Notes & a partial draft of Scene 3, Ch. 5

         You are working into a routine. Owen is asleep to Light Classical on Time-Warner. Carol is working on the wash. You put down Carol’s new iPad and are now ready to work.

         Still, it is hard to believe The Gutenberg Project free e-books are available to me through iBooks. All those classics including Peter Rabbit and Alice in Wonderland. Those old illustrations I remember from my youth. Including Dore’s in the Divine Comedy as well. What a wonderful thing to have lived long enough to see books begin to disappear as did the scrolls before them. The words, that is what is important. The narrative and story-telling words and the illustrative art.

         Ah, see, even with the above you are still intreged as to the whereabouts of this next scene. You can think about it as you get cleaned up and ready for the day. We will work. Make your copy work sheet, first, so you will be ready to go. Post. – Amorella.

        Early afternoon, and you have actually produced an early selection to scene three. Post it before it is lost between the margins.

Scene 3

         Merlyn soon found himself slipping into dreamtime during the blue light of day. I’m not that tired, he thought on the introspection. 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 naturally glided into the Celtic alphabet, Ogham, which has letters based on trees as they are shaped in the forking of 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 on another Mystery of the Letters. Alive, now Dead, still I sound them and still they are heard by the Living by their eyes alone. As this sense is sound, all the silent ears of the Dead are but whispering eyes to the living.

Early afternoon, and you have actually produced something. Post it before it is lost between the margins. > You did some editing in the late afternoon while waiting for Carol at the grocery on Green Street near the corner of Cedar.

         The next phase of this third scene focuses on Merlyn’s further self-reflection and on the two women of his adult life. He is still torn as to whom he loves more and with a true, sincere, and honest decision, he inacts an inner conflict of conscousness, an inner confrontation he could not have expected.

         I checked the reference from book one, chapter twenty-one of Grandma’s Stories.

         “Merlyn’s ears cocked at the sound of two horses with riders covering the distance behind him. He did not bother to turn to verify. Ears told the story well enough. They are strangers to these parts from the sound of the hooves. The horses don’t pace the path as it is, but rather as they would like it to be. The riders are no doubt like-minded with their foreign steeds. The one animal has married his mind to the other, and it makes no difference which is which as they ride. As they do not know me, I have the advantage. I always have the advantage. No one knows me as I know myself. On any board, I have the first move.

“His walking pace continued never out of stride. Continual human motion. Air surrounded by bones and lungs both pushed by will and muscle. The flesh was along for the ride. Merlyn’s heart was not in the rib cage where it belonged. Merlyn’s heart rode on ahead about an arm’s length in front of him. Merlyn’s heart always surrounded him as a projection and a protection. Merlyn was a man you touched before you got close to him. Friend or stranger, all knew Merlyn when they first met. He used this to his advantage. This placed him two moves ahead of whomever he met at any time or place. With a two-move advantage Merlyn nearly always won the game.

He was human though, and did not always win. Sometimes it was a draw but very seldom a loss though he had had a few in his long life. The losses were reminders. You always learn something when you lose, that is the thinking of the Merlyn, that life is a game of chess not chance.

Bishops, kings, queens, knights, rooks or pawns, it makes no difference. The pieces and their respective station squares are culturally carved, which then hold the other pieces to particular squares on the board no matter what the move is. Merlyn flattened his mind and played the whole board. Merlyn is a man who takes charge of himself first, and the others would fall in line or not. Merlyn understands their position on the board of women and men not so free as he.

A true druid’s mind works flat out, two-dimensionally, while the other characters play in a three dimensional world where the squares are not so easily seen. This gives Merlyn yet a third move advantage before the other has even touched his own wooden piece of mind which appears to him to stand so tall, crowned or not. Merlyn didn’t stand anywhere. His legs and arms melted in his mind as he rolled along the path that lead passed Merlyn’s Stones and on towards Ireland and Beyond. Some druids say that alone was a fourth move advantage, but no one knows for sure. Doubt is Merlyn’s secret advantage, and the only one he really needs.

Two priestess of the druidic arts knew Merlyn intimately. If this Master druid ever had a weakness, it was these two priestesses. The male and the female are a natural power unto themselves in whatever union they form. One to the other is a secret understanding shared, and equal they become one unto the other. That is the way it is in druidic lore. A Master druidess does a Master druid make. In the oldest of forgotten druidic stories, the first was a Master druidess, then a Master druid. The real druids always followed the most naturally observable path to whatever invisible path it lead to.

The two druidesses who are a part of this Merlyn story are Brigit, the daughter of Dubhthact who lived on the island of Iona before she was murdered by the very Christian cause that later converted her to sainthood. This Brigit of Iona is assumed to be a reincarnate of the female sage, physician and smith, the goddess of the poets of an earlier time, the Brigit who was the fiery arrow of Ireland. Brigit of Iona was moon-chosen to receive the same name because her father had been a physician and a smith as had his druidic father. She did truly become a fire, one that to be snuffed out as a druidess to then be resurrected into a more orthodox Christian terminology.

The other druidess is Nimue, who [is] sometimes called Vivian, and the better known in stories and poems in which Merlyn is the mortar or cement. Merlyn is the twenty-second stone in these chapters of twenty-one. He can appear a timid mouse or a great sperm whale on almighty waters, but he is a man first and foremost, a man who knows things other men don’t. In here, no matter what true personal beliefs binds the reader to the board, this Merlyn fears not because, as you will see, he has Mother Earth on his side.”

**

         You have spent time searching for images of both ladies. I choose these two to be representative as you are visually oriented to art. The first is an image of a statue of Brigit of Iona from Moonlight Mysteries, titled: “Celtic Goddess Brigid Statue [by] Pagan Wicca Dryad Designs” at Amazon.com.

Below, the second work of art is titled “The Beguiling of Merlin” by the Pre-Raphaelite artist Sir Edward Coley Burne-Jones.

         Quite different images but both are works of art as far as I am concerned. What else? If you have a problem with either one, or any work of art that respects the dignity of the basic human condition, it is your problem not mine. This is an example of the reason the Marsupial aliens in the books call the Place of the Dead, HeavenOrHellBothOrNeither.

         That is rather brutal statement, Amorella.

         Realism is a condition reflected in the books, orndorff. Imagination within Reason, remember. This side project, this blog, fits within the same parameters as the books. This is the reason this blog is under my direction first, yours second.

         I understand completely. I trust your thinking and reflection and focus much better than my own as far as the books and the two blogs are concerned. I allow you to rule my fingertips here – in writing. Still, I sign the works and am responsible for both. – rho.

         Add the scene as it now is and post. All for tonight. Tomorrow, a trip to Westerville for the weekend. We will work when we can. 

Scene 3 (partial, edited and revised)

         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. Some friends are older, better known and deeper within. [to be continued]

***