This, roughly, is the first part of the book I'm writing, an adaptation of Ovid's Metamorphoses.
Of bodies changed to other forms I tell;
You Gods, who have yourselves wrought every change,
Inspire my enterprise and lead my lay
In one continuous song from nature's first
Remote beginnings to our modern times.
In the beginning there was no light or earth or sky. There was only Chaos. The abyss. The absence of all. From this discord, the Gods created life.
From the abyss they tore the sky from her sisters, never again to touch. From the abyss they tore sea from earth. These sisters they would doom to always be touching, but always separate. The Heavens, she watched lonely from her place with only Gods - her sister's children - to comfort her as they created their own home in her breast.
From a union of sisters, Earth and Sea, Prometheus created mankind. Vain as the Gods were, they moulded from mud a creature in their own shape.
The world which was given to humans was a world of milk and honey. Without Strife, men lived as Gods upon the Earth.
Descent arrived. When Saturn fell he brought about a new age of man. An age of temptation and the beginnings of Strife.
Man himself brought about the next age. A bronze age - a race of war and wickedness.
And further still, the world of men fell. An age of iron saw father fight son. Friend was no longer safe from friend. Dissension and immorality plagued the Earth. As brother fought brother they tore their Great Mother apart. And Earth's sister - the seas and rivers - ran red with blood. From their place, safe in the Sky, the Gods watched this downfall, the ruin of their own creation. Something must be done, for the Earth which now bled was their own mother as well...
messenger n.: a person who delivers - a package or a message - from one person to another. see also: don't kill the messenger.
I've no business of my own. No agenda, no ideas worth anyone's mention. No, I am simply a messenger god. At least Mercury got a past - a story and a lively confrontation with his brother Apollo. Not me. I've always been Jupiter's messenger. Or at least I was, until Mercury got himself those winged sandals.
In any case, this was all before Mercury. And I was charged with a mission. To deliver a real message to mankind.
Over a cup of ambrosia, Jupiter turned to me and said, "Iris, something's really got to be done about all that racket bellow us." I agreed. I always agree. No one argues with a man with lightening. Jupiter remained quiet. He gazed out over the clouds, his brow furrowed as he watched the strife below. Years and years from this moment, man would sculpt Jupiter as such, a thoughtful God. But now, the only thing they carved was each other's flesh.
"Iris," he said finally, "I want you to see to it that the world is flooded."
"Flooded?" I asked. For clarity. Never to question his judgement. Messengers never ask questions.
"Yes. Have Zephyr lock up the north wind and release the rain from the south," he said. I nodded.
"And you," he fixed me with his gaze. Looking into Jupiter's eyes is like being in a lightening storm. You're drawn to its power but terrified by its danger. "You gather the waters and refill the clouds. Then go tell Neptune to release the rivers, streams and seas." I nodded again.
I popped over to tell Zephyr and Neptune of their brother's plans, and then set to my own part.
It was peaceful to watch the waves roll over the Earth. The houses and forests on her front were washed away. The animals and humans floated past, wolves and sheep side by side. Birds fell from the sky in sheer exhaustion.
The Earth sighed with relief as her sister's embrace healed her wounds.
Above me, I could feel the Heavens growing heavy, itching to join her sisters. Jupiter would never let that happen. That would mean the end of us as well as the mortals.
Finally, the Seas calmed and I let the clouds run dry. Helios, on his chariot, drove past to warm the Earth's surface and help pull her from her sister's arms. And I watched, a rainbow above the world, just below the Heavens. I watched as the Earth, my mother, emerged a blank slate, ready for mankind to ruin all over again.
Next is Deucalion and Pyrrha, but I still have to work on that part a lot.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
sexing the cherry
There are very few things that make me happier than new books. They make me feel less lonely.
I ordered just ordered these from Chapters on Monday, and they're here already! Huzzah!
My new philosophy: When life throws you lemons, buy books instead.
Wait, no...
When life throws you debt, embrace it and buy more books.
I got Sexing the Cherry by Jeanette Winterson who wrote Weight and who I therefore love. I can't wait to read it. I also bought two of the same book by accident... I totally pulled a Fae. Hmm.
I ordered just ordered these from Chapters on Monday, and they're here already! Huzzah!
My new philosophy: When life throws you lemons, buy books instead.
Wait, no...
When life throws you debt, embrace it and buy more books.
I got Sexing the Cherry by Jeanette Winterson who wrote Weight and who I therefore love. I can't wait to read it. I also bought two of the same book by accident... I totally pulled a Fae. Hmm.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
love isn't just for lovers
I'm in love with the world through the eyes of a girl...
I want to tell you about my girl.
