but no one ever really actually says out loud. Like something I’d make up in my head. But here is a man actually saying this with a totally honest face. He looks and sounds so calm. Like it doesn’t matter to him either way what I choose. Like he knows either way what the outcome would be. Like… I move my sunglasses to the crown of my head and stare at him.

“Your name is Jonah?” I ask, oddly. He nods again. “What’s your sister’s name?”

Jonah smiles. “Ariel.”

I feel the sand turn cold under my feet. I look at the little wooden fish in his palm.

“I’ll turn into a fish?” I say again, doubtfully. He nods, calmly. “For how long?”

“One hour,” he promises, with a hint of a smile in his voice. “Change your life. Long time, for a fish. Safe though.”

I can’t believe my gut actually wants me to do this. But it does. I reach into my bag for the five dollar bill and straighten again, looking him in the eye. He smiles assuringly, simply, and holds out the fish trinket. I make the exchange, and stare back at him as if there’s something else I want to say, but I can’t find the words. He looks grateful, and pleased, as if he knows I’m about to have a good time.

Or like he knows he just gypped me. Either one.

Finally I nod, pocketing the fish in my beach bag. “So when does this happen?” I ask, halfheartedly. Jonah puts his hands in his pockets and smiles, white teeth against his dark skin.

“Soon. Today. For one hour, little fish.” He kind of bows to me, and then turns and saunters away.

“Hey! How come she told you to find me?” I call after him. “Why me?” He pauses and looks back at me, shrugging slightly.

“She see you know how to swim, mebbe? Dere always a reason! Good luck, little fish!” He waves, and wanders off down the road.

I lay my blanket out again, oddly nervous, and sit down to wait to become a fish. Or resume my nap. Whichever happens first.

I nap for a while longer, then go back to reading my magazines, while taking the wooden fish out of my bag and looking at it every five minutes. It’s not magic. It’s not even interesting. It’s kind of pretty but that’s about it. I don’t feel like a fish. I don’t feel unusual at all. Now, mid-afternoon, I know I’ve been had. Oh well. Funny story it’ll make, won’t it?

I decide to take one last dip before going back up the hill to the hotel for dinner. It’s still light out and there’s enough people on this part of the beach still to be safe. I leave my sunglasses behind, cover everything up with the beach blanket, and head down to the water.

I wade in to my waist, watching a young couple teaching their infant son how to paddle his legs under his floatie supports, and showing him how to blow bubbles when the waves come up to his face. Beyond them, a couple of boys throw water Frisbees back and forth. I make it out to my chin, floating, admiring the clarity of the water, and then a broad ripple hits me across the face. I turn, blinking and sputtering, not having seen it coming, but even as I recover, another wave sucks me under the surface, almost playfully, and I dip lower to better recover from the unexpected momentum.

I raise myself upwards again, my eyes closed, and when I feel the surface break I open my eyes and inhale.

That’s when I realize, I can’t breathe.

I try several times, my lungs starting to feel smaller and smaller each time, and I panic, thrashing somewhat in the water. My limbs feel smaller, too. Another wave rolls in, and I wonder if it will push me to shore so that I can cough up the water and clear myself of the threat of drowning. It doesn’t push me to shore; it pushes me below again, and I cough and sputter, until, by instinct, I inhale again, surrounded by the sea.

I can breathe.

I breathe, below the waves, and the sky above me is muddier than the water that holds me. I cough, still taken by surprise, but breathe more steadily.

I start to swim before I realize what I’m doing with my body, and although I cannot see myself down here I consider for a few moments that perhaps I look something like the clownfish that Jonah gave me hours ago. Time suspended now, I thread forwards through the water, feeling currents of warm and cold, and instinct pushing me deeper below the surface, out of the way of the people, farther out to sea than ever I’d swim as a person.

I feel utterly amazed, but not overwhelmed. I feel okay. I feel clean and simple and happy. And up ahead I can see the colors of the reef. I can feel more fish around me, beyond and below. I can sense the minnows fluttering behind me to my left, wondering probably at how I came so far close to shore. I can’t turn to look at them, and I don’t really need to, so I keep swimming, feeling the lovely peace of how powerful small muscles can be in the weightlessness of water.

An hour, I remember, vaguely. I get one hour.

But fish don’t tell time.

An hour will last me a lifetime.

Commotion at the Carnival prompt response

(Prompt found here: http://www.promptedtowrite.com/what-if/commotion-at-the-carnival#comment-1573)

Aerin turned back to look towards the midway for a split second before she turned and headed towards the gathering, shrieking crowd, hysterical with fear and disbelief. Carnies were dashing everywhere, calling for the boss and trying to corral the frightened civilians, and Aerin pushed through them to kneel by the body of the man whose blood and innards now stained the sawdust on the ground.

“Oh my God,” a woman was stammering, at varying pitches. “Oh my God, Andy… Oh my GOD.”

“Please, ma’am, please, come away, come with us, please,” a carny was begging the dead man’s wife, desperate to get her out of view.

Aerin lifted the dead man’s — Andy’s — eyelids and felt his chest briefly under the sheet someone had thrown haphazardly over him. The crowd was beginning to be pushed farther and farther back, the carnies muscling them away. Aerin stopped, then lifted the sheet and squinted. The man’s chest was torn open from clavicle to belly button, and most of the insides were now outside, ribs broken violently… Aerin frowned, peering even farther inside. No heart. Though many of the organs were still somewhat attached, his heart was not one of them. It was entirely gone.

“Excuse me, what the hell are you doing?” A carny had noticed Aerin’s examination. She threw the sheet back over Andy’s pale form and stood quickly, glaring at the worker as she turned away, stalking through the crowd. “Hello! HEY! I’m talkin’ to you!” he cried indignantly, chasing after her. “What the hell do you think you’re doing!”

Aerin reached into her back pocket and pulled out what looked like an elegant silver whistle, whose cord she threw around her own neck as she began to run. The carny hesitated, uncertain, but followed her.

“Leave me alone and go deal with your crowd,” she called behind her as she raced along, eyes on the ground as she wove between and around tents and platforms. “You’ve got a job to do.”

“Yeah,” the carny snapped, “it’s called ‘protecting the merchandise.’ Where the hell do you think you’re going?!” He was alongside her now, reaching out to grab her elbow.

Aerin batted his hand away and boxed his ear in a smooth, practiced move. “Knock it off,” she said, stopping suddenly to face him. “I’m trying to protect your damn carnival.”

“By snooping around behind the scenes? A man just died,” he exclaimed, outraged. Aerin frowned at him.

“I’m aware. I’m also aware that you’re standing in the footprints of the thing that did the job, so if you’ll excuse me –” she glanced at his name tag, “…Frankie…” a definite judgement on his nomenclature, “…I’m going to try to hunt down the cardiosaur before you lose another customer.”

A wild scream from about fifty yards to their left startled them out of discussion and into action; Aerin broke into a run in the direction of the sound and Frankie stood shell-shocked in her wake for a moment before he ran after her.

“You’re outta your mind if you think I’m not gonna follow you again,” he growled, then shouted, “What the HELL is a cardiosaur?!”

hot damn.

Okay. I followed through. Yay me! Draft #2 of THoR is complete. I have sent it to four very lovely people to read and review. I'm trying very hard not to be concerned about it... if I get concerned, I will throw a tantrum no matter what they say, and I'd prefer to just be cool about everything, as it's so much less exhausting to be cool about stuff and not be concerned and frowny all the time. So I guess I'll just trust these lovely people to say good things as well as helpful things, and trust myself to follow through again if I must. Which I must. Undoubtedly. And things.

The other thing is... if I get concerned about it NOW, I'll never cope with trying to publish. Which is already really freaking unlikely with the economy the way it is.

The other other thing is... I have other things to say and other stories to tell, and I am now enough of a writer and enough of a person to begin to trust the stories themselves. I will hereby begin official work on two projects: The Young Historians (TYH), a sci-fi/historical fiction bit which may or may not also be a really fantastic idea for a tv show or miniseries, and the Sammy project. The Sammy project has no real name yet... but I am trying to let myself trust that too. I like naming things, it gives me stability and power, but not naming this one is important, because the story itself is very unpredictable. With THoR, I knew the beginning of the story, and the end of the story, but not the middle at all. With the Sammy project... I know who Sammy is, and what has happened to her at the point when the story begins... but not why or how or what will come of it. I figure I oughta just let all those details go and see what happens once I let Sammy in.

With TYH, I know the beginning. But nothing else. Funny old world isn't it. I smell a pattern...

So yes. We are now hanging THoR up to dry, see what happens when the inkblots fade a bit... and we are opening our doors to TYH and Sammy... although just by this gut feeling right now, TYH is going on hold (again) and Sammy will take the lead. Which is nice. I think I need a little stream of consciousness cosmic fantasy in my magical realistic life.

Cheers, and Happy Boxing Day. :)

shit just got real.

The pirates.

I found them.

I'm going to finish this bitch.

In other news: Garth Nix's Abhorsen trilogy is bomb (just finished), so is "Torchwood" (SHIT) and "Doctor Who" (GODDAMN I'm obsessed). Also: it's Christmas Eve tomorrow. Also: I am officially a director, a worthy actress, still attached to My Little Ponies, and very much invested in the discussion and development of time travel. My mind is totally abuzz with a million things that have been stirring since the last time I posted here. But I feel like I'm going to post here more often. I think. I hope. We'll see. I have a lot to say and finally maybe a little time to say it.

But like I said at the beginning... I found the pirates. I was really busy all semester, directing and being a bigwig (literally - the play was "Steel Magnolias") and all that... but now. NOW. I found them, and I'm working on it, and I finally, suddenly feel so full of certainty that I can finish for real... that I WILL finish for real. And I'll let you know when I do.

