6 ~ Romancing the Muse
Statuesque is how Cassandra is viewed when she is viewed at all. She rarely is. And yet Cassandra is always there, majestically so. Even when she sits as she’s doing now, her soft knees bent and straddling the top of the mountain on either side of her, her long legs winding like paths along the rolling terrain until her limbs reach near the bottom where her delicate feet never touch the ground. She is one with the mountain, Cassandra is, and yet she holds its magic above all within her being. She is not of contemporary notions or of anything to do with the material. She wears nothing but her luminous skin, a skin that glistens and shimmers in the air as if it radiates energy from another world. She wears nothing but her wild brown hair, with its riverbed streaks of reds and honey; it flows and dances in long sheaths about her graceful face, her delicate sshoulders and back.
This morning as every morning, this day as every day, this moment as every moment, Cassandra looks to the east. She looks as if waiting for the sun to breathe, as if waiting for the star to awaken from its slumber, as if waiting for life to hear. She watches for a light to shine, for awareness to penetrate because it is then that Cassandra’s energy will travel the long and slender trail of her arm when at last her spirit will extend her long and slender fingers on a slow tender simmering journey. To release inspiration.
In this morning, this day, this moment, transparent and opaque whites mingle together. They form lumbering clouds. They float now into the pinky blue sky, where they grant some shade if only for a moment from the brilliance in the heavens. He gratefully takes the shade; he has been gazing into the brilliance of the heavens for what seems eons now. He is a builder who is in the act of creation before the actual action occurs. He stands nearly intimidated at the foothills of the mountain, but not really intimidated. He would say he is in awe. It is a huge mountain that his mind addresses with humility, respect, and a deep regard. It is a crowning formation of the earth that some may choose to disregard as nothing unusual, merely a natural structure to climb and play on, or camp and explore around its grounds. But this builder thinks differently. This builder has a different desire. His is to make something of the mountain. Something unexpected. Something enticing. Something that will cause others to give pause and to react to the heaping towers of earth, even if they still do end up climbing and playing, camping and exploring around. Something that will cause them to marvel, something that will provoke. And while the builder stares at the mountain seeking its inspiration, Cassandra keeps her head turned and fixed to the east. She knows the builder is present, standing far below and yet so easily within her reach. But Cassandra yearns to know if the builder, if any creator who desires to hear or who desires to see, can cause themselves to make their muse just as easily within their reach as she really is.
“I am right here,” she murmurs. “I am right before your very eyes, within your very heart. And yet,” she cast her gaze down her outstretched arm to the palm of her hand that is cradled protectively behind her folded fingers, “It is as if you cannot see me. It is as if you do not hear me.”
Moments pass by. The builder shifts his weight. It is not easy to stand and stare and still feel as if you haven’t yet seen. Such a gorgeous mountain, such a clean canvas on which to create, like a blank piece of paper with a story yet to be told, like a video of muted people whose narrative remains silent. Within Cassandra’s hand lay a creation yet to be born. She draws it forth in every moment, morning or night, while she gazes to the east and lay awake under the canopy of stars pulsing their brightness out from the ink sky to the world below. Drawing out from the natural and everyday poetic license, drawing out divine inspiration, drawing out the strange and the unusual, drawing out a voice to be heard, a song to be sung, a dance to be danced.
Days pass by and the only new creation at the foothills that the builder makes is a large tree. A gentle tree, it arches along the path of the sky, creating a canopy of branches and leaves that shoulder the weight of a sunlight harshly broadcasting visions only dreamt about and not yet made into form. More moments pass. At last, the builder feels the weight of his own body pulling down his legs. He pause from his reflection of the mountain to create a sofa and after he does, he throws his tired body into it, arms spread wide as if pleading with Cassandra to enter his open embrace.
The mountain, a thing of great beauty to the builder, soars silently to the heavens. He wonders if she will ever grant him entry into the mystery she holds within.
Cassandra pauses. She turns her head toward the builder, as if realizing that he may have heard her that he may have seen her for the very first time, even if only for a little bit. It is then that Cassandra comes down from the mountain. With each step, her giant size morphs into her being. As she walks lightly down the mountain side she grows smaller, with each step all her magic is contained home within her. Until at last when she reaches the foothills — mere few footfalls away from where the builder sprawls into the sofa — Cassandra is in human form and casts her gaze to the east again to where his arms beckon her.
