Notes & a further drafting of Scene 3, Ch. 5

         Up with the first light. You are not as ready to write as you think you are. Relax, have breakfast. Later, dude. – Amorella.

         After noon. Kim, Paul, Owen and Carol are out shopping. You caught up on Fast Forward’s last episode and are ready to do some writing before they return and you and Carol head off to Westerville for the rest of the weekend.

         Dusk, and you just returned from the cemetery. Carol and Mary Lou were checking over their parents’ graves after a trip to the Dairy Queen at the corner of East Park and State Street. You were rather indifferent to the Dead tonight.

         I don’t know why. Usually I’m pumped to visit Otterbein Cemetery. It was a surprise. I thought about the witch who was visiting with her young son while I was also visiting. I thought about both sets of grandparents who are buried there of course, but not Mom or Dad. Thought about my old friend from junior high, Phillip Crane, glanced towards his grave, but that was about it. I’m tired. Maybe I should go to bed early and wake up and write later tonight with the television on off.

         You took time out for more research on Brigit of Iona but you didn’t find anything useful.

         You finally did some writing.

         I got into it. The scene is not complete but I was emersed between the lines throughout.

         Authenticity is important. Passion drives the fingers, orndorff. Post what you have as a scene presently and we will call it a night. – Amorella.

Scene 3

         Merlyn soon found himself slipping into dreamtime during the pleasant blue light of day. On introspection he thought, I’m not that tired. Being dead has a pleasant side, no aches or pains unless I want them. All sensory appears psychosomatic. I think in my native Celtic tongue but when I want to be heard I appear to be immediately understood by others I am in presence with. Irish, Latin, Greek, English, Norse are my in my resume. Languages are my forte.

         Therein his mind glided naturally into, Ogham, the Celtic alphabet, which has letters based on the names of trees as they are shaped in reasonably forked branches. Kenning-like poetic thoughts produced the alpha-an-beta, and in this poesy not all the tree letters are known to humankind, never were, and in that lies a wisdom in the Mystery of the Letters. Merlyn thought, once alive, now dead, I sound the letters and still they are heard by the Living through their eyes alone. In this sounding sense of reason the silent ears of the Dead are but whispering eyes to the living.

         A lot of people effected my living. Family, friends, acquaintances, and perceived enemies. People are not an indifference to me. Living or Dead each is a piece on the crystal board. Each is in herorhis own squared area of consciousness or lack of it. All have a shared square area of the same heavenly blue sky randomly flight decked with clouds of similar fluff.

         Two friends float above the rest within my soul. Why? I have never known because some friends are older, better known and deeper within. Both at once were living druidesses who snaked and coiled their way around my very soul.

         Brigit of Iona was a human reincarnate of the earlier Brigit, who was thought by some a goddess. She was not. She was a female sage, a physician and a smith as was her druidic father, who also had been a physician and a smith. I was placed to dangle on the bottom of her moon silver charm bracelet. She stirred my fiery passions into her hot and throaty caldron and had the summary of my Celtic faith for an immediate dinner.

         The second was Vivian who designed a silver and golden brooch to capture my reason with the heavy breathing in and out through her tangling net of erotic charms. A crystallized madness she became in my imagination alone. I never touched her nor her me. No need when she was already a haunt beneath my boneless bag, a sorry sack of skin.

         Both women were equally a damnable pleasant witchery. I, Merlyn, a once shining jewel of youth, was druidically placed in a rolled leathery piece of ancient pre-Celtic phylactery by Priestess Brigit and Priestess Vivian. Both druidesses became leather strapping and amulet-like pistons in the younger days of my blue hot flamed mortal earthly engine. Scroll-like I was wound and unwound from mind to soul and soul to heart and back again. And, thus bodiless, I was driven into an inconceivable madness while making a sorcerous choice. Unthinking, I chose both to be in an ancient spiritual magic with both women at once.  [to be continued]

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