Auroral Scorpion, Sting My Eyelids
From the imagined, to its reality; and therefore set up once again to imagine a next realization.
Last month, I wrote about the development of a poets theater piece in anticipation of its first iteration at the Welcome to Boog City 17.5 Arts Festival on February 17th.
Bloodwrought: Task of the Poet, an Orpheus story, is to be a full-length theatrical work. A version of its opening, “Orpheus in the Nightclub,” was created for Boog.
As mentioned, I collaborated on the piece with my daughter, singer-songwriter Hero Magnus, who also happens to be the co-creator with me of our Allegory of the Llama comic strip. (Here’s #9, btw)
Hero wrote a song for the piece based on what I’d told her about its conception. She also transcribed a dictation I did - makeshift strategy to get that initial form going from conception, from out of my head… to get those first words onto a page.
Partly on the principle of “first thought, best thought,” I’m sharing with you that dictation, but mostly so you can track its development as presented at Boog and in its refinement as dramatic text (further below).
For best results, you might have to play this from the Substack website or app
The transcription of this recording, printed out and posted around my office, kept me in touch with the space and shape of the piece. Also, as was the plan, I incorporated Hero’s song in a manner interactive with my protagonist; then, unexpectedly - irresistible to chance and juxtaposition - her lyrics played into the story and writing.
In the video linked here, our piece starts at 26:45 and Hero’s song (lyrics footnoted1) at 29:55: Welcome to Boog City Poets Theater Hour
Another poets theater piece by Tracie Morris and Kristin Prevallet (apropos of ritual - indeed, trance - poetics) follows, and then - for more of Hero’s music2 - a set of her original songs starts at 52:40.
Bloodwrought - Orpheus in the Nightclub
Opening Mythopoeist In a context like this (marathon reading, bar), it isn’t much of a stretch for you to envision a poet – not me, but a very young male poet – a romantic youth in that first deep excitement of what poetry is supposed to be or could be or might be. Here is the poet feeling his writing deep into his body! Poet Hands held high, inspired. Words! Words! Mythopoeist So this young poet decides he is going to go to the volcano. Of course, the city he lives in is right next to a volcano. Climb the volcano and ask the gods for poetry, for poetic greatness, for literary greatness. You can imagine his trek. He already is inspired – he doesn't recognize that, but – he already feels what poetry could do and he climbs the mountain. Now, the night he goes to the mountain – to the volcano – the moon is incredible. It’s huge and it’s orange and it’s as fiery as what he imagines it will look like when he peers into the volcano’s crater. Poet in the mouth of the volcano where I make my offering a circle of orange and bloodred tonight’s moon Mythopoeist And of course when he starts to climb the volcano, he’s also taking the elevator. He’s going to the top of a building. That is, it’s a nightclub. In his city, it’s a volcano-themed bar and nightclub. And he’s going to go to the volcano and pour his blood into it and ask the gods/the muses for poetry. The poet walks into this rooftop nightclub and, in a daze, looks around at its lava décor. He gets right to drinking his favorite cocktail. He tries to make himself comfortable absorbing the hazy atmosphere, live music, the crowd. He finds a corner, rests his shoulder against the wall. His brain is boiling – not exactly with poetry but – with what poetry feels like to him as a promise, as a destiny, the essential thing amidst day-to-day irrelevance. He stares at and doesn’t see a singer on a small stage next to the volcano. He’s swirling internally with excitement – no one around him would understand why. Anticipation for what splendor’s to come in his life thrills him to limb-quivering; to steady himself, he focuses on the singer, and begins to listen. Hero’s Song. Mythopoeist Pause, for audience Okay, it was the song and only the song in the venue, that was all that was there. The poet reappears, after listening. Poet to himself (this all can be a mumbling) I want to be tough Give me a sign mulling Nothing else matters, haven’t you heard Mythopoeist Our young poet must come back to himself. He has a task, a mission for the night. Someone else’s words came into his head but he doesn’t even know what his own words are. Now, this isn’t the time or place for me to show you in detail the ceremony he does at the volcano – a magickal extraordinary. Suffice it to say, he spills his own blood, cuts his hand, and, on one hand, creates a spectacle. In the nightclub, people look at him, but only for a moment, then go back to their libidinous pursuits. Overall, he’s in his own head enough not to cause a scene in this hot and sulfurous scene. He does the ceremony he had in mind and fulfills himself in its ecstatic sacred technologies. Afterwards, he knows he did the ceremony correctly, but he has no intimation of whether anything has occurred - whether anything has been activated. Somehow, he makes it home. He descends the volcano, find his way to his hut, what sort of homes did they have in ancient Greece? – his mud brick