SECRETS of the BLOOD: The Other Side of Fox

I was missing Violet and Dirty Tom this day.

You can find the rest at

http://collagepirate.blogspot.com/2012/01/imperfect-vorpal-blade.html

Enjoy!  xo



TO ONE IN BEDLAM

I am, and always have been, touched deep within my soul by not only the history of Bethlem but the works of the Renaissance painters as well. Who can say why we are drawn so profoundly to what we are. It appears to be one of (my) life's greatest mysteries. ~Mimi



With delicate, mad hands, behind his sordid bars,
Surely he hath his posies, which they tear and twine;
Those scentless wisps of straw, that miserably line
His strait, caged universe, whereat the dull world stares,

Pedant and pitiful. O, how his rapt gaze wars
With their stupidity! Know they what dreams divine
Lift his long, laughing reveries like enchaunted wine,
And make his melancholy germane to the stars?

O lamentable brother! if those pity thee,
Am I not fain of all thy lone eyes promise me;
Half a fool's kingdom, far from men who sow and reap,
All their days, vanity? Better than mortal flowers,
Thy moon-kissed roses seem: better than love or sleep,
The star-crowned solitude of thine oblivious hours!

~with acknowledgement to Ernest Dawson (1867-1900)
and Albrecht Durer (1471-1528)

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

COLLAGE PIRACY

ALL HANDS ON DECK

She edges her way into the Atlantic

complete

no one is certain how

Everything you can imagine is real

Moments of divine serenity

share secrets about each other

rain dripping

savoring the sea

Ancient women in shawls

discover the colors radiating from within

At twilight

a dream destination

magnifies the sound of everything

It's like a Grimm's Fairytale

of beating hearts about to be swept away.



MLRF '07
(ed note: I am an Obsessive Collage-er...and I do mean obsessive.
I've notebooks and notebooks and pages upon pages of glue-sticked words and
images culled from old magazines-
-transformed into art and story for no other reason than it pleases me.
I recently discovered that I could create poems from other peoples random words.
Pi-rate.
I'm not even a big fan of poetry.
Now I can't stop.
Please send your old magazines.
And more glue sticks.)


c. 2007
no reprints without permission