River of Mnemosyne  #9/9

River of Mnemosyne  #8/9

River of Mnemosyne  #7/9

 

River of Mnemosyne  #6/9

River of Mnemosyne  #5/9

River of Mnemosyne  #4/9

River of Mnemosyne #3/9

River of Mnemosyne  #2/9

River of Mnemosyne  #1/9

Muse 2 / The Fallen Beginning 

Muse 1 /  If I Could See People's Fears

muse 9

RoM - Ghosts in Daylight

I grab my Mr. Rodgers sweater, my hall pass and my laundromat access card without loosing the heading that is turning into ascension.

When you are dealing with inward reality, unreality, and non-reality any muse will do to fold into the slipstream of the whatever. In a wide-open field they meet; where do they pass on parallel paths that never touch?

The most exhausting part is becoming clear. The shadowy mounting push did not need me. Delusion of reprieve doesn't. All I needed was to move aside from my tiny existence to make my way up a bit further onto the plateau and walk into the sunset. The great egress. I heaved and will powered the paralysis to lift. I pull to the left, out from under the huge boulder I had created, whisking my hands of loose clay. All of the voices hushed as I scramble toward the ledge and hoist myself up and into the black blinding light.

Having no pen nor paper on hand, I mentally impressed upon a page a note of confidence and reform. The paper folded and nested close to my neck for someone to find. I exhaled and swooned wondering after all if I still had the gold loop through my earlobe for payment.

It had been months watching him wither, hands cramping, and toes slowly curling. The room had transformed into a daily camp, a cafeteria, debate forum, a rumpus room, a vigil. They stood around in now hushed tones and witness his release. His body relaxed and there was an undeniable letting-go of the body as it relaxed, deflated and stilled; then a re-gathering wistfully above, moving willfully and purposefully. They felt the familiar, now fade into the near next with a clip of shine singing from his ear, and conversation remorse on the tip of their tongues.

-30-

muse 8

 RoM - Drop Back and Punt

… redirection is in order. Not exactly a new direction, but a mental turning around. Okay, not so much a mental turning — as a looking past. Past options, those were long ago voided out by other reasons and decisions that were uncontrollable. Control suggests need or want. Good thing everything is not controllable. We’d each have bloody hands and be dragging around Santa bags full of dirty rags all of our lives. Who’d be friends with someone who sounds so familiar?

Why not grab hold of hyakutake? Every once in a while it comes looming by, which means it comes closer every day, even when it is leaving.

It comes by from another goldilocks zone, within spit distance … close enough for communication and trade. Boons.

 I glide toward the meeting place, my feet dragging scooping up sludge into it grows like a snowball in front of me. Dodging and skipping along the street that seemed to have a theme of pot holes. I saw a stranger watching me from a noir shadow.

He gave me a nod, Yes, watch out; plot holes.

I meet up, join and follow others feeling the series of events, twist and blind turns currently eluding me. Noticing the writing on the walls, reading an interior dialogue on a one-way mirror. You know how your mind jumps to this hither and thither thing while you are in deep concentration with the other? Hypnogogic hallucination, involves seeing or hearing things just as you fall asleep. This is that. If this is a severing with reality the break feels natural, though wondering how to decipher. No telling, not knowing.

 It’s not the nightly happy phantoms charmed by a conducting Orpheus. This is an uncontrolled waking dream of comatose, passing the pearly gates of how cliché.

muse 7

RoM - The Past is Practice 

Excitingly new hearkens to the past. Three score and ten and overnight; here we may be. This brings up the cycles of the cosmosium. Confound it; I am aware it is impossible to move petrified legs. I feel the warmth of an intense light, the voices in the rotation of returning and retreat. Sometimes whispering amongst themselves. Sometimes lifting sentences as inquiring. I could not quite make out to answer, and do not need to, as they seem to answer for me in a condoling tone.

I enjoy the silences as it means we are all listening for who will say something next. More voices fill in the pauses until the party became an ambush. Wood paneling and wainscoting everywhere, spit flying. I image another rendezvous. Where did you learn to fly? Well that assumes a lot. Bluesy with a taste of twang, ready to get reckless?

A dear friend is smashed but alive. He rocks back and forth in an invisible cradle, a bottle neck loosely hooked through a ring finger. The bottle always slips first.

Sawdust on the floor soaks up the weather. One hundred year old grime on the walls fuzz up the air at McSworley’s. College buddies, now dressed in business suits, meet at the crowded circular tables. After a few too many pints they throw arms around each shoulder and rise swaggering to their feet singing the alma mater. Once ending, now quiet, they look at each other knowingly and sink back into their seats as one shouts, another round! for the glass littered table. This was the first year men wore Gray Flannel. That fragrance and sweat fills the room.

I instinctively look for hides, and escape routes. But instead of escape…

muse 6

 RoM - Occam's Razor Dulled

Backing away does not work. The disembodied and the hysterical pursue me. They take my hand and turn on the hot water works. I feel used and put upon. 

Shuffling through the entities with complicated causes I am able to pull out one recognizable voice. His spiel is selling train tickets to a spiritual pilgrimage, or, charging for the indulgence of your choice. You had a choice. You actually had a choice. He could sum up the present situation snappier than an Oscar F. O. F. W. Wilde remark. He was from NYC, was anywhere anything important happened, had an old guy ponytail, and his every other word was a bomb. 

I need to get this puss out of my system, as my mind is too foggy to tell truth from fiction, assuming fiction exists. My mind is as dull as a butter knife. Willie’s razor would be chasing down these negligible trivialities with a bulldozer in high demand if the human condition wanted simplicity of reasoning. But alack and alas, it has never been so. Some people simply chose to have live strangers in the trunk of the car for ballast.

Nephew, what means this passionate discourse, This peroration with such circumstance?

At some point the voices from a lifetime cycle back through and seem well known. We search and appreciate the kindred on un-familiar territory even within our grappling to find the excitingly new.

muse 5

RoM - A Chill When the Dead Man Smiles

Out of arguing bar-talk, a voice closes in and twists to demanding. I stand. He is tough. I do not remember volunteering but an involuntary arm muscle stood up and got attention. I get a feeling I’m not suppose to show my weakness, something in past lessons about needing to grow my shorn hair long and lacing up hi-top sneakers to cover my ankles for protection. Yes, that should do it.

As he barked orders I notice the scene is done up in tenebrism, to make the watching a controlled devise of sharp realism revealed from the murk. He lisps off what I needed to do for inspection.

…leave a bit of food offering to the tharg from the thupper before on your footlocker, hang your uniform thirt upside down from the light chain so it is eethy to get into and put the crucifith in front of the mirror so he can thee the back. Lathly, wear your underwear inside out, and then turn it in when he’th left.

Well all of that is okay …  accept the displaying the issued crucifix, it’s just not my thing. I don’t like this show.

“Got a better gore thymbol?”

He goes on downloading the plans of attack at noon. I ask if wont many be injured? He looks impatient, adding that we will hit during lunch break. 

Then he ignores my obvious question, “We will not then, be on lunch break, too?”

His plastered smirk began to feel wicked and hard like a Cheshire grin. The voices fade, as though they were exiting through a tunnel … as if his smile could clear a room.

Hey, you practice Ju-jitsu, don’t you?

Yes, the art of getting an opponent off balance, bringing him down, and killing him.

After you put something in motion, sometimes you have to back away.

muse 4

RoM - Cloaked in a Blinding Flash of the Obvious

…and met a fist not intended for me, along with a speech bubble filled with stars. You know that blinding start that keeps you alive? Your body cant tell if you are breathing and so jerks hard only to find you’ve scared yourself to just this side of death? Why, because comedy sucks hard to write, drama is close to the heart and close to the surface. I looked around to find the batman … but, he was still already dead. Why fight when you can bluff? Who said that? Why not move to action? Practice the art of non-pro-activeness.

Good thing my to-do/ne list is shorter than usual:

1. Nail the colors to the mast, only to find captains of industry wrapped in patience waiting for their next chance to control the weather vane.

 
2. Prove the crowded letters of the round table, if spun fast, it will reveal an ouroboros of ‘adopt-adapt-improve’ with no clue where to begin.

3. Figure if front face affronted forward is frontage or facade and if are we traveling against the light or silhouetted.

The idea of an impossible task carried out for impossible reward. I am feeling taxed by the effort of thinking. Breathing, though, seems to be an involuntary event.

Are you goin' to Scarborough Fair? …  Somber and grave grows merry in time.

I am remembered to the immediate.

I will sleep unaware of the clarion call.