A woman who writes feels too much,
those trances and portals!
As if cycles and children and islands
weren’t enough; as if mourners and gossips
and vegetables were never enough.
She thinks she can warn the stars.
A writer is essentially a spy.
Dear love, I am that girl.
A man who writes knows too much,
such spells and fetiches!
As if erections and congresses and products
weren’t enough; as if machines and galleons
and wars were never enough.
With used furniture he makes a tree.
A write is essentially a crook.
Dear love, you are that man.
Never loving ourselves,
hating even our shoes and our hats,
we love each other, precious, em>precious.
Our hands are light blue and gentle.
Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
But when we marry,
the children leave in disgust.
There is too much food and no one left over
to eat up all the weird abundance.
Love her Neverdoll series…
Christopher Catesby Harington
born December 26, 1986
Works include: Series Game of Thrones, Movies Pompeii, How to Train Your Dragon 2, Testament of Youth
Wit’s favorite quote (sort of about the fear of heights): “Just being on cliffs. Even if I’m on the inside of the mountain I still feel like, ‘What if I just wheel the car off the thing?’ It’s the fear of jumping, isn’t it? It’s not the fear of the height, it’s the fear of jumping. It’s the same next to train tracks and things.
It’s like when you’re on stage in the middle of a play, and it’s a children’s play, and sometimes your head just goes, ‘I could say FUCK right now really loudly.’ It’s the same thing. I find it very interesting. It’s your brain playing little tricks with you.”
I know just what he means…
Image: British GQ Magazine, January 2014
by Peggy Sirota
Yellow macron photo via Theadora Brack
The simple doorway–an everyday object that goes unnoticed most of the time–is symbolic of a transition between one world and the next. Such a doorway may take different forms, as a dolmen, a torii (traditional Japanese gate), a gateway, but the meaning remains the same. Both Heaven and Hell lie beyond a doorway, and the threshold of such a place is seen as the place where two worlds meet and sometimes collide. Many rituals involve the initiate stepping through a doorway of some kind. The visica piscis (the intersection created by two overlapping circles) represents a doorway where the world of spirit enters the world of matter.
The spiritual meaning of a door denotes a passage of communication with the divine. An open door signifies a message is coming through. A closed door can denote a break in communication.
A door is often depicted as a portal for the righteous to enter. Doors are also signs of deliverance.
I was dead, then alive.
Weeping, then laughing.
The power of love came into me,
And I became a fierce lion,
Then tender like the evening star.
He said, You’re not mad enough.
You don’t belong in this house.
I went wild and had to be tied up.
He said, Still not wild enough
to stay with us!
I broke through another layer
He said, It’s not enough.
He said, You’re a clever little man,
full of fantasy and doubting.
I plucked out my freshers and became a fool.
He said, Now you’re the candle
for this assembly.
But I’m no candle. Look!
I’m scattered smoke.
He said, You’re the sheikh, the guide.
But I’m not a teacher. I have no power.
He said, You already have wings.
I cannot give you wings.
But I wanted his wings.
I felt like some flightless chicken.
Then new events said to me,
Don’t move. A sublime generosity is
coming toward you.
And old love said, Stay with me.
I said, I will.
You are the fountain in the sun’s light.
I am a willow shadow on the ground.
You make my raggedness silky.
The soul at dawn is like darkened water
that slowly begins to say ThankYou, Thank You.
Then at sunset, again, Venus gradually
changes into the moon and then the whole night sky.
This comes of smiling back
at your smile.
The chess master says nothing,
other than moving the silent chess piece.
That I am part of the ploys
of this game makes me
IMAGE: Ralph Gibson
@thewitcontinuum on Instagram
If you have an account let me know. Love to follow…
I abandoned your shores, Empress, against my will. ~ Aeneid, Book 6
Aeneas was a Trojan hero who was at the fall of Troy. Devastated and heart-broken, he gathers some of his remaining friends and trusted men and sets sail away from his lost home. Before long, a massive sea storm assaults his small fleet and Aeneas and his friends Achates are washed onto an African shore near a city being built. The city is Carthage and its Queen is Dido.
Aeneas and his buddy use magic to make themselves invisible (think cloaking device or an invisibility cloak like Harry Potter’s) and steal into the city to check it out. This Queen they hear of is ambitious and it is apparent in this newly formed city. She is building a gorgeous place, raising temples, supporting small businesses (with major tax cuts), building schools and a gem-filled theater because she knows the arts are important baby! The people are busy…busy and happy and Aeneas and Achates are impressed, but not as impressed as they are when they see Dido herself appear in town with her entourage. Aeneas sort of stalks her, watches her unfairly when she can’t see him, under the guise of protecting himself. She is radiant in beauty, a generous soul within shines without. She is a woman of commanding strength, for she hides well the pain of tremendous loss. Her loss of love. She grieves yet for her young husband who has died suddenly, and fiercely passionate as she is she has pledged that:
He who first wedded me took with him when he died,
My right to love: let him keep it, there, in the tomb, for ever.