dwelling. Where would an ancient Greek poet live? He finds his apartment in Brooklyn, or whatever city. He stumbles through the door. Careful not to wake up his roommate. He’s drunk, he’s high, but the nature of his intoxication is more than chemical, more than neural misfires in his brain. He hits the bed and falls asleep into his whirling. He dreams and words come into his dream. Chants from the ceremony at the volcano, his incantation. Yes, for sure, he is visited upon by a muse! – in guise of a woman, a goddess. Much like a human woman but more "glowy," he can see her face! She vocalizes an incantatory answer to his incantation, but I won’t tell you yet – here or now – what was told. Other words as well enter his dream, enter his head. Words from the song. Other words from other planes. Again, he doesn’t know what his own words are, or through what sliver of the soul external words enter his being or how internal words arise. He murmurs in his sleep. Poet They’ve been given to me. The Words. Poetry. Mythopoeist In dream, it’s all a jumble. Yet, dawn creeps through his window, lays its soft finger upon him. As he stirs, he receives and conceives hypnopompic rumblings, phrases, neologisms: Strank. I wanna drink paint, the place where you roam. Hinxjackal, espionage. Poet quickly, intercut with the narrator’s words Roam, roaming. Mythopoeist Tiny insects, tiny inserts. Into his waking, the words of a poem. From other words. Dollar a word. Auroral scorpion, sting my eyelids. Poet Every murder that I Here is my strank, where is my strength Hexjackal Mythopoeist He’s still with his visitation. He’s not ready to kill the dream. He feels the presence of his muse. As the sun rises and comes into his room, he still senses the woman in his dream who told him, yes, the gods granted you poetry – he saw her up close, he saw her face. Poet again, as an insert My prize on the eyes, her eyes Mythopoeist He feels some words press on him as well – right at the edge of his mind, teethed on his tongue. Nearing him: new lines, phrases. So far, as he awakens, maybe – a proto-poem? He has to mute all else, to hear his own. Yet, his vision isn’t with the muse solely as pictured, as imaged, as imagined – he’s with the feeling of the muse, of the poetic… Poet scorpion of the dawn your raiments are all in glory accept my gratitude I’m destined for your sting Mythopoeist Does our poet fulfill the poem that day? He reaches for pen and pad. I will tell you, later in the morning when he’s out and about musing on his lines, he comes face to face with a woman his own age who is the mirror image of the woman who appeared to him in his dream. Before his eyes, she lines up with the sun.
“Tough” by Hero Magnus
I wanna be tough I wanna drink paint Chewing a steak Thinking not straight Give me a prize! I’m doing my best Stayed up all night Beating my chest Awoowowowooo In the corner of the bar Is the place where you roam Sickening thoughts Sticks and stone Espionage A dollar a word Nothing else matters Haven’t you heard Nothing else matters Take it all yours Give up the solution to the god of incense And give up your bed to the tiny insects I listened now Gave it all that I got My kneecaps are shaking beneath my culottes Slot machine hit the jackpot I guess all I wanted was to be a big shot I guess all I wanna do is be a big shot I wanna be tough Make myself sick Spitting a name On a toothpick Give me a prize! I’m doing okay I stayed up all night Curb fillet Awoowawoowoaa Every murder that I solve Smoke one cigarette Spelling it out is as good as it gets Eating just trout, Marie Antoinette Try to send a letter but the letter’s all wet I’ve got a pet leech I’m watching TV Opportuuuuu / unity slams down my door How does it go / how does it go Get on your knees or leave me alone I wanna be tough Gimme a sign You’re out of luck Am I out of my line Win me a prize Drink your coldbrew Stay up all night Gum on your shoe awoowowowowowo Is it the coffee or all the iced tea Is it e coli or bad company Is it one hundred percent guarantee Is it a given or are you annoyed Is it a submarine to be deployed Is it the bruised fruit or the flies Am I keeping my prize on the eyes Is it the deadline or the scoop Is it parents or the peer group Is it made of leather take a good look Is it an old fashioned grappling hook Is it the feminine divine Am I only getting by And I take my tan in the form of a spray I haven’t got eyelids cuz I’m the valet You’re the worst person I’ve ever met I’m sorry I haven’t replied to your text yet I wanna be smart It makes me upset The bigger the hit The stronger I get Five baby goose The size of a fist I wanna be tough I wanna be rich AHoowaoowaoo
Two items regarding Hero’s music currently:
“Pull the Plug” is charting in the Top Ten of iHeart radio’s abreak58 playlist. Check it out, please: your listens (and likes where indicated) can help take her to #1.
Hero will be creating custom vinyl at Leesta Vall Sound Recordings on April 9th. Order anytime between now and her session date, and you’ll get a one-of-a-kind, collectible, unique version of each song she has on offer - live performances cut directly to 7” lathe cut vinyl records.
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I like how it's beginning. You definitely have my attention.
"It's not gonna go well..." hahaha.