Tag Archives: Silvia Pastore

… excerpt from Shapers – sequel to Course of Mirrors …

‘the Seed,’ painting by Silvia Pastore

 ‘Shapers’… the end of chapter 6

The random excerpt of Shapers, below, is where I’ve got earlier today while working through a last round of revisions, before proof reading and formatting towards an initial e-book, if I find the funds. From Course of Mirror’s mythic theme, the cast re-appears in a future SF setting, not on other planets, but on earth. The main protagonists, Ana, Cara and Mesa, connect back and forth in time. They are really one and the same, a triple soul. It’s a compelling work of the imagination with strong, memorable characters. Even my son agrees 🙂

* * *

The hall rocked with the rhythm of drums. All eyes were on Zap, who did a thrilling dance with silk ribbons, and at the same time juggled a round of colourful balls. They slid down his back and legs and with a kick of his heel were flipped back into rotation. He spotted Mesa and waved his ribbon, inviting her to join him, which she did, with sudden abandon. Her responsive dance provoked gasps of admiration. Elim stepped up with his violin, improvising melodies to Mesa’s sensual movements. Her waist undulated between the flowing ribbons, while her arms rippled like snakes.

The sight filled Cara with happiness, until she spotted Dillon staring at Mesa with rapture in his eyes. An intense bout of jealousy overtook Cara. Her lover was a pushover for mystery. When the muse grabbed him all else ceased to exist. She invited the pain, almost welcoming the torture of feeling rejected, though reason argued that Dillon’s infatuation would pass, like any storm, eventually. Still, she felt inept. And yet, only an hour ago she herself was irrationally impressed by another man. What was his name? He was not unlike Dillon, yet different, obscure, and more complex. The thought of him made her skin tingle as she ploughed through the crowd in search of Tilly, and the stranger.

The Stranger

Gart had escaped the festivities. Standing at the cliff’s edge, he clutched his flapping cape, while shouting into the storm, into the void. “Talk to me!” A deep rumble shook the ground. “What is it I am? Answer me!” A blinding streak of lightning split the night and dispersed across the fluid orb of black waters. “Who dropped me here? Take me home to my name.” Thunder resounded in his skull, a force surged through him, fused his feet to the rock under him, and roused senses he had no words for. “What’s expected of me? These people here … they sap my strength, and … I glimpsed something I’ve never seen before … forms behind things … behind her.” As if in response, the apparition of a woman, illuminated from within, rose from the waves below him. Gart sunk to his knees. What are you?”

A name echoed from the cliffs, but was drowned out by another clap of thunder. The spectre of the figure scattered into shards of silver speeding out in all directions, the sea, the sky, across the sweep of rocks called Kerry.             

“Aren’t the waves magical?”

Gart turned towards the voice and was confronted by the girl, Mirre, who by casually touching his shoulder at the banquet had made the hall spin. What was it about her? “Stay away from me!”

“Why?” Mirre’s eyes sparkled from under her windblown red curls.

Her candid question annoyed and intrigued Gart.

Mushki, having caught up with Mirre, skidded to a halt. Searching his holdall, he set up a tripod, screwed on a camera and focused the lens towards the flashes at the horizon. “You,” he motioned to Gart, “you obstruct my view.”

“Don’t be rude,” Mirre said. “Here, use my tablet. It records images in three or more dimensions.”

“No thanks. If I keep the shutter of my lens open I get the effect I want,” Mushki said, and readied himself. He was in luck. Another rumble … giant branches of light filled the sky.

Mirre shrugged and fixed her gaze once more on Gart whose looks reminded her of Crim, her favourite author of animations. “Tilly says you’re a Guardian. Their red uniforms are grand, but you’re not wearing one.”

A spasm gripped Gart’s spine. His head throbbed, and the memory of his identity flooded back. His eyes darted from Mirre to the ivy walls of the estate, to the bay where he glimpsed his airbus, and back to the girl. He burned the image of Mirre’s freckled face into his mind, turned on his heels and dashed down a path towards the beach, away from the chaos that had gripped his mind, familiar faces he couldn’t place. His Guardian training should’ve protected him from such emotional turmoil. What was wrong with him?

