Helen, by way of Euripides

[KB.]

""Oh, as I begin the great lament of my great distress, what mourning shall I strive to utter? or what Muse shall I approach with tears or songs of death or woe? ... Sirens, may you come to my mourning with Libyan flute or pipe or lyre, tears to match my plaintive woes."

~Helen by way of Euripides

The SIRENS, they say, had maidens' features, but from the thighs down they had the forms of birds. One of them played the lyre, another sang, and another played the flute. By these means, and by clever, knavish, and deceitful words, they persuaded passing mariners to linger, thus causing their destruction. That is why the island where they lived was full of the bones of those who had perished. The SIRENS are thought to be three, but the names given are more: Aglaope, Leucosia 2, Parthenope 3, Pisinoe 1, Thelxiepia.

~Greek Mythology link (Carlos Parada)

Weird sh!t happens for what ever reason. “What Muse shall I approach with tears or songs of death and woe?”, that is weird to me. Why is it weird, well I just got finished writing five, pure fiction (I don’t believe in pure fiction) stories. I took requests from some folks, told them to post a song lyric, a quote, an idea, etc. I would take those and make a story. I ended up writing five stories, you figure more people would jump at a chance to have a story written based on an idea they came up with or regurgitated; maybe I just suck. Anyways, I wrote those five stories about the same event; using five different view points. I don’t like writing as though I am someone else, but I guess that counts as character development. I also don’t like writing about the future, can’t script life, but maybe that is why I did it; so it won’t happen. In those stories, here comes the weird part, I wrote about two deaths and a murder. I wrote about a person I love dearly, and who is very much still alive, dying in a car accident (no it wasn't you). I wrote about a man who finally said he was done, and I wrote about the man who was responsible for both of those deaths; indirectly and directly, and him getting murdered by an acquaintance of the other two. He deserved it though. I approached no Muse with those songs of death and woe, but there were a couple Muses involved in the story. Neither of which have read them, and may not ever. It is a macabre thing to write about your own death, don’t call the institutions on me; there are far too many thing that I enjoy to trade in my rambling for quietness. The old friend who sent me that quote knew I had written some stories, but did not know the details. Some people just think alike, share the same process, hard to distinguish betwixt the two at times.

Every man, sue me for being a user of generic pronouns, needs a Muse. They also need a siren every once in awhile. Some sirens have taken to being a little less destructive, call you somewhere, but do it because you need to be there, and then allow you to leave when it is time to head back out. Some sirens still want you to end up as bones on a beach. You have to be wary, and watch your back. You have to be able to see with clarity the difference between the two. In the words of Dylan by way of Norah, “You can play with fire, but you’ll get the bill”.

I have had a troublesome feeling in my belly. It wasn’t the chicken pot pie I ate at four in the morning yesterday either. I get it sometimes when I sit down to try and write a thing or two, but it also goes away when I manage to conjure up those words. That was just random. Don’t think twice its alright.

I wrote something yesterday, a different sort of request. The requester (is that a word?) asked for brutal honesty; and I was. Honesty is relative though, much like everything else in the world. That honesty can change from truth to used to be as soon as you write it. You can say a word like “tricked” and it may not get across the proper meaning. You may have meant it as in, tricked by the world, the fates, or yourself. It may come out as you felt tricked by the person you were writing to. That is why you ask questions.

I had a dream a few days before I left St. Louis, may have been the day before. It was weird, colorful, full of imagery, and it scared me. The thing that scared me wasn’t the dream itself, but you know how when you have a good dream, like one about Norah Jones serenading you while naked, and when you wake up you try your best to go back to sleep and continue the dream? It never works, but this one wouldn’t stop, it was like hitting the pause button. So finally I just got up. I’ll recount the dream, and you can either Google it or whatever. I did, and found some interpretations that were different than I thought. Is self-conscious that universal though?

