Calliope against One's Will

Today a most curious critic darted a very sharp arrow at my playful me. I dodged it with the greatest agility I could grind out of my astonishment but the spearhead of his accusation left a pringly point on my neck nevertheless.

He, the critic, called me a phantom-hunter who willfully misses her target for the sake of inspiration.

Before I start to dismantle this allegation, I want to highlight, however, that it will stay unclear in how far the person that is wielding the defensive pen here might weaponise the artistic licence solely for the matter itself - Ars gratia Artis.

Coming back to the phantom, I have to confess that in a way you, dear Critic, may be more right than you imagine but on a level of a different kind.

Yes, I hunt phantoms, and when I catch them, I dress them and I colour them. I feed them and I starve them. I tame them and I drop them. I squeeze the last drop of inspiration out of my phantoms - whatever they may be, a song, a story, a film, a play, a journey, a painting or a daydream. And yes, it is true, I don't want to bring down my phantoms and keep them. Most of them are straw fires, and apart from me being entirely left-handed when it comes to making a fire, I am also far away from being a gatherer.

But that's about it. Your phantom-theory comes to an end at this point.

Since I know that your metaphor was aiming at a human exegisis, I will do you the favour and defend myself in the court of creativity. But I will whisper and hum.

And I will only say it once: I never dress human beings in a phantom's gown; they are my muses without the intention of sounding dramatic. Human beings' actions are entirely detached from my phantasy. People do inspire but beyond my sphere of influence. In some rare occasions they say and think such precious things that I would love to put their words in a matchbox and carry them around with me every single day. "Her flat is utterly beautiful, and so are her stories" - how could my poor phantasy ever put such fine words into a phantom's mouth? Or a speaking acquaintance whose eyes start to gleam when he talks about ions? Or the friend of a friend who figures me out within a split second, and I can tell by this one simple and still genial question he asks? Or the stranger who goes on about the difference between techno and electronics without knowning that this sermon is usually preached by me? Or the people you can hang out with for days and days without moving one unknown synapse of your brain, and still you won't stumble across boredom or peevishness?

How could I label them as phantoms?

So, yes, maybe I hunt phantoms to inspire myself - but to euphemise it a little, maybe I find inspiration in everything in front of me. Maybe it is a good thing to read colours into plain things and to look for layers in unidimensional objects? And maybe it is a good things to dream in colour when reality serves 214 shades of grey and as such 16384 nuances between black and white?

And maybe it is a good thing to browse for one song that carries that certain something for hours and hours instead of listening to old stuff without hearing something that connects to new places within myself?

How could I plead not guilty when your accusation of being a phantom-hunter means that I am tracing epiphanies? I hereby declare under oath that there is no greater good than inspiration for me as a writer, and for me as an adventurer.

And now, I will retire and polish my shotgun. But before I do so, dear Critic, I shall note that the sweet pain of inspiration that your arrow left is now ceasing and that you were my muse for one hour and a half - nolens volens. I hope Calliope's wreath suits you - be it braided from yellow or white lilies. This determinant detail shall remain my secret.

And the rest is silence.

"Chance is always powerful. Let your hook be always cast; in the pool where you least expect it, there will be a fish." ~ Ovid

A Holiday of Arts & Science ~ dedicated to L.L.S.

I am looking at you looking pretty and pretty small under the high ceiling of the Apollo-guarded sky, and you tell me to write about being in love with being out of love, and you tell me to write about friendship. My muse, however, she is lazy and spoiled, lolling about in her holiday mood.

Your joyful feet are dangling in the perfect present while your mind reaches out to the present perfect of the sphere of science. But excuse me, Madam, why exactly are you putting your shoes on? "Because if I die in a bath-tub, only with my cowboy boots on."

But we won't ever die, my dear, we won't ever die. Who wants to live forever? We do. And this summery fraction of our eternity will last. Until the day of departure at the very least.

We will share the old sounds and the novel, we will share the sunny seconds and the breezy hours, the tipsy nights and the early morning polar bear moods. I will be in love for you, you will be out of love for me.

And we will love being in love, and we will love being out of love. Our hearts are heartless. Our arts are artless.

And when it comes to the art of living, nobody can fool us. We master the joie de vivre standing on our heads with both hands tied.

We are alive on the same planet, at the same time. Could we be luckier? And even if we have to sail under the flags of unequal adventures for a while or forever, this will be one of the things that will never change.

And now, lets put our shoes off and tip-toe into our vibrant and sonorous garden of Eden where the sun hangs low and the time stands still.