“For ever” is a very long time.
Dido is approached by visitors. While the cloaked Aeneas and Achates watch close by, the rest of Aeneas’s men have made it to the city. With reverence they bow before Dido and ask for shelter and the means to repair their storm-shattered ships. They also say that they have lost two of their greatest companions and hope to search for them as well. Dido is moved by their pleas and welcomes them whole-heartedly. She understands their loss and will do anything to help, generous as she is, and she also wishes that they find their lost comrades as well. Upon hearing these words Aeneas and Achates decide to reveal themselves:
The words were hardly spoken, when in a flash the cloud-cloak
They wore was shredded and purged away into pure air.
Aeneas was standing there in an aura of brilliant light,
Godlike of face and figure: for Venus herself had breathed
His manhood and a gallant light into his eyes…
Aeneas says: “I am here, before you, the one you look for…”
Now, Dido wasn’t looking for anyone. She’d given her love to a man in a grave, but seeing Aeneas in all his glorious Venus-blessed embodiment woke up a darkened flame of love within her. Not only does Dido find him physically appealing, but his tales of his war, of his loss, and the stories of the sea enchant her disenchanted heart. She is smitten. Plus, they have a few things in common. They are both royalty…and they have both suffered.
I too have gone through much; like you, have been roughly handled
By fortune, But now at last it has willed me to settle here.
Being acquainted with grief, I am learning to help the unlucky.
Dido gives Aeneas’s men hundreds of cattle, sheep, swine, and the best materials that can be found to rebuild their ships. She privately has dinner with Aeneas, and soon they are “dating.” She tells him he can stay as long as he wishes. Without meaning to, she has fallen deeply in love. She becomes “a woman wild with passion…” She thinks about him all the time. She cannot sleep. (Can anyone relate to this?)
Aeneas, too, has fallen in the same way. After a day of hunting together, a storm forces the young couple, alone, to seek shelter in a cave. The cave.
There, they make love (aka: fuck their brains out) and exchange vows and promises of love. To Dido, it is like a pledge of marriage. They experience a luxuriant period of marital bliss and life with each other becomes perfect. Happiness threatens to overwhelm them.
But the Gods have other plans for Aeneas. They haven’t forgotten him. A strong warrior cannot be left to wallow his life away with love and happiness. He is ordered to return to Italy, to build a new city in his lost homeland. It is his duty. His fate.
Aeneas is torn between his love for Dido and his duty, but duty, of course, always wins. And no matter how strong the bugger claims to be, or appears to be, Aeneas is a coward. He plans to sneak away with his men in the middle of the night, leaving Dido behind to just figure it out. (Maybe he’d leave her a note: “Sorry, can’t do this anymore”. “It’s not you, it’s me.” “The Gods have ordered it. I have no choice.” He blocks her on Twitter and Instagram. “Block me too, so I won’t be tempted to come back…” etc.)
But Dido has many loyal ears in her house, her city, and the rumor of her lover’s plans reaches her. She becomes unbalanced with grief, grief so powerful, she wonders what she can do, what she could have done differently, to change his mind. After her first husband died, she had gone into hibernation; she had buried her heart. Aeneas, with is love, his kind words, had resurfaced it. He had made her feel alive again in a way that only a lover can do. And now he was burying her heart again.
In her anguish, Dido implores him to stay. And, though we don’t want her to, a regal Queen begs:
By these tears, by the hand you gave me-
They are all I have left, to-day, in my misery – I implore you,
And by our union of hearts, by our marriage hardly begun,
If I have ever helped you at all, if anything
About me pleases you, be sad for our broken home, forego
Your purpose, I beg you, unless it’s too late for prayers of mine!
Because of you, the Libyan tribes and the Nomad chieftains
Hate me, the Tyrians are hostile: because of you I have lost
My old reputation for faithfulness- the one thing that could have made me
Immortal. Oh, I am dying! To what, my guest, are you leaving me?
None of her pleas moves him. Aeneas gathers his men and even though his heart breaks for her, he leaves her. But not before Dido slips from her devastation and sorrow and becomes angry. She curses him. She wishes him ill fortune, bad seas, and endless, and I mean endless misery. (Fucking Royal Bastard!)
She takes the bed they had shared, gathers all his belongings that he hadn’t picked up yet – all the presents she gave him, including a sword,and his clothing – and drags them to courtyard where she builds a bonfire.
Climbing to the top, she takes the sword falls upon it, and dies, knowing that he will see her funeral pyre from his ship as he leaves. (We wish she could have found a way out of this misery. We wish she could have been stronger, but classic literature always knows how to write women fucked up by men.)
Later, in the Aeneid, Aeneas is granted safe passage in the underworld to visit his dead father…While he is there, he see Dido wandering in the woods, a wispy, ghostly figure. He is so filled with pity, and remorse, upon seeing her, he approaches her and begs her forgiveness.
I abandoned your shores, Empress, against my will.
He swears that it wasn’t his will to abandon her but the iron will of the Gods, the heavenly commands that he was powerless to disobey. He speaks tenderly to her spirit, “trying to soften the wild-eyed/Passionate-hearted ghost” who remains “stubborn to his appeal.” Dido must have looked at him long, so beautiful, full of lovely words. But she finally rushes away, (her final “Fuck you”) without saying a word, without forgiving him, “hating him still.”
Text inspiration is from The History of Love by Diane Ackerman
The beautiful images are from the Sasha Waltz production of Purcell’s classic opera Dido & Aeneas
Photos by Sebastian Bolesch
Art by Luis Beltran
A writer’s life, and life in general, is often compared to a roller-coaster ride, but I like to think of it as being on a ferris-wheel. A circle up, a circle down. On the sweep up, everything is cool, in order, coming together, filled with the anticipation of the top, the peak, the fruition of all the set up, the buckling in, the securing of the gate, to make sure you can safely reach the top and enjoy the ride.
At the top, the view is amazing. We see everything without obstruction. The air is clear, crisp, oxygenating, almost ethereal. We fill our lungs. We feel high, because we literally are.
Now put all this imagery into your job as a writer. We’ve all been on the ferris-wheel of writing. We’ve all been at the top, where we write every day, inspiration comes easily, as easily as your lungs take in that crisp, clean air at the top, and we see our story before us, almost writing itself. Ideas continue to flow. We can’t wait to get back to the computer screen because it’s no longer a blank lifeless page staring at us, but is filled with our words, words we are sure will be the next greatest novel ever to exist. Sometimes the ride stops for a while, to let some other riders board, and we get “stuck” at the top, but it’s not being stuck at all, because we are so high with our writing, our story, our characters who’ve become our friends, our family. We are not “stuck” at all, unless, of course, you’re afraid of heights. Unless, of course, someone next to you starts to panic a bit..
“We can’t stay here forever, right?” this Other voice says.
This Other voice is the procrastinator, the inner critic, and he usually wins.
The ferris-wheel ride continues. We move downward, we slack off. We are not at the top anymore but are creeping down, sometimes slowly…
Slow Descent = playing with websites/blogs more than writing, cleaning closets, watching tv, following 20 people we don’t know on Twitter, taking pics for Instagram…
…and sometimes quicker…
Quick Descent = I have to get off this ride because it’s not good. We listen to the Other voice saying, No one will like it, You are a lousy writer, Why bother, surely it’s been written before. And we think we have to start over.
And starting over gets shoved aside because now we are on the downsweep of the ferris-wheel. We get few circles around. We are bounced briefly up again, but it doesn’t last. Finally…it stops at the bottom. The safety harnesses are unbuckled, the door is unlatched. Time to get the fuck off and let someone else ride.
Let’s go back to the top – and that Other voice. This “other” you that decided to come along, uninvited, on the ride even though he didn’t want to. I like to compare this “other” you to the villain in the last episode of BBC’s Sherlock Season 3, Magnussen. He has this control, this power, and it’s source is his words. Only his words. You can listen, take heed, do as he says, and because he has all that power, you believe you have no choice. We discover in the episode all the information Magnussen holds over people to control them, all his “files” are merely stored in his head. His power lies only in what he tells people, how he manipulates them, and his wealth makes it happen. Our inner critic is Magnussen. He’s got nothing however. His “wealth” is our insecurity, our doubt, our lack of believing in ourselves as writers, or in our story, and he uses this doubt well to get what he wants. He takes us off the ride. He brings us down. We descend into his delusions. He tells us again that we are not good enough. “You are nothing,” he says.
And, as he does to Sherlock in the episode, he sets you up so that you go to prison for something you didn’t do. So, my advice: Do what Sherlock did. In the climactic scene Sherlock stands up to him. After all, the Inner Critic/Magnussen admitted all the evidence is in his head. Sherlock grabs a gun, even though authorities have arrived to intervene and are yelling at him to step away from the villain so that he can continue to live and steal people’s lives… In one swift move, Sherlock grabs the gun, points and shoots. You can’t believe he had it in him, to kill a guy point blank, but he does. And we have this power too, to kill the inner critic while we are on the upswing, while we are on the top of the writing ferris wheel, before that inner critic has time to get comfortable.
