Sunday, July 29, 2007

SECRETS OF THE BLOOD



If you peruse this blog you know from my very first post that I live a life of Quixotic frustration and desire. I spend a significant amount of time pondering why it should be so. At what precise moment in my life did the past assume such a brilliant intensity for me that my brain refuses to presume the existence of a modern world? A fragile rip in time at the nebulous moment I blithesomely stepped forward, melding into molecules guarded from the past? Perhaps a Faerie spell whence time and circumstance found me in the Garden on a Midsummer E'en innocently offering my humble sop of honey, sea salt and violets? Or, even more nefarious, a poxy curse set upon me by a disgruntled Catholic School Nun, who possibly dabbled in the Black Arts on weekends, the year I came to school in full Faerie Nymph regalia and swore my allegiance to all things Fey? After all, it was the year of Little Red Riding Hood in the third grade. I might have escaped their wrath had I gone the 'wedding dress with white wings' princess route but suspect imp with green face, pointy ears and sideways glance struck terror into their hearts and, at the very least, put my wee soul in mortal danger of being spontaneously consumed by the flames of Beelzebub, portrayed that year by Very Rich Christopher, who was exempt from cast aspersions due to the impressive heft of his Trick or Treat for Who Knows What cardboard can. Plus, he got to poke everyone with his plastic devil's pitchfork without getting yelled at. Hard. Noblesse oblige? Hardly.

At any rate who can say?

But what I do know is that I write to keep the demons at bay.

My current passion is a novel I've been working on for some while that belongs entirely to me. By that I mean I spend the lion's share of my time penning children's plays and stories for work and am afforded very little extra sheets of paper to set forth my own fantasies. So this work means a great deal to me and I have come, as I am sure all writers do, to live deeply inside the world I have created.

I adore forming characters and devising a world and situations for them that I know in my soul of souls I'll not be afforded the opportunity to ever experience in this lifetime. Part of the curse I suspect.

It's extremely important to me that every little nuance be lovingly and deliciously crafted to reflect a characters entire life...secrets of which may never appear in the actual story. But for me the character must be complete.

To that end I collage...(surprise)...my characters for weeks on end before they ever see a drop of ink. I rather think that sometimes they collage for me (in case I should get it wrong-characters created from the mind are ever so vain...) as so much of the story is written in this manner that when I reach the point of jammies, notebook, pencil, bed and Dog I've the hard part behind me.

As writers are wont to do I fall in love with my characters. (Yeah, yeah. I know. I don't need a therapist to point out the pitfalls of that. But thanks, anyway.)
My current favorite, emerging from my realm of dreams to take on a life of his own, is Dirty Tom. So named for a random coupling of two magazine words that leapt into ethereal life. Quite frankly I wanted to name him Jamie MacDougall, but Dirty Tom was having none of it and who am I to argue?

I look forward each day to setting forth more of the story as it unfolds even to me.
I also look forward to one day sharing the story in its entirety with those who care to partake of my world. I sincerely hope that when that day comes you'll love Dirty Tom and his world nearly as much as I do.

I leave you with a piece of collage poetry that set me on my way.



SECRETS OF THE BLOOD


The beautiful and damned

reveal the essence of the winds

Curse of ancient wanderlust exposed

the sea went wild

Evil spirits drive you to the story

Remembering naked obsession

ethereal lavender dress

dark blessed union

The anticipation of light

fatal pursuit

not fade away

For the love of the sea

bring back the past

That's why I couldn't find roses.



MLRF '07













2 comments:

Anonymous said...

To day I was talking about Blood Memory that are DNA is made up with are anscestors... Another thing was The word today write about was rose and in your poem
last line you have Rose...
Here my poem for today with Rose!
Fairy Rose Tears


Fairy Rose cried today

For she lost her best friend

The Dragonfly

He died

Evil King Toad ate him for lunch

Fell upon the pink petals

Fairy Rose tears
As she offered up her prayers
Christine

Foxmorton said...

Ah, 'tis a lovely poem....

I've me own toad what lives in me garden.....King Solomon Pennyroyal....fer he lives under th' pennyroyal bush!

Why do ye suppose it be that toad's is always Kings...?
;)

~Foxmorton