Amid the sweeping golden sands, the Muse resides in her desert kingdom. In a palmyra-filled oasis, she can be found in tents made of dyed sheep's wool. Under the fecund full moon, she sits cross-legged on a rug beside the fire, sipping bitter black coffee. The Muse is in a jetblack abbayya, that covers her to her golden-jeweled wrists and her henna-covered hands stretch out from its black sleeves. Sequins adorn her cloak, and the sequins sparkle like the stars above her. Her honey-date colored eyes are lined in black kohl, and peer out from behind the black veil. Her black hair peeks out from under the black crape, and a braid falls down her back.
The multitude of stars shine above, and feel as numerous as the sands below her. Her beduin guards sit next to her; their desert songs fill the air as they are carried by the night winds, and the beat of the coffee mortar supplies the simple rhythm.
Her camels' cargo is laden with ink and ideas, as her caravan makes its way slowly from oasis to oasis. She has no time for the cities being built in the sands; the Muse knows that the sands will one day retake them like so many other desert cities that were forgotten.
It was the Muse that filled the Nabateans with the radiant pink and peach dreams to carve their stone capital Petra, and then hid it behind a veil of sand for two millennia. She is the one who fills the pilgrims with perseverance as they trod on their long journey.
But take heed, my children, for the Princess of Fear holds a mighty empire here. From a desert fortress, she stares out over her vast terrain and her minion of followers. She poisons the minds with ignorance and arrogance. I hear her vile words pouring from the mouths of too many good people. Some days, it leaves me feeling so hollow to hear her plagued ideas brandished like swords, and I feel this sword cutting on both sides of the divide. It makes my heart hurt and fills me with anguish that I can hardly decribe.
The Princess of Fear helped cut down King Abdullah as he made his ways to his prayers, as his grandson and future regent Hussein stared on. She punished Anwar Sadat's courage with a hail of bullets. She is the one who stokes the fire of the mobs; she is the martyrs' false courage.
The Queen of the Muse and the Princess of Fear are locked in an eternal clash across these lands, and it is a battle I'm afraid the the Princess of Fear may have the upper hand. The Muse illuminates the desert with her knowledge, but I fear her sun is at its eclipse, and everything is becoming dark. But in the holiest of holy lands, hope springs forever eternal and will remain there to light even the darkest hour. From the pages of Leo Africanus, the Muse left a little note and a tidbit of truth that I will end on:
"When you were a child, didn't you speak out the truth that the oldest ones kept secret? Well, you were right then. You must find the time of innocence in yourself again, because that was also the time of courage."
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Kingdom of the Princess of Fear
The Queen of the Muse whispered a warning in my ear, she said beware of the Princess of Fear. While I have written extensively on the Muse’s Kingdom, I have yet to address the Kingdom of the Princess of Fear. She too holds court. Born of the same mother as the Queen of the Muse, but a father that bore the mark of Cain, the Princess of Fear traded her soul for black power.
Her kingdom is found across the black rivers of poison. It is a dark land, without light or hope. In her fields, slaves toil picking bitter fruits and poison harvests. In her gardens wander the lost souls of intoxicated addicts, who lazily doze under weeping-willow trees. Her land is the paradise reached by the zealots and suicide bombers.
Past the winged-furies that fly overhead, and the armed guards with scimitars and damascene blades that stand on her gates and guard her palace, the Princess is down a long, deserted hall. She sits upright on a black granite throne. Her long black hair flows down her back, with a golden tiara bejeweled with blood diamonds sitting delicately on her head. Around her neck sits a necklace of nails, that drapes delicately over her collar. Her black kohl-stained green eyes pour over black-inked manuscripts of plots and ploys that will further her aims; she wages her clandestine war with her weaponry of vices.
The Princess of Fear reaps intolerance and sows hatred. She has much sway, and she silences the best while filling the worst with passionate zeal. She imbues the thieves with quickness and the cons with cunning. She makes men weak with jealousy, and fills their hearts with envy. I saw a glimpse of her in the eyes of two men coming to fisticuffs over a 5 rupee pen.
The Princess of Fear gave twisted biblical verse to the slave masters of the Confederacy. She is the creator of castes, the architect of apartheid. The patron saint of the assassin, she led John Wilkes Booth through the dark theater, and roared with him “Sic semper tyranis.” She enlisted Gavarillo Princip and the Black Hand to plunge Europe into generations of chaos. The evil princess sent Nathuram Godse to silence Gandhi, then laughed as bloodshed racked partition. She sat in the book depository and steadied Oswald’s aim. She gave James Earl Ray cover in the shrubs, then stoked the flaming ghettos after her handiwork was carried out. It was her dark yeshiva in which Yigal Amir was a student, and with him she crushed Oslo. The Princess of Fear and her dark kingdom are found in the hearts of all men.
