Our fair muse hold court in the Middle Kingdom. It is perilous to enter, as it is guarded by dragons with long serpentine tails. The walls are manned by archers with quivers of quills. Cross the giant walls, and slip past her guards and you can enter.
Sail over rivers of red ink and past lakes of mercury, and you can reach her jade palace. It rests on the back of an elephant, with spires that reach the sky. From each level, there are silk flags that proclaim her mercurial glory.
Cross the gardens of pearls, and the lapis bridges that walk you over the ponds of quicksilver and her throne may be found. The throne room is made of gold filigree, and the Empress Muse sits upon a mother-of-pearl and mahogany throne.
She is clothed in purple silk, holding a jewel-encrusted scepter of a brush. She spends her days writing calligraphic ideas to implant in the minds of those who will listen. She whispered in the ears of the Boxers, to convince them of their invincibility against Western weapons. She convinced Dr. Sun Yat Sen of his higher purpose than medicine. The Muse walked with Mao on his Long March across the hinterlands of the Middle Kingdom. She has lately switched her allegiance, as she stood behind the students of Tiananmen, telling them not to fear the tanks rolling in.
Our sweet Muse whispers her dulcet words to me, and tells me that it is time to leave the red dragon nation. I leave with more questions than answers, but with something more precious than Marco Polo's spices and jewels. Her gift is ideas.
Saturday, April 21, 2007
African Kingdom of the Muse
The plague of ideas is heavy in Africa. I never thought the Muse's kingdom would be found here. Now I realize that the Muse's scepter was made here from porcupine quills. She hunts with a QuaQua bow and arrows, fashioned from pens. Her black ink cover the inhabitants of this continent.
They don't know it, but I can see it. Their blood is my ink. Their faces are lined with both joy and pain. I see her work on the cave walls. She came to them in their dreams and visions.
The Queen of the Muse kept Mandela alive in his solitary cell. She filled his lonely walls with words of hope. She did the same for Gandhi, feeding him with diction as he carried on his hunger strikes. She whispered her sweet dulcet words in Dr. King's ear.
Her evil twin sister, the Princess of Fear is rife here. She filled the minds and hearts of Mandela's captors. She is strong here. Yet our beloved sovereign, the Queen of the Muse is also the empress of ideas and she reins high over the lucid rivers of ink; her kingdom is stronger.
They don't know it, but I can see it. Their blood is my ink. Their faces are lined with both joy and pain. I see her work on the cave walls. She came to them in their dreams and visions.
The Queen of the Muse kept Mandela alive in his solitary cell. She filled his lonely walls with words of hope. She did the same for Gandhi, feeding him with diction as he carried on his hunger strikes. She whispered her sweet dulcet words in Dr. King's ear.
Her evil twin sister, the Princess of Fear is rife here. She filled the minds and hearts of Mandela's captors. She is strong here. Yet our beloved sovereign, the Queen of the Muse is also the empress of ideas and she reins high over the lucid rivers of ink; her kingdom is stronger.
Kingdom of the Muse
When I was younger, the Muse would appear in fleeting briefness. She would whisper her sweet syllables in my ear, but would disappear as I tried to wrestle her onto my page. Now the more I write, the Muse appears to me in increased regularity. The more I sacrifice my ink into her altar of diction, the more she comes to me in her crowned verbal glory. This patron saint of the scribe pirouettes on my paper; she sends her divine wisdom coursing through my pen.
She offers me cathartic relief from the thoughts that burden my shoulders. She is therapy for the plague of ideas. Yet she is still so difficult to hold onto. Her angelic splendor is mercurial. The more I try to hold onto her tightly, the more she slips free from my clutches. Her wings fly her off my page and into infinite oblivion.
I stand at the gates, peering into the Muse’s kingdom. Yet her gates remain locked to me. Tolstoy and Dostoevsky stand guard silently as two sentinels at her gates. On the other side, I see Hemingway fishing in a pond of letters. Joyce and his companion Kafka stumble around drunk on lexis and absinthe. Sitting in solitude outside the Muse’s gates, Garcia Marquez sips his glass of choleric ink and waits patiently for his turn to enter.
I offer myself as a humble follower of her divine craft, so that this priestess may open the gates to her printed temple. From high above, the Muse sits as an empress on her high throne of ballpoints, covered in the splendor of robes fashioned by purple quills. With an enigmatic smile on her face, she counsels me to be patient. Her divine secrets are revealed only to those who are ready to bear the weight of inscription. Until that day, this wordsmith is left wrapped in the solitude of blank whites pages.
She offers me cathartic relief from the thoughts that burden my shoulders. She is therapy for the plague of ideas. Yet she is still so difficult to hold onto. Her angelic splendor is mercurial. The more I try to hold onto her tightly, the more she slips free from my clutches. Her wings fly her off my page and into infinite oblivion.
I stand at the gates, peering into the Muse’s kingdom. Yet her gates remain locked to me. Tolstoy and Dostoevsky stand guard silently as two sentinels at her gates. On the other side, I see Hemingway fishing in a pond of letters. Joyce and his companion Kafka stumble around drunk on lexis and absinthe. Sitting in solitude outside the Muse’s gates, Garcia Marquez sips his glass of choleric ink and waits patiently for his turn to enter.
I offer myself as a humble follower of her divine craft, so that this priestess may open the gates to her printed temple. From high above, the Muse sits as an empress on her high throne of ballpoints, covered in the splendor of robes fashioned by purple quills. With an enigmatic smile on her face, she counsels me to be patient. Her divine secrets are revealed only to those who are ready to bear the weight of inscription. Until that day, this wordsmith is left wrapped in the solitude of blank whites pages.
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