Merry Christmas, yarrrrrgh.

so there's this blog...

Once upon a time, I started this blog.

Why?

I never use it. I'm afraid people will find me and read about me whom I do not wish that they do so. (That was a Damon Runyon sentence. Neat.) But at the same time, I want to say things. And I want to say them so that sometimes people might say things back. But that's not the main purpose. I probably should use this to motivate myself somehow.

I may have mentioned I do "real" journaling in a "real" journal in "real" life with my own two hands and a pen. I prefer the feel of the physical act, especially if it is poetry that I'm releasing into the world. Prose comes too quickly to be in cursive: it MUST be typed. But cursive -- and poetry -- are reserved for my "real" journal. Which someday may be released to be read publicly, like Anaïs Nin. Love her. But there are things I want to say or ponder that sometimes do not belong in that journal. And nowadays they just don't get said, because I save poetry for that journal and bottle every other damn thing up and keep it to myself.

Maybe I should start saying them.

Friends say I should be honest. Really honest. I also think I need to develop a thicker skin. Be braver. And yes, the honesty is part of that. I've always considered myself pretty intuitive and pretty balanced. Apparently I'm not. I'm beginning to tip the scale back and forth and I'm not in control of it all yet. There are more things now than ever before beyond my control, and it's weird, because I didn't think I was a control freak. Maybe I'm not. Maybe I'm just in that place between sanity and absolute retardation that everyone gets to sometime or another, usually around the time they graduate from college and are forced to 'grow up.' I thought I was growing up already. Apparently I'm not. I need to remember the things I taught myself when I graduated high school: The Beatles know everything and you just have to Let It Be, Come Together, and With A Little Help From My Friends, All You Need Is Love. (I'm pretty sure that was a legit sentence using Beatles song titles; I think I'm proud of it. It's true anyway.)

So then this is a new start. A new school year. My last school year for a while. Unless someone does actually talk me into grad school which I think is a bad idea because we're poor and I'm hungry to actually go out and work instead of talk about working like it's a future tense thing and it isn't actually happening yet. By 'work' I mean act. Really act. In real theatres with real directors and real people. And learn from them. All of them. Good and bad. I want to be overwhelmed with knowledge. But outside of the classroom. I want to expand and grow and experiment and act. And be the things I always wanted to be. Be the things that some little voice in my head told me I was going to do, way back in high school.

There are other things I want to do. I want to learn to cook a little more. By 'a little more' I mean a lot more. I'm not sure how to start that. I want to dance. I want to keep singing, keep strengthening my voice. I want to become a complete triple threat. I want someone to certify me in triple-threatdom. Seriously. I want to write and write and write and write for days with no end to my inspiration and energy and drive. I want to finish what I've begun and begin anew with the five other ideas in my head right now. I want to publish! OH GOD, I WANT TO PUBLISH. Even if it's poetry to start me off, that'd be brilliant. I want to travel.... but that has to wait. I have to live in the now and certainly the here.

This is going well so far, don't you think? Rambly, but well.

I would like to finish the pirate novel. I would like to do NaNoWriMo. I keep saying to myself I'll do it, and then I get there and go, "Oh, my life is always crazy in November, I'll do it next year." I wonder if it would be better if I do it after I've graduated, that maybe I'll have more time then. But everyone has a life. Everyone who WriMo's has a LIFE and a job and people to deal with that take up their time. Not everyone can lock themselves in a cabin in France like Colin Firth does in Love Actually and type on a real typewriter for days on end without stopping while a pretty chick from Portugal does the dishes for you.

Although if I did that, I would like Colin Firth to do my dishes.

I'm going to work on the pirates. I have not been strict enough with myself regarding the story. I must press onwards. It must be told.

Also, side note: I really really really do want to be Meryl Streep when I grow up. I saw a thing on TCM the other day where she was narrating a bit about Bette Davis' career, and how it inspired her growing up to be an actress, and then she received a Bette Davis award, or the same award as Bette Davis, or something like that, and it was so surreal, like, full circle kind of thing. And I thought "Like, I'm watching Meryl Streep while I'm growing up trying to be an actress. And Meryl watched Bette. Maybe I should watch Bette. Who did Bette watch? Who did Bette see?" I want to be Meryl Streep when I grow up. That would be cool. She's really amazing. I'd like to be really amazing. Even if I'm not, I can still dream about it.

Speaking of dreams... well, they're really weird lately. I HAVE TYPED SO MUCH IN SUCH A SHORT AMOUNT OF TIME. Talk about off to a good start. I hope. Maybe. It's difficult being a small person with many feelings. Large feelings. Ambition is dangerous. Especially when you're not very confident and happen to be very emotionally charged.

Charged. That's the right word. Back to the pirates. Start small. Finish the novel, and take things from there.