But the Queen of the Muse watches out for those who will hear her warnings. Far away, in a distant land, the Queen of the Muse sits below rounded marble domes. On the cool marble floor, she sits in peace. With henna decorating the palms of her hands, and wrapping up her arms. Beeswax reddens her lips, and black kohl lines her eye, as she stares out into the distance. A vermilion tikka adorns her forehead, while jewels and gems adorn her face and body. Sparkling diamond earrings, a golden nose ring and anklets of silver to announce her presence. She is wrapped in the softest purple silk. On the walls, the simple words of warning are inscribed in black calligraphy:
Guard your thoughts, they become your words
Guard your words, they become your actions
Guard your actions, they become your habits
Guard your habits, they become your character
Guard your character, it becomes your destiny
The Muse's Indian Kingdom
"O' Muse! Sing in me, and through me tell the story"
-Oh Brother, Where Art Thou?
After only three days, I have found our dear Muse's Indian Kingdom. Her kingdom sits on the other side of the pilgrim's river. Fields of spices and fragrant gardens of tea greet the wary traveler, as Bengal tigers sleep under the cool shade of the banyan trees. Approaching her palace, the white marble meringue towers sit above the hills, like a palace of heaven. The ribbed golden dome of her palace reflects the radiance that lights the skies, and the edifice reflects in diametric perfection in the moat that surrounds it. Yellow-turbaned guards with long white beards and long silver swords with jewel-encrusted handles stand watch at her gates, but over masala chai agree to let me enter her palace.
The palace is a maze of columns made of marble. Carved statues of Vishnu, Ganesh and Shiva gaze down from the ceiling and beckon me forward, as peacocks of purple plumage wander around the halls. White lotus flowers and purple bougainvillea wrap around the open windows, and shied me from the intense Indian sun.
Upon entry, the Muse is found, wrapped in a purple sari- embroidered in gold-trimmed lotuses. In the land of Gandhi, the Muse takes no throne, but rather sits cross-legged on the floor. Her long, black locks sit braided over her right shoulder, as she stares out with her kashmiri blue eyes. Above her eyes sits an emerald encrusted in diamonds, as a delicate ruby lined with gold adorns her delicate nose. She just patiently sits over her delicate canvases of Sanskirt. Written in Kali's red ink, with Ganesh's ivory tusk, she reads out the words the will imbue those willing to listen with ideas of wisdom that are far richer than the jewels that encrust her radiant tiara.
Whispered in the ears of the lower castes, she brings solace to those sleeping on the streets. She convinced Agnes Gonxha Bojaxhiu to give up her nun habits for a blue and white sari, and Mother Theresa took on the burdens of caring for Calcutta's destitute. She walked with Gandhi to the sea, as he carried out his salt march against the British. She cheered for India's hard-fought independence, but cried as the cleavages, wars and dispossession that followed; she still bears those scars today. More recently, our dear Muse gave Salman Rushdie the courage to write her words, and strength to bear the consequences.
The Muse's Indian kingdom is one of a vast array of colors, and an overload of the senses. As the long, hot Indian day fades into the purple night, the Muse merely sits with an enigmatic smile on her face as I fight to understand her blessed kingdom.
-Oh Brother, Where Art Thou?
After only three days, I have found our dear Muse's Indian Kingdom. Her kingdom sits on the other side of the pilgrim's river. Fields of spices and fragrant gardens of tea greet the wary traveler, as Bengal tigers sleep under the cool shade of the banyan trees. Approaching her palace, the white marble meringue towers sit above the hills, like a palace of heaven. The ribbed golden dome of her palace reflects the radiance that lights the skies, and the edifice reflects in diametric perfection in the moat that surrounds it. Yellow-turbaned guards with long white beards and long silver swords with jewel-encrusted handles stand watch at her gates, but over masala chai agree to let me enter her palace.
The palace is a maze of columns made of marble. Carved statues of Vishnu, Ganesh and Shiva gaze down from the ceiling and beckon me forward, as peacocks of purple plumage wander around the halls. White lotus flowers and purple bougainvillea wrap around the open windows, and shied me from the intense Indian sun.
Upon entry, the Muse is found, wrapped in a purple sari- embroidered in gold-trimmed lotuses. In the land of Gandhi, the Muse takes no throne, but rather sits cross-legged on the floor. Her long, black locks sit braided over her right shoulder, as she stares out with her kashmiri blue eyes. Above her eyes sits an emerald encrusted in diamonds, as a delicate ruby lined with gold adorns her delicate nose. She just patiently sits over her delicate canvases of Sanskirt. Written in Kali's red ink, with Ganesh's ivory tusk, she reads out the words the will imbue those willing to listen with ideas of wisdom that are far richer than the jewels that encrust her radiant tiara.
Whispered in the ears of the lower castes, she brings solace to those sleeping on the streets. She convinced Agnes Gonxha Bojaxhiu to give up her nun habits for a blue and white sari, and Mother Theresa took on the burdens of caring for Calcutta's destitute. She walked with Gandhi to the sea, as he carried out his salt march against the British. She cheered for India's hard-fought independence, but cried as the cleavages, wars and dispossession that followed; she still bears those scars today. More recently, our dear Muse gave Salman Rushdie the courage to write her words, and strength to bear the consequences.
The Muse's Indian kingdom is one of a vast array of colors, and an overload of the senses. As the long, hot Indian day fades into the purple night, the Muse merely sits with an enigmatic smile on her face as I fight to understand her blessed kingdom.
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