When we're driving and singing along to songs we both love, her voice eclipses mine. I don't have a horrible singing voice, I'm even halfway decent. But she has that quality that goes beyond just hitting the right notes. That broadway quality. She loves music like I love music, like it's a part of her soul. I can't picture her without music playing, because it always is. Her life has a soundtrack.
Her eyes sparkle when we go into the art store. Genuinely. Like a kid in a candy store. Like I've only seen one other time, when we were in London together. Her hands move like she's ready to use that brush, those pastels. Like art is hunger, that's what I see.
She becomes a part of a book like she lives in a song. She breathes it. Like I do. The only other person I've met who reads exactly like I read. From inside, not from outside.
She's the most talented person I've ever known, and I'm certain that she could be a singer, an artist, a writer... anything at all that she wanted to be. She understands what I mean when I tell her that I feel older than I am, she understands what it's like to see more, because she sees it too.
She has beautiful eyes that are always lined in thick black. I used to think that she uses it to hide something, but I think after years of it it's as much a part of her as her skin. My girl is a chameleon. She dyes her hair every month or so, never satisfied. Restless, she tells me she cut it short. Hours later, she wishes it was long again. Black. Blonde. Red. My girl has calico hair that would awkward on almost anyone else. But on her... it fits.
She says she hates herself, and yet she's the only person I've ever met who's consistently herself. I never doubt the authenticity of how she acts, what she wears, what she says. She just is. As if there's no other way she could be but her way. This was the first thing she taught me. She's always been my anchor to reality.
The second thing she taught me is unconditional love. I like to challenge people's love. I've pushed her so many times. But she doesn't push back. She sits, waits and takes it. She's the one person I know would love me at my worst and at my best. She's the one person who I know has only my interests at heart. My girl would bend over backwards to keep from hurting someone, to keep everyone happy. It's so pure and so right - something that I haven't been able to do since I was little, since my barriers came up. And I hate when people use this against her instead of being greatful for it.
If you watch her, my Faerie, when things are quiet... you can see a flash of pain dance over her expression, when she thinks no one is looking. More than anything I want to take that pain away. My girl doesn't cry in front of people. She cries alone and feels alone. Or else she's numb.
My girl is car rides and goodbyes and rain and international flights. She's ice cream and laughter and corn on the cob and grocery stores and nights sleeping on cushions on the floor. She's feeling infinite. She's inspiration. My girl is "imagine." She's Romeo and Juliet and Judas and Johnny Depp. She's a geek and she's Freaks and Geeks and she's fantasy games and video games and Zelda and comic books and she's Batman. She's six feet under. She's Delilah. She's my Konstantine. She's music boxes and unicorns and greeting cards and sparkles in a jar and icing and colours and cake for breakfast. She's London. She's a horseback rider in Killarney. She's drunk and she's sober and she's halfway in between. And she's nice enough to pull over so I can throw up. And laugh, but only when I'm ready too. She's jokes and teasing me and sentences that never make it. She's blue eyes and grey skies and black clothes and fucking depressing movies. She's late nights and twinkies and crying to computer screens. She's my black rose. She's beautiful.
And I love her more than I've loved any other person. In a completely straight way. It would be easier if we were gay. But I don't think love is just for lovers. I'm pretty sure that no one will ever get me the way she does, and I don't even want anyone else to. I'm okay as long as I have my girl.
Amin mela lle, vanima Faerie. My words are all I have to give you, but they're yours, melamin.
I want to tell you about my girl.
When we're driving and singing along to songs we both love, her voice eclipses mine. I don't have a horrible singing voice, I'm even halfway decent. But she has that quality that goes beyond just hitting the right notes. That broadway quality. She loves music like I love music, like it's a part of her soul. I can't picture her without music playing, because it always is. Her life has a soundtrack.
Her eyes sparkle when we go into the art store. Genuinely. Like a kid in a candy store. Like I've only seen one other time, when we were in London together. Her hands move like she's ready to use that brush, those pastels. Like art is hunger, that's what I see.
She becomes a part of a book like she lives in a song. She breathes it. Like I do. The only other person I've met who reads exactly like I read. From inside, not from outside.
She's the most talented person I've ever known, and I'm certain that she could be a singer, an artist, a writer... anything at all that she wanted to be. She understands what I mean when I tell her that I feel older than I am, she understands what it's like to see more, because she sees it too.
She has beautiful eyes that are always lined in thick black. I used to think that she uses it to hide something, but I think after years of it it's as much a part of her as her skin. My girl is a chameleon. She dyes her hair every month or so, never satisfied. Restless, she tells me she cut it short. Hours later, she wishes it was long again. Black. Blonde. Red. My girl has calico hair that would awkward on almost anyone else. But on her... it fits.