They say no words to each other. She, walking along the quiet footbed toward him. He, gazing and moving his energy out toward her. He is startled at once and yet at the same time, somehow knowing. He cannot explain how he is in knowing but he is. She has lit her brilliance in the far reaches of his mind, so deeply into his mind’s eye that he nearly missed her light every time. But he caught enough of a glimpse to recognize her in full form now as she moves gracefully, quietly toward him. He feels enough to know even when words cannot explain how or why.
To his eye, she is smaller than larger than life, and yet in his knowlege of her, Cassandra remains formidable. She glides along the ground in all her nakedness, hair flowing in gentle waves behind her, running effortlessly and softly crashing down her back and legs. He directs all of his energy to her, his arms willing themselves to extend forward to meet her…to reach far beyond his physical reach, to lift her up as she has so often lifts him up in spirit, to take her in his embrace and inspire her as she so inspires him. Cassandra and the builder meet, both knowing the other. One fully aware of all the dimensions of them both. One yearning to be fully aware of all the dimensions of the other…and of himself.
She climbs quietly into his arms. She bends softly to his movement as he presses his large hands into the luminous skin of her back and waist. And yet she holds her nature straight and true. It is for the builder to see and to interpret. It is for the builder to borrow and to lend the essence of her spirit in order to shape and to create. Cassandra will not judge his attempts; she will not force her view. She owns the magic yet feels no desire to master it…and a wise builder, a wise creator who is deep into the listening enough to hear that truth would be so very wise to mirror that truth.
If Humans only could walk where Muses do.
As she moves, the builder strains to listen as if straining to hear the very origin of all of life. He thinks he hears something. His breath, his pulse, his essence in the universe. His eyes expand in excitement before he realizes, that maybe yes he hears that deeply and truly of his own heart…and maybe yes he hears that deeply and truly of something even more. It is then that he recognizes what he hears…it is something both at one with himself and beyond himself. It is then, that he hears Cassandra’s song, lightly echoing along the breeze, lightly singing along his skin, and he wraps himself around her, feeling her as she presses her lithe spirit into his, whispering sensations along moments that stand silently while still urging him to seize the drink and taste in the fullness. He hears the whispering echos of dreams and imagingings, he sees the edges of creations forming and transforming and all from the will of intent, all for the will of released energy but an energy that follows its own path, undictated by and undicating. He holds Cassandra, his majestic magnificent mountain fully formed and alive, in the very palms of his hands and realizes suddenly what he must do.
She embraces the builder lightly, holding him true and steady in her slender yet powerful arms. It is then that Cassandra’s fingers unfurl, laying themselves to rest spread out and pressing into his broad shoulders where the weight of the sun no longer casts a heavy shadow of dreams unrealized. It is then that Cassandra opens the seat of inspiration cradled deep within her palms to seep into his soul.
“I see,” he whispers to the universe. “I see,” he confirms to himself.
Moments pass, then hours, then days. The builder labors but it is a labor of creation, with the sweet sweat of inspiration seeping through his pores and replenishing his focus. With each instance of building, Cassandra is present but less in human form. She drew the creation out in the morning light. She drew the inspiration out in song under the canopy of stars that pulse their light into the ink sky and and out to the world below. She lay on the mountain top, statuesque in view when she is viewed at all. And she is constantly viewed by visitors who flock to see the Muse in the Mountain. Her knees softly bent and straddling the top of the mountain on either side of her, her long legs winding as functioning paths along the rolling terrain until her lims reach near the bottom where her delicate feet emerge from the mounded earth but never touch the ground. Cassandra is not only one with the mountain…Cassandra *is* the mountain, holding all of its magic and sharing all of it with the world. He built her not of contemporary notions. He built her not of anything to do with the material. He built her to reflect her spirit, wearing nothing but her shining skin, radiating the energy of the earth as he shaped it and molded it with such wordless caring into her form. Her crafted her with trails shaped like wild brown hair and riverbeds that flow along rocks of reds and honey. Inspired by her ever present energy, the builder labored over his creation, crafting her as the mountain top, having her eyes gaze every morning, every day, every moment to the east.
Cassandra looks eastward, compelling visitors to look there with her…compelling them to question what she studies in all her majestic, magnificent form. As if waiting for the sun to breathe. As if waiting for the star to awaken from its slumber. As if waiting for life to hear inspiration released into the world.
Nanowrimo10 total word count: 2,000. Total wordcount to date: 12,170 of 50,000 (not including this notation)