She has bells of shells on her feet that herald her presence, but they lay silent as she sits still. With silver bangle serpents that snake up her brown, sunkissed skin, she sits chanting over an offering of palabras as the smoke of incense burns around her. A feathered headdress of plumes sits on her long black hair, as she stares out of jet black eyes and past her aquiline nose.
As the Aztec sun burns above, the Muse looks down from above a stone pyramid across the vast span of history that fills this land. She blows on a conch shell horn to summon all that has been lost. Skeletons of the Dia de Los Muertos dance around her temple as butterfly catchers paddle around the moat that sits below her stone ziggernaut.
She scoffed at the human sacrifices that were offered her way, and preferred to accept the gift of ideas. She gave that gift back to the tribes who kept their history and heritage close. She colored the dreams of the shaman as they deciphered the visions that filled their heads. She filled the scream of the priest Hidalgo who declared Mexico's freedom. She painted with Diego as he illuminated the history of this land on the canvas of walls; our dear Muse gave poor Frida the crush of ideas that plagued her soul and covered her canvas. She remembers the time that was and sees the time to come in this mysterious, enigmatic land.
Saturday, December 20, 2008
Sunday, January 6, 2008
Borges´ Muse and my own
When i speak of the Muse, i know i am not the only one who hears her. When i sing her praises, i know i am not the only one who has shuddered at her gift of enlightenment. Borges felt her. He wrestled with her, as Jacob wrestled with the Archangel Gabriel; like i fight to hold on to her mercurial glory.
He knew the tricks she played on the virgin white paper; the questions she hid under the cloak of dark ink; the answers she illuminated with radiant grandeur. Through his work, I feel a kinship through Borges to our beloved Muse.
Together, they sipped coffee with dulce de leche under Cafe Tortoni´s luminous stained glass. In despondency, they wandered the villa miserias, searching the slums for reasons to explain life´s inequities. In silence, they pondered in Palermo´s park of cats. In solitude, they sat among the angels and decadent mausoleums of Recoleta´s cemetery. Together, under the fecund full moon that light Buenos Aires´purple night sky, they tangoed across the River of Silver.
Borges has reached the Muse´s golden kingdom- the paradise for all scribes. I still have many miles still yet to be crossed, many adventures still yet to be undertaken and many words still yet unwritten before the same invitation is extended to me. Until then i wait, and pour over his texts for clues to understand her divine secrets.
He knew the tricks she played on the virgin white paper; the questions she hid under the cloak of dark ink; the answers she illuminated with radiant grandeur. Through his work, I feel a kinship through Borges to our beloved Muse.
Together, they sipped coffee with dulce de leche under Cafe Tortoni´s luminous stained glass. In despondency, they wandered the villa miserias, searching the slums for reasons to explain life´s inequities. In silence, they pondered in Palermo´s park of cats. In solitude, they sat among the angels and decadent mausoleums of Recoleta´s cemetery. Together, under the fecund full moon that light Buenos Aires´purple night sky, they tangoed across the River of Silver.
Borges has reached the Muse´s golden kingdom- the paradise for all scribes. I still have many miles still yet to be crossed, many adventures still yet to be undertaken and many words still yet unwritten before the same invitation is extended to me. Until then i wait, and pour over his texts for clues to understand her divine secrets.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
