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CALLASSA
Big Eyes and Bluebell Woods
A Story of Idolatry
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in edit / arrangement
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CALLASSA
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Inmortalium Ficta Sunt
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Callassa is idolatry and controversy of epic extent
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When, after about ten years, we came to rework this book, it occurred to us that if we had been asked to write it now, we probably could not. Not that we shy from controversial topics (we think literature should embrace those questions asked but which are oftentimes subdued for fear of censure. It is the way we move on, after all). Having said this, the book forcefully bears the most fundamentally controversial topics of all, somewhat in the fashion of a thrust from a lion’s claw.
The book is romantic at its core, but the romance is taboo. The taboo encompasses what most people won’t wish to contemplate because it stabs deep into their expectations regarding themselves.
The relationship transcends the taken for granted of time and place. It involves the wielding of a cosmological power that dominates and controls. It involves vicious murder, reincarnation of famous people, idolatry of a woman and so forth. The book is absolutely unique.
The central message is that aliens are gods and have wrongly been delegated to mythology. What does this mean? That aliens are cosmological phenomena and the very few who have access, and by virtue of their extraordinary contribution, are different in extremity of extremities?
The answer is yes.
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We will end this brief foreword by saying that the name of the main protagonist interchanges between Marianna and her abbreviation, Maria. Thus, begins the story of the Italian diva, Marianna Canali and her idolater, David Lawrence.
Callassa. Callassa. Callassa. Callassa
Marianna intends to make her comeback by performing the main role in an opera, titled; Ariadne and Dio. The novel, though a love story of immense depth, in its entirety is the most controversial revealing of all time. What does it reveal? You will be amazed. Truly!
Callassa. Callassa. Callassa. Callassa
A word about the characters; David Lawrence, the lover, is twenty-two years old, that is, approaching thirty years younger than is Marianna. (Incidentally, his time with her is reflected throughout the series as a quickly developing maturity). Here, at ‘Bluebell Woods’, which is Marianna’s mansion, in rural Yorkshire, England, occurs much which is at the extreme and often, a reach beyond the limit of consummate sensuality. For him, she is also a hand-held plunge into the cultured elite, the mystifying, the fantastic and unknown cosmology, into which he leaps willingly.
Callassa. Callassa. Callassa. Callassa
The novel is offered to the reader in a classical style of writing and through Marianna’s beauty, talent and thunder is displayed many of her deepest passions which include ………………
Callassa. Callassa. Callassa. Callassa
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It was while I had been closing the huge and magnificent drapes in the
lounge that I noticed it had become very dark. Marianna, as I have
explained already, has a penchant for heavy velvet and prefers
them to hang over windows in what could be described as coloured
waterfalls. All the rooms have similar (over-indulgent) velvet cascades.
Following a short rest, freshen up and change of clothes, the
preparations were now being made for the evening’s soiree. In a red
turban and long, silk bustier dress of the same colour, Marianna was
perfectly attired for all theatrical roles, likely those shown during
many times and places. Everything here is so wonderfully akin to her character.
I could never wish for her, or anything she has touched
to be any other way and I mean not being of the mundane or sterile
as some places have appeared to me.
The time that we have spent here and everywhere else for that matter,
has made me feel enshrouded by her, even taken inside,
so to be endeared in a womb-like suspension.
This may sound exaggerated and not a very masculine way of regarding the world,
but it really is how she makes me feel, all the time.
This room, even while empty of her has a similar effect,
simply as everything contains her uniqueness and I adore both it and her, immeasurably.
Octavian had brought with him a box of Havana cigars.
These being his after-meal preference.
He was sitting and seemingly irritated by the refusal of the box lid to open
and present another of its delights.
It appeared as though it would be a while before he would be ready.
A flickering orange and silver light had begun illuminating
the room. She had lit the candles that proudly occupy a place upon the grand
piano and had turned off the chandeliers.
Octavian’s voice came from one of the chairs with its back
facing Marianna and I. “Might we switch the lights on, Maria, please?”
“If you wish,” she said, with impatience. “But I would rather not.”
