Lies "breathed through silver"?

A tribute to Myth, as eternal, as archetype, as reminder of what was and what we hope for:

Man, Sub-creator, the refracted light
through whom is splintered from a single White
to many hues, and endlessly combined
in living shapes that move from mind to mind...

Blessed are the timid hearts that evil hate
that quail in its shadow, and yet shut the gate;
that seek no parley, and in guarded room,
though small and bate, upon a clumsy loom
weave tissues gilded by the far-off day
hoped and believed in under Shadow's sway.

Blessed are the men of Noah's race that build
their little arks, though frail and poorly filled,
and steer through winds contrary towards a wraith,
a rumour of a harbour guessed by faith....

Be sure they still will make, not being dead,
and poets shall have flames upon their head,
and harps whereon their faultless fingers fall:
there each shall choose for ever from the All.

From JRR Tolkien's "Mythopoeia"

Till by broad spreading it disperses to naught.

I read an article by Terri Windling this afternoon that examines Rapunzel, the fairy tale. You can read it on the Journal of Mythic Arts' archive site, here: Rapunzel, Rapunzel, Let Down Your Hair.

I remember having read a literary examination of Rapunzel before, but the woman in the tower never really caught my attention. I wrote essays about the madwoman in the attic, but never made a connection to the woman in the tower.

But the most interesting part of the essay (for me) was how Windling catalogues the watering-down of fairy tales. The originals are potent, meaning-laden tales that weren't simply crafted as a means to conveying a moral end - they were written for the beauty of the thing itself. And as they are picked down to the bones and restructured and bent to the shape of someone's political leanings over the centuries, they become sparse skeletons of what they once were. They become carriers for moral opinion, tools to convince children to behave.

I think it's a trend that is easily identifiable in thousands of aspects of modern life: we're wading through a mess of brittle, tired beauty. Kind of supports the deterioration of the universe theory, what's it called? Right. The Second Law of Thermodynamics. From order into disorder.

Glad I can be so chipper for you all this lovely, sunshiny Wednesday! Ha!

There is always some madness in love.

But there is also always some reason in madness. (Friedrich Nietzsche)

It must be love. I'm writing poetry. Icky-sticky poetry. It's been years since I've written anything resembling this stuff. I'm vaguely disgusted with myself, but I'm hopeful that it will shift a little as we settle into each other. I'd like to get back to writing myth poems. Per esempio:

Eurydice

I lead her this far,

hard-won with cleverness and

skill.  Even Hades

could not spare his stony heart

from the cry of Love’s sorrow.

The thread of her life

has frayed and snap’t.  I beg you,

return her to me.

Her shade follows your music.

Doubt not and look not behind.

With one hand in light,

I turned to my love, breaking

the single thread of

hope, watching her translucence

dissolve, grasping at shadows.

I sang out for death –

they came with equal passion.

Torn body and soul,

the Muses gather fragments,

scattering them on the winds.

Orpheus gazes

on her – no penalty for

reassurance now.

I miss writing this kind of stuff. That's a tanka, I think - Japanese form of poetry, syllable based. Someday, I'll publish a book of all my re-tellings and re-centerings, both prosaic and poetic.

NaNoWriMo, Day 3 - The squirrels may be dead.

It's been so long since I've written fiction that each sentence is painstaking. (It doesn't help that I'm writing in a very high-English tone - I rarely speak that way and I find myself struggling for the just right word.) I'm beginning to suspect the poor squirrels in my brain have keeled over and died. Their tiny muscles atrophied (rather quickly, too - the smaller, the quicker, right?) and they just fell off the treadmill.

I must not write about squirrels.
I must not write about squirrels.
I must not write about squirrels.

My novel is now titled ("The Deadliest Arrow"), word-counted (varies, but I'm currently at 1371), and synopsised (or is that synopped? "The story of Achilles, as told by the five women who loved him."). Short and sweet. I should write more of it... it's pretty good, I think.

NaNoWriMo, Day 2 - The muse is...Hemant?

Our VP, Hemant, stopped to chat with me over lunch. He's got a brilliant background in physics and business, and he gives me and Rina a hard time for being artists. So he asked about the NaNo hashtags I've been using on Twitter, and he asked what I was writing.

So I kinda bumbled around about my niche is mythology, but specifically re-centering myths, but usually it's from a female perspective rather than male, but this one's been frustrating because it's about Achilles and he keeps talking too much... and I pretty much made a big mess of it.
And then, the most amazing (writerly) thing happened: I started telling him about this specific story, and what came out of my mouth did not match the notes on my page. It had it's own creative momentum, and it drew from all the research I had done, and it was true to my self-proclaimed re-centering niche. The muse! She's...Hemant!

So here it is, more coherently than it's been thus far:
I'm writing the story of Achilles, but told through the eyes of the women who loved him and who he loved.

Suddenly, there's less oppression in my mind. I might even give each of the five women their own Word doc, and let them ramble away. Hmmmm.

By fairy hands their knell is rung.

I've been schooled this week.  In words, I mean.  And I totally blame being sick for my failing wits.

First, "soporific" means "sleep-inducing" (which even my mom knew!).  I guessed something along the lines of "droning," "over-indulged," or "soaking in."  [Editor's note: Just because I provide three different definitions for a word doesn't mean I'm confused.  It just means that I'm really good at making stuff up, and the stuff I make up is really creative and rather convincing.  You know you're jealous.]

Second, "querulous" means "contentious, prone to argument."  I was close with "whining, protesting; a feeble attempt at contradiction."

Third, I learned this morning that it's "jibe," not "jive."  As in, "The story you told about your mom's vacation doesn't jibe with the photographic evidence of her whereabouts that weekend."  And "jive" has always made so much sense!  (Think about it: dancing - one set of facts either dances well or doesn't with the second set of facts... Sad loss.)  Although it must be noted that I prefer the British English spelling of it to the American English: gybe vs. jibe.


In other news, I've had a lot of downtime this week (what with my mind being clogged and work being slow).  So I've indulged in a lot of fiction reading.

I re-discovered the Endicott Studio website, managed by Terri Windling, Ellen Datlow, and Ellen Kushner (to name a very few).  It is a collection of visual, literary, and academic explorations of the Mythic Arts - I've literally lost myself within the pages of it for the last week.  I've been reading through the Journal of Mythic Arts' fiction and non-fiction archives.  [Second Editor's Note: This site is of particular interest to me; my college thesis examined re-centering myth and fairy tale.  I've immersed myself in all things mythic for the last 6 years at least.]

So after reading all morning, I came home yesterday with a panicky urge to re-read my two favorite books of all time: The Hero & the Crown and The Blue Sword, both by Robin McKinley.  They were not on my shelves!  I searched, but know my book filing system, and they weren't there.  All I could conclude was I'd loaned them out (God knows why), and they hadn't come back (for the same reason most loaned books don't come back).  I penned the dogs in the kitchen and bolted to Grumpy's (my old place of employment and the nearest used bookstore), but only came up with The Hero & the Crown.  It will do for now, but I must find another copy of The Blue Sword - these are the only two books I've ever read more than once.  I must have them on hand at all times!  [Third Editor's Note: Only librophiles will understand this compulsion - I can't explain it.  But I have never felt more urgent about reading a book than I did yesterday.  And I couldn't rest until I'd found it.  I almost considered driving across town to the accursed McKay's.  Almost.]