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Okay… here are 5 books off my shelves…
1) The Enchanted Broccoli Forest
2) Montaillou: The Promised Land of Error
3) The Blithedale Romance
4) Desert Solitaire
5) I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings
My writing rituals are fairly ordinary and my workspace extremely mundane. Typically, I draft my writings by hand, where I absolutely must use a black felt tip pen, preferably a Flair. With this pen, I can recline and keep the ink flowing. Sometimes I write on my living room sofa; other times I’m at my local natural food store that has free wi-fi—a fact that is important and I’ll describe in a minute. Typically, I write either very late at night or early in the morning, such as right now.
So, anyway, my handwritten drafts just tend to be a list of notes, phrases that roll around in my mind, and perhaps some more complicated explications. Then I move to my PC and flesh out the text. Now, when I am creating digital art, I typically skip the handwritten bit and just go straight to my computer and start working. My computer is in my bedroom/library/office/storeroom…. See, I live in this really, really small apartment and most rooms are utilized in a multipurpose manner. No I do not write in the bathroom but I have had many inspired thoughts there.
I don’t have too many odd things around my workspace—just usual things like books, papers, music CDs, books, a vacuum cleaner, my bed, a DVD of Qi Gong exercises (which I watch on my computer because my DVD player is broken,) books and more books. Regarding books, the two that are right next to my monitor at the moment are Writing Down the Bones by Goldberg and Krause’s Color Index: CMYK and RGB Formulas for Print and Web Media.
I don’t usually listen to anything specific when I write or make art. At the moment I am listening to some guy on the radio ranting about the state of the world—oh, I just heard a crow caw right outside the window—really, I’m not making this up—and two bus lines roar by my front door every five minutes from about 5:30 am to about 9 p.m, rattling the windows and drowning out any other sounds. In hot weather, when I have my bedroom windows open, I can hear everything coming from the people who live in the building next door. I hear them talking, cooking, watching tv, entertaining, etc. This is usually followed by the sounds of my muttering something about their getting a room somewhere else and the loud sliding shut of said bedroom window.
I have no other writing rituals except when I work at my computer, I MUST have something to drink—it can be anything (usually coffee) as long as it is sitting on the right side of my computer—which is interesting because I am left-handed. Also, and more importantly, I can’t even begin to work unless I check my e-mail first. I don’t know why this is, but I cannot work until every unread e-mail is read. So when I am writing somewhere not my home, then I must find a place with a free wi-fi spot (such as my local natural food market), when I can plug in my Ipod and look at my e-mail. Oh, no, I’m not addicted at all to the internet, nope, not me.
My ending ritual is realizing that I have to be somewhere else, scrambling to sign off, and bolting out of the room–Such as now– It is now 6:20 in the morning and I have to hustle to get ready for work.
Have a great day everyone. I’m looking forward to reading about your writing habits.
Lori
Two wooden figures on the upper shelf
wave to some hidden presence
bend their knees
in ritual parade
one kicks out at the set
of opera glasses as if it knew
them ancient and useless
The tiny carved cat disregards the lot
and shuts her eyes
And at that point a thunder clap
closed my electronic performance
so I took off with the book that explains
my predicament: Chaos theory; now there’s
an explanation for the break up
of pattern and its reconstruction and that, I think,
is the oddest thing
I keep at hand.
The rest is routine, a keyboard, Mac,
a WACOM that is refusing my direction
I cannot listen
to music, but strangely often
to someone who speaks to a far off microphone
as if the drone of someone else’s voice
will help to find my own when the new pattern
has failed to form at the edges of that chaos,
age and history create
You talked of habit—most of mine need discipline
a question to be answered
a plan to make
a memory to release
a view from far beyond the walls of quiet room, or garden
an old letter
an attempt to picture a long-forgotten face
and now this challenge—the reply
too long perhaps—I thank you friend
for demanding a place in mine.
by Fran Sbrocchi
Who were the Bluestockings? A “bluestocking” was once a term of derision leveled at women who thought to improve themselves through informal intellectual and literary discussions. Periodically, the SFC Bluestocking Society convenes at the Taverna to carry on that tradition. A topic will be posted and Taverna members are welcome to post comments related to the topic. (When you post your comments, please click the “Blue Stocking Society” category.) For more information on the history of the Bluestockings, please feel free to peruse the minutes of their meetings.