“Well, I would like to see what I’m doing,” he replied, equally impatiently.
“Octavian, after you have finished playing around over there,
be a darling and bring the drinks trolley, would you.”
She stood, smiling, before going to help him retrieve his
cigars from the floor. While laughing and bumping her head on his
chair, the cigars were quickly gathered up.
Soon, she was carefully negotiating the drinks trolley over the
rugs and around the furniture.
“We are to sit in front of the fireplace,” was her proclamation, after
rearranging the small table and cushions. The position had been
decided at the end of a discussion between her and Octavian. He had
suggested we sit in the aura of the large paintings in the dining
room, but Marianna had none of it. This, according to her, was more
intimate and befitting.
Octavian began pouring whiskeys and bourbon. She was arranging
letters of the alphabet and numbers into a circle. This was to be the
little oraculum of Bluebell Woods. Not as grand by far as the ones
erected and still standing in Egypt, Greece and Rome, (to name but
a few locations) but in both symbol and practice, exactly the same.
Turned sideways and toward the fireplace and clad in a silver frame,
stood a black and white photograph of the unearthly and immeasurably
colourful female with whom I was in love. There were
others too, piled one atop the other. While noticing my attention
on them, she declared, “I have many more to show. I have forgotten where they are.”
In the photograph, she was wearing a netted hat and touching
her chin with a gloved finger. She seemed to be unhappy or just
as likely contemptuous of someone near. This was not the time to see
the others, though forthwith I intended they be found and displayed.
I enjoy the moments when she tells about the occasions that her photographs depict
because I wonder whether much comes with exaggerated hindsight.
Her smiling and looking to be joyous while despising the whole occasion
with a great and seething intensity must be hard work.
“Do you like that one, honey cherry?” she asked, and raising her eyes
at the same time.
“Yes,” I said. “Your stare seems to follow the viewer. How is
that possible for a photograph?”
She didn’t answer me until she had put the finishing touches to her
task. The circle was perfect and like the oracle of stones at
Delphi as I previously described.
“I can do anything,” she said. “Anyway, attend will you. We
could let ‘them’ just spell with my hand by drawing the letters,
but this is easier and more fun. Are you ready? Well, are you?”
Her question was addressed to Octavian too, who moments ago had
lit a cigar. He was walking over, straightening his tie in the process.
All three participants sat close. She had been correct, it was
an intimate atmosphere and I was brimming with anticipation.
Octavian reached over and topped up the glasses. The water,
ice and soda he had already placed within arm’s reach.
A few moments passed and I began to realise that the ambience
was beginning to change. It felt as though we were in a room occupied
by many other people and they were all moving around, in conversation with
each other. I thought it akin to waiting for a train while on a
crowded platform. Ostensibly, there were only we three present,
Marianna, Octavian and myself.
Other than for the clink of ice in her glass as she sipped, the room was silent.
The sensation I was experiencing was not unnerving for me.
Moreover, I was feeling extraordinarily comfortable within.
Marianna, as I expected, was going to take charge of the proceedings.
This she did with an introduction thus; “Well, let me see,” she began.
“I shall be able to guess the messages if the first letter is indicated,
because the complete words will be created in my mind.”
Then, after smiling and winking an eye,” she continued.
“Honey, let my finger do the moving. Just touch my hand, like this … See.”
Quite suddenly, a noise had erupted and its jolt took my attention
away from her.
BLEEP. BLEEP. BLEEP………..
The interruption had made Octavian laugh, more for the effect
it had upon her. She was frowning at the source of what had very
effectively begun irritating her. Then, with what sounded almost like a growl, she said,
“Who the Hell is that, assinacio?”
Octavian offered her an explanation, “Maria, perhaps the immortals
have decided to use British Telecom?”
“Octavian, you jest,” she replied, the peak of her agitation having
quickly faded as soon as the bleeping of the telephone had come
to an abrupt halt. My watching those few moments of her annoyance
reminded me of how fast her temper could boil to overflowing.
Obviously with Octavian present, she would control herself.
I hoped so, anyway. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes.