She says she hates herself, and yet she's the only person I've ever met who's consistently herself. I never doubt the authenticity of how she acts, what she wears, what she says. She just is. As if there's no other way she could be but her way. This was the first thing she taught me. She's always been my anchor to reality.
The second thing she taught me is unconditional love. I like to challenge people's love. I've pushed her so many times. But she doesn't push back. She sits, waits and takes it. She's the one person I know would love me at my worst and at my best. She's the one person who I know has only my interests at heart. My girl would bend over backwards to keep from hurting someone, to keep everyone happy. It's so pure and so right - something that I haven't been able to do since I was little, since my barriers came up. And I hate when people use this against her instead of being greatful for it.
If you watch her, my Faerie, when things are quiet... you can see a flash of pain dance over her expression, when she thinks no one is looking. More than anything I want to take that pain away. My girl doesn't cry in front of people. She cries alone and feels alone. Or else she's numb.
My girl is car rides and goodbyes and rain and international flights. She's ice cream and laughter and corn on the cob and grocery stores and nights sleeping on cushions on the floor. She's feeling infinite. She's inspiration. My girl is "imagine." She's Romeo and Juliet and Judas and Johnny Depp. She's a geek and she's Freaks and Geeks and she's fantasy games and video games and Zelda and comic books and she's Batman. She's six feet under. She's Delilah. She's my Konstantine. She's music boxes and unicorns and greeting cards and sparkles in a jar and icing and colours and cake for breakfast. She's London. She's a horseback rider in Killarney. She's drunk and she's sober and she's halfway in between. And she's nice enough to pull over so I can throw up. And laugh, but only when I'm ready too. She's jokes and teasing me and sentences that never make it. She's blue eyes and grey skies and black clothes and fucking depressing movies. She's late nights and twinkies and crying to computer screens. She's my black rose. She's beautiful.
And I love her more than I've loved any other person. In a completely straight way. It would be easier if we were gay. But I don't think love is just for lovers. I'm pretty sure that no one will ever get me the way she does, and I don't even want anyone else to. I'm okay as long as I have my girl.
Amin mela lle, vanima Faerie. My words are all I have to give you, but they're yours, melamin.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
a toast...
To all the ones who hated me the most, a toast. You really had me going for second.
I'm jealous. I'll admit it. I'm jealous of my friends from high school living in Europe right now (my work visa expires soon...). I'm jealous of the people who actually get what they want, sometimes. I'm jealous of the people who get to screw me over and still live their happy lives. I'm jealous of anything that's free.
I'm also jealous of the bird that flies and the fish that swims. But no matter how much I wish it, I'll never be them either.
If there is one thing I've learned from being me it's to never give someone else the power to control my getting what I want. Because I'll always lose. Whatever I do get, I fight for tooth and nail.
Am I the poster girl for some suburban sickness? Better keep a healthy distance.
I'm jealous. I'll admit it. I'm jealous of my friends from high school living in Europe right now (my work visa expires soon...). I'm jealous of the people who actually get what they want, sometimes. I'm jealous of the people who get to screw me over and still live their happy lives. I'm jealous of anything that's free.
I'm also jealous of the bird that flies and the fish that swims. But no matter how much I wish it, I'll never be them either.
If there is one thing I've learned from being me it's to never give someone else the power to control my getting what I want. Because I'll always lose. Whatever I do get, I fight for tooth and nail.
Am I the poster girl for some suburban sickness? Better keep a healthy distance.
Sunday, March 2, 2008
no day but today
I randomly remembered today that almost two years ago I wrote a letter to myself, sealed it and stuck it in a box. To open at least a year later. This is what it said:
"Dear Me,
It's a lot like looking in the mirror and not liking what you see. When reexamining my life, I tend to find it empty and useless - and nothing at all like I want it to be. I know the feelings well. For years I've hated the way I look. Now, on top of that, I hate the way I live.
This marks the beginning of a deliberate effort to change my life - to take things into my own hands and to let myself and my life be changed by my own action and the actions of others.
If I can read this in a year, and clearly state at least three huge changes in my life - I will force myself to be content.
My plan for this year is to keep myself so busy that I have no time to feel lonely or inadequate. To leave no room for overthinking!
I will take the dangerous step outside my comfort zone. I will accomplish things. Something. Anything.
Because I'm tired of this and the way its always been. And I'm tired of doing nothing about it. So here we go. One foot forward, one step up.
I want to find the things that make me see the things that make me wonderful. Drown the things that make me fail. Celebrate the things that make me different.
I want to live prepared to die. I want to do extraordinary things because the ordinary is boring and I'm so fucking tired of being me.
