Archive for the ‘Musings’ Category

A Doll’s Life, in Song

August 13, 2011

A rather dark set of songs seem to be brewing in my mind. 
I may use them for a tabletop game, I may not.

Either way I write them they tell a dark tale, though one certainly trumps the other.

Option A:
The biblical creation story tells of the first alchemist, the tale of Eden being a chronicle of his successes in creation with Adam as his masterwork–a Golem, or Prometheus. 
Lilith is Adam’s attempt to transcend mere subservience and to create another in his image.
In creating a sentient life, he himself becomes truly alive, as even his creator could not make him.  In his rejoicing he alienates Lilith as she realizes he has cursed her to a cruel existence for his own selfish desires, and flees, swearing never to emulate him.
Eve is the second Golem made by Adam, this time under his “Father’s” supervision.  She is a simpler construct, made with less innate knowledge and a boundless curiousity.
….time passes, and the line of Golems continues, as the eldest child of Adam’s house passes on the curse–turning Cain’s tale even darker, the elder striking out in jealousy of the younger’s humanity.
The tale continues on to the modern day, and Lilith, or perhaps another of Adam’s children, wanders aimlessly about the Earth.

Option B:
Some time in the 1600s or so (possibly around the time of the Black Death), a watch or dollmaker in either Beijing or Vienna makes a childsize doll, and imbues it with life.  He then becomes human, and free of the curse the newborn child must now struggle under.  He soon succumbs to the plague, immune system weakened by the presence of the dainty lifesink.
The young Golem must now make their way in the world as best they can, learning as they go, and resolving never to inflict upon another the pain of this curse.

I’ve got songs percolating for botyh storylines, and will attempt to write/sing them out as best I can.

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The Dragon Stirs

March 21, 2011

Others’ words share glimpses of treasure such as I covet and long for.
The secure ties, the glowing loves.  I have these, and I don’t.

I may someday be a dragon but I am also a  shattered thing that may never have been whole.

I seek wholeness, completion, understanding, release from self-doubt.

I look inside myself through the reflections of others I find and try on each mask.

I do not have the greatest treasure I have glimpsed.
My cave is amorphous, shifting, treacherous.
I am no dragon, I am no ferocious thing, and I am.
I do not know myself, or where to find the selves I have been.

The dragon takes wing in search of treasure.
I live in search of myself.

More Things are Lost and Found than Have ever Been (Part 3/?)

December 3, 2010

Once Upon a Time,
There was a girl.  She did not know herself, so she had many masks.  Some were happy, some were sad, and some were in-between or neither at all.  None of them were a perfect fit, but each was all right for a little while, so she was always finding more.  The masks could be heavy, but the girl kept them all, just in case an occasion came up requiring one or another.

One day the girl came across a mask that had once been very happy, or so it seemed.  She picked it up to look more closely at it, and was startled to see a crack running from brow to chin which gave the once jaunty countenance a careworn and serious expression when viewed fully.

The girl tried the mask on and it fit fairly well, so she took it with her when she left that place.

The Sap runs slow and sad

November 30, 2010

When the leaves start to change, so do I.  The wild, bright-blooming energy fades away, the fiery spark kindled in summer becoming a smoldering coal coated in ash.

Autumn is the time of plenty, of Harvest,  of fleeing the Changing Times.  It is the Equinox and the loss of my Balance.  In the fall my senses are overcome with scents, my heart with conflicting emotions as parts of my brain declare revolution against themselves and nothing in particular.

Autumn is joyful and bright, temperatures perfect for pageantry and play.  Autumn is gray and dull, mist and rain blurring the landscape, muting the singing of the wind in the last leaves.  Autumn is pain crackling in my joints and a steady dull throb in my head.  Autumn is delight, warm blankets, cozy snuggles and a good book.

It is the beginning of the Mad Times, where I can neither sleep enough nor at all.   It is the time of feelings so intense my eyes tear up with them, and a sense of space and vacancy about and within myself I cannot overcome.  It is the time of sparkling, incandescent inspiration jumping out fierce and swift as squirrels quarrelling over caches of food.

Autumn is my favorite season in the world about me, and my least favorite within.  I am in a tumult, mind spinning madly when it is not bogged down in interminably winding trails leading nowhere at all.

I write poetry and songs that leap onto the page, prose following suit as if fleeing the chaos of my mind.  All the arts and crafts seems easier, when my fingers can keep up with the stampede of thought and feeling, a flash flood of color and sound.  I cannot plan the pieces of Autumn, I only seem able to let them flow freely or not at all, a binary setting for creative output.

