MUSES III E-Book

Z.J. Galos

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Poesie und Drama
• Serie: MUSES
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024

Seitenzahl: 184

Beschreibung

The poet had been waking to fine experiences of his conscious being, whereby the transition area, between the subconscious and the conscious levels, opened up a garden of earthly and spiritual delights, as a designed stage upon a stage by one of his favourite Muses, he calls his 'A-Muse'. So, waking in love seemed to fit the description. Into this garden, he'd commute daily and would meet and communicate with artists of fame and also with talented contemporaries, while his Muses danced in a traditional sensual roundabout in and out of his room, high above the rooftops of Vienna,

Leseprobe

The ancient Greek oral poets all had this anxiety about the deficiencies of their memories and always began poems by praying to the Muse to help them remember. David Antin

Time moves in one direction, memory in another. William Gibson

Time and tide wait for no man. Geoffrey Chaucer

Table of Contents

Prolog

Nobody could live without inspiration and a Muse, inspiring him, be it a street artist, a graphic artist, a musician. Especially in the Fine Arts, the artist and his Muse are legendary. Amadeo Modigliani comes to mind, Pablo Picasso, Auguste Rodin, and Camille Claudel.

Perhaps the Muse’s role for the artist – if he’s in good luck – besides being a model, also to inspire him; perhaps becoming a trusted person, even a confidante, a person who happens at all times to be around, somebody living under one’s skin, advancing to become a twin sister, a friend, but more than a friend, a lover, but even more so: a soul-bonded person, a secret love everybody knows about, somebody deeply descended into one’s innerness. This, the poet conveyed to his aged friend, who enquired what the word Muse meant. But as he had difficulties getting through to his friend’s failing brain, he played on visual images and remembrances, they both had experienced in their younger years. The poet asked his aged friend if he’d remember the fashion designer Yves St Laurent. Of course he did and even recalled the selected saturated colours, the designer favoured. It reminded him of paintings, his aged friend said.

Well then, what had inspired Yves to his fantastic creative fashion collections? He asked his friend, who looked forlorn at the poet expecting an answer and the poet carried on with his talk. What about the Muses, his friend wished to know. Just now I’ll come to that the poet said. The actress, model, and film star Catherine Deneuve, you know of, had been one of his Muses in his later years, part of a string of Muses right from the start of his design career. Remember Lauren Bacall, Romy Schneider, Coulon de la Falaire, and Betty Catroux, who Yves considered being his twin sister. There was Paloma Picasso, besides Francoise Gilot, Marisa Berenson, Marina Schiano, Niki St Phalle, and Laetitia Casta as well, but not in this order.

Besides his string of beautiful women, models, actresses and companions, there were great painters, like Henri Matisse, and Fernand Leger, whose colours influenced Yves’ colour palette for his garments. And except pretty women, Yves also admired Marcel Proust. There are always other artists influencing artists, be it in the Fine Arts, the visual arts, and in the performing arts. The poet had to think of the Ballet Russe and Diaghilev, reminding him of the artist Marc Chagall.

While the poet has come across artists in the above mentioned genres of art, he also extensively admires poets of the world, having studied Greek poets closer and been introduced to them by his friend Ana, he called His Greek Muse, and who was also a fine poetess. She introduced the poet to Constantine Cavafi, Georgios Seferis, Odysseos Elytis and Giannis Ritsos, besides various novelists and younger writers. The poet met a group of artist around the year 20010-13 at EPASKT in Athens, especially Jannis and Panos, where he could exhibit his Apollo Frieze. Recently, artists, like Anna Charactinou, who enticed his poetry and he became good friends with on Facebook, as the poets Panos Stathogiannis and efthimias efthimiadis. There is Mon, the calligraphic artist concerned with human rights, who calls on the poet to exhibitions of their art and considers to exhibit with him together on a theme concerning love. May they all stay good friends, be diligent, and prolific for the best works of art. Amen.nemA