I woke up, in the dream. I have a habit of dreaming about either waking up or sleeping. I woke up in a mental institution (shut up), it was in the form of a warehouse, looked around and thought that someone must be trying to do something malicious to me. I looked to my right and saw an old Ford Fairlane; I didn’t know that is what it was, but that was the word for it in my head, and it turns out that is what it was. It was black and white. White on top, black on the bottom, had the white walled tires. I jumped in that car and I flew out of that place, foot heavy on the gas pedal. It was important how hard I was pressing that pedal because I saw my legs, and my foot on it. I was standing up almost, the car was a convertible, and I could see my legs strained and my foot hard pressed on the gas. I had dark olive green khakis on, I remember they actually fit me well, and a pair of dark maroon dress shoes, wing tips. I made it past the gates, no one was chasing me, and when I tried to slow down I couldn’t. It wasn’t that the accelerator was stuck, I just couldn’t pull my foot away. I saw train tracks up ahead, and then a train, all engines no box cars. The train was made up of five of those engines, all so vividly colored. Green, red, blue, black, and white. No secondary shades, just straight up hard colors, like the primary colors you find in the 16 pack of crayola crayons; not the 64 pack. I tried to brake, and managed to get the other foot down, one on the gas one the brake. I even looked for an emergency brake, I don’t think Fairlanes had such a device. I ran into that train, but the impact wasn’t rough. I ran the car between the black and the white engine, the blue one was clear to see though. The train carried me around the track and I managed to get rid of the car, I actually shook it off of my leg, but as I did the train decided to take a detour; through an open field, cut short, beautiful green grass. I saw a spider web, and felt it as it stuck to me. It was strong enough to pull the train towards the center of it. The web was huge, and it had butterflies in it, some were flying around some were captured, they were the same number and colors as the engines. Then I saw the spiders, mechanical looking they were so sleek and shiny. Three of them, one black, one a dark emerald green (had to go find a bigger pack of crayons) and one a dark brown, Google bistre; that was the color. I woke up after I saw those spiders, I really do not like freakin spiders. I tried to go back to sleep, but as soon as I laid my head down, it started right where it left off, and it did the same thing two more times before I finally just got up.

Told you it was weird.

Sometimes you lie, even if you are an honest person. You do it because you don’t want to hurt or insult, you do it because you ain’t ready to tell the truth. You do it to protect yourself from the truth. You do it to make the story better, thank God for fiction it is a far more accepted term than lie.

I went to go get something to eat about an hour ago, nothing was open, at least nothing with a sausage and biscuit and hash brown available. I am hungry and there is a big turtle that has been sitting on the back porch, keeping me company when I smoke. He is a good listener, never interrupts. I told him to get gone, or I was having soup soon. He listened because the last time I was out there fork in hand, he was no where to be seen.. Damned smart turtle.

I’m a lucky man, I’ve said it before, and feel like saying it again. I have met some of the most interesting and genuine people the world contains. I have met people who wanted nothing more than to keep me on track, no matter how they had to do it. I haven’t always been able to see these people in person, but I have met them. I have met people who introduced me to new music that I love, and people who took a story from a stranger and instead of ignoring it, complimented it. I have met people who didn’t need saving, and a few I felt the need to try and help along their way. I have met people who tell me I am crazy, but like me that way. I’ve met a child who looks at his mother like she is invincible, but when she cries at a movie he grabs her by the chin, pulls her face towards his, and whispers it will be alright. I have not met Norah Jones. I have met a woman who sang Aretha Franklin to me. I met a person who used to sing Etta James in the shower every day. I’ve met a man who is a far better person than I could ever hope to be. I met a person born in the same hospital as me, in Hawaii, and ended up working at the place I call the center of the universe.

I’ve met a man who tried to steal my car, it was fleeting and filled with vulgarities, but I met him. I’ve met boys who thought they were men, and one night, one of them is going to look at me not knowing I’ve had about enough, and I am going to help him along his journey with a swollen eye. I’ve met Muses, sirens, doubters, backbiters, critics, fans, and Dixie Carter. I’ve met a blonde who gets mad at people who would rather use their assistance to buy cigarettes than food for their kids. I met her sister also. I’ve met people who when it seems I need a little push to write offer me a song, a quote, an idea, or a feeling. I met a man who told a story about the first and only time he smoked pot, probably 30 years or more ago, he woke up in a median in Florida, nothing on but his skivvies, and had no clue where his wallet was. I can go on forever talking about the people I’ve met. I’ve got stories forever, don’t reckon I will ever be done.

KB

“It is natural for man to indulge in the illusions of hope. We are apt to shut our eyes against a painful truth, and listen to the song of that siren till she transforms us into beasts... For my part, whatever anguish of spirit it may cost, I am willing to know the whole truth, to know the worst, and to provide for it.”

~Patrick Henry