There was a residue of the previous outburst still remaining and it showed
in the tightening of her mouth. This, however, quickly melted away.
I have often wondered how she had accommodated such annoyances in the past,
her having been what can loosely be described as a stage performer?
According to Octavian, she did not cope at all.
She was always the veritable explosive woman. Vituperative is a word he has used.
That and there is not a great deal of choice in the matter.
I don’t care at all for the other words and phrases I’ve heard that have been used to describe her.
I cannot be impartial because I see the way she reacts as uniquely her.
“Are we all ready?” she asked, gesturing for me to place my hand upon hers.
Octavian rested his hand on hers too and while uttering a soft
and demur, “Yes, my dear, I am ready.”
Our three hands were now together within the circle of letters.
The force by which her hand began moving and taking ours along
was momentarily startling. It was as if an imperceptible force had
grabbed us, but as I already knew, this energy, or character
was also residing within us. This being another manifestation of our
bond. Hence, our ability to be communed with via the sense-making
of this, our human world.
As her finger began tapping, the letters, G, and then, D, were
being indicated. Tap. Tap. Tap …
Marianna spoke into the empty space between us, “Thank you,
beautiful ones, for conveying through us.”
“Who is it,” I asked her, eager to know and was quickly given a reply.
“His convening was, Giovanni David. While living a human life, he was an opera singer.
About one hundred years ago, I do believe.”
Marianna’s hand was moving toward the letters. The presence she had
just introduced was guiding her. As she had already stated, the words
would be built in her mind. She began speaking the emerging
message aloud.
“Hello everyone, Maria … Marianna Canali, you have enjoyed
success and have fame and vast fortune. What more can be said?
Why do you become so infected when others find cause to criticise
the length of your nose? Your disposition also bears the face that others
have slung upon it.”
It became difficult for me to hold back from laughing at the
display of expression now upon her face.
With obvious indignation, she replied, “I beg your pardon?
Be away.”
Unbelievably, she was commanding the angels to depart. She
would not listen to criticism, whomever the source of it was.
Her fingers began tapping continuously on the letter, B.
“Baby Bertolucci ….. He says, that he was senior machine gunner,
hair stylist and shoe-shiner, for Al Capone.”
Octavian and I both laughed. However, she was not amused.
Obviously perturbed by how the event was proceeding, she declared,
“I don’t know what to say now. Nor whether there is any point.”
The letters, R.V. suddenly took our attention. Her fingers were
tapping again and she began delivering the communiqué.
“I am sorry, Marianna, we play with you. As you know, I was
Valentino, The Great, just as you are the shape that is cast forever.
Your smile, Marianna, envelops not merely knowledge, sovereignty and reason,
but the lands the seas, skies, Suns and Moons, in addition.”
“Thank you,” she replied, the timbre of her voice very much softer now.
The one speaking to us had been Rudolph Valentino. The greatest
lover of women of recent times. Now, it was obvious to me why she
owned copies of his movies. There was little time for me to reflect,
as her moving hand suggested that he wished to continue.
“Marianna, please do not think for one moment that you have not
affected people for the better. Emotion of tremendous height has its
roots in the gift of your presence there. Just know, that love turned
inside out is indifference. Those who cannot directly have your love
must turn away from you. Perhaps it is this human reaction that
you cannot live with? Shaking these people with unapologetic
statements you intend to make in your new opera, Ariadne and Dio,
may only benefit laughter and contempt.”
Her hand came to a halt. From her eyes, a myriad sentiments
had begun to overflow. I knew that she was going to be upset.
“I am grateful for your advice, Rudy,” she said. “Most truly, I am so.”
A response was given immediately.
“I have something to give, Marianna. I spun these words during the evening past,
while you and Lawrence walked among the trees. I was concerned about your
intention to inform those there about the truth of eternity, simply because, well,
anyway, here it is:
Closed eyes. After the terror. After the forced good byes. I know
of the misguided who ruined this day. About how they took the most
beautiful of all things away. I ask; is there really an unknown
garden where roses always reside? With summer leaves, lovers and
mothers, who