PART I

Meeting Muses

Commuting Poet

Tuesday night he couldn’t find peace of mind, restless, chasing for the next mental coat hanger to place his story on. The back and fro between a provisional home and a service he provided, an unsettled stomach that acts like a wildcat before dawn. Warm food helped, but heartburn caused him a hard time. His Muse who’d leave tomorrow, meant, his imbalance had already raised its uprooted self. She stood in his room, which was her room, but she’d dedicated it to him, where he could design his next work of art and where he could sit at a desk, in an environment with quaint surroundings and tend to his poetry and prose, whenever he could dive into the groove of writing. He looked into her blue eyes with a tint of green that appeared to him in an opalescence beauty, visualizing in her face the workings of his own mind. He felt hugging her and kissing her fine, olive shaped face, but the door open, he wouldn’t induce a bout of jealousy with her spouse, he had to look after, while she was away. He sensed she’d need relaxation, he could have given her, love her like French and Greek men make love to their spouses, but more so to their concubines, but then he also knew that it would be his detriment, the digging of the grave for a great friendship that’ll turn passionate love and then there wouldn’t be any holding back any longer. He would devour her and wish to tease her out of her sleep of a dormant beauty with her passionate state, she had to let loose the wild mare just in time, just as his own wild dormant horse had to let loose, just as most human beings do, who are married for a long time. He felt more than just friendship for her.

But to call up the spirits of darkness, they would drive them wild with passion for a while, but then, when all had been experienced in a new love interest, pain and desperation would set in. For now, as they were both married, it was impossible to go back to their spouses and lick their wounds in the known and probed harbour of love. But would they do that at their advanced ages? “If I’ll stay with you all night, I won’t go back to my husband”, his former Muse, Ana, used to tell him at their frequent tête-a-têtês during daytime. Now then, the first step had to come from him, if he’ll follow up on his longings of love he declared for her in his poems. His arms started to touch her now and then during a private talk and sharing life during times they could spend together. As soon as he left her – she started to settle down in the guest room, Z’s room, Ira’s room; the woman’s room, who came to take care of Mr T at daytime. He felt a slight pang in his stomach. Just before he left, he recalled, she was rushing to the toilet. “Every time I’m coming here, I have to go to the John”, she said, “has this some meaning?” Z said nothing, but thought how much more pain a good-bye would be, if he had already touched her, kissed her, spent intimate moments with her, and would have followed his heart that had been in love with her for a long time. And he would have tasted her body and became slowly one with her. With these thoughts he closed the door behind him and pressed the button for the elevator. His mind was still with her, the thoughts of having bypassed a friendly kiss, a hug, an embrace, and some love words. He often felt that way, whenever she had to leave for a few days, a week, two weeks, and some more days added on, as something was always coming up.

Forlorn he entered the train station to take the U6 to Spittelau station, where he changed for the S-train that ferried him comfortably to Klosterneuburg. He thought of her while he stared out the window, where a great show pulled continuous pictures past his window. Absentminded, he saw her face in various positions superimposed on the beige, light blue, and grey bands above the corrugated metal band that was pulled past in front of his eyes, green, blue, white, blacklined in supergraphic details on concrete walls. While the concrete walls got lower, the train came up from a deepening beside the road, where neat familiar houses appeared, the one near Kahlenbergerdorf, green landscape pieces, grown over horizontal lattice fences taken over by green overgrowth, with spots of blue underground paint showing. Behind the fences the prominent baroque-style tower of the church of Kahlenbergerdorf. Red clay tiled roofs, concrete pylons, cars zipping past when the train reached street level again. Most of the trees with lush green leaves, the outskirts of the Viennese Woods greet the poet. The blue roofed white painted houses, some residences with blue-tinted windows. Dense foliage between single residences, the grey concrete bricked up off-ramp from the motorway that bypasses the outer hamlets. Down again the train descended next to the Heiligenstädter Hangbrücke, a road supported by pylons and beams, recently installed since a two year period. It supposed to finish in a year’s time. Reflections of the opposite window are like ghost-paintings that appear next to the window of the poet’s seat. Slowly the train will come up again and a characteristic building with a half-timbered motive appears, but it’s a bad way of upgrading a monotonous façade, which appears immediately as fake, even to the average eye.

