Moods of Melancholy Magic

Moods of Melancholy Magic

Sleepy still is my waking mood on this fine ‘ole September morn.

The peaking sun has just barely warmed the dew when I nudge the screen door open. This new day air feels heavy as it hangs precarious on the moistened hands of my grandfather’s weather beaten outdoor clock, rusted in place years ago. The light is soft grey with sublime yellow pockets of dim sunshine selectively shining on open patches in the garden where summer leaves once provided shade. The old wooden slats on our beloved porch almost squish under the weight of my well-worn slippers as my feet lead me unthinkingly toward my favorite coffee spot. The swishing sound of shuffling across the porch comes slowly to an end as I slip the cool damp cloth off my feet and leave them laying frozen in my final step. The radiant heat from my tiny body quickly warms my grandmother’s hand sewn cushion as I snuggle down into a gentle fetal position on her wicker chair, tucking my elbows tightly against my ribs and drawing the cup of coffee to rest comfortably under my chin. I notice the steam rising wonderfully fragrant from her cobalt blue stoneware mug is the same smoking grey color as the light casting over this melancholy moment and the potency of memories wafting past dissipates just as mysteriously under the transparent veil of evaporating moisture.

A quick unexpected slurping sound breaks this morning’s silence as I take my first tentative sip, allowing my head a chance to catch up with the faint heartbeat in this day. Time slowly saunters by, seducing me to ponder as my eyes graze for meaning amidst the deeply familiar places in my view. My head is starving for the sense in making it all seem relevant. But the threshold of time seems barely visible as this day’s mood insists on being pensive in its cavernous simplicity.  Even the morning song of Mother Nature deepens the subtle gloom that saturates my porcelain thin skin and seems to solidify with each note the distance between what was yesterday and what will be tomorrow.

The melan in this choly is as thick and heavy as the fragile family album sitting now as the story telling focus of my attention in the warmth of my lap. The now still characters of my life are captured there in the black and white images, tattered along the edges and anchored by dingy lose pieces of brittle scotch tape. A tear finally drops in slow motion from the tip of my nose as it points toward the photo of my darling grandparent’s sitting in this very spot 62 years ago when life was full and the light on this porch was as bright as the couple’s proud newly wed smiles. Careful not to disturb the sacred dust binding this book to my heart, I lift the large unsupported page tenderly, listening for dangerous signs of damage as I lay it across to the other side. And there we are, dressed like little dolls and tiny men, hunting Easter eggs in her lively garden while our parents clapped their laughter of encouragement, no one posing for the picture. The light small grin that graces the corner of my mouth seems almost disconnected as I remember that day so vividly in spite of the crackling I hear when I run my own aging fingers across the oddly shaped, barely glossy photo as if to touch my family back into life, gently caressing it as if to revive the cheerfulness inside me that lived abundantly so long ago. A mild blue sadness washes me back to the present, balanced by my thoughtful gratitude, as I realized that today the screen door will not bang against the jam as 6 children run though it, heading for the dinner table after a barely adequate stop in the washroom.  The only laughter I will hear today, the only movement I will feel, the only blessed life I will breathe today will be the past abounding forward from this day’s gift of a melancholy mood, magically centering itself in her chair on the porch where I sip my coffee and remember.

Re: Moods of Melancholy Magic

ohmygod

Knowing how this story came to you dear Syn … yes, she is beautiful and she is somewhere in the middleland of poetry and prose, like that yellow pocket of dim not knowing if it wanted to be air or water. Soft evolution, very soft.

Wonderfully captured moment, gentle and rich of detail, a magical melancolic moment, just perfect. And the moment is also captured in continum of time passed and yet to come in for of growth, the offspring running nudging her world without knowing it's there.

Thank you dearest Syn, you brought me to the plains of serenity, much needed. Thank you.

Love,
Nono

Re: Moods of Melancholy Magic

Why am I so sad?

Sadness has never been so beautiful, so melancholy, moody, or magic. This is more than a tone piece, it's a mood piece, or a dream on paper. Goodness, Karen Lynn, I don't know what to say, other than God thank you. I would say wow but I'm not in the mood for it. That was remarkably beautiful, and moving. Gentle motion, barely rocking, swung words caressing the eyes, the ears, the heart. So gentle, so very gentle. Are you a water sign? Your words were liquid, flowing lapping slowly swirling words like a lake or a warm spring, an ocean of feeling in which I drowned. But softly, sweetly, an ego-death or art-posterity of dropping away, swirling down, detaching and coming around…to see the sun glistening on the waters and hear morning birdsong and the sound of slippers. Chickadee an octave down and slower.