Today’s Topic: Writing Rituals
I found a useful article at the BBC website about the writing rituals of several Irish authors. It made me curious about how each of you prepare to write or make art. Using these questions as a model, tell us a thing or two about your “rituals.” To get you started, I’ve borrowed a couple of questions/directives from the article and stuck in a couple of my own:
Describe your writing or art-making space.
Describe your writing implement, device, equipment, or tools you use to create.
What is the oddest object in your creative space?
Do you listen to anything while you create? If so, what?
Do you engage in any interesting habits, exercises, warm-ups or rituals before you settle down to create?
You may create a new post or comment below. Please categorize new posts to 16.04.08 Writing Rituals.
13.07.07– Today at the the Bluestocking Lounge:
It’s Friday the 13th. What does this day conjure up for you? Write or create some art reflecting the mystery and mythos of this day……
Post to category 13.07.o7 Friday the 13th or comment below.
A bewildered visitor to the Taverna asked me to show her the location of Lemuria on a map. I could do nothing more than point to the map on the wall and ask my fellow patrons, where in the world is Lemuria? When you have an answer, let us know……. — Lori
“Where is the World is Lemuria?”
Lori Gloyd (c) 2007
Digital Construction
In my morning newspaper, I read a commentary by Julia Keller entitled “From Vanity Press Era into the Blogosphere.” In this article, Ms. Keller examines the impact of blogging on the publishing industry: “Personal computers and the Internet’s ability to fling information far and wide have furthered the idea of Everyday Shakespeares.” She ponders the positive and the negative results of the blogging phenomenon. She argues that because of the economic imperative of publishers to produce “guaranteed hits” ala “Stephen King or Mary Clark Higgins”, it is virtually impossible for most writers to get published and whose works may only be read by way of the blog. In addition, she states that “Many blogs are better than many published books.”
However, she counters by stating that “the sheer blizzard of undifferentiated stuff out there will ultimately work against, not for, new voices. If everyone’s a poet, then nobody is.”
Since all of the regular writers and artists for the Soul Food Cafe make their works known via blog posting, then I think most of us would agree with her positive statements about blogging. But, do you think she might have a point with her counter-argument? Or not?
How would you respond to Ms. Keller’s observations about publishing on blogs?
Write your comments below or create a new post and file under the category “BS 15.06.07 Blogging.”
Lori Gloyd
Source: “From Vanity Press Era into the Blogosphere.” Julia Keller. The Los Angeles Times. Friday, June 15, 2007.
We receive many visitors to the Taverna from all over the virtual realm. I’ve taken to writing some of these outposts on the Blogosphere. For your perusal, amusement, and edification, I invite you to through the Portal to the World…..
Lori Gloyd (c) 2007
When I was young, on Good Fridays my family would go riding in the country. A California spring can be glorious! After the winter rains, the golden hills turn green and are sprinkled with orange poppies and all manner of wildflowers. We would pack an ice-chest with a picnic lunch and head up or down the coast or into the mountains. Some years, when Holy Week came early, it would still be wintery. Once we had our picnic in the back of my dad’s camper because the snow had not melted yet in the mountains. Another year we had lunch at an old Mission because it was pouring rain outside.
Our family has gone with the four winds but I still try to preserve that custom even though I now observe a more traditional Good Friday. I still feel nature calling on that day and I try to do some sort of outdoor activity. This past Good Friday a few weeks ago, I went to Madrona Marsh preserve, not far from where I live. This is a 20 acre vernal marsh surrounded on all sides by urban sprawl. The goal of the preservists is to replant the area with indigenous plants and to remove any non-native plants and animals.
This year we are in a severe drought. Because Madrona is a vernal marsh, it relies on the winter and spring rains to keep it wet. Normally, we have about 15 inches of rain during the winter. To date, we’ve had less than 3 inches. The marsh is so dry. I almost wept when I walked through the dried and drooping tule rushes. I started mourning in a way that seemed so appropriate for the Good Friday holiday. It all seemed so hopeless.
I wandered over to the Nature Center at the edge of the marsh. I began talking to the docent about the condition of the marsh. Then she said something surprising. “Yes, we are in a severe drought, but the tree-frogs don’t seem to notice. There are coming out each day and calling for their mates.”
I pondered this. Even in the most hopeless situation, life goes on. The tree frogs were singing. This affirmation of life in the midst of such aridness was stunning. How so very appropriate for Holy Week!
Text and Image: Lori Gloyd (c) 2007
From where I stood to take this photo of the rushes, I should be waist deep in water if we were not in a drought!
The seasons are changing. In the northern hemispheres, we are mercifully emerging from an abnormally severe winter; in the southern regions, we are breathing a sigh of relief as scorching heat gives way to autumn. How do you respond, if at all, to the changing of the season? How is your response manifested? For some the response is spiritual, religious, or cultural through the celebration of Beltane, Easter, Passover or Earth Day. For some it is practical–raking autumn leaves or planting flower gardens. For some it is creative– capturing the movements of nature in photographs or haiku.
Share with us how the seasons are changing for you by commenting below or posting to BS 27.04.07 Seasons.
The spirit of altruism and generosity is wired into the human psyche. I recently saw a number of people on the metro-rail reaching into their pockets for coins to give a homeless man on the train, even though it was fairly obvious that the train passengers themselves had very little to give. Millions of people all over the world give of their time, energies, talents, and monies just because they feel compelled to do so.
This week’s Bluestocking topic is about gift-giving and gift-receiving. Discuss a special gift you once gave to someone, or would like to give to someone in the future. Conversely, what special gift have you received in your life that has meant a lot to you? Or what gift would you like someone give to you? What acts of altruism have you witnessed in your life?
Comment below or post to BS 20.04.07 Gifts.
13.04.07– This week at the the Bluestocking Lounge:
Imogen Crest wrote this e-mail to me this week: “
…I have an idea for some Bluestocking discussion as I came across a link that nearly had me in tears from the BBC Women’s Hour. I think it’s important that women now know what the suffragettes did, I had no idea they went on such extreme hunger strikes to get heard. It’s gross when you think how hard it was for those women at the coalface. … The timeline is interesting, that women weren’t able to be mayor until 1907!
The section … has some audio and a slideshow which is effective from 1900-1909. I also didn’t know suffragette was such a derogatory term to begin with. …The old photos are brilliant too. Might as well celebrate their efforts. http://www.bbc.co.uk/radio4/womanshour/timeline/1900.shtml“
So for this week, our topic is very broad. With the Women’s Movement in mind, share whatever you like on this theme. Please comment below or post to category “BS 13.04.07 Women”
05.04.07– This week at the the Bluestocking Lounge:
Now that we have recovered from one wild and raucus birthday celebration in honor of Vincent Van Gogh, I want to toss out this week’s Bluestocking discussion topic: Is there any activity or habit in which you indulge that distracts you from your writing and art-making? What do you do to break away from such avoidance activities.
Please comment below or post a response to category “BS 05.04.07 Distractions and Avoidance.”
It is Vincent Van Gogh’s birthday on Friday and in honor of that day (March 30, 1853), the Bluestockings will be celebrating in the Taverna. If Vincent were to drop in (and who knows, in the ethereal world of Lemuria, he just might), he will probably bring his brother Theo who was a great support to him during his life. The question to discuss is this: like Theo, who has supported you in your artistic endeavors, in small or big ways, financially, mentally, emotionally, in words or in actions. Post your piece to under the category: BS 30.03.07 Van Gogh & Mentor or comment below.
Our thanks to Mari for suggesting the topic this week.
16.03.07– This week at the the Bluestocking Lounge:
Robin wrote an account of an life-changing moment in Scotland in The Fall at the Taverna. Heather responded by commenting: “Well thank you very much Robin. I now have goosebumps from one end of my body to the other and they are all tingling. I will share a defining moment for me and feeling the presence of my maker. Wouldn’t it be a great Blue Stockings topic Lori?”
I think she might be right. This week’s BlueStocking discussion is “Have you ever had a defining moment in your life and felt the presence of a higher power?”
Either comment below, or make a new post to BS 03.16.07 Defining Moments.
Murder Mayhem Betrayal and Political Intrigue!
The Blue Stocking Society will be meeting this Friday to discuss
Children’s Rhymes and Fairy Tales
Are these really just children’s stories and what do they tell us about our history and ourselves?
Snow White – she’s not just a Disney Cartoon this is a story about an attempted murder , Hansel and Gretal are nearly done in by a cannibal and all we follow is a trail of bread crumbs! Miss Mary Quite Contrary is believed to be a rhyme about the Infamous Bloody Mary and instruments of torture and we teach these stories to little kids!
Bring your favorite story or rhyme and interpretation and your sense of humor
it’s going to be a great meeting.
This week’s topic is brought to you by, you guessed it, Anita Marie!
Comment below or make a new post archived as BS 09.03.07 Children’s Rhymes.
Dear Foodies: What is your favorite quote? And why? Create a post and archive it to “Favorite Quotes”.
Here’s one of mine:
“There is one thing I’ve learned, folks, and this is absolutely key–it’s not the thing you fling, it’s the fling itself.” Chris-in-the-Morning, KBHR, Cicely, Alaska
When Chris, the artist/disk jockey, in the 1990 television show Northern Exposure, decided to build a giant catapault to fling a cow, he had no idea until his friend, Ed Chigliak, told him that Monty Python had already flung a cow in The Holy Grail. At first despondent that his “transitory cow-fling thing” already had been accomplished, he immediately became inspired when he saw the rubble of Maggie’s burned down house. He took her damaged piano, filled it with all sorts of discarded flotsam and jetsam from the Cicely townsfolk, and then utters the words above just before he launches the piano to its ulitmate destruction.
The point? For me I constantly struggle between the product and the process. I know this is not for everyone, but for me, the process IS as important as the finished process. There is healing in the act of creating something, every bit as much as in the satisfaction of enjoying the finished piece.
Now, I need to find something to fling.
Lori Gloyd (c) 2007
Some famous creatives have made these observations about their sources of inspiration:
- Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite: ‘Fool!’ said my Muse to me, ‘look in thy heart and write.’ Philip Sidney
- When inspiration does not come, I go for a walk, go to the movie, talk to a friend, let go . . . The muse is bound to return again, especially if I turn my back! Judy Collins
- There is a deity within us who breathes that divine fire by which we are animated. Publius Ovidius Naso
What are your source of inspiration? Is it from within? Or without? Is it divine or not so?
Comment below or post to category BS 02.03.07 Creative Inspiration.
Albert
Many prominent people stop by the Taverna for a bite to eat and to swap stories and songs. If you could invite to the Taverna a person who has significantly influenced your creative work, whose voice may be heard coming from your writing, whose vision emanates from your artwork, who would that person be?
The individual(s) can be anyone– a writer, artist, philosopher, scientist, theologian, politician, teacher, friend, family member, sinner or saint. The person can be famous or not, alive or dead, a real person or a character in a book.
Just tell us why and how your creativity has been touched by this person. Comment below or post to category “BS 23.02.07 Influential People.
If you need to be signed into the Taverna, just let me know.
Lori
Inspired by the prompt, The Black Madonna
When the foreshock hit, Marilyn barely noticed. She felt a brief rolling sensation and for a moment she had the recollection of being on a gently rocking boat. She steadied herself by reaching for the elevator’s railing, and she gave it no further thought. Her attention was focused on the illuminated numbers as she sped downward to the P-3 parking level deep beneath her office complex.
Digital Collage
Lori Gloyd (c) 2007
Suitcases of Hope
This week, Lori had the opportunity to attend a lecture given by Nobel Laureate and Holocaust-survivor, Elie Wiesel. Prof. Wiesel spoke at length on the nature of hope and despair, cautioning us not to despair when we look at evil and indifference in the world. He stated that even our creative endeavors must be “with a purpose that appeals to hope.”
Do you agree with this statement? If so, how do your creative works, whether written or visual, inspire hope?
Pack a suitcase to bring to the Blue Stockings meeting. Fill it with pieces that inspire hope and then share something from your suitcase at the meeting.
Or if you have a story, photograph, piece of art, or a poem that you believe inspires hope, please feel free to post it (using the category “BS 02.02.07″)
Greetings! Welcome to the first official meeting of the Bluestocking Society. Thank you for Anita Marie for the concept and to Ninjacat for this week’s topic.
So, here it is:
“Who the Blue Stocking Society was in the past and who we are today. Share your writing, art and your voice about this amazing society.”
You can add your comments below OR you can add a whole new post and categorize it as Blue Stocking Society/BS 26.01.07
If you would like to be added to the Taverna, please let me know.
Lori
Motored guests have come in order to honor their brother and comrade.
My offering of comfort food is deep, dark, gooey, extra-chocolately brownies.
Lori
During these subdued, reflective days, I am sitting in the Muse’s Lounge, just off the main dining area of the Taverna. I am sketching while seated in the deep cushy chair near the fireplace. In the comforting and intimate warmth of the lounge, I allow my inks run wild, letting the colors and shapes find their own life.
Cellular Arrangement in Blue and Orange
Digital Construction, Lori Gloyd (c) 2007
The Management of Il Taverna di Muse would like to thank all the participants at Sibyl’s First Salon. We had a rollicking good time and hope to do it again in the future.
Sybil, I have destroyed the video of you dancing on the table so you need not worry about it showing up on YouTube. To the woman in the neon-pink feather boa, you left behind your boomerang. You may retrieve it at Lost-and-Found in the foyer. Pretty cool trick you did with it —- you must be double-jointed!
The Taverna is open 24/7 and stories, poems, reviews, art, and photography may still be posted at the Salon.
Cheers!
Lori Gloyd, Tavern-mistress
The Salon is in full-swing, literally. Stories have been told, great feats of magic have happened, songs, spirits, and now the some spritely steps. What will happen next?
Lori Gloyd (c) 2007
A mysterious woman in blue has entered the Taverna.
Who is she? What is her story?
Image: Lori Gloyd (c) 2007
If I could dance
I would dance
If I could sing
I would sing a song of the sea
I drink to the folk
who have share time for me
and will meet you in the morning
for crumpets and tea.
By Fran Sbrocchi
(cronelogical)
Happy New Year from a happy Tavern patron!
My months in the City of Ladies and my time working at the Taverna were more satisfying than I ever could have imagined. I had engaged in discussions with writers and artists, both living and past, learned to dance Flamenco, studied the ways of ancient indigenous peoples, trained in the art of dowsing and all but drowned in the knowledge of many other arcane disciplines. I strolled the light-filled hallways of the Mousieon, almost skipping in joy at being surrounded by the knowledge of the ages and gathering research for my own creative endeavors. At night, under the watchful eye of the Proprietress of the Taverna, I acquired the practical skills of the hospitality business. She gave over the scheduling of the entertainment and the management of the kitchen to me. My days and nights were full but I still had time to visit Syren and take her for rides across the Cyberian countryside. I had settled into a busy but satisfying routine.
That routine was disrupted one Monday afternoon when I became aware of a rising murmur among the Tavern’s patrons. The murmur turned to applause and cheers as the patrons began standing. I was tending bar, straining to see the cause of the commotion. When the crowd parted, I let out my own exclamation of delight when I caught site of her. Enchanteur! She swept through the dining room, her long gown flowing behind her. She laughed and greeted various patrons. When she got close to the bar, I called out:
“Madame Enchanteur! Hello! Do you remember me?”
“Of course I do, Lori. How are you, darling?” She glided over to me and took both my hands in hers. “You look radiant.”
“Thank you, ma’am. I’m fantastic. What brings you here? I thought you were leading a tour?”
“Yes, I was. Amazing group of travelers. They are all on their own now and I am taking some time off to myself. Even Enchanteur must get her beauty sleep from time to time.”
“How long will you be in the City?”
“Oh, not long. I just came to have a few words with my cousin. Is she about?”
I noticed a trace of a smile and a glint in her eye.
“Who’s that?” thundered the Proprietress’s voice from the kitchen. She burst through the door behind the bar.
“You?!”
“Ethel, dear, it’s been awhile.”
“Yes, it has, Shantie.
Ethel, Shantie? I suddenly felt very uncomfortable in the midst of this family reunion. I turned my attention to polishing the glasses behind the bar.
“Well, aren’t you going to ask me to sit and have a drink?, “ asked Enchanteur. “We have a lot to talk about.”
“Indeed we do. This way.” Ethel turned and walked towards her office. Enchanteur turned to me and whispered, “Do you know anything about poker?”
“Excuse me, ma’am?”
“Poker. Do you know the game?”
“Only a little—stuff like ‘Never draw to an inside straight.’ That sort of thing.”
Enchanteur roared with laughter. “Darling, please, come to the Card Room tonight at 11 pm”.
Ethel hollered back.“Well, c’mon. I don’t have all day.” Enchanteur drifted off to Ethel’s office.
I was puzzled by her question. On Monday nights, Ethel hosted a weekly poker game—discreet, respectable and extremely high stakes. As a rule, Ethel posed as the dealer, but playing for herself instead of the house. Since I am not inclined to gamble, I usually managed the bar on Monday nights for her. I made arrangements for another staff member to keep the bar and I appeared in the Card Room as directed at 11 pm.
Seated at the card table was Ethel, wearing a green visor. Starting on her left was Jane Austen, Edgar Allen Poe, and John Singer Sargeant, the usual players. There was a new player as well—a mysterious woman from Seattle who would identified herself only as “Miss Lobo.”
Ethel began shuffling the deck as I busied myself arranging coffee service for the group. I was still wondering why I had been called there.
A short tap sounded on the door. It swung open and Enchanteur swept in. “Good evening, everyone!”
“What are you doing here?” grumbled Ethel. “I thought I made myself clear this afternoon.”
“Oh, you did, dear. I’m just here for a little poker-playing, that’s all”.
“You don’t gamble.”
“Of course I do—every time I give a writer a break, I take a gamble. So how much to buy into this game?
“One million—Lemurian.”
“That’s all?” Enchanteur smiled and pulled a black velvet bag out of her décolletage. “What’s the game?”
“Texas Hold ‘em.”
“Oooooh, how exotic.”
Ethel glared at her and began to deal.
Two hours later, Mr. Sargeant busted and dropped out, followed by Mr. Poe and Miss Austen a short time later. They drew their chairs to the side and continued to watch the players. I tended to them with wine and tapas.
Miss Lobo managed to stay in for another hour but she too lost her entire stake. A sound akin to a growl issued from her throat and I could have sworn her eyes flashed yellow as she stomped out of the Card Room.
“Well, Shantie, I guess it’s just you and me, “ though in fact the room had filled up with staff members who had just closed the Tavern for the night. They were entranced with the drama that was unfolding before them.
Enchanteur stood up and stretched. “Lori, dear, will you come and play this hand for me. I need a bit of a break.” A collective gasp arose from the crowd. I stared at Enchanteur. Ethel exclaimed, “You can’t do that!”
“And why not? You never stated any house rules.”
Ethel started to say something but then stopped and smiled at me. “Silly me. Of course she can sit in for you.”
“Wait, I don’t know anything about poker!”
“Shush, now. You’ll do just fine. Just forget whatever you’ve been taught and take a chance.”
I sighed and sat down. Ethel, straight-faced again, dealt two cards face down to me and then two to herself. I gently lifted the corner of each card—a 9 of Clubs and a Jack of Diamonds. I turned to show the cards to Enchanteur. She waved me off and said “I trust your judgment.” She picked up a 100,000 shekel piece and tossed it into the pot. Ethel did likewise and then laid down three cards face-up in the center of the table—an 8 of Clubs, a King of Hearts, and a Jack of Hearts. Enchanteur pitched in another 100,000. Ethel met that bet as well and turned up the next card—a Queen of Hearts.
I began to get warm and squirmed in my seat. I glanced up and saw Ethel watching me and smiling. I looked at my cards and then at the cards on the table. I had two ends of a straight run. All I needed was a 10 to complete it. “Never draw to an inside straight” echoed in my mind. Enchanteur rested a hand on my shoulder and whispered “Forget what you’ve been told; take a chance.” She pitched in two 100,000 pieces into the pot. Ethel tossed her coins in and drew the last card. I almost fell out of my seat: the 10 of Hearts.
“Another 200,000!” I exclaimed. The audience laughed as I pushed another two coins into the center. But my heart fell when I looked at Ethel. She had a wide Cheshire grin. I looked again at the table cards—10, Jack, Queen—all of Hearts. Depending on her pocket cards, Ethel could beat me in at least four ways, including the sweetest of hands, a Royal Flush.
“I’ll take that bet and raise you….” She countered her coins. “….two and a half million.” The crowd reacted again as she shoved every last coin into the pot.
I stared directly into her eyes. I had worked for Ethel for many months and I never knew her to lie to me. Yet, this was a game—a very expensive game. I continued to scrutinize her.
The energy in the room rose to an almost tangible thing. Finally, I slowly said, “Fine,” and pushed several stacks of coins to the center. “…..and I’ll raise you another 500,000.” I shoved in the remainder of Enchanteur’s pot. Ethel’s face fell flat.
Enchanteur chuckled. “What’s the matter, Ethel, out of funds?”
“No. I’ll just use tonight’s receipts.” The employees in the room began to murmur and grumble. It was one thing to gamble with her own money, but another to use the Tavern’s income.
“No good, dear, you know what I want.”
Ethel fired an angry glare at Enchanteur but eventually rose to her feet and went into her office. I turned to Enchanteur, “What is going on?”
“Tush, tush, you’ll see.”
Ethel came back in and tossed a piece of paper into the pot.
“Fine. Show ‘em.”
I took a deep breath and turned over my cards. A straight run, King high. The crowd applauded. Ethel shook her head in disbelief and flipped over her cards. “Three Kings. You beat me. I can’t believe you drew an inside straight.” Then she started to chuckle. She reached over the table and shook my hand. “Shantie, you played me like a fool. And YOU, what’s this ‘I don’t know anything about poker’….. you hustler, you.”
Enchanteur scooped up her coins but handed the paper to me.
“What’s this?” I asked.
“The deed to the Tavern.”
“Congratulations. You are now the proud owner of Il Taverna di Muse,” said Ethel.
“I don’t understand?”
Enchanteur sat down next to me. “Darling, the Taverna was waiting for you to come and run it. Ethel was supposed to keep it until you arrived. She just got a little….distracted from her purpose.”
“No, wait, I can’t do this.”
“Yes, you can. I tried to convince Enchanteur that you were not ready, but I was wrong.”
“Ethel, I can’t take this from you!”
“Oh, don’t worry about Ethel. I’m sending her to a spa and writer’s retreat down south to get it ready for its next proprietor. She’ll have plenty to keep her busy.”
“Yes, don’t worry about me. We’ve been playing this little game for the last 10,000 years. I just enjoyed this gig more than the others and didn’t want to give it up so soon. I’ll get the keys.” She patted me on the shoulders and went to her office.
I turned to say something to Enchanteur, but she had already vanished into the ether.
Lori Gloyd © 2006
Syren and I embarked on our journey towards Cyberia, The City of Ladies. It was a bright, sun-soaked day. We left the main road from Duwamish Bay and headed across the Uncharted Lands of Western Lemuria.
We followed only our intuition and sped across miles of desert and grasslands. We knew we would arrive without getting lost.
Then, towards mid-afternoon, we came over a rise and saw a river, calm and slow moving. We followed it for a while until we rounded a bend and stopped in astonishment. Before us lay an island city—white washed buildings easing up a mountain side in the center of the island. A large domed structure glittered in the sunlight, and an enormous obelisk pulsed with a beckoning light.
Cyberia! I didn’t need to goad Syren forward. She knew and was already splashing across the river.
When we reached the island, Syren and I found a main road that led to the gates of the city. I asked another traveler for the name of the highway we were on and I discovered to my surprise that this thoroughfare was none other than the famous Silk Road.
The Road passed through a double gate of polished gold that was embellished with reliefs depicting famous writers and artists from history. A watchtower of white stone stood adjacent to the gate. I glanced to the top of the tower and saw a stately woman looking me over. With a brief nod of her head, she motioned me to continue through the gate.
