She wanders out of the thump and growl of the club, out into the thick night painted with gleaming crimson lines. She looks up… up… into the great black vastness above, at the dim twinkle of tiny jewels piercing the sordid haze.
The feathers rustle like little twists of wind as her wings unfold. She leaps–
– or was she pushed?
You have heard that strange, grinding sound before. When the big blue box appears, you are hardly surprised, except that one has not been seen in this part of the forest. Still, there it is, and there is the lady you recognize: the banshee, the muse, lurching from the blue doors to a tree stump, her long hair curly and tangling in her haste. She thrusts one pale hand into the stump, pulls out a little leather tome, then scribbles in it, with phoenix feather and ink that gleams violet black. She replaces the book, then dives back into the blue box… but not before catching your eye, and flashing you a little mischievous smile.
The blue box makes those sounds again, like exhausted machinery grinding Time under its wheels. And then they are both gone.
But the tree stump remains, with its’ hidden prize…
She muttered, “Go away. I am wrestling with my Muse, and losing.”
and the cad exclaimed, “Girl fight!”
The Lady is elegantly clad in crimson hearts and black wings, and her long hair has come down again. She is using the twisted point of one purple ringlet to follow along, and ultimately punctuate, the passage which she reads. But its end never comes, as the curl loops back and back and back, over and over and over again, as she reads the words in a circle, a spiral. The curl is flattened into a bookmark as she shuts it inside the book and reaches for another.
There are many others, many more books around her, in stacks and making shelves of themselves, some piled neatly, many more in passionate disarray over her spread skirts, their open faces gleaming up at the night sky, their tired spines like the backs of old beasts… look, you can see the rise and fall as that one breathes, sleeps. They are tangled up with pillows and dulled quillfeathers, emptied winebottles, hatboxes spilling forth erotic sienna smiles, long scarves of silk and thin straps of leather and in every corner, lace, like spiderwebs.
Kahlil Gibran and Buddha and Schopenhauer and Plato and Hallmark and Victor Anderson and Robert Heinlein and others silently state their opinions and carefully share their hearts to whomever might let their eyes alight on the words printed there, naked in the moonlight. They might fight or they might kiss, if they could climb up now out of their own words.
The Lady’s heart is light and joyous… listen, she is singing softly… singing, not that Love is easy, but that it is a beautiful struggle towards the perfect union with another soul. Singing of the profoundly simple joy of celebrating the beloved.
And that smile. Ah, that is satisfaction, her lips must be sweet with it, still. She turns her eyes to you, and they shine like stars –
May Love’s blade strike you true, my friends. May the pleasure of it rekindle your cooling fires, and the pain of it strengthen your resolve to thrive. May you always be wise and know it is not meant to be easy, or pretty, every day. May you never mistake drama for passion. May you and yours encourage the very best in each other.
May your Love be True.
The night is dark. Aren’t they all? The silent Muse sits on frozen earth, peering into a box full of lights in her lap. She looks up at your approach, face a pale wan moon. Silent, eyes showing whirling, unquiet thoughts. Her fingers are stained with ink, but she will not let you read the words on the stacked pages under her knee, no, not yet. She tilts the box, however… she shows you this…
The Dumb Man from Lainy Voom on Vimeo.
(Thank you, Lady Eva, for sharing this.)
A handbill tumbles along in the chill winter wind and brushes past your feet. You pick it up…
The Lady sits in the circle of the fire’s warmth, staring blankly into it. She has Things to Inspire Healing gathered in a basket beside her, ready for The Right Time. She is always waiting for that time. She hears you near, and speaks, but her eyes never stray from the dancing flames.
“Let me tell yeh a story, one that is not about you or I, … if yeh will listen. It is not a pleasant tale… “
words penned in a quick but agile hand…
I promised myself, upon starting this journal, that I would not make certain mistakes. One of those being not to let the act of recording Life interfere with Living it.
So. I’ve been busy. Joyous, and truly appreciating how very, very blessed I am.
To write anything more, ‘twould be mere details. And there’s so much more living yet to do…
Shhh… she’s still asleep… but the photographes tell the tale…
Shhh… the Lady is deeply asleep (read: passed out) on the couch of dark leather, with a soft satisfied smile on her face. There are the mingled scents of snow and roses and champagne in the room, and photographes spread all over the floor. Clearly, it has been a good weekend…
The Muse dances in a world of sepia and silver: sparkling sequined dress white and shining, teeth, eyes, luminous. Hair a twist of dark colourless shadows. She stops in her dance and turns to you, striking a pose, flashing a brilliant smile (each tooth a flickering candle behind celluloid), and speaks…
… but you hear no sound, only the swelling music playing still, by a great monstrous pipe organ belching steam. A black card suddenly fills your vision, imprinted with letters of gleaming argent, five feet long and luminous:
HOORAY FOR CALEDON!
CATCH A RISING STAR!
COME TO
CALEDON MACHINEMA STUDIOS
OPENING PARTY
IN PENZANCE!
The silver Lady fills your vision again; now she is dancing with a surprisingly spry old man with bright white hair and a long black tailcoat; a quick waltz that almost syncs up to the music. They smile, joyous and confident and without a care, as only those in the kinetoscope pictures can be. They throw a handful of handbills at you… and somehow the room around you is suddenly filled with them, fluttering through the air like confused birds. You pick one up:
You’re Invited…
Come feel the glamour! It’s an open set!
Walk the red carpet & dance with the stars!
Caledon Studios Opening Party
and “Sysperia’s Darkling” Book Launch
Friday 14th December ‘07
1pm to 5pm SLT – 9pm to 1am GMT
Caledon Studios, Caledon Penzance
Music by Duchess Gabrielle Riel
Dress for the Silver Screen!
It is very dark. The Muse sings into the wind, night howling right through her. The words are not her own*, but they might as well be. You cannot see her face, because you know, with the instinct of prey, not to get too close. If you linger to listen, the wind will carry her words to you…
The Muse, chilled by the season, curls up with warm company… scratching into a leatherbound journal with a quill pen made of an owl’s feather, while the snowkissed trees look silently on…
I have been tagged three times now, by Miss Emilly, Lord Zealot and Miss Kiralette… and so! as requested, eight (actually non-)random facts about me… (and by “me” I mean, Darkling/Róisín, as well as the writer behind… ALL of ME. This makes the exercise more meaningful to all who might read, as well as particularly difficult for me to write…)
I do hope that’s alright. If you tagged me and want to squawk over that… squawk.
The page that got the book thrown at the wall:
