MUSES II E-Book

Z.J. Galos

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Seitenzahl: 198

Beschreibung

The sequel to Muses, the first Memoir, has come to me naturally, meeting women who became Muses. Some of them have been with me for many years. And since my art exhibition called: Musai (Muses), where I depicted my artistic response to the image of the Classical Muses with a contemporary style, and was accepted by the Fine Arts School of Athens, at their gallery in Plaka, the Muses seem to have honored me with their presence, whenever I write, draw, and paint. They have been the motor for my artistic endeavors, creating poetry and prose, drawings, and paintings. I have been visited, especially by three Muses, who invited me to dance with them. I gladly followed and could achieve an inspired record with my second book: MUSES II - The Poet who enjoys dancing with his Muses.

Leseprobe

Greece was a muse. It inspired creativity in magical ways that I can't even begin to understand or explain.

Joe Bonamassa

The more I learn and read about the 10th Muse I realize what a great fan base and cult following she has. I'm going to try to live up to the fantastic image of the 10th Muse!

Cindy Margolis

A female friend, amiable, clever, and devoted, is a possession more valuable than parks and palaces; and without such a muse, few men can succeed in life, none be contented.

Benjamin Disraeli

Inhaltsverzeichnis

Prolog

L’apparition érotique de Salomé

Z in his writing room

Mr T at Home

Wake up to a Muse

Z/ Electronic Hermes & his Muse

IRA

Sun

I for IRA

Muse and Poet in dialogue

Zedjaygee

Preparations for an artist’s exhibition

Pigments and Inks

Trains/ Cafés/ Spouses & Love Interests

Letter to a Muse

the soul electric

LOVE (One)

Love (Two)

EPILOG

Times

Awakening

Nearness

Mindd over Matter

Twin Flame

Longing

Annex: Notes to my Poetry

Prolog

Muses are important for everybody pursuing creative work, especially for the poet and the artist. To continue from Muses, my first book in this genre, Muses II, the sequel, will expand on the follow up of relationships with one’s Muse, as an ongoing experience by this poet and artist.

The relationship of a Muse and an artist goes beyond the physical and the sensual, it is definitely at the start stirring with sympathies and attraction of one human being to another, but also exponentially more so between an artist and another artist. Sudden feelings of belonging would emerge, one would feel ‘at home’, the need for familiar places would arise, where one sense to have been before.

Knowing one’s Muse more personally, communicating one’s personal characteristics, creations and artistic expressions on paper and or on canvas, sympathies and understanding foster friendship and a love interest.

If a Muse also happens to transmute to a Twin Flame state, there are unification of lyric creations by the one partner and skilful drawings by the counterpart, novel writing by the one and painting by the other. A fruitful crosspollination takes off suddenly and universal forces act with apparitions on the causalities of having responded to each other, on more than one layer of consciousness. The poet who creates his hero or heroine, will eventually live in his hero’s or his heroine’s character. The artist, who creates her garden of an imaginary world, lives in her ‘Garden Eden’.

Kissed by one’s Muse, a well-used expression for inspiration, visions will happen during daytime, vivid dreams will cause sensational tormented nights, and often a feeling of her presence will turn into a tactile experience.

In case of the writer, it’s mostly women who had inspired him and inspire him at present, with exception of all cultural objects in Classical and Hellenistic art.

Experiencing telepathy is especially noticed through thoughts and emotions. In the language of the Indian Mystic, our chakras of the heart are activated, psychic capabilities will open up, creative abilities are awakened or intensified, and a new sense of dynamic vibes develop rapidly, placing the visual artist into a feverish groove of drawing and painting action, while the poet mumbles words that pour from his innermost and his pen hardly keeps up writing all down into his current journal.

Falling in love with a Muse is often as delicate as it is wonderful. Admiration is followed by a growing sense for a physical meeting. Desire could become so strong that it could induce fear of intimacy and lead to an inner burning of oneself. All these fears and emotions must not be taken literary, although they will affect both, Muse and artist. But whatever was written or said about Twin Flames or Soulbonding on the Internet, does not mean to install fear in both of the loving souls, but one thing that should override all else: to connect at one’s innermost!

L’apparition érotique de Salomé

At 4:15 in the morning the angel of revenge and death appears. She offers herself, as she slips into the body of the poet, chafes herself on his torso and slides around his lower body in a dance with softly touching fingers arousing his nipples and wishing to get him to reach his height in a short push of a sexual offering. A priestess of a Greek temple to Aphrodite, flesh to flesh, skin to skin in a desire to be one with her, as if he had met her once, loved her, fallen deeply in love with her. What is this? Who are you, my angel of love or death? How could I carry on loving you if you appear faceless? Then again, with faces that change continuously, as if one would envisage a metamorphosis of a lifelong collected faces of pretty women, who all came and went; come and go, come again and again, loving my aged body that’s like a dried out olive tree, yet still yielding the portion of life giving sap, you’ll take as a contribution for a lifelong dedication to you? Is this the price I still have to pay for the sweet favours you’ve bestowed on me? Have I become an object of your desires at your short measured life time and now after you’ve left this blue planet you are a soul that’s still restless on a trip to the stars, you are supposed to get back to?