Throngs of people moved up and down the boulevard going about their daily business. I called to a young woman pushing a cart of bread. The warm smell of the loaves made my mouth water and my stomach rumble. I knew that Syren was as tired and hungry as me. I asked the woman for directions to a good livery and a short time later I had Syren cooled down and munching on a bag of oats. The livery manager informed me that the city’s center of activity was the Piazza del Pizan and I would be able to find lodging and food there. I thanked him, and a few minute’s walk found me at the Piazza.
Arched colonnades of peach and gray-colored marble surrounded the large open square. The obelisk that I had seen from across the river towered over the Piazza and I could see the golden dome of the Mouseion sparkling in the waning light. Night was beginning to fall and vendors in the square were busy closing up their stalls and storefronts. A distinguished looking man in a flowing green cloak moved from lightpole to lightpole lighting the lamps that would illuminate the Piazza.
My attention was drawn to a side street that jutted off from the Piazza. I heard muffled music coming from an establishment on the corner. Light emanated through a colorful stained-glass window. The image in the glass was that of a dancing woman holding a round lyre.
Above the image were the words “Il Taverna di Muse”. Next to the door was a small placard that read “Studios for Rent” and “Help Wanted.”
I pushed open the door and entered.
I stood for a moment in the dim light of the taverna, lit only by some purple Chinese lanterns and strings of tiny white Christmas lights. The sound of chimes, gongs, and drums pulsed through the air. I saw a Gamelan orchestra on a small stage and a beautiful Balinese girl in a sparkling sarong dancing to the music.I moved among the tables filled with patrons intently watching the dancer until I reached the bar.
The bartender leaned forward. “What can I get you, darling?”
“L’Enchanteur?”
“Nah, she’s my cousin. She’s always passing herself off as me. You look a might thirsty and tired.”
“Yes, may I have a bottle of Senorial? “
“Mexican Sangria? Of course. And you’ll need some chips and salsa to cut the sweetness, I should think.”
“Absolutely. Say, can you tell me the rent for a studio?”
“How much you got?”
I felt the ever lightening bag of Lemurian shekels in my cloak. “Well, not a lot.”
“Hmmm….” The bartender eyed me up and down. “You ever tended bar?”
“No.”
“Ever been in the hospitality or restaurant business?”
“No to that one too.”
The bartender squinted her blue eyes at me. “How well can you listen?”
“That I do very well.”
“Good. You’re hired.”
“For what? As a bartender?”
“Yep, pulling pints. Can’t handle all the night shift by myself. And, I’ll throw in one of the small studios upstairs for half off the rent.”
I didn’t know a mojito from a martini. How could I be a bartender? I paused for a minute and looked around. I did come to Cyberia to be around the artsy types and to work on my own projects. I couldn’t do much better than this at the moment.
The patrons erupted in applause as the Balinese Gamelan players took their bows.
“Oh–I’m up now to announce the start of the poetry readings. Be a dear and watch the bar for me, will you?”
She handed me a towel before she slid over countertop and headed towards the stage.
A patron hollered to me from a table. “You there, could you bring me another Shandy, please? Thank you, dear.”
Shandy? Oh dear.
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Per our agreement, the Proprietess rented to me a tiny loft on the top floor of the Taverna overlooking the Piazza. A number of artists, writers, and performers lived there as well, and I was very grateful to secure this space among them. I was equally glad that my loft was ABOVE the flamenco dancer’s studio and not under it.
My space had a skylight and many windows, and sunlight flooded the space. Though small, the space served my purposes– I needed only a place to read, write and sleep. I could eat and entertain downstairs in the Taverna, and with the entire city of Cyberia waiting to be explored, I knew I often would not be home.
I could not bear to keep Syren locked up in a livery all day so I arranged boarding at horse farm outside the city for a small fee. She was close enough for me to visit regularly and I planned to go exploring with her on my days off.
Cyberia! I took a big breath of fresh air as I stepped onto my balcony. I felt aloft upon a breeze of hope and opportunity.
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TO BE CONTINUED………………
Images and text: Lori Gloyd © 2006; originally published in August 2006 at Cyberia, City of Ladies; Revised December 2006.
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