So many of your phrases blew me away. I would list them, but your ________ (don't think there's a name for it) is sacred to me, and to tear a single word from its fated place would be blasphemic. It is such an utter whole, an unmoving cycle, a memory/dream, yin and yang minus the yin and without the yang. Your words fit not because they should but because they do. Not for me to disturb their dreamy essence and harmonious melodies. Your words shall remain where they are, my dear, in their holy sepulchre of diffused light.

Yet I, alas, shall be different than I was, sadder, and yet somehow uplifted, moved to a new spot on fortune's wheel. I shall never see again the day I never read this. But that's okay, because it's okay to be me.

Ha, sorry Synerjyz, sometimes the words grab me by the neck and run off with my head. I'm kind of in an altered state after reading your ________. Hope you know it's mine now. Mine, all mine! Heh heh heh. At least it's on my hard drive, properly attributed, of course, to the Goddess of All Motherfarkin Ya Ya's. I'm going to read it again and again, read it until the words wear out and all that's left is morning sunshine.

Maybe then I can finally get some peace.

Hope you know what kind of ride your words took me on, dearheart. I found myself once or twice during the read pulling on my editorial hat and then I realized, holy shit, the free fall method of writing applies to reading too! You have to take off the editorial hat even when you're reading, go completely nude-head, bare-head naked, so the words don't have time to lodge in your brain but sail right into your heart. Then you can read it true. If the editorial voice butts in during the first read, you lose the magic. You have to give up control as a reader too, let the song of the sound carry you where it will. Judgement kills, not only teenager's egos, but artistic communication between souls. You judge art by living it and you can only live it if you let it in.

What price perfection?

Perfection is Hell, that's what it is. It's freakin dangerous, literally it kills people. it's killing me, I know that much.

I can suck just fine on my own, without throwing perfection into the mix for pete's sake. That's like kicking a dead horse, all you get is a smelly boot. Perfect.

Jesus, where did that come from? Sorry about that, but suppose I needn't apologize, since it's your fault I'm tapping unheeded depths of sorrow, anger, and mixed-up love. I need to go read this some more now, after I print it out. Moods of Melancholy Magic will be the last thing I see tonight. I long to dream.

Thank you Delectable Word Wyyvern!

Love,

Tom

(William Wall's definition of a perfectionist: Somebody who can't do anything right.)

Re: Moods of Melancholy Magic

Tell me! Tell me now! where isn't this perfect? tell me what you saw before you took off  your editorial hat …quickly now, where is it? …ha ha haaaaaaaaaa! just kiddin' (well, sort of)

I had to make you giggle just a bit my beloved Tom because I can barely speak right now. The kindrid in my spirit as me so connected to you right now. Thank you so much for falling (out) in your response. I have so much I want to share with you about it but as I mentioned, I can barely speak, may I leave you with ………

my arms tightly squeezing around your neck and shoulders, perched on my tippy toes to reach, in a gently warm and spontaneous hug*
~

Re: Moods of Melancholy Magic

Well, I always was something of a blasphemer. One of my few areas of expertise, actually. So I'll give it a whirl. Remember, you asked for it Synergyz. It is blasphemy in a way, because you are the goddess of this little universe and I a mere mortal, experiencing your creation. Who judges the Godhead? Oh great, blasphemy and now hubris. The curse of the editor.

Ha ha! so…Promethus Jr. that I am, I'm going to steal the fire of your words from the mountaintop and take them back to the land of mortals, to share with the rest of the underserving ne'r-do-wells, by which of course I mean humans and specifically in this case, from DD to Microsoft Word. There we will use if for our own nefarious purposes, by which I mean of course apply rules to it so we can use it to make other rules.

Back in an hour or so(I hope)….

Well, the deed is done. Hope it doesn't have any negative implications for my hereafter. And hope this is helpful. I may have missed something but I hope not. Just my relatively educated opinions. It sure is a stellar piece of work, Karen Lynn. Trying to line-edit it was actually fun, in a tormented hellish kind of way.

…………………………………..
 

Sleepy still is my waking mood on this fine ‘ole September morn.

