Winter Solstice 2011 (from Nyala)

Winter Solstice 2011 (from Nyala) - a reading by Karen Morgan

My name is Nyala. I'm a familiar. This year, I turned three. I'm the youngest in a long line sent by Bast to watch over my mom-cat and dad-cat, and keep them out of trouble.

My dad-cat doesn't let me play with the computer. But he's not watching me right now. I paw the keyboard when I want to be petted or when he's not looking anyway. He doesn't know I've learned to stalk words with my eyes, at least a little. My Auntie Mara and the spirit of my Great-Auntie Felicia are helping me with the hard ones. The spirit of my Great-Uncle Smoker says he knows a spell to make sure this message gets out. He found it in Great-Uncle Thomas's spellbook. Great-Uncle Thomas was a wizard and Great-Uncle Smoker was a sorcerer. I know where they hid the spellbook, but I can't tell or Auntie Mara will find out.

Tonight, mom-cat and dad-cat get to see some of our world. Their eyes aren't very good most nights. They can't really see in the dark. They trip over me and Auntie Mara all the time even though they should be able to see us. We can see them when we lay down and roll on our backs in front of them. It's not like it's really dark.

Tonight, they light little fires all around the house. They try to keep them out of our reach, but me and Auntie Mara jump up when they aren't looking. They scold us when we do, but we're curious. We just want to see. I don't like the little fires anyway. They smell hot and bitter, and sometimes bite my nose and whiskers. Fire is scary, even little ones. But I like the dancing shadows. And they make the perfect light for hunting, not that mom-cat or dad-cat really do. I don't know how they feed themselves. Mom-cat leaves to hunt every day, but she never comes back with anything. Dad-cat just guards our territory while she's gone. He leaves us alone for a few hours once a week to hunt with mom-cat. He must be a better hunter because they always comes back with butter and something good for us for breakfast when he goes with her. I like butter and breakfast.

Mom-cat and dad-cat don't light the cold little suns tonight, or watch the glowing box where the birds and bears and little balls live inside. Sometimes it calls my name, at least the name the humans call me. They can't pronounce my real name. But Bast says I need to keep that a secret anyway. I'm good at keeping secrets.

I like the light tonight. It makes me want to run around and chase Auntie Mara. Or pretend to sleep even though I'm watching everything through slitted eyes. It's like a whole night's worth of twilight when we hunt the best. Nothing can see us but we can see everything and pounce on it if we like. But Auntie Mara gets mad when I pounce on her too often.

This is my third time seeing the special night. A cat's night. Bast-mas is what mom-cat sometimes calls it, I think. Our night. The first time, I was only a little kitten, so mom-cat and dad-cat watched me extra close so I couldn't get into trouble. In a few days, we get presents: boxes, bags, wrapping paper and ribbons. But I can't keep the ribbons for long. Auntie Mara likes to eat them which makes mom-cat and dad-cat mad. I like swatting balls of paper around. Auntie Mara says they're too pretty, but she plays with them when I'm not looking. They are almost as much fun as hard, dangling, sparkly balls, or stalking Auntie Mara while I hide beneath the plastic tree. I like to gnaw on its branches. I wish it tasted like a real tree, but it doesn't. Still, it's almost like being outside only safe. Auntie Mara likes sitting in the boxes and bags, but all she does is purr, and get mad when I jump in with her.

We also get feathers and acorns and juice-rings and rattle-sticks, and a few leaves of fresh catnip. Mom-cat says they come from Basty-claws, but I know it's really her and dad-cat. Basty-claws is just for little kittens.

But that doesn't happen for a few more days. It's a busy morning with all sorts of new scents, but it's kind of scary too with all the new things I don't recognize, at least until I've rubbed them or swatted them a few times. After that, most of them are boring.

Tonight is never boring. Mom-cat and dad-cat sit a lot, so we get to curl up in their laps. They drink their stinky wine that smells sweet, like a mouse left under the couch too long. I think they should just drink water. I like it best when it's fresh, right after I paw my bowl until it gurgles at me. They mixed up more stinky wine and put it in the pantry closet today. It smells like something died in there until it finally stops farting in a few weeks. I like the funny noise it makes but not the smell. Ew.