So, me... if you (I?) have made any steps in this seemingly right direction... please pat me (yourself?) on the back for me (you?).
There is no day but today.
Love, Me. At the age of 19, August the 10th, 2006."
Still looking for the things that make me see the things that make me wonderful. But I have been ridiculously busy, I did step outside of my comfort zone and I have accomplished things. Maybe. So, pat pat, me. And maybe I should write another.
"Dear Me,
It's a lot like looking in the mirror and not liking what you see. When reexamining my life, I tend to find it empty and useless - and nothing at all like I want it to be. I know the feelings well. For years I've hated the way I look. Now, on top of that, I hate the way I live.
This marks the beginning of a deliberate effort to change my life - to take things into my own hands and to let myself and my life be changed by my own action and the actions of others.
If I can read this in a year, and clearly state at least three huge changes in my life - I will force myself to be content.
My plan for this year is to keep myself so busy that I have no time to feel lonely or inadequate. To leave no room for overthinking!
I will take the dangerous step outside my comfort zone. I will accomplish things. Something. Anything.
Because I'm tired of this and the way its always been. And I'm tired of doing nothing about it. So here we go. One foot forward, one step up.
I want to find the things that make me see the things that make me wonderful. Drown the things that make me fail. Celebrate the things that make me different.
I want to live prepared to die. I want to do extraordinary things because the ordinary is boring and I'm so fucking tired of being me.
So, me... if you (I?) have made any steps in this seemingly right direction... please pat me (yourself?) on the back for me (you?).
There is no day but today.
Love, Me. At the age of 19, August the 10th, 2006."
Still looking for the things that make me see the things that make me wonderful. But I have been ridiculously busy, I did step outside of my comfort zone and I have accomplished things. Maybe. So, pat pat, me. And maybe I should write another.
And all others, who love, and who will love, must they die too?
Euripides' Phaedra was a puppet of the Gods, overcome by Aphrodite's need for revenge on Hippolytus, given no choice but to love him madly and to kill herself to escape that love which would ruin her honour. Seneca's Phaedra is a spoiled princess who wants the world to move around her desire for her stepson, Hippolytus, who is willing to ruin the honour ruin her own honour and that of her entire household to satisfy that need. And who kills herself when she is denied what she wants.
How can one woman be both?
And in each, Hippolytus is both a staunch unblemished servant of Artemis and a hater of woman. Strange that while the woman changes, the man remains the same.
Seneca's Phaedra is the weakness of women, who give in to their desire. Seneca hates women. In Euripides, Hippolytus' hatred of women is something the audience is supposed to find ridiculous.
I like the Greeks far more than the Romans. At least a woman's weakness isn't inherent in the Greek.
"The tide of love, at its full surge, is not withstandable." (Eur. Hippolytus 443) I like that idea, in the Greek, as well, that love is undeniable, that it has power over mortals and Gods alike.
How can one woman be both?
And in each, Hippolytus is both a staunch unblemished servant of Artemis and a hater of woman. Strange that while the woman changes, the man remains the same.
Seneca's Phaedra is the weakness of women, who give in to their desire. Seneca hates women. In Euripides, Hippolytus' hatred of women is something the audience is supposed to find ridiculous.
I like the Greeks far more than the Romans. At least a woman's weakness isn't inherent in the Greek.
"The tide of love, at its full surge, is not withstandable." (Eur. Hippolytus 443) I like that idea, in the Greek, as well, that love is undeniable, that it has power over mortals and Gods alike.
shadows
Last night I fell asleep pretending I was someone else. Not so different - I almost always do.
This morning I realized that, more worrisome, I spend all day pretending I'm someone else. And it's only subconciously, in the middle of the night, that I face the real me. And that's when I realize how much I really hate myself.
I wake up with long cuts all over my arms, my stomach, my legs. Even though I have no finger nails anymore. Even though I don't remember scratching or even being itchy.
Guess my subconscious isn't as strong as my mind during the day. Because I spend all day avoiding doing the exact same thing. And at night, I can't control it at all.
I hate this skin. I don't belong in it. All that's left is to pretend.
...take a look at my body, look at my hands... there's so much here that I don't understand..
This morning I realized that, more worrisome, I spend all day pretending I'm someone else. And it's only subconciously, in the middle of the night, that I face the real me. And that's when I realize how much I really hate myself.
I wake up with long cuts all over my arms, my stomach, my legs. Even though I have no finger nails anymore. Even though I don't remember scratching or even being itchy.
Guess my subconscious isn't as strong as my mind during the day. Because I spend all day avoiding doing the exact same thing. And at night, I can't control it at all.
I hate this skin. I don't belong in it. All that's left is to pretend.
...take a look at my body, look at my hands... there's so much here that I don't understand..
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