we saw the sunrise today – and we’ll probably be around to watch it set because we’re off to the movies (and we’re VERY EXCITED because it’ll be the first time we’ve seen THIS on the big screen – well – let’s see – it must be – *looksfarawayintomiddledistance* a Very Long Time Ago).
so very excited.
when the opening scene unfolds to the haunting strains of King Curtis playing Procul Harum’s A Whiter Shade of Pale we shall probably start weeping for our mis-spent (and yet highly cinematic in its own right) Youth.
if you can see this transmission in your territory, we highly recommend turning off all the lights and gathering around the screen.
*tears_optional* depending on your history of course.
so what else?
*attemptstocomebacktoReality* (not always easy, or even preferable to be honest).
well – lots, actually.
in order to stay awake and Alert during the day we’ve been getting up very early and taking a nice walk and then sitting with our toes in the swimming pool, taking a moment to feel grateful and alive and empty our head of thoughts (yes, meditating – of sorts).
this was 06:00AM.
almost a Cezanne, non?
and then we Get Down To Work.
and there’s lots of it (which is such a pleasant thing to say – who-we-are-in-RL has been Very Busy out there in the World)
and driving up into the Hills and taking time to turn around and just *gasp* at the View (well, wouldn’t you? #divine).
and the work is going very well (nope, not allowed to Say Anything About It At All).
we just have one Tiny
we miss writing.
although we DID write this which came out today -
but we want to be writing This too (this is our dream cast – it helps to imagine actors, don’t you agree?) we’d started to re-write the screenplay again – while we do the novel version too (not New as in Novel but Book as in novel).
we know we’ve shown you this before but we’ve made a few Tweaks and it helps to put it out into the Universe because then we’re One step nearer to seeing it at the Cinema – you understand, don’t you? when we’re tired, it keeps us going…..
The Goddess, The Writer And The Eternal Soul
by sophia stuart
It was one of those really rainy nights in London where umbrellas are all but useless. It had been pouring down for hours and people ducked into doorways or crowded into bus shelters and generally looked damp and careworn.
Everyone that is apart from one glitteringly beautiful goddess who walked down the center of Charing Cross Road without an umbrella or a hat or even a coat. But nobody saw her because she was an invisible being, in fact the leader of the Muses (and thus a real goddess).
Calliope did not feel at all goddess-like this evening. She was enraged by a headline on the evening newspaper. It said, “ARE LIFE COACHES THE NEW MUSES?”
She walked on further almost towards Trafalgar Square, which was now crammed bumper to bumper with cars, cabs and buses all stuck in the rush hour, horns blaring. She took a sharp right, sweeping regally past the guards and into the depths of the National Portrait Gallery.
Rushing through the galleries (blowing a kiss to the young Queen Victoria’s portrait) she sped up to the next floor flying through the Tudors, Stuarts and through the late eighteenth century to the nineteenth galleries. She stopped as soon as she reached The Romantics room with Blake, Shelley and Keats.
“I’ve missed you,” she said, catching her breath. The portraits, of course, stayed silent. But she knew something of their spirits was contained in the paint. “Nobody believes in us anymore.” The portraits did not reply. “They have replaced us with humans they call Life Coaches.”
A young male student wandered into the gallery and sat down in front of the Keats painting. He opened up a slim volume of poetry and started to read, looking up at the portrait from time to time with tears in his eyes. Calliope watched him for a while in wonder. Then she drifted over to his chair and stood behind him, stroking his hair gently and kissing the back of his neck. The young man was astonished. He could feel something but there was no one there. Calliope put her hands on the book and turned the page out of interest, to see which poem was next. The young man dropped the book in fright and ran away.
Calliope sat on the chair and read from the book.
“Bright star, would I were stedfast as thou art–
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night
She looked up at Keats and smiled. “Now that one was glorious, I remember it so well.” Leaving the book carefully on the chair, she raised her arms towards the tips of the gold frames and said, “Find me a so-called Life Coach who could inspire such beauty, darlings.”
And with that she laughed and ran out of the gallery and caught the next celestial transporter to a small town just outside of Los Angeles. According to the magazine articles, that was where they trained these new Life Coaches in their bid to become Muses.
There is a place in southern California called Donal Bay. It’s a few miles down the coastal road from Santa Monica on the way to Venice Beach and you would miss it if you didn’t slow down and turn left just five minutes (in mellow traffic) as soon as you spot the pier on the ocean side.
There are twinkle lights entwined between all the palm trees down Main Street, an Irish bar, 1940s era eggs and coffee breakfast place, a newsstand with all the Italian and Parisian fashion magazines next to surfing and boating news. There are also several tiny cafes with small round tables in between all the yoga studios and alternative healing emporia. These cafes are the sort of places you could easily imagine eating lemon gelato mid-morning with fizzy mineral water in sky blue tall glasses.
Calliope strokes her arm. CALLIOPE Let it go. I’ll talk to you. Lily suddenly relaxes and pulls the car out of the garage. Calliope moves her hand over Lily’s arm to “read” her. CALLIOPE (CONT’D) Just turned thirty-five? Your eternal soul must be coming down to meet you. Who do you have? She flicks her right hand and pulls up a screen. CALLIOPE (CONT’D) Liam McCann. Give me strength. EXT. DONAL BAY BEACH - AFTERNOON Liam and Cornelius emerge from the surf. Liam is grumpy LIAM It’s not exactly the South of France is it?
This just in ———
21:38 hours (in a random deli, waiting for a bowl of chicken matzo ball noodle soup)
It was sublime.
Mr. Bruce Robinson writes and directs like the twisted dark angel heir to the tossed nights of fervid imagination of yeats and blake….