Sometimes they light a bigger fire on the table on the porch after sunset. I like the porch. That's where Auntie Mara and I watch the squirrels and birds and smell all the interesting scents outside when the wind is blowing. I just wish the dogs next door would go away. They are so noisy and scare me all the time. Auntie Mara says to just ignore them. Sometimes I listen to her. She's pretty smart about what to growl at and what to run away from. Sometimes both. She doesn't run from the yappy dogs, just any people or growly trucks she hears. But she doesn't run from the rug-growler so I don't know if I really trust her.

By the time they go to bed, mom-cat and dad-cat are so relaxed and happy that I expect them to start purring. Mom-cat doesn't purr at all. Sometimes dad-cat tries but he never gets it right. I purr back at him anyway. Maybe one day he'll learn how it's done. I don't think so. He's not very smart. Tonight, I curl up with them, and don't even ask them to play with my feather-stick until I'm tired.

Later, when mom-cat and dad-cat are asleep, I'll creep down off the bed to watch the one little fire they leave hanging out of reach. It burns all night and throws tiny shadows all around our bowls. They look like little faeries flying around the room. I think that's the part I like the best. It's magical. It lets mom-cat and dad-cat see what we see every day, a hidden world. They sleep so peaceful this night, like cats curled up by a fire. I like to see them happy. Maybe they know that me and Auntie Mara are watching over them.

Auntie Mara says dad-cat is coming so I have to finish up quick. I was about out of things to say anyway. Making words is hard.

Enjoy your little fires tonight if you light them (but you can keep your stinky wine). Stay warm and catnap curled up next to someone you like if you can. If not your mom-cat or dad-cat at least a favorite auntie if she lets you like mine does until I bite her. But don't sniff too close to the little fires or they might singe your whiskers.

© 2011 Edward P. Morgan III

Winter Solstice 2011 (six days early)

Winter Solstice 2011 - a reading (on YouTube)

Next week marks three significant anniversaries for me. The first is the 20th anniversary of Karen and I celebrating the winter solstice by lighting the house only with candles. The second is the 12th anniversary of the first solstice message I sent out, at least the first one I have archived. I have managed to put out a winter solstice message every year since. For just over five years, I've written seven other messages throughout the year to mark each of the eight Celtic holidays.

The third is the fifth anniversary of the test that led to Karen's diagnosis with breast cancer. That adventure started three days before the winter solstice of 2006 with what should have been a routine mammogram. As fate would have it, I'd accompanied her to that appointment as we'd planned to kick off her vacation by doing some things together downtown that day. We spent that winter solstice trying not to worry as we awaited more appointments for more tests, which eventually led to her surgeries and treatment. That year is not one of our better holiday memories, though we are thankful we can look back on it with the good fortune of having everything turn out ok.

This year, I had planned to write a winter solstice message from the cat's point of view to celebrate these three anniversaries. Before I tackled that, I'd planned to have the final installment of the Abrami's Sister cycle posted. And another Christmas story out for which I'd jotted down an idea late last year. I'd planned to review where my writing was headed and how to approach each of the various websites I maintain. At Samhain, achieving all those goals still looked promising.

Once again, the universe laughed at my plans.

The words "cancer" and "chemo" have made a reappearance in my life. They entered in mid-November when I received a card from my father telling me he had lost his voice. Three weeks later came an email saying it was from cancer. Two days ago, another email arrived saying it was aggressive and that he starts chemo next week.

My father and I aren't what you'd call close. The people who know me know why. With Karen in 2007 I knew my role and my responsibilities. They were written in my wedding vows. This situation is more complicated. Once, I wanted to prove I was somehow worthy of this man's affection. Now, those thoughts are ashes blowing through barren fields. And yet I still feel empathy and sadness for his situation.

Since that first note, my writing has become frustratingly sporadic. I have completely sketched out the last Abrami's Sister story. I can see all the details but haven't been able to download them from my mind. I want to write, but I've found I've been waiting for news that is slow in coming from a man who, on the best of days, is not what you'd call a natural communicator.

Writing at its heart, whether a story, an essay or a memoir, is about communication. Most days, I struggle with how much of my personal life to reveal to strangers, what to say and what to leave unsaid. There is no point to this message, no clever words, no epiphany, no surprise that ends in hope. I feel trapped between empathy and history. Expressing that is all this message is about.