He now recalled a repeated interference on his console while heading for Rhonda after his spying mission in Sax. Someone called Zap seemed lost in Derrynane. Annoyed, yet curious, he had demanded his craft to find the place. Then the horizon wobbled, and as if taken over by some spook, he nearly crash-landed on this alien stretch of coastline.

With shaking hands Gart pointed the sensor towards the dolphin-shaped airbus glinting in the dusk. The craft responded. The signal light came on. Only a few more steps and he would be able to lift off from this bewildering place. A sense of vertigo made him stop. All sound ceased. For a brief moment he felt as if his body did not belong to him. Into the silence stirred a soft breeze. An invisible hand seized his and led him to where the water lapped at the sands. Before him the air wavered and the shape of an old woman appeared, more ancient than the yew trees on the peninsula. The crone looked at him like a fox, tilting her head. Her voice was firm. “When a heart cracks its myths flow free and the stories of river and sea mingle.”

Gart opened his mouth and closed it again. A melodic tune drifted across the waters.

Twinkle, twinkle, little rat … how I wonder what you’re at …

A subtle fragrance reached his nostrils bringing memories. Years of harsh drilling for leadership had sealed away images of his childhood. An ornamental garden with birdsong and blossom, a nursery filled with flowers, toys, and humour – a woman reading dreamlike stories to him. Children raised as Guardians were not read stories. They were trained from infancy to obey commands. He was different. Phrases he used as triggers to control his army had no effect on him. He tossed his hair back trying to shake off the confusion. The crone watched him. He realised his thoughts were exposed to her ageless knowing.

“You were led here to experience the sweet agony of emotion, what it’s like to be lovesick, and to yearn for a lost place,” said the crone. Her words seeped under his skin.

A gentle wave splashed over his feet. His toes squished in his sandals. Droplets of sweat soaked his brow. What was she talking about? He glanced back at his craft. Would the tide reach it? He must get away.

Heat shot up his spine when Cassia took a step towards him. “Stop your haste. Imagine deeply. What do you desire? Listen to what the sea whispers in your ear. Accept contradictions. They’re indispensable. You were raised to command the Guardians for a purpose.”

His head hurt. His skull seemed too small to accommodate this garbled talk. He blinked as the crone became fuzzy, then transparent, and finally vanished altogether.

Her last words echoed, “A woman needs your help, and you’ll need hers.”

Gart rubbed his eyes, squinting at the shimmering air before him. Some Shapers were known to materialise out of thin air. Was she one of them? Clinging to his wits he rushed to his airbus and fumbled with the console. How can the sea whisper? And how can a heart crack? His curiosity had often led him to unearth illegal information. He knew how to access a glossary of emotional terms outlawed in Rhonda.  Agony – another troubling term – sounding like a woman’s name.

  *   *   *

In late May I visited London – for the first time in almost three years. I met with my son, his wife, and her mother from Darwin. We visited the Tate Modern exhibition on ‘Surrealism without Boundaries.’ That’s for another post.

I’m grateful for any small support on patreon https://www.patreon.com/posts/its-been-almost-67178389

 

 

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… hope – the oracular mystery …

August Rodin – Le Secret

These tumultuous times it takes a leap of imagination and ingenuity to trust in hope, which has frequently been my resort during past difficulties. Hope is assumed to have remained in the jar after Pandora released its darkness. The conflicting interpretations of hope around this myth are fascinating. Try relating darkness and hope to the psycho-dynamic phenomenon of projection. In what we call life, both darkness and hope circle around nothingness. We suffer the periods of dense darkness in hope of the ever-recurring creative  energy of spring – the spirit I dance to in my lucid dreaming.

While natural, our expectations are necessarily blind and hampered by frustrating circumstances. In the wake of two stressful years, the hope that my nearly 100 year old dad would leave me the small fund he legally owed me was buried with him. Still, my yearning for a little more creative freedom is well alive.

There was a comical element to these last summer/autumn months, when I was challenged by one thing after another that needed repairing around my home. I tend to be inventive at fixing things myself, but this time I had to rely on experts. Thankfully I found competent, honest and warmhearted people and the problems were solved at reasonable costs. In fact, every problem solved … cementing dangerous steps, replacing old iron guttering, massive clearing of garden overgrowth, sorting a blocked man-hole … felt like a heroic victory. You should have seen me stirring the shit in the manhole with a long iron rod. I kept on for hours since it has worked once before, many years ago. I spare you the hilarious details. In the end I called in the experts. Craftspeople who know their job have my admiration. Societies couldn’t function without them.

To me, obstructions have a symbolic significance in relation to my physical and psychic state, that is when I look at the environment I depend on as extension of my body/mind.

And, of course, the presently depressing and equally hilarious world of politics that leaves many of us speechless seep seamlessly into personal anxieties. At one point, I spontaneously popped into a surgery (unfrequented for decades) to have a heart and blood test, and I even got myself a blood pressure gadget. All is well, a relief, despite my stubborn habits of smoking roll-ups and enjoying red wine (in moderation, to keep me grounded.)

The Seed – Silvia Pastore

Hope is my coin once more.  Course of Mirrors, I’ve been told, would make a great film or TV series. Useful contacts to this effect are welcome. A few more reviews, posted where the book is listed on Amazon, Troubadour, Goodreads or Waterstones could spark sales and bring funds for marketing. Since I’m totally incapable of selling my lace, I appreciate any encouragement and support.

The soul guides that dream my myth were given full reign in my first novel – #courseofmirrors  https://twitter.com/mushkilgusha

My desire to publish the sequel, ‘Shapers,’ next year, made me explore financial support through: https://www.patreon.com/user?u=10520241 I’m thrilled to have attracted a few Patrons. What consoles are flashes of beauty that stimulate the writing of Haiku, like this week …

can it be a cheat

to gift a street musician

a red autumn leaf ?

While parking in town, a beautiful plane leaf dropped on my car roof, in rhyme with the voice of the regular street musician. The leaf ended in his guitar case. I received a huge smile.

HOPE …  by Emily Dickinson

“Hope” is the thing with feathers –

That perches in the soul –

And sings the tune without the words –

And never stops – at all –

And sweetest – in the Gale – is heard –

And sore must be the storm –

That could abash the little Bird

That kept so many warm –

I’ve heard it in the chillest land –

And on the strangest Sea –

Yet – never – in Extremity,

It asked a crumb – of me.         

Further: – Exploring once more the myth of Pandora, I found a chiming C G Jung reference here – one third down the page of: https://symbolreader.net/2015/01/11/the-guilt-of-prometheus-and-pandoras-gifts/  Wonderful site, worth exploring.

Re: The paintings of Silvia Pastore – I love them. Some years ago purchased usage of ‘The Magician’ (left) as cover for Course of Mirrors.

When my then publisher didn’t share my choice, I dropped the idea and ended up using one of my photographs, taken at the Atlantic in Morocco . I may however use The Magician for a future poetry collection.

 

 

 

 

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… surfacing …

surfacing

Segment of 'The Magician,' a painting by Silvia Pastore

Segment of ‘The Magician,’ a painting by Silvia Pastore

her nocturnal creature mourns as meshes of  night disband the Other of her dream into strands that flow like oil colours –

marbling still waters under grey or rain-bowed sky as canvas for inventing random patterns of each day

beneath the mirrors an ever-turning gyre of souls in deep wordless liaison keeps churning the ocean

her inward creature drifts through curls of emptiness sifting strata of seasons

to gathered wisdoms of the human heart

its patina of touch and wear

sediments of ache and bliss

its gilded secret

cypher for another Eden

from which her inversed image falls

to the next fluid mirror always desiring the Other …

Ashen 10th July 2015

Maybe needless to say, just about everything I post here is relevant to my novels.

In relation to the poem, I thought you might enjoy the fascinating Art of the Marbler https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vyga8VMWXKg

And a short introduction to The Churning of the Ocean of Milk https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MItyUwPAjLA

The segment of the Magician image is the work of a fine painter, Silvia Pastore http://www.silviapastore.com/ … Time and space are illusions …  Having obtained the copyright of the Magician as a cover for ‘Course of Mirrors,’ it seems my publisher, who I re-signed a contract with, has other ideas. I love Silvia’s work, but will remain open to suggestions, as long as my first novel is launched within the year. It’s been sitting quiet since 2011. Maybe all good things take time. A sequel is waiting in line, and I’m working on a third book in the series.

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