Must you be with me at the crack of dawn to recharge your soul’s batteries to enable you to reach your final destination, or do you wish to show me with the prompts of your spiritual nearness, render me with physical desire for you, while you recall my memories that feel so real and tactile that your soul reunited with mine for a short mental and physical reunion, or is this just one of a wet dream, we so often experience as kids, finding out about our sexual awareness and identification with our genders, we share as brother and sister, boy and girl, wishing to live in each other’s body so intensely? Is love death? Do we never die? Is that what you came back about from your ‘Duat’, from your temporary in between lands of parted souls, to be with me? As you had finally realized you were not only in love with me, but I was, you were, we were the great love together? We, who both realized that in our to and fro of our physical and mental passion to merge, fuse, and explode together like particles of matter, create together another being, not having any longer the chance to do that physically, have children to carry on our legacies, now then forever being punished to follow each other in our strange existences within layers of consciousness, where we are fortunate of a big inner stir like an earthquake – like experiences that you, my great spiritual love – will forever stir in me for my purpose on this earth, expressing myself through these acts of a flow of deep seated consciousness that places the pen between my fingers and you make me write! This flow of consciousness, I never knew existed deep within me, angel, devil, sweetheart, treacly-sweet soul, hot bodied woman, who appears in my mind like a play of exquisitely carved puppets that appear real on one level of my pained existence, but dance as spirits at night, when you chose to visit me and slip into my body, let me still feel the pleasures of love, traces of great desires we had for each other? What is it my beloved ghost, my way from now on forward in these nights of tossing and turning within a light sleep?

Yet, not feeling tired or exhausted at all, but using these recharged energies of a transferred sexual love for the words that are the marbles I play with as words I place together in a chain of pearls, I’ll place around your neck, body, and shape you into the desired body, my Muse, who came alive was given to me as a gift of eternal love? I supposed to be tired, the poet wrote into his blue notebook, but I’m wide awake now. It’s 4:55 in the morning and I have conversed with you for 40 minutes on end. Good night.

Z in his writing room.

While the poet sat at his writing desk, a round steel table, covered with a white damask tablecloth of a fine cotton with an ecru colour, he read about the likes his subconscious had dictated him to write. Interesting, he mused, it was indeed his Muse, not just one of his Muses, but the one who had turned his life as an artist around, a fine critical voice for his writing, the Muse who observed all his other Muses, who came with three or four personalities, he met regularly: Mon for art, who enjoyed shopping with him for art supplies at ‘boesner’; Nica, the elfin-dancer, who looked after his physical health and spiritual wellbeing; Ira, grand dame of his Muses, supporting his artistic endeavours, and Beawea, his spouse for 53 years, with a sharp critical voice and at times behaving like a dominatrix.

There’s some peace now, the poet mused, got up from his provisional bed, placed together from a well lived in couch, once the centre point of an interior, when black & white had been in fashion. “I cannot write with this pen”, Z murmured. This back pen, manufactured by Pelikan started with hick-ups. “I need to take another one. Lucky me, Mon had talked me into buying a pen, used by students and with its colour indicating the same coloured ink cartridge in its holder. So I bought a red pen for the use with red ink, a blue one for blue ink. Fine. I’m also mad about pens, but then they also go best with the different types of paper, so their steel nibs are working properly and not clogging up, or that the ink will not be soaked up by the paper and show at the back of the page in one’s notebook. These pens do their job. However the steel pen from my Lamy pen will write too wet on the ‘art-creation’-paper and leave marks on the return side of the page. I love that pen, but it’ll need the more densely laminated papers to function properly. I will use the student pens for rendering of my drawings.”

When Z has placed his art-hat on his head, when the time has arrived that he is in the drawing and painting groove. Lately he commutes, since one month already, between Alsergrund and Weidling. The daily trot hasn’t dampened his desire to create art, prepare perhaps for an exhibition and get his drawings and paintings in order, and prepare frames for them. Frameless glass frames were available at a commercial supermarket. It’s incredible: To replace a broken glass from one of the cardboard backings is costing more than the cost of four commercial new frames including the glass. What a waste of material. The glass, 1,3 mm in thickness, is especially thin and made with recycled plastic content. However, this morning, 20th of October, he decided to travel to ‘Weid’, as he called the hamlet for short, and visit the surgery of Dr Doubleyou, who could inoculate him with a refresher for the newly developed Covid 19 variants. However, nobody, either from the medical world, nor the scientific organisations knows anything about the Covid 19 virus, so that more effective antidotes could be found. Not yet. Meanwhile it’s recommended to get the updated inoculations that will protect one, especially the elderly from getting harmed by the pandemic and protected from death.