Tick. Tick. Tick. I can't hear it. Can you?

"You begin saving the world by saving one person at a time; all else is grandiose romanticism or politics."

~ Charles Bukowski

A Matryoshka of Distress

Sometimes, sometimes he wants to do nothing else but indulge the pressing urge that his flaring in the hollow above his breastbone and throw himself onto the floor. He wishes he would be able to give up. Give up. Give up. Man, give up!

He wishes he would become crazy for real - pathologically insane. Don't they hear him? Can't they understand? Does he have to scream? He has been aching to do so, to scream for quite a while. But he is well-mannered and disgustingly polite.

Now he is sitting on the edge of his tidy bed, staring at the floor. And the crevices between the boards look more inviting than the rest of the world.

He doesn't want it anymore, the responsibility for himself. He never asked for it after all. Can somebody else take charge of him? Please? Please!

He wishes he was strong enough to take a knife and slit his wrists. Dilettante enough to survive of course. He doesn't want to die. He isn't insane when it comes down to it. All he wants is others to take over and to lie on his back like a beetle and blink and breath - at a max.

Hello? Hello out there. You can have me, please can somebody come and rescue me? From myself. From the world. I am not very talented in living. I am untterly nonviable.

Why does he have to live anyway? He never asked for it - this life.

Thank you very much but I don't want it. Do you hear me? I DON'T WANT IT!

At least they could have made him suicidal or fearless so he wouldn't be scared of dying and could put an end to this tragedy. Once dead he wouldn't give a shit anyway - so why the fear? But even thinking about it awakens the panic. And panic and world-weariness don't go well together.

He is tired. And the undefinable sorrow is tearing his heart out. It hurts to bad. Physically. Why can't they see it? Why don't they come, pull him onto their laps, stroke his hair, kiss his forehead and tell him that everything is going to be fine, that he doesn't have to worry anymore, that they will take care of him? Please. Please. Can anybody just..? Anybody.

His inner dialogue or rather his monologue of misery fades away unheard in his tiredness and he lets himself fall back onto the matress. God, he wishes he could cry now - give himself to a flood of tears as a cathartic measure. But they won't come out although he knows that they are the ones responsible for the pain.

And so he tries hard - once again. He thinks of the ones he lost, the dead and the living. He tries to convince himself that nobody loves him, that he is alone and miserable. But it won't work. He crossed the crying border a long time ago.

And he is not unloved. He is not alone. Miserable? Maybe. But they don't know it. They love him. They adore him.

He never asked for it. He never wanted it.

He gets up and undressed, folds his clothes meticoulously, brushes his teeth and lies down. Before he turns off the light he swallows a sleeping tablet. One. And still he wishes he wouldn't wake up in the morning to smile and nod his way through yet another day while the invisible pain and sorrow eat him away in secret.

While he is waiting for the drug to kick in he examines the very bottom of his dolorous guts to see if there is anything below the pain. A tiny flash of hope. But all he feels is pain in pain in pain in pain. And before the tears can ooze, the pill sends him to sleep.

"Understanding of our fellow human beings becomes fruitful only when it is sustained by sympathetic feelings in joy and sorrow." ~ Albert Einstein

Not in the Mood for Fainthearts

You want my advice?

Who am I to tell you?

I have got a million recipes in my naïve pockets,

a million empty aphorisms.

You wonder where you are heading?

Why would you want to know?

Next year you could be anywhere.

With whomsoever.

Seems like freedom per se to me.

Doesn't it sound more intriguing than a snapshot of a picture-perfect future?

If you need to know, plan and scheme away.

I find it confining enough to watch the seasons taking turns.

Fortune tellers, stay away from my door, here you won't make a fortune.

I won't buy the corset of certainty.

You can have it. Lace it as tight as you can. I won't help you tie the bow.

Build a castle in your head. Furnish it. Paint it.

But what if a sailor comes along?

Scheme away. Dream away. I'll pass.

You want my advice?

Inhale. Exhale.

Lean back in a rocking chair.

Smoke a pipe.

And dangle your toes - for better or for worse.

Nihil novi sub sole

Solarphobic

Solarphobic?

Maybe I am.

With swift and nimble feet

I tend to run from the shadows cast.

And just by snipping a finger I shove the sun towards the horizon

and push it over the edge.

But tonight - in secret - I will dream

about me catching a sunray with a butterfly net.

To keep it.

Solarphobic?

Maybe I am.

"All limits are self-imposed", Icarus said and fell from the sky.