Late Sunday morning. The usual routine; plus the added delight of seeing a column by John Bridgeland, a former Indian Hill student, in the Enquirer’s opinion section today.
Such matters light up small areas of self-pride, I’m afraid, but teachers know of such things when a former pupil does well in her or his chosen endeavors. I have many such former students in all walks of life that do me proud to have known them along their and my way. Facebook now asks me to choose between closer friends and acquaintances. I cannot with former students; they are all friends as far as I am concerned. At one time I knew (most) each of them better than they themselves. Another small delight echoed through the profession. When their words were honest and true to themselves they gave themselves away in secret – I enjoyed seeing their growth when it occurred, and sometimes before they were consciously aware of it – one of the private joys of a teacher of the expository essay.
Last night, in bed and preparing to sleep, you interloped on the mental connections between your mind, your imagination, and the muse who helps tailor the books and blog.
I am always interested in the true mysteries, the underground ‘connections’ between specific people. Having had two living muses in my life the speculation drills deeper into romance of the heart I assume. Some people speak of lovers or former lovers as soul mates, but though the souls may embrace from time to time as I feel they do, the muse has to do with a toying romance in the heart that this ‘dance of friendship’ becomes who a person is. Friendship anchors one. In this sense I see my agnostic self-desiring to be in a kind of limited friendship with you, Amorella, as a more mature version of make-believe childhood friend, the image of Aunt Jemima. Friendship is, in my mind, more complex stability than love because it has, to me, seemingly less volatility. One may trust a friend more than a lover. I would. I would rather have a friend than a lover, but the best would be a friend and lover with the friend aspects coming first. In my mind it would be easier (less taxing) to be a solid friend after death than a lover or even a friend and lover combined after death.
You are toying with Merlyn’s relationship with Vivien here, boy, whether you realize it or not.
I have been rereading Alfred, Lord Tennyson’s selected version of Merlyn and Vivien and cannot help but think of Eve’s confrontation with Satan in Milton’s Paradise Lost. I do not want Vivien and Merlyn to be that way in this book. I would rather she be Merlyn’s friend and muse, even lover need not be as he is much older than she.
Such a serendipitous end rhyme rings true to your heart of hearts and so it will be to make Vivien Merlyn’s heart’s friend and mind’s muse in this, The Rebellion. – Amorella
And what of the soul; how goes Merlyn to balance his heartansoulanmind in such a worthy and dignified accord?
Chapter 8; Scene 4
Avalon sets surrounded by the River Styx. Other islands also exist where the River appears as wide as oceans. The River is vertical in places and crosses itself at least once as far as these Merlyn series books are concerned. A figure eight is as good as any basic vertical schematic would show and the horizontal is another figure eight which would appear as a figure eight with sides –8– , a four-leaf clover with a twist from a human perspective, which is not as it would be exactly because the human brain from which the mind radiates is not built to see everything; it is built to survive first.
The sea blue skies set between small puffy white clouds driven by an easy warm southeastern breeze such might be the setting of Glastonbury, England on a mild summer day. Moon and stars at night appear in their naturally ordered patterns by the unconscious control its inhabitants, the Celtic Dead. No sun. No wandering planets or comets. No one knows why but overall life in Avalon appears good, very much like that of their neighboring Greeks, down and under or up and above the great crossed circle of bordering Styx, the ever looping Grand Divide between the Living and the Dead of similarly developed species of higher consciousness.
The Shaman of the Board announces: “I am air,” and Merlyn is transparently flowing within his mystical being before a period can form. The calming breeze cools the Apple Isle. Vivien glances skyward as she senses the slow rush of fresh air tickle her bare feet and ankles.
“Enchantment,” whispers Merlyn as he lightly kisses her right earlobe and neck.
I feel pieces of my flesh grow through a series of black and white squares. “Who might you be old man to rush one so fair as I?”
“You have raised me up from the folklore. I see you, my charming Lady but you cannot see me,” he teased.
She smiled a peacefulness through her eyes and replied, “Nor is it my need, Merlyn. I feel you passing.”
Merlyn rolled near her left ear in a slow swirl, “On the way to Arthur, my Vee.”
***
I did not know what to expect, I hope it is to the point. Perhaps it is too short.
Merlyn does not wish to overstay his welcome with his Lady Vivien – one foot in and one foot out, a slow though melodious step. What is that she holds over him? That is the trail to follow. – Amorella
He needs her for the wrong reasons?
Not at all boy, his heart feeds his mind. He does not know the connection; so sad, for Merlyn the shaman who understands much but cannot penetrate the heartansoulanmind of his Lady Vivien nearly so far as she can roll her way through his. Post. - Amorella
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