Seems graphically blunt, I know, but I’ll go further. I say, after shooting, throw the fucker off the top and make sure he splats completely. Nothing left. (Hopefully he didn’t land on anyone…) And then, stay on the ride. Let it sweep down and up continuously, because down is fun too. It’s where we loose our stomachs and giggle and dive in. It’s where we know we are going to be to be swept up once again…
…up where the air is so cool…
where our writing flows no matter what…
What a ride…
Ioana Constantinescu, known as Ioana the Bloodthirster, Autumn, 1909, Tinisoara, Romania. Cause of death: suicide by purposely injesting large quantities of her own blood.
The antique Fortune Teller….I remember when I was a kid, slipping a dime into one of these machines on the pier in Atlantic City. Her arm would move, and her head would tilt, a strange creepy voice would say something incomprehensible, then a slip of paper would pop out with your “fortune” on it. Enjoy today…for you will be dead tomorrow…
Creepy yet beautiful art by Acidlullaby…. Too Late for Redemption…
Have a creepy Halloween my dears!
The dark night softly calls to me and beckons me to bed
With promises like sand grains tinkling through an hourglass
And whispers of sweet nothing upon which to rest my head;
A pillow of oblivion beneath the even grass.
As dusk had drawn its velvet curtain on the world’s unrest
The veil over my eyes was lifted; darkness shone like light
And then a lifetime’s longing rose from deep within my breast
As I prepared to give myself to my eternal night.
How soothing and seductive, these caresses formed of bliss;
The life that once entranced is ravished now by Death’s allure,
For he has breathed into my bosom with his endless kiss
A shadow of that consummation I cannot abjure.
No more is time my enemy; I’ve put away all pride;
Hence even hope has flown, with all the burden of my cares-
And now with pure abandon will my soul, that joyous bride
Embraced by her Beloved, shed this garment that she wears.
from Thirteen Black Roses: Gothic Romantic Poetry
by Christopher Courtley
The app to have this week!! Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. This interactive book app is very cool, very creepy, and a strange reworking of the classic literary story Jane Austin.
As the story goes, the Bennett girls are not only looking for suitable husbands but are, of course, trained in the fine art of zombie killing in this post zombie-apocalyptic Austin world. Mr. Darcy, as mysterious as ever, is a force to be reckoned with, not just because of his wealth, handsomeness and hot snottiness.
A touch on a certain icon on each page screen opens a cute cutting blood spurt or a reveal of the subject at hand. Music background included.
The app runs well on my iPad mini, but a little sticky on my ancient iPhone 4. All in all a cool Halloween treat for us literary bibliophiles.
Happy Halloween and happy reading!
We’ve dug ourselves out from under the staircase ready for our favorite time of year here at Wit. Join me each day for some creepy finds to set your flesh chilling… And prep you for the funnest darkest creepiest scariest, children of the night, get the fuck off my porch, day of the year…
This year I think I’ll walk around the neighborhood dressed like this with my black dire-wolf and try to give candy to all the little Halloweenies…
Care to join me?
Image: Loup, by Zdzislaw Beksinski, 2003
Happy Birthday Tracy… wherever you are…
Theresa Duncan Oct. 26, 1966 ~ July 10, 2007
She’s the original Wit of the Staircase, the inspiration for my blog way back when, and lover of Halloween, a love we share…
“Well-behaved women seldom make history.”
~Laurel Thatcher Ulrich
All images from Mary Duncan’s blog Memories of Theresa
Had to watch this film twice…once to get over the crying, and again to take in all the visually stunning and fascinating leitmotifs along with music to haunt one’s soul. Not a film for everyone, of course. Kirsten Dunst’s deeply moving portrayal of depression can leave you feeling, well, a bit depressed, yet surreal, as you delve into the psyche of the character, Justine. Charlotte Gainsbourg is brilliant as the ever-helpful sister, Claire, and possibly the character to relate to in her passion to save her family, to know the truth, and to do what we would all ultimately do: panic a bit when you know you are about to die…
Written and directed by Lars von Trier.
Me and Lisa just hanging out… ;)
Great abs due to all the hot yoga and wine consumption…
My silks and fine array,
My smiles and languish’d air,
By love are driv’n away;
And mournful lean Despair
Brings me yew to deck my grave:
Such end true lovers have.
His face is fair as heav’n
When springing buds unfold;
O why to him was’t giv’n
Whose heart is wintry cold?
His breast is love’s all worship’d tomb,
Where all love’s pilgrims come.
Bring me an axe and spade
Bring me a winding sheet;
When I my grave have made
Let winds and tempests beat:
Then down I’ll lie, as cold as clay.
True love doth pass away!
Song by William Blake
From Poetical Sketches
Lily Cole for Vogue UK
There is a love story, and a Valentine…
In a locked and loved box hidden
in someone’s attic.
If you crack the door
open, it creaks, it moans,
but the Valentine box is still
full of love…
There are dreams that need erasing
and decisions that demand to be made
like old beds, with stale sheets that
need to be looked at.
the couple crawls away and decides
those things that demand
and the love is still…
but neatly placed along side
the other Valentine box
for safe keeping.