Z, poet; artist zg, writer and poet zjg, is keen to stay alive as long as possible, as he is still determined: write more poetry books, novels, short stories, and draw the corresponding drawings to compliment his literary output. For the genre of art: LOVE & ART is to be his latest endeavour presently, with poetry and drawing back to back on each double page. Having once admired Breyten Breytenbach, the South African Poet and artist, who had exhibited poetry and drawings in Paris, France. That has been, when Z resided in Parkwood, Johannesburg, South Africa. ZG, the artist is humming along when drawing: “It’s the humming that matters”, says Breyten.

Damned Bus station. He couldn’t find the closest to OBI of the third district in Vienna. At the end station the people explained to him in broken German that they were themselves tourists here. One man, although seemed to be a stranger, told him the direction. Z walked downhill and then noticed the station, he should have been exited at, one station before the end station. Well, at last he could fetch his glass frames. But at OBI’s reception counter nobody knew about his telephonic reservation of glass frames. Finally he yelled at a podgy looking woman, who was permanently on the phone, where the glass and frame department was located. She then tried to reach the station, but wouldn’t get a reply. “On the first floor, ask there.” But why didn’t she say that immediately? He rushed up the escalator. The chap on the first floor didn’t know. Another woman, passing by, pointed him to the counter at the farthest corner. His ordered frames were there already collated and Z asked the wiry man to wrap them together, so he could carry them. He had already a heavy day, first at Dr Doubleyou to receive his vaccination No.4 for Covid 19, then after having to queue up for an hour, he had to take a ten minute rest after his refresher dose. He took the bus to the train station Weid. The train ride to H-City was pleasant and he had to change to the subway No 4 to Simm, (excuse Z, but he loves to shorten Names of stations). He changed trains again at Landstrasse and finally arrived after a short walk along ‘Unter der Kirche’, at boesner’s art material Supershop. He selected the photo-cardboards for his passe-partouts of six paintings, he had brought with him. All went well choosing the colours. Exhausted after his purchases, not due to them, but the long trip across town, he entered the cafeteria and ordered the menu of the day: soup and bean goulash. It tasted to him like the food he recalled from his student days. However, he needed strength after his trip to OBI 3 and then carry the papers and frames to his home in Weid. B was astonished that he arrived so late to offload his goods, brew himself some tea and then to take to the road once again. It was high time to commute to his watcher-job again.

“I’ll need a time-out”, he mumbled to B and left in a hurry. He arrived at Sobi in half an hours’ time and attended to Mr T’s needs, brewing him a cup of camomile tea and administering his round of medication. Then he went to his room, dropped his shoes, sat down in Mrs Ira’s easy chair and closed his eyes. His Muse appeared, smiling, teasing him, and showing off her well-proportioned body in tight Jeans with a revealing top. “Take it off”, he murmured, “you tease me too much and I will develop such pain that I’ll become impotent.” She looked aghast. “No way”, she said, “I will not be the reason…” He woke.

He disliked the November weather for its wet and cold atmosphere, but he was inspired by the fog that hung around and made objects disappear. Turner came to mind and his paintings depicting that kind of hazy atmosphere. However, landscapes disappearing in a sea of fog, the Viennese Woods crowned with it, wrapped up in it like in cotton wool, apparent only at his daily walks around the block of one family homes. Lately – and who would have thought about changes in his lifestyle – he commuted to Vienna on a daily basis, almost, Sundays excluded, as travel times on that day became impossible for the short distance of eleven kilometres, from his temporary home. He called it temporary, as it had happened to him and his spouse, due to the forces of fate that they had landed up in this ridiculously small bedsitter, with damp walls and an unhealthy atmosphere, congested plumbing, but a fine view of an outstanding tall and healthy fir tree, with its distinguished dark green needles, lit-up at its edges by the late afternoon sun, turning its perimeter into a green fire. “Absolutely stunning”, his spouse would comment. She sat on her favourite green leather settee, well designed to comfort the human body shapes, not alone complementing the dark green colours of the fir tree, but also providing the wellbeing comfort Beejade was continually in search of.