The peaking (this one really threw me into a dreamy state, one of unexpectedness, but thought I'd check to see if you meant peeking, even though I like peaking better) sun has just barely warmed the dew when I nudge the screen door open. This new day air (don't you just love three one-syllable words in a row? Segues perfectly into heaviness.) feels heavy as it hangs precarious on the moistened hands of my grandfather's weather beaten outdoor clock, rusted in place years ago. I like that sentence too much to say anything about it, but will anyway. Is there a better metaphorical sentence? Maybe somewhere. It forshadows our time-bound tale, carrys on the dewy beginning and lets us know how precarious such a morning is, it hangs in time. The light is soft grey with sublime (is this word necessary? maybe something not so, well, sublime? I've always found ‘immanent' a good word to use for something that's sublime but you don't actually want to say the word itself. Immanent is one of those words that nobody knows what it means, and then when you look it up you still don't know what it means, exactly. One way to imply sublime. A rule of thumb of mine when writing seriously is never to say anything is the ultimate of anything, since it strikes me as breathy and enthusiastic, one way to spot someone who's not yet a master of craft and at ease with the tools, trying to impress by volume rather than content. But it's your world, baby, I'm just reading in it.) yellow pockets of dim sunshine selectively (blame Sandra, also patches are by nature selected from the rest, so it's implied) shining on open patches in the garden where summer leaves once provided shade. The old wooden slats on our beloved porch almost squish under the weight of my well-worn slippers as my feet lead me unthinkingly (feet by definition don't think, so the adverb is implied) toward my favorite coffee spot. The swishing sound of shuffling across the porch comes slowly to an end as I slip the cool damp cloth (not sure about this one, but when I first read it I did a doubletake and said to myself when did she put a cloth on her feet…cloth slippers maybe?) off my feet and leave them laying (sure it's not lying? me neither.) frozen in my final step. The radiant heat from my tiny body quickly warms my grandmother's hand-sewn cushion as I snuggle down into a gentle fetal position on her wicker chair, tucking my elbows tightly against my ribs and drawing the cup of coffee to rest comfortably under my chin. I notice the steam rising wonderfully fragrant from her cobalt blue stoneware mug, is the same smoking grey color as the light casting over this melancholy moment. and The potency of memories wafting past dissipates just as mysteriously under the transparent veil of evaporating moisture.

A quick unexpected slurping sound breaks this morning's silence as I take my first tentative sip, allowing my head a chance to catch up with the faint heartbeat in this day. Time slowly saunters by, seducing me to ponder as my eyes graze for meaning (think I'll call my firstborn My Eyes Graze For Meaning) amidst the deeply familiar places in my view. My head is starving for the sense in making it all seem relevant. (I had to work on this sentence when I read it, but when I got it I said, Oh yeah! (light bulb on) But the threshold of time seems barely visible as this day's mood insists on being pensive in its cavernous simplicity.  Even the morning song of Mother Nature deepens the subtle gloom that saturates my porcelain-thin skin and seems to solidify with each note the distance between what was yesterday and what will be tomorrow. (yowsa)

The melan in this choly (I love that) is as thick and heavy as the fragile family album sitting now as the story telling focus of my attention in the warmth of my lap as the story-telling focus of my attention. The now still characters (strikes me as a little stilted but for the life of me I can't think of anything better) of my life are captured there in the black and white images, tattered along the edges and anchored by dingy lose pieces of brittle scotch tape. A tear finally drops in slow motion from the tip of my nose as it points toward the photo of my darling grandparents sitting in this very spot 62 sixty-two years ago when life was full and the light on this porch was as bright as the couple's proud newlywed smiles. Careful not to disturb the sacred dust binding this book to my heart, I lift the large unsupported page tenderly, listening for dangerous signs of damage as I lay it across to the other side. And there we are, dressed like little dolls and tiny men, hunting Easter eggs in her lively garden while our parents clapped their laughter of encouragement, no one posing for the picture. The light small grin that graces the corner of my mouth seems almost disconnected as I remember that day so vividly. In spite of the crackling I hear when I run my own aging fingers across the oddly shaped, barely glossy photo as if to touch my family back into life, gently caressing it I gently caress it as if to (try to?) revive the cheerfulness inside me that lived abundantly so long ago. A mild blue sadness washes me back to the present, balanced by my thoughtful gratitude, as I realized realize that today the screen door will not bang against the jam as 6 children run though it, heading for the dinner table after a barely adequate stop in the washroom. The only laughter I will hear today, the only movement I will feel, the only blessed life I will breathe today will be the past abounding forward from this day's gift of a melancholy mood, magically centering itself in her (another time I was puzzled for a sec, I figured it out finally but didn't get much satisfaction from my feat this time…could you italicize her if you don't want to say the g word?) chair on the porch where I sip my coffee and remember.

Man that last word fits like a key in my psyche, opening worlds. This is so freakin sweet. I have really mixed opinions about the value of line editing in this forum.

But I have only one opinion about a request of yours, Syn, and it's along the lines of Sandra's hai.

Love,

Tom

Re: Moods of Melancholy Magic

this is just wonderful… I would end up just quoting the entire piece if I pulled out my favorite phrases… it flows beautifully… can I just say I love it, and nothing more? yep, I do.

Leigh-Anne