Up at five-thirty. Fed the cats. Carol to be up at seven. Another day of appointments, chores and errands. Paper has not been arriving until seven or after. You are ready to go back to bed but are wondering on how much meaning people put to things.
Last night on NBC News Brian Williams ended the program with a photo he took on his phone of a small segment of a rainbow over the Gulf and thought it might be a ‘sign’ which it was not. A bit of hope by Brian perhaps but why do we do this? Why do we look of signs? That’s what the shamans did thousands of years ago. Is hope that fragile that we have to see signs in the smallest events? So powerful is the need to hope. It is no wonder the story of Pandora still exists. It is amazing to me on how connected we ‘make’ ourselves to the rest of the natural world and yet how defiant we are to show we are somehow beyond it. What kind of species are we to be torn between two Wills of our Nature? I am as guilty as anyone. It is a strange phenomena that drives some to wonder, some to drink, and some, like me, to write.
You’ll get nothing much from me on that, orndorff. Besides, you need to get a grip. Pandora is a radio station these days, a pretty good one from what I’ve heard, nothing much to do with hope though, other than with the anticipation of the next upcoming song. Modern people have a better perspective than ancient Greeks. Enjoy the music. Post. – Amorella.
I expected better from you, Amorella.
Too much clouded humor, orndorff. Blow away your steam and look at the slick joke, boy. - Amorella.
Mid-morning. You are ready to work on the last scene of chapter five. This scene is all Merlyn with apologies to genetic Mother and an interruption that makes for a last minute transition into scene one of chapter six.
Carol is off to an appointment. You have spent a half hour or so searching for photos and gathering history of Canterbury which you want to be as a setting. Why not use the photo of the nave of the present Cathedral as a place of memory to begin Merlyn’s thoughts. This will represent the inside of his mind, the spiritual center of Merlyn. Recheck and I will choose the photo for you. – Amorella.
We have three photos to begin. One looks west from shrine candle and quire to the nave, a second looks east from the quire, and another looks from nave east to the quire. These are above the ruins of St. Augustine’s original building of the church. As you found, however the original church in Canterbury was St. Martin’s the oldest church in England. Place the photo (Wikipedia) here as this was the church in Merlyn’s time had he passed this way.
The photographs give you a flavor, more heart-toned than mind. You have twice walked the ‘modern’ cathedral nave from west to east to the shrine candle and beyond, once in 2001 and again in 2007. I assure you Merlyn won’t mind this bit of imagination I am inducing.
I can climb into it, Amorella. After all, the cathedral architecture is one of the two designated as my muses for these three books. This is rather exciting, both intellectually and spiritually. I suppose this appears rather nerdish or geek-like to some, but to find my mind presently connecting directly with a living memory, I am as they say, in two places at once, as is Merlyn in this scene. It will do for me, it will be authentic enough, more so, in a way, from the fiction.
Post and take a break. This will work, orndorff. – Amorella.
Over at the Sharon Nursery Garden Store after lunch at Five Guys. Waiting on Carol. She bought two tomato and green pepper plants. Afterward, Carol wants to walk even though it is mid-day. Let’s get these photos in order for use in this scene. > Now you are over parking along the Streets of West Chester while Carol looks for clothes for Florida at Chico’s. You go along to get out of the house. The walk is postponed as it is too hot. Let’s get to it.
You started and finished in one sitting. A first draft to be sure, but enough for now. Bring the work together and begin the audio draft tomorrow. – Amorella.
I will do so, Amorella, but I do not understand what this scene is. I threw it together. I don’t even know if it makes any sense to me let alone to another reader. I did not even use the photographs. Where is Canterbury Cathedral in all this? No nave or quire in reference as far as I can see.
This looks as if it were written by my usual hand alone. Poem-like stumbling. I see no ecclesiastical setting here.
Post it orndorff and let it be. When chapter five is audio transcribed you will witness a rising stone of words. It is close and within. Let it filter out, an aroma. This is thought rising. Let it rise.
I don’t like this creative thinking analogy either. I find it trite, useless and even somewhat embarrassing.
Post the scene.