While she reclined on her Pan’s couch, as she called it, he would lead a recluse poet’s life, fleeing into the small kitchen with its own door, as it served as his domain, his last retreat, whenever she started one of her longer lasting monologues, caused by some small disgruntlement over a shared bill to be paid. Usually she would put the emphasis of him to pay it, as she always fell back on the immediate past, where she felt that he still owed her. “I’ve paid the deposit for this flat, don’t forget that.” He had to correct her: “Indeed, but I have paid your half back to you, don’t you forget that!” Usually, after a short pause, when he had withdrawn to his domain, she started again her tirade about his missed duties in the past years, right back to the time, when they resided in Jo’burg, South Africa. He closed the door, started his laptop, donned a set of earphones and started work on his poetry: ART & LOVE. It supposed to become a major work for his literary efforts, just like The Apollo Frieze was a major work for his endeavours as an artist in Athens, Greece, when his artist friend, Takis, helps him to exhibit at EPASKT, where he shows his 14 piece frieze in their Plaka Gallery.

He mused: This, my masterpiece, how could I ever exhibit it in Vienna? One day he visited with Mon together the Leopold Museum in Vienna’s Museums Quartier. And there: in the Souterrain was the perfect wall that could take his unfolded Apollo Frieze. Perfect. “But it means that you have to contact the owner of the museum”, Mon said. “I’ll find a way”, he said to her.

A noise stirred him. B had stopped her tirade, he still heard a murmuring through the closed door. It must have been outside, he reckoned and opened the window. It was Achmed, the Pizza man. “How are you?” he asked in his broken German. “I will need some more lessons in German.” It sounded like “Wie es geht? Ich brauche noch mehr Stunden für Deutsch.“ Z smiled. „OK, when?“ Achmed scratched his head thinking about a suitable time. “Meine Frau bald kommt.” Aha, Z mused, “call me anytime when you are free, Achmed, OK?” He nodded and rushed off, his delivery time overstepped, he felt the iron fist of his pedantic Egyptian boss in his neck.

It’ Sunday, great day for a late autumn. The air is fresh, but the rising sun lights up the grey atmosphere of the suburban landscape, like here in the Alsergrund. Whenever Z commutes from historic Klosterneuburg, he arrives by train in Heiligenstadt, changes over to the U4 to exit at the next stop in Spittelau, and takes the U6 for one stop in a western direction, arriving at Nußdorferstrasse. Just a few hundred metres further on foot towards the city, he visits Hofer on Nußdorferstrasse and searches for his favourite Karamelgebäck. If it’s sold out, he takes a package of goat cheese and a bottle of Blaufränkisch-wine from Burgenland, gets into the queue, pays, and heads for the exit. He takes the next street to the right, enters Sobi-lane, unlocks the entrance door at 32 and takes the lift up to the top floor. He opens the door to Mr T’s apartment that is always double locked for security reasons and he has to double lock again the top lock. “I feel more secure that way”, Mr T told him, and so Z follows this procedure, unless he will be interrupted by Mr T for more pressing matters. Z hangs his black leather jacket, he once received as a gift from Mrs Trix, on a coat hanger in his room, cashmere shawl on top, and beret above. He then tends to Mr T’s immediate needs: Special premixed coffee with a generous shot of milk, his favourite teaspoon on the side, in his grey-banded white cup with a matching saucer. The coffee mix has to be stirred with an electrical stirrer, to distribute the mix with the milk equally. Then he serves it to Mr T’s table in his room, where he eats, sleeps and works at specially assigned tables at various positions. Immediately after breakfast, or even before, in the middle of the night, or at uneven hours of the day, Mr T works his laptop, attends to his correspondence, calls up various texts to be worked over, composes new letters to family and also to a great number of friends, he had made all over the world.

*

Mr T at Home

Mr T was up early, as he was in bed for most of the day, yesterday. “You have to place some food for him on the table, so he’s stimulated to eat”, Nica said to Z, when she was helping out with the nursing job for Mr T. Nica was a capable nurse for the elderly, as she could strike the right tone, a mix that combined compassion with an urge to motivate Mr T to take his medication at the correct described time, even if it meant a continuous follow up. Z did that in a more relaxed manner and not like a strict teacher.

“Z, where is my cellular phone?” Having heard Mr T’s voice, Z moved to see him in his room and searched for his mobile phone, checking at the breakfast table, the tea table at the green settee, and then his work desk. He found the oversized mobile phone behind his laptop and took it to Mr T’s bed. “Slowly, slowly”, he mumbled, cautioning Z to watch the carpet end at his bed, “that you don’t fall.” He obviously also meant the various objects strewn around the floor around his bed. Z had to step carefully, not to bury items below his feet: socks, house shoes, notes, and there might be even one of his spectacles lying around, although that hasn’t happened yet, but it might be possible.

“Have you put some sweetener into the tea?” He held the cup of camomile tea in his hand, Z had served him before, and as he heard Mr T’s coughing attack. “No, not yet”, Z replied.

“Please hand me the sweetener from the breakfast table.”

“Sure, just a moment.” He had to balance his steps between the goods, strewn around the long side of his bed.