Caryatid

nothing good comes quickly

(i have nothing but quick moments
these days)

of course
taking too long to begin
can lead to nothing at all

this is what i tell myself
as i sit
staring
at this unbroken field of white

i long for something wonderful
(i long for anything at all)
to issue forth from my fingers
from my soul

i dig in deeper
trying to throw off the block
that's weighing down
my unresponsive muse

Be Brave, Be Joyful

I've been working on a bit of Intentional Art for Neeps's room over the past week, and today I finished it up (minus spraying it with sealant, which I'll do tomorrow).  I chose to continue the vaguely nebula-ish theme I started with the heavenly foxes I did before he was born, which meant using a lot of purple and silver, with hints of blue and magenta.  It's basically a glitterific version of my own personal mantra, which I think is a good one (obviously, or I wouldn't use it), and appropriate for just about anyone, including little kids.

I started out by doing an under-drawing of the sigil I use to represent the phrase, "Be Brave, Be Joyful":

Kind of like a hula-dancing snowman?

I did this in black indelible ink, because I wanted it to act like the "bones" of the image, upon which everything else would hang.  I didn't necessarily intend for it to show through on the final image and more than our skeletons show through our skin, but it was an important piece of support.  I painted over the ink with silver acrylic, then sprinkled that with silver glitter, and finally went over the whole thing with a wash of purple.  Then I did my best approximation of a rainbow pull* with magenta, purple, and blue glitter:

(basically I just sort of tilted it and hoped for the best, then swirled up the corners with a brush)

Once that was nice and dry (and smacked on the counter a lot to try to remove excess glitter) I came back with black acrylic to write the actual phrase, "Be Brave Be Joyful".  It still needed something from a visual-weight standpoint, tho', so I added some horizontal lines (and thereby accidentally put the I Ching symbol for thunder, which is so incredibly perfect that I'm pretty sure my subconscious must have been in overdrive).

Then, of course, there needed to be more silver glitter over the letters.

But then it was too much silvery glitter, so I went over it with a wash of black, to take down the foreground bling and bring the focus back to the phrase:

Glitter is hard to capture in photographs.

I'm reasonably satisfied with the results, which are pleasingly graffiti-like (and, obviously, appealingly glittery) but I may eventually call this one a Rough Draft and do it again.  (Artists are allowed to do that, you know.)





*tracking that video down made me incredibly nostalgic for my silk-screening days.  ::sigh::  I need more free time/disposable income.

The Muse Focus

It's Offically November, and you know what that means-

NaNoWriMo!

My goal for today was to churn out 5000 words (which I did).  I hope to get another 3-5k tomorrow.  For some reason I'm feeling the urge to really front-load my word count this year.

Anyway, I sat at the table and wrote, and as I did so I kept this close by my side:

purdy

My mother gave it to me years ago: technically it's just a glass fishing float, but I call it my Muse Focus.  That is to say, a Focus for Summoning my Muse.  I have a few items that work for this, depending on what I'm doing (one is a pretty sweet gun belt that belonged to my father), and I think that if they are honest, most authors have something or other that works for them in a similar manner, be it a favorite pen or a certain photo or a pretty rock.  We writers are creatures of superstition and habit: of course we surround ourselves with talismans.

Conversation With My Muse

"Not good enough."

"What? What do you mean, 'not good enough'?"

"I mean precisely what I said. This offering is pathetic, and certainly not worthy of reward."

"How can you say that? It's exactly the same thing I gave you last time!"

"Precisely my point. And if you can't bother to be creative, why should I?"

"...I think you misunderstand your role in this relationship."

"And I think you should be more polite to the higher being you're petitioning. Now, come up with a better offering."

"How about extreme frustration? Does that do anything for you?"

"No, but the sarcasm might."

Voracious

The problem with muses is that they don't work for free.

Not that they want coin- which may or may not be fortunate for we starving artists who worship them. No, there is only one currency those creatures are interested in, only one currency which holds any sway-

Mortal joy.

You see, mortal emotions burn so much more brightly than those of the immortal beings, because they are compressed into such short life spans. Everything we feel- joy, anger, sadness- in comparison to how the immortals experience things, they are emotional concentrate. More pure than purity itself.

You might think that the muses would be satisfied with any emotion, so long as it was mortal, but the truth is, things like tragedy and despair hold no interest for them. They are too familiar by far with those experiences (hence the tragedy inherent in so much of great art). And love, what some mortals would think to be the most divine of all mortal experiences- that holds even less interest for them. After all, they have too often seen the results of this most destructive of emotions. Thus they content themselves with joy, with happiness, even with serenity and contentment. These are the emotions they are hungry for, and these are the sacrifices they demand of their supplicants.

How do I know these things? How could I not? Have I not noticed, time and again, that my highest art emerges only when I am sunk in the depths of despair? They say you must suffer for your art, and I know it to be true- because unless I surrender what is joyful and good in my mind, in my heart, in my very soul- how shall the muse be fed? And if the muse is not fed, whence my inspiration? So I welcome gray depression with open arms, because I know the muse must have her due- and soon I will create again.

Summoning

It wasn't as much of a last resort as she'd have them believe, but that did not mean it did not take effort.

She banished the rest of them from the house that evening- partially because she did not wish to share her secrets with the uninitiated, and partially because the creature she sought to summon was notoriously fickle- she could not risk the thing possessing someone else. (Come to think of it, that, too, probably counted as not wishing to share her secrets...)

Once they were gone, she purified herself. No creature of light would care to take up residence in a filthy host, so it was holy water and a good strong salt scrub for her- with a few drops of rose oil because hey- why not smell pleasant while invoking Beings from a higher plane? Still tingling from her bath, she began laying out the candles in the appropriate patterns. Long trial and error had taught her the prudence of moderation- too few flames and the creatures might not even notice you- or, worse, they might be insulted by your stinginess (and heaven save her from the petty grudges of spirits!) Too many candles and you might attract the attentions of something more powerful than you were willing to bargain with. Always awkward.

Her hair was beginning to dry by the time she changed into her ceremonial robe. It was soft and black, in no way competing with the vivid white lights cast by the candle flames (again- best to avoid any hint of insult). Not to mention it hid stains beautifully... She was already wearing her summoning amulet, strung on a chain as silver as the moon itself. She was ready.

She was not ready! She had almost forgotten the Offering. Shaking her head at familiarity's contempt, she padded into the kitchen on bare feet and filled a goblet with the appropriate liquid. She, personally, could not stand the stuff, but she need take no more than a small sip to align her awareness.

She settled herself down amidst the candles and began chanting, eyes half-focused on the shimmer of reflected candlelight in the goblet. Suddenly, the shimmer stopped wavering, grew brighter, and began to pulse in time to her words. Carefully, knowing that the small sip was more than enough to knock her on her ass, she raised the vessel to her lips, and drank.

Immediately she fell backwards (part of the reason for the oh-so-painstaking arrangement of the candles), surrendering control of her body to the Being she had called. If it was pleased with what it found (both in the cup and in her) it would stay. If not... well, never mind that.

As if in a dream she watched the Being raise up from the dark liquid and dance through the candles (counting them, probably, thought the small fraction of her brain still able to function). There it was, born of fire and poison, creation and destruction:

Her Muse.

(Summoning the Muse)