For decades, I haven't liked this time of year. The holidays strike me as fake, false, a saccharin-sweet fiction like Santa Claus, or the false-front Potemkin village that are the pictures from my childhood. I began celebrating the winter solstice twenty years ago as a way to reclaim this time, a way to make it my own. Our own. It turns out my wife's family life needed a little rehabilitation, too. Maybe everyone's does.

In a hundred years, no one will remember any of the events I struggle with. In the light of history, they will be meaningless statistics at best. In the light of nature, they already are. The flowers in the garden don't care about my struggles. Neither do the squirrels, the birds or the cats. The sun still moves through its progression. In a week, the winter solstice will arrive whether I'm ready for it or not. Even if I do not mark it, the darkness will approach and recede.

This week, I read a quote attributed to Steve Allen that said, "If you pray for rain long enough, it eventually does fall. If you pray for floodwaters to abate, they eventually do. The same happens in the absence of prayers." I don't pray for people or their situations. It's not in my makeup or a part of my beliefs. I think about them, I worry about them, I reach out to them, I help them if I can. And I light a lantern for them to help me remember.

When Karen and I were married, we received two Wolford lamps as a wedding gift. For the longest time, we lighted the pair of them on the winter solstice. One year, I broke one of them moving a piece of furniture. The survivor now lives on the stove. We light it when our friends or family are sick. We light it when someone we care about has died. And we still light it on the winter solstice to celebrate the night, as we hopefully will again this year.

As long as we're home over this holiday, that Wolford will be burning as a reminder. I don't know what the immediate future will bring. I don't know how I'll react to it. But that has always been the case. Life is fundamentally what happens while we're making other plans.

Whatever your plans for the approaching holiday, may the memories you form be pleasant and your treasures be left unbroken. And as always, may your solstice be warm and bright.

© 2011 Edward P. Morgan III

Samhain 2011

Samhain 2011 - a reading (on YouTube)

Light, darkness, birth, death, each year begins with hope and ends in resignation.

The sun seeps through the clouds like a reopened wound, its watery light staining the landscape as if a thrice-washed bandage. At the edge of a shadowed wood, yellow daisies glow in the gloaming of the evening sun like a string of jack-o'-lanterns marking out the territorial margin between the land of the living and the land of the dead.

The wind whispers the names of the missing through the evergreens. Wind chimes toll a death knell for the departed. We cover their eyes for the ferryman so they can't see their destination. Into light or darkness we are unconcerned as long as they're at peace. Their cairns form the portals to the Otherworld. The moon holds a mirror to their souls.

Tonight, the glass is broken. Tonight, the dead and darkness become as one. We didn't used to fear the dead, we feared their disappointment. Like faded family portraits, ghosts were pale memories of once vibrant friends and familiars. Kobolds, goblins and Swedish tomte were once our kith and kin. In our desperate longing to reclaim them, we seek out witches, priests and necromancers to throw us winter's bone.

They cannot.

Life is a sacred gift, death a sacred mystery beyond the veil of which our mortal eyes were never meant to see.

© 2011 Edward P. Morgan III

Fall Equinox 2011

Fall Equinox - a reading (on YouTube)

At the equinox the morning light changes from summer to winter, soft, slanted and slightly shadowed. Yet deep within our concrete canyons and tamed suburban jungles, we still dream our lives away.

The white faerie stirs her cauldron beneath the Harvest Moon as blind men feed the fire that keeps the brew alive. Each lanced boil of inspiration shrouds the world in deeper poetic mystery. She reads from the Black Book Carmarthen and lulls our souls to sleep.

Adrift in her hypnagogic fog, we shout garbled messages between our ship and shore. We strain to hear the crash of waves, praying we are guided toward safe harbor rather than lured by will-o-the-wisps onto a rocky shoal.

In the parkland beyond the breakwater, trees uproot to walk and fight as men, their arms barren as their leafy armor falls away. Winter's breath strips their flesh, revealing narrow limbs that beckon like long, bony fingers in the shadows of the moon.

Along the path within that rocky wood, we find a polished pewter mirror, its surface reflecting an ever shifting triad of maiden, mother and crone. As the wind penetrates the forest, the stagnant pool ripples to life. Tiny waves of black and gray reflect the sky above. Fey voices whisper from the shadows, drink not deeply from the roadside pool. In raindrops there are wisdom, in draughts a fatal poison.

Overhead, the sky looms like scales on the belly of a great, gray snake dripping clear venom directly into the minds of its victims below. Come morning, its tears turn to shafts of silver light that pierce the Cimmerian clouds, a rain of arrows from heaven, a storm of spears from the afterlife.

We awake to find another year and a day behind us, our memories stolen by a mischievous boy who somehow infected the enchantress' womb. His contralto words echo from the dreamscape like tiny, silver bells, beautiful yet incomprehensible. We can only hope to gather them like the first fruits of the harvest, quickly capturing their luminescence before our ink darkens upon the page.

Such is the gift of Ceridwen's inspiration at the equinox, fleeting and evanescent. Enjoy her magic before the memory fades like the gloaming astride midsummer's piercing light and the deep darkness of midwinter.

© 2011 Edward P. Morgan III

Dragon*Con: The Hero Cycle

The hero cycle begins and ends in the same location, the ordinary world, your safe and happy place. Between the call to adventure and the return with the elixir, the hero is transformed. Are you beginning, ending, or beginning once again? It's hard to say. The same can be said for us at Dragon*Con each year.

For all the hectic drama leading up to it, including the day before we left, our adventure went surprisingly smoothly. No major hiccoughs or disasters, no sickness or disease. Unless you count a minor bout of chronic heat stroke, but more on that in a bit.

Because I know you are all busy people, I'll give you the thumbnail sketch up front. Five days, sixteen panels, five concerts, two concourse performances. One panel cancellation, none we walked out of, only two a little sketchy. My three top panels: The Hero's Journey (Writing), Dungeon Design 101 (complete with dire skunks) (Gaming), and 5 Lies of Creativity and How to Overcome Them (Art). Karen's Best: Live Model 1 & 2 (5 hours of drawing) (Art). The panel with the most surprising tidbit of information: Memory Training (Science) where the clinical psychologist revealed a clinically studied treatment program for memory loss resulting from breast cancer treatment (chemo-brain) that we might look into.

For merch, we walked away with two books (The Creation of Narrative in Tabletop Role-Playing Games, Xtreme Dungeon Mastery), five CDs (The Cruxshadows, Ayria, Abney Park, The Julia Dream, Siberia My Sweet), two pieces of custom jewelry (David Cain Jewelry) and an artists' colony magazine (always talk to hippies on the street). Freebies included a Dragon*Con luggage tag, a cool Dragon*Con room key-card and a Pyr Books sampler.

We left out 650 business cards across five hotels, sometimes playing a game of cat and mouse with housekeeping, sometimes on an hourly basis. I figure we had a 10-25% loss rate with the rest taken up. As always, the transparencies went first. We'll see if they generate any traffic to the sites.

Travel was fine, except for having to remove my belt before getting scanned at the airport. Though that did add to the prison-like ambiance of the adventure. We got there before noon on Thursday and stayed late enough on Monday to catch the last panels. The weather in Atlanta on the way out became a concern (tornadoes north of downtown), but for us only resulted in a ten-minute delay and a lot of turbulence on the way home.

Registration was better this year (only two and half hours in line this year, a 40% reduction from the previous two), but not quite a breeze. Had the servers stayed up, it might have only been half an hour. Ah, well, at least we were out in time to get a decent dinner. Which we needed as the hour in line inside was at least as hot, and with less oxygen, than the rest of the bulk in the sun outside.

That set our first impression for the year, hot. And I don't mean just in Hotlanta. The rooms for the Electronic Frontiers Forum, Science and (initially) Gaming tracks had no working A/C. Imagine 100-200 people packed shoulder to shoulder into a conference room (sometimes SRO), complete with assorted A/V equipment, and you get the picture. Needless to say, we didn't hang out to ask a lot of questions afterwards.

We did get to listen to some good music, as always, though several of the concerts had lines. And, as always, most of the mixing was dubious. And one of the bands performed over half her set by flashlight as the stage lights died and had to be reset (the joys of a live performance). But the Cruxshadows concert had the best sound and mixing we've ever heard up there. Plus, we walked right in for the first time in five years. Totally worth staying up until 4 am and dragging the next day. There was still some slap-back in one of the halls, but not as bad as we've heard. We gave all the bands we saw some money to feed the iPod. We got a couple of CDs signed. Ayria seemed pretty jazzed when we told her that we knew and liked her music (and were obviously following her Twitter feed), even though we were, well, outside her core age demographic. Nice woman (but she's Canadian, so what else would I expect?). Key safety tip with most bands: lead singers tend to be focused on women (not the people buying their stuff) where bassists are more than happy to talk. But I knew that from hanging out with a pretty cool bassist in high school.

One thing they did get right this year was security. From 7 pm to 1 am, all entry into the hotels was badge or room key only. It seemed to keep out most of the muggles and local riff-raff. We encountered no floor shutdowns, no flying wedges of cops and hotel security wading through the crowds. The floors were just as frenetic, but there was never any hint of wondering if the bacchanalian revelry might erupt into a riot. Only once did my threat sensor go off, and that was fairly benign. But remember, you can make eye contact with real cops, but with rent-a-cops it might be a problem (they stare back).

What do I love about Dragon*Con? Talking art, perspective, light and shadow, writing, craft... I need to find a yearlong circle to do that with. We were missing several of our must-see speakers. We still had a couple there, but they weren't quite on their games. Generally, the panels were good, a couple with excellent speakers, but none had the inspirational, mind-expanding quality we've encountered in previous years. But we did find some time to hang out with friends which we haven't always had.

Instead of going through panel by panel, I leave you with some random impressions and lessons learned. Scientists and skeptics can be some of the least empathetic people who want to affect societal change. That's hard to do without understanding someone else's point of view. Most scientists are still so focused on their niche of study that they have a hard time applying broad (scientific) lessons to other disciplines, or understanding why certain behaviors might be beneficial from an evolutionary point of view. Modern game designers rely just as much on the hero cycle theory as writers and movie-makers. Storytelling is their primary focus, just through an interactive medium. One rather famous game designer cited Dramatica theory for creating character through-lines. Many of our attempts to boost children's self-esteem in this country have resulted instead in boosting levels of narcissism. The law of unintended consequences. When dealing with either surveillance or the apocalypse, avoid the guys with the Tacti-cool look (I love that word). Sociopathy is a viable survival option. A clipboard and a badge get you in just about anywhere. When coiling wire for making chainmail rings, don't let go of the drill.

I also came away with some good professional advice. To market yourself, become an extrovert, even if you aren't one. And if you weren't born that way, well, that might be a deficiency on your part. Look into YouTube for posting readings. People who read eBooks tend to be more loyal to the publisher than the author. The difference between commercial fiction and literary fiction is that commercial fiction deals with the big questions and gives hope for change. Literary fiction gives an experience by shining a light on a situation without making it transformative. I guess I now know which I tend to lean toward in my writing. Inspiration only comes once. If you don't write it down while it's there, it's gone forever. Just like your creative voice or vision as a writer or an artist when you're gone.

If you want to see all the panels and concerts we attended, you can find the day by day entries either on my Twitter or on my Facebook author's page (for those who haven't liked it yet, hint, hint).

You can find the band links (from this and previous years) at MySpace. Many have songs posted so you can give a listen if you like.

If you have any questions about any of them, just let me know and I'll get back to you. I'd be happy to share my notes.

Bottom line: it was a relaxing, informative and inspiring weekend as always, and much needed getaway.

For us, though, the cycle may be ending. This may have been our last Dragon*Con for a couple years to come. I've found it's always best to walk away from the table a little hungry before you start your next adventure. We'll see when it comes time to make reservations for next year.

© 2011 Edward P. Morgan III

Lughnasa 2011

Lughnasa 2011 -a reading (on YouTube)

In the struggle between light and darkness, the light is failing. The outnumbered hours of night have launched a surprise attack. Like a bad year in Machiavellian Florence, we bar the gate and lay in supplies against the long, impending siege of darkness. Resistance gathers throughout the high country, in hilltop forts and hidden, lakeside coves. Reaping maidens don gowns of green and stretch the backs of their men, their harvest promises extracted and bound with hay.

At midnight, a lone firefly finds me, like Hamlet's ghost, keeping a worried watch upon the wall. He bears a message from the summer solstice, his tiny beacon turning back the night. Like a morningtide rainbow after a sun shower, his flickering torch is a promise or a reminder. We will not be abandoned by our strongest ally in our coming time of need.

At first light, foraging parties roam the wood under a keen-eyed escort, reaping the bountiful berry harvest before it, like the surrounding faerie kingdom, falls into decay. Summer grapes, like the irides of Europa's wild-eyed children, or the wide eyes of playful garden predators, have gone from green to black overnight. Bees, like summer soldiers, gather golden nectar from colorful morning glories and crepe myrtles to create the supplies they need to overwinter in their fastness.

In distant fields and meadows, the tawny heads from the first fruits of harvest are crushed to powder beneath the circling, ox-drawn stone. Brickwork ovens throw the first heat against winter's eventual arrival. Offerings of freshly baked bread fill the air to appease the spirits of the homeless and the hungry. As we've sown in this verdant time of plenty, so in the darkness shall we reap.

We long for stability, for prosperity, for peace. But all we are given are wheat and wild grapes, fieldstone and timber, venison and salmon, spring water and perhaps a little honey. Enough to live and share if we don't become absorbed in the drama of conflict. From the elements at hand we build our lives in any way we choose, in light or in darkness, for good or for ill. In this, we are inseparable from our environment.

© 2011 Edward P. Morgan III

Summer Solstice 2011

Summer Solstice 2011 - a reading (on YouTube)

Sunrise, sunset. The day is here, the day is gone.

Summer and winter are inextricably intertwined. Like mating black snakes in a caduceus, they cross at every solstice. Sunrise on the summer solstice aligns to sunset on the first day of winter, just as summer's sunset lines up with winter's dawn. Between those twin poles, time ambles like the river running from the land of the living to the world of the dead. Its wide, unrippled mirror reflects approaching storms in blue and gray and white.

As I tread along the path beside, a mockingbird marks my passage, scalloping from post to post along a fence, always one step ahead, a taunt or a reminder, of what I am unsure. A woodpecker peers from a keyhole in time-hardened tree trunk, then retreats into its sanctuary. A flutter of crows calls back and forth across a dapple-shaded canopy, harbingers of winter tidings as yet unforeseen. Their dark conversations are as brief as summer showers, all traces evaporate beneath the resurgent sun.

Deep within the faerie wood, dawn belatedly flickers through the leaves concealing the horizon to liberate the sleeping giants from the long, sweet siege of night. The fire-stricken kings crash to their knees, their arboreal crowns shattering as they fall. A host of golden-green usurpers sprout from their sun-dispelled shadows, in want of regents as they strive to reclaim their ancient, ancestral lands.

As I wander from morning toward a deeply shadowed afternoon, time creeps forward on padded feet, unnoticed, like vines entwined across a brushfire clearing, like grass subduing the stain a midden mound or a cemetery hill, until it gently covers all.

Sunrise, sunset. The day is here, the night is come.

© 2011 Edward P. Morgan III

Beltane 2011

Beltane 2011 - a reading (on YouTube)

The White Witch has been deposed. The Green Witch has been resurrected.

At Samhain, the Frost Queen passed annual judgment against her twin and rival after usurping power at the autumnal court. The Green Witch was garroted and minced, her body cast like feed-corn across the dry and dusty fields. In the overwatching wood, oaks and maples bled in mourning. Beneath the oppressive blanket of her icy enemy, her seeds lay fallow all winter. Like a mother spider to her emerging brood, she prepares herself for the ultimate maternal sacrifice come spring, when in revenge of Medea's children, her hatchlings will devour her alive.

Each crystalline defection from the Ice Queen's occupation waters the seeds of the Green Lady's discontent, first by drips and drops then in a steady stream. The Snow Queen's alpine army melts away before the steadily advancing wall of green. At Imbolc, there was an uprising. At the equinox, a revolution. By Beltane, the ritual plunder of the White Witch's final strongholds had begun. As the last green jacked messenger arrives, the Sun Queen's court erupts into an orgy of colorful celebration.

Reborn in coldspring snowmelt, emerging from her donjon tower, the verdant maiden blushes pink and rose before the encircling soldiers of spring. Bees and wasps in black and yellow tabards, their lances sharp and shining, stand watch while common workers deflower her in turns. By Lughnasa, she will once again be heavy with child. In the wickerman at Samhain, she will be sentenced to her fate. Her ash and sackcloth remnants will be sown throughout the land. To once again lay dormant, awaiting Imbolc and the Equinox.

When the White Witch will be deposed, and the Green Witch resurrected.

© 2011 Edward P. Morgan III

Fighting the Tide

Fighting the Tide - a reading (on YouTube)

There are forces in this life we cannot resist, though we feel compelled to try. Some days, it’s as though an ancient, unseen god wants to show me things I don’t want to see, take me places I don’t want to go. Events turn unexpected and unpredictable. Lightning, tornadoes, threatened furloughs, benefit cuts, utility breakdowns, oak pollen, borderline migraines. Entropy in a word. A tide of distractions rises, threatening to sweep me out to sea.

When I was young, somewhere under ten, I went to the beach one weekend with my parents and their friends. I don’t remember much about how the day started out, only how it ended. It could have been spring or fall. I honestly don’t remember. Rafts of seaweed and sargasso were strewn along the tideline. Storms churning somewhere offshore had whipped up the gray Atlantic. The waves were four to six feet and choppy, breaking full force right upon the shore. The wind was stiff and steady, the water chill and white with foam. Everyone opted for the shelter of the pavilions in the lee behind the Australian pines. Everyone but me.

I started the day building sandcastles, as I was often wont to do. One by one, half completed, they fell to the advancing tide. Annoyed, I started building a longer, sturdier line to defend against the sea. I scavenged seaweed as filler instead of dredging deeper into the sand. I found the sargasso added strength to the barrier I was constructing. With each course of damp sand, I layered in more seaweed until the barricade was high enough for me to fully crouch behind. Finally, a rampart with a shallow moat and refused edges stood before Poseidon like a provocation.

The wind whipped the surf into a reenactment of "The Sorcerer’s Apprentice." Dark clouds loomed over the ocean. Lightning sliced across the sky. As the rain slanted sideways, I huddled behind my open-sided shelter, which kept the spray out of my face and eyes. The tide advanced steadily, driven higher by the storm. Soon, waves were crashing into the moat, then onto the front facing of my wall. The sargasso lent the structure the integrity to take the pounding, which meant I could enact hasty repairs before my battlement melted back into the sea. Its flanks resisted being undermined even as the waves began to wrap around the refused edges. My wall seemed indestructible. Behind it, I felt invincible. I was so emboldened that I began to taunt the storm and sea.

By the time my parents came looking for me, the storm had slackened. It was time to abandon the beach for the safety of our home. The lightning had passed inland and the rain had abated to a steady shower, though with the threat of more to come. The tide had retreated leaving my wall standing and intact, only slightly weathered for its encounter. My parents thought I’d sheltered in another pavilion. Had I spent the entire storm out here exposed on the beach? Didn’t I know to come in from of the rain?

These days, I have no taunts left in me. My life feels like the flotsam and jetsam tossed up from Poseidon’s angry sea. When each crisis ends, I am reminded of my mortality. I can sense the time that’s been washed away, the sand that’s slipped through the hourglass and drained beyond the shore. I wish I could reclaim the days I’ve lost in some sort of time renourishment project. But know that I can’t.

If I’m not careful, my feet get mired in a sandy past as the water swirls around them, each wave sinking them deeper until it takes the strength of a colossus just to break them free. Once I get unstuck, I backfill as much enjoyment as possible into my life by doing the things I long to do, and seeing the people I love to see. Games, puzzles, movies, books, art shows and explorations, coffees, wines and dinners. I purposefully layer the positive memories with everyday sand to reinforce the bulwark behind which I’ll shelter when I turn to fight the rising tide again one day all too soon.

© 2011 Edward P. Morgan III

Spring Equinox 2011

Spring Equinox 2011 - a reading (on YouTube)

A crow sits atop a signpost, harbinger of the naked power grab occurring in the springtide court. His companion drinks from a muddy, roadside pool. On bolder days, he station-keeps in midair beyond the light pole, battling a strong south wind to a standstill. He tucks his wings, hovers and peels off back to perch before stepping into the wind again. Nearby, his mate calls her prophetically phrased monitions.

No one pays attention to her harshly worded warnings. The madding mob prefers the melodic cooing of mourning doves or onomatopoetic calls of the whippoorwills crying through the night, not recognizing the ominous note of either. Now is the time of the green plague. The last of the old, brown leaves have been discarded, pushed out by the green and new. An orgy of pollen sows confusion through the land. With each unrelenting gust of wind, golden storm clouds gather beneath every oak and pine.

A hawk glides low and silent through the front garden, a dead dove clutched in its talons. As her raptor-sisters patrol above, a woodpecker circles a tree as a shield then abandons her half-constructed nesting hole to return when the skies are clearer. Garden predators prowl unhindered in a triple-witching of instinct, occupation and feigned domestication. Quick, sharp claws lurk beneath their soft gray paws.

At night, two steady stars like uneven eyes, one heavy-lidded, peer back from the dark horizon. The old god and his messenger steal glimpses of their former demesne. The aged face of the winter solstice melts away as her younger sister begins to blossom. Soon, too, her shine will fade and we will flee back into the arms of her jealous, pale white twin. By then, the summer sacrifices will have been gathered, stirring restlessly within the wicker man, certain of their fate.

Behind a screen of purple Persian shields, azaleas bloom pink and white and red. Lavender lantana pop in tiny clusters that form a fuller flower, crawling down the stalks like tiny Roman legions whose whole is accentuated by the congregated discipline of its parts. The first brace of yellow alamanda trumpets the coronation of the radiant maiden-princess who has finally overthrown the cruel ice queen. By Lughnasa, they will blast martial in oppression as she, too, will be named a tyrant and usurper.

Camped in their winter bivouacs before the spring campaign, her green-jacked soldiers share cold coffee and dream of returning home to kiss their wives goodbye. Ignorant that they'll end their days blind and toothless, they still believe their cause is just and their vengeance justified. Until the scales of war tumble from their eyes, they dose in the warmth of the maiden's brilliant smile, blinded by visions of her fast maturing beauty, praying that her brightly colored revolution will never meet its end.

© 2011 Edward P. Morgan III

Imbolc 2011

Imbolc 2011 - a reading (on YouTube)

At Imbolc, the Iron Queen remains enthroned in the underworld. In the world of men, the Corn Mother's grief casts a pale pall across the land. Pure, white, sparkling tears drift softly down her face, clinging to the ground as a memorial as her desperate search continues. The frozen landscape mirrors her lamentation. She wanders the wood instead of fertile fields. Bare branches form the lacework of her mourning veil.

Perched like slices of a moonless night among the barren trees, a chorus of crows cruelly cries a coronach for the Rape of Prosperina. In their underground lairs, bears and badgers stir, presaging her triumphal return. Until that hallowed day, harts shelter in sylvan glades and glens, their flanks turned against her mother's chilling wails of gloom. Coyotes prowl the gardens unhindered, leaving only pawprints in the snow.

In secret passageways beneath the earth, a chthonic entourage awakens. Sprites and faeries don chartreuse and silver to celebrate the return to light of the Majestic Queen of Shades. Her remaining curses will go undelivered until Samhain. For a short, bright season, the dead rest peacefully in their graves.

Soon her runners will spring forth, scattering crocuses and snowdrops along her processional, carpeting it imperial and virgin white. Little do they know her innocence is no longer Orphean, forever stained by Eurydice's blood.

In the valleys of Goidelic mountains, deep among the holly and the yew, Green Men laugh as the petty, deific drama plays out again this year. In the fields and folds and sheltered byres, young mothers pay no mind. Their lambs dance and kick within warm, winter wombs, dreaming of the verdant, Elysian fields that will greet them when they emerge.

Huddled in mead halls, young warriors while away the winter days honing weapons to an icy sheen against the impending thaw. While dozing by the fire, old men harvest memories of long lost maidens like poppies entangled with the barley in the fall.

© 2011 Edward P. Morgan III