Scene 14
Merlyn’s Mind felt a movement, a tincture-toned tearing, a two color rupture, an imbalance caused by one disembodied spiritual plate sliding over another more cerebral. Two forest green pillared candles spiraled in blue, appear pulled, one on each side of the dark matte(re)d square of White King Five. Empowered, he thought, but not so smooth as an earthly running with legs. From this rafted mind-set Merlyn stood flat and carpet-like with that Merlyn eye above observing the River Styx below. A distant river tensely Cobra-coiled with its open-ended mouth set to engorge or regurgitate.
The infrared coming and ultraviolet going of electro-magnetic-like and yet human understanding in his ecclesiastical soul appeared tainted by a non-descript metaphysical nonsense not generated by his own once factual species. This streaming gray nonsense is but a mask, thought Merlyn immediately, it is the pointed antithesis of the reasoning Angels. Sharpened chaos, a two-edged blade slicing on one side and healing on the other while still in a downward stroke. My mind drains into the Styx far below while at the same time this mind and others feed the River’s source. The mind is the diamond atop the great coiling River beneath once brain registering patterns of thought. The mind is at once formless and formed, from coiled serpent to chessboard. Both or one in the same because they are beyond registry even with my wisest judgment at hand. It is no wonder the dervish of twelve appears to have stopped cold and as solid as the dark naked mold of the yet to be heated and fired blade.
A master smithy I am to forge the melding of heartansoulanmind to more easily bridge timeanspace by a conditional thought wheeled from the footsteps of an Angel’s afterthought. With board underfoot I walk the sixty-four squares, the warming bridge of calculated reason to mix a cemented soul and cold-hearted stony iron beams into a new form of shadowed light within the joining minds of the Living and the Dead.
Merlyn’s mind in an long and drawn ecstasy, but without the hammering force of passion to temper this cutting and healing blade of his. He does not have the force for the downward stroke and what becomes stuck in the awakening minds of many is an embittered sense of injustice and painful sorrow. And, in a flash of insight, Merlyn understands the reason he spent his life running from what he had previously done.
The moment had come. Merlyn owed a confession of thought to Mother before the consequence was known to the Living and Dead alike. He slowly walked from square to square with no other piece seen there. The Queen’s power alone on an empty board. He heard the timely voice of the Supervisor’s whisper, “There will be no chess mating here, boy.”
***
All this and more he confessed directly to our genetic Mother. A confession of thoughts alone, thoughts that caused no rippling wake as thoughts cannot do without the plentiful minds of humanity stroking the oars to get things done. Dreams, Merlyn came to understand can be bound up but still register as nothing without so much as a cover to hide the nakedness of a once-mothered soul alone, without so much as a spiritual twig to hide behind.
***
So much in loneliness is Merlyn the dreamer warped. The many, the Dead at hand, heard or saw nothing of Merlyn’s deeply inner, and now confessed reality. The Dead moved on, as did the Living, each with their own weighted relationships, each, like breathing air in and out, with an invisibly touching tip of one into the another, like unconscious billowing lungs of passion. No blade in sight, only a thread of consciousness built on hope alone, a hope that had the collective power to drive a great River coiling around the many cultural islands of the Dead. Hope the species-whole secretly and collectively felt would bring the Dead to the Living as it once brought them, the Living, to the Dead.
This was the issue before the dawn of the eighth day. The Supervisor observed, as always. The CareTaker watched as if viewing the birth of a great star, far, far away. He had an inkling that it wasn’t a star, however, or a child either. The closest translation Merlyn heard or perhaps misheard is :.:.:.:. . The word suddenly sat in his mind’s center without context, an enigma in four ever scrambling sequence of letter-like dots without known alphabet or reason.
Concluded first draft of scene fourteen to Chapter Five.
***
You and Carol took time to watch Flash-Point. The return of a favorite. Your first draft here is the cement of the scene. The rest will be description from inside the nave and quire of Canterbury Cathedral, England. You can work on this as you go along. Take a photo place it in a document, then write a description of it. Once you have this done from the three photos below you will have scene fourteen as draft fit for an audio draft. – Amorella.
[Photographs below from
Paradoxplace British Abbeys and Cathedrals: Inside Canterbury Cathedral]
Above: Nave looking east
Above: Choir looking east
Above: Shrine candle/Choir looking west to nave
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