No Disney Mermaids, Here No Disney mermaids, here, in a predawn net of dreams that won't let me go. But that's not quite true. I hold onto them, too, over reality because life is the nightmare that's real. And so I drown, at long last, in tangled water, choosing the insanity, where water becomes a hand. And I hold onto it, too, because I'm also scared to drown, even in this wonder of dreams. We're not Disney mermaids; not svelte, with lovely voices, and it's suddenly fine that we are our real selves. The ones battered by storms and rocks, that have many scars, and that we drown together in this space between worlds. Because that is the love we need. A something real one. A strong one. But our waking thoughts try to rip us apart. I feel your hand in mine, still, and I don't let go, but it's hard to make the tea that will bring me back to the world I hate. But it's that world that brings me your message in a drowning bottle. And I'm glad I haven't let go.
I hope everyone is happy, warm, and safe in their little time pocket of the multiverse!
If you signed up for the newsletter, I look forward to reading and sharing your New Year’s creative thoughts (if any). I’ve scheduled this post in advance, just in case I was able to make it to another realm for New Year’s. Thanks to those who participated.
The Green Stars Project New Year’s resolution: “My not-so-secret wish is to practice ethical consumerism and to also encourage others to do so. I have a specific plan, and I’ll know that it’s starting to work whenever I see another person writing a Green Stars review! My latest post, which starts with a brief discussion on liminal space, pretty much sums it up. https://greenstarsproject.org/2017/12/29/resolution/. Sometimes, perhaps when I’m faltering on my path a little bit, the universe sends me a sign – it usually comes from an animal. That’s kind of where it all started – with my cat and other animals. Baggins the cat is no longer on this plane (or maybe he is back on it in another form) but I think he still guides me.”
New Year’s Poem by Willow Croft:
“I think time is broken,”
you tell me, in my sleep.
It’s my 365th attempt to fix things
but our clocks are lives and years apart.
With each tinkering,
more pieces of me
pile up in the corners,
and I’m running out of places to hide
from monsters under the bed and
in real life.
So I seek my way out of these worlds.
At the harbour, I’ve missed the boat.
At the airport, I’ve missed the last plane out.
At the station, I’ve missed the train.
And my carriage never arrives
at its destination.
Always a day late and a dollar short
and a hundred years away from you
in the dark and cold
of another new beginning.
© Willow Croft 2017-2018
“One Hundred Years” by The Cure: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CBtBD2WwvGY
I lost quite a few things during my last journey, so I’ve been retracing my steps in hopes of collecting them.
Things have just been…things.
Also, I’m afraid I’ve neglected my muse(s) as of late, but I took them on a blissfully simple summer picnic at the beach.*
I’ve been losing everything. It’s all sliding through cracks in the universe. Momentum. Focus. Dates. Stuff somebody just told me the day before. Or five minutes ago. Time goblins at work, maybe. Or I’ve gotten old in the space of a week.
In addition to the goblins that are taking up most of my brain space, I’ve had little wordlings floating around in my head. They seem significant, but that’s the curse of the creative sort. It seems wonderfully magical, or horribly prosaic. Still, I’ll put them away for safekeeping. Just in case the goblins get hungry.
a forest of ferns
endless, seething thunderstorms
ancient worlds with no humans
essence of summer
second chance to be a kid
unkindness of ravens
*Disclaimer: This is complete fiction. I’m nowhere near a beach. Except in dreamworlds. But I’ll send you a map if you bring the picnic. Or surprise me with a new When.†
‡But also possibly real in some other dimension.
I dreamt of my muse last night. That’s not unusual, but the nature of their entrance was not typical. Usually, it’s pretty dream-like…like I know it’s not really happening. That they are a fictionalized construct of that person, and the whole experience will end up in a poem.
Viola De Lesseps: I love you, Will, beyond poetry. —Shakespeare in Love
Last night, though? I didn’t even go looking for my muse, or build a dream around them before I went to sleep.
With all the force of a shock wave, they were there. Like lightning went all through me. My dreaming mind didn’t quite know what to do…and I’m used to having really vivid, lucid dreams. Imagine if somehow a flesh-and-blood person showed up in your dream, with no dream filters like magic and wishful-thinking scenarios or even surreal situations. And yet there was still magic surrounding my muse in their black-and-white (?) t-shirt and black jeans and looking a bit annoyed with having to punch their way into my dream. Sort of like a psychedelic swirling of rainbow colours behind them.
It was definitely one of the more interesting dream voyages I’ve had. So far, I haven’t found a poem to put that experience in, yet. Because it felt too real. And, yet, still wonderful.
wasted time channeled that perplexing dream into creating a new Pinterest board to display some of my sources of inspiration for my poems. Poetic Muse-ings
What sort of things serve as muses in your worlds?
A bit late, but that’s the loveliness of time travel…or my creative wishful thinking.
Engaging board games, the even rarer lightning spectacle, and a first-time tasting of Zia Piñon Kola.
I carried with me a feeling of serendipity, aka synchronicity, to the board games meet-up. I had an inkling that, somewhere, my ghost muse was gaming as well. Just imagination, says my practical side…