Pity, old Nußdorf experienced a phase of bad town planning that had not integrated the charming village-type architecture, the local vernacular, into the new developments. The traditional ‘Kaisergelb’ – the specific yellow colour on some facades, recalls the fashionable colour of the KK-monarchy in Austria. The lush green trees had been left – thanks dear people – at least they are pretty well grown trees that line the main street of the Nußdorf district adjoining the roads, tram and train. The Classical style of the Biedermeier has influenced most of the well-built developments in the 20th century. Near the Nußdorf station, where trains to Tulln and Krems stop, a newly constructed apartment building favours a light grey appearance, while the balconies are painted in a bright green colour. And in a colourful mix old and new apartment buildings line the road close to the train tracks. Great! An old clay brick building stands out with excellent workmanship as a beauty between bland grey typified and boring industrialized buildings of poor design, ignoring the soul and spirit of vernacular architecture in Nußdorf. The Cor-ten style building of the Q19 shopping centre spirals with its ramp design and appears to the eyes like a tall rusting ship with bullseye-window bulbs, which pop out like frog bellies to burst. Thanks to nature and its fresh greens that hide most of the monotonous rows of flat buildings, one in light blue with strong blue bands surrounding the windows, appear to beat the green leaf-curtain of the trees in front of them. The brick constructed arcade with semi-circular arches has some tenants nesting in the arches like crabs in an abandoned shell, at the abandoned portion of the train track construction to Heiligenstadt, with industrial stores that had occupied the space below the wide arches. The poet has arrived in Klosterneuburg-Weidling. A bus will take him home.

Strange, he thought, as he woke. In the morning, when the face of his Muse is close to him, mirrored on his mind’s eye, he nurses his hard on that feels pleasant to stroke, musing it would be natural to stroke his Muse, they could stroke each other and enjoy an exchange of feelings together. In their advanced age it’ll be preferable, as it would be too exhausting to make love, unless practised the way love is made in hot countries, a Spanish expression for languid lovemaking, perhaps the carezza or so, he thought. Of course oral lovemaking would be another possibility. He knew she’d like it: the sweet little thing, as she once indicated to him. Fine, he mused, he’d love to bring her to a height with his tongue on her pussy’s clit.

B , also this way

May 15. This Tuesday had already started on the wrong foot. Mr T was getting nervous, as he waited for Vesa to arrive and be his guide to the centre for Haematology. He was sober, could only sip some water and became irritated if one couldn’t find his reading glasses immediately, which he left at odd places, albeit the string he should place around his neck that his spouse had bought for that purpose especially. Besides, Z had to prepare every ten minutes either tea or serve him a slice of cake that he kept in a plastic container for longer use, once his blood samples had been taken. The Z would carry on with his work translating ‘Der Schwere Weg’ (The heavy Way), which Mr T had commissioned him to translate from German into English. He had already translated about nine pages of the 20 page memoir that Mr T had wrote many years back, about his mother’s escape from being transported to Auschwitz with her two children, Mr T and his sister. Mr T was adamant that he would still, even in his advanced age, distribute all writings about experiencing their arrest in Bratislava, in 1942, besides also the memoir of his father, who had been held prisoner in the ‘Sered’ camp in Bratislava, until he could no longer postpone his deportation, while working in the camp’s joinery shop.

Z phoned Vesa as Mr T complained that she did not come to work already. It was 9:00 am and she arrived at 9:15. Mr T got up immediately and Vesa phoned a cab and they both departed to the laboratory where Mr T had blood samples taken for further analysis. Z carried on translating and realized the time being 9:50 am. That meant he had to move and walk to the Underground station to get to the Albertina Museum, changing trains at Schwedenplatz. He was punctual and entered the foyer of the famous gallery, but B didn’t turn up. He waited fifteen minutes and then phoned her. She didn’t answer, so he left a message. As he decided after a further ten minutes to wait for a return call, but nothing happened he intended leaving the foyer, but as he walked toward the plate glass doors, she arrived, but stayed outside, although they had agreed meeting in the foyer. He went outside and asked her: “Why would you not come inside?” She mumbled about bad sleep and waiting half an hour for the train to arrive. He sensed that she disliked to visit the gallery, although it was initially her idea to see Max Katz, the American artist, who became known for painting in the ‘Sharp edged’-style. Z had seen some of his work before on the Internet, but he wouldn’t stand in the way of his spouse’s interest to go and visit with her together an exhibition. However, she said that she was far too exhausted to visit an exhibition this morning and she would rather go and eat something at her favourite haunt. Z agreed, “we could always come back and see the exhibition another day.” They walked to the underground station at the opera and exited the U1 at Schwedenplatz.