I am tired but cannot sleep, muscles tingling with renewed energy long after my conscious mind has nodded off, leaving me lying in the dark unthinking.  I hear chimes in the distance, smell woodsmoke, leaf mold, mums, feel a gentle breeze on my face.  All I want to do is move, dance, run, bask in it all.
And yet, I am spent.  The year is waning, and I grow more tired with it, as ready to dream as the trees.

Out of sight, still in my mind

March 20, 2010

Unexamined,
Spaces have a tendency to become Full;
Dirt, bugs, sorrow, all find their way in.

Places in a World;
And out of it.
Places in a Mind;
and out of it.

If you ignore a place for too long
you may find it has faded and lessened
Or worse–
You may never find it again.

Hold the bright places close in your mind, even if you cannot reach them with your hands.  Polish them gently, wipe away the fog of time and neglect.  Shoo out the spiders that nibble away at the stray threads, stealing them for other uses.
Find the unknown path to the place you began, and walk upon it as far as you may, until you know it again and for the first time.

Check the hidden places of the world, it is there your lost Treasures hide.  It is there dragons reside, and it is there.
There you will find. . .

Seeing is Believing

January 28, 2010

The world is what we see, or choose to.
There’s no guarantee we see the same things.

What I call ‘blue’–the color of the sky–could to you appear the color I call green.  But because we agree the color of the sky is to be called blue we can converse as though we do in fact see it the same.

The same sort of agreement pertains to every object and facet of life. Yet still there are misunderstandings.  It is hard, even impossible, to have complete understanding based on countless assumptions.

Yet still we walk together on this world, or at least we seem to.
Perhaps for each of your steps there are two or three of mine, yet all the same we are walking.
Or are we dancing?

Metamorphic Tales

January 2, 2010

It’s odd how stories will dance and shift.
How their power, their need to be written, spoken, shared, can change from moment to moment. How they’ll pull me along, inexorable, irresistible. To an ending, or to several, or to places somewhere along the way they’ll coax or coerce me.
Then all to often, they’ll simply stop.
Unfinished and untold, they drift away and I forget them.
Sometimes they come again, new and different or similar and tauntingly familiar. Sometimes they emerge like this, from the shadowy cocoons of forgotten tales.
Sometimes they disappear and never come to me again.

On Promises and plans.

January 1, 2010

It’s been awhile.  Which is a pity, since failing to keep a promise or goal to/for yourself  is a sad thing. A pity.  So I’m going to try to improve, as best I may.  No promises, though, promises only bring stress.

Just an assertion of intention, to try my best to fulfill my hopes for this project. So here I go, planning once more.

I’ll rely on hope and dream for this, as promises and planning didn’t work out so well.

Wibble Wobble

December 17, 2009

Sometimes when I write I start with a title. A sparking, burning bit of thought that springs easily to the tips of my fingers and onto, into the ‘net.
Other times I start with a snippet of thought, a topic. Mostly I start just like I began this.

Fingers on keyboard, a hesitant pause, a momentary lull in motion when even breathing pauses. And then I write. Sensibly, nonsensically, whatever springs to mind I let flow.

And when I can’t seem to start a flow I tease myself with words until I’m giggling inside and fit to burst with silliness or whimsy.

I always wonder how stories came to be when I read them. Do their authors simply release the floodgates and allow the tale to flow free? Is it more an effort to keep it in than out? Is it hard to tell the story? Do the characters and places snarl and resist extraction from their cozy corners in their creators’ brain?

I don’t suppose I’ll ever know. Any more than I really know where my own stories or prattling come from. Mostly it’s just stream of consciousness, with slight editing to avoid Victorian-style capitalization issues, and strange run-on dilly-dallying sentences. When I write, like when I paint, or draw, or do anything really, I have a tendency to overdo, to embroider too much, to overload things. When I don’t keep them deliciously simple, nearly stark.

What a silly contrast.

Wishy washy ooey gooey

December 11, 2009

Cold days make me drowsy. Lassitude wraps about me, and I want nothing more than to curl up in a warm place and doze.
It’s odd, because at the same time I am full of energy and ideas. They burst into my mind like hyperactive techni-color popcorn, and as swiftly are crowded out.
Perhaps a notepad would help mitigate this psychic leakage, and perhaps not. I admit there is a certain entertainment value in waiting out the ideas, seeing which stick it out, and which fade to uninteresting goo.

I suppose it is hard on where ever inspiration comes from to keep pumping ideas out only to have them seep back, but really, pumping a sieve full of any sort of fluid is a bad plan. Except maybe for some sort of glue or epoxy? Perhaps it might fill the holes… Of course, then the sieve would be useless for its original purpose, having morphed into a bowl of sorts.

…Not going to see if epoxy helps with brain-leaks. I don’t think they make metaphysical caulking or gap-filler. Or if such things do exist, I doubt they’ll be at the local hardware store.

Ah well.