Entering the coffee-house, famous for ice cream, cakes, and good meals, B became suddenly alive, asked the waiter for today’s freshly prepared food, who agreed that the meatballs with noodles were excellent today. B ordered one portion to be shared and for her spouse she asked for a Moroccan mint tea with honey. She preferred a glass of Viennese water. When the waiter brought the tea, Z couldn’t see honey in his drink. “Taste it”, B said. Z took a spoon and tasted the liquid. “There’s a trace of sweetness in it”, he said and left it at that. Slowly but surely this Café had ceased to be his favourite spot, except for dark chocolate ice cream. For that though, he could just walk to the ice cream counter and take a wafer beaker of two scoops. The food tasted good, but the waiter moaned that he received a stiff lip from the kitchen staff, as he asked for one portion to be served as two halve portions. Big deal, Z thought, incredible to state that to them, who had been customers for many years. However, waiters changed regularly and so nobody from the staff knew about the coffee house’s patronage, only a few of the older waiters, who were though moved regularly around to wait at different tables in different areas of the extensive coffee house. Perhaps this was a policy of management, so that there would be no familiarity or friendship developing between customers and waiters and customers would not be able to take advantage of such a situation.

B talked in a low voice that he could understand at first, but as three men arrived, sitting close by and talking with loud voices, they drowned B’s conversation. Z felt uneasy, especially as did not talk a lot and the subject of their initially noisy communication dried up. B got up and fetched some daily papers from the counter at the serving desk and Z inspected his mobile phone for news. And as B returned an argument developed about this. “You prefer your cellular phone to me?”

“No, but as you’ve fetched some papers, I thought we both check out about our interests for a while.”

B looked tense. “I’ve been up since 01:30 this morning and I wish to avoid any stress.” Z was amazed. How could she feel stress, if he just looked at his mobile phone? She became irrational again and he left that he had to leave. B wished to stay 5-6 hours in this coffee-house. Z had bought fresh salmon to prepare a meal at home, but B would not yet leave for home. Of course she had nothing to do at home at present, so she felt better to stay in town, while he had his work of writing cut out for himself. That reminded him of sending another poem to Ira, as he had already indicated that in the first poem he had sent her and he would subsequently send her five poems as a sequel, perhaps even two more, to make it seven, a number that had been burned into him, since the birthday of his first great Muse that related to the number seven. He asked for the waiter and paid. B protested, but he paid anyway. No way he would split the already split luncheon. “I’m not made to appear as your whore”, she said. Z said nothing, bade her good-bye and left to get an Italian handmade soap, she had promised him before, but the shop was closed when she showed it to him.

Z travelled by U4 subway to Landstrasse, changed trains and got out at Rochusgasse, one station later. At the Billa Supermarket he bought some lime and blackberries and a fruit preserve. He had promised to cook a meal, which B had ignored today and so he’ll do it the following day. If she did not participate, he would lunch alone. Sadly, there was no common ground any longer to keep this relationship emotionally fit. Only the keys were left to open and close their bedsitter, which they still used both due to economizing on their meagre income. Both agreed on that point. Nica had suggested at one point that he should go through with a divorce, but Z had rejected that on the account that he wouldn’t throw his spouse of 54 years to the wolves. Where would she live? Where could she ever afford accommodation on her own? She was used to a certain size of living space and to cover that from the local government’s minimum payments, would be impossible. But together they could manage half of the rent and running expenses each. B felt caught like a bird in a cage and demanded freedom of mind and body. Indeed, Z felt just the same, but times and a new life style might change all this cast iron shackle and let them both free. Z disliked B for taking him for a ride, as she claimed always to be short of money and she wouldn’t start to live in accordance with her allowance. Understandably that was very difficult, but then she had chosen her destiny to rely on him and he wished to be free from the responsibility to provide for her living expenses, as she received her own money. Besides, she had difficulties in acting responsibly with the credit, as he had helped her to obtain a credit line with a bank advertising on the Internet, which was a mistake on the one side, but it had helped her to pay for the refurbishment of her natural teeth. This was all on the material side. On the emotional side all had died a long time ago, as she would not decide to go with her friend, due to her hang-up about money and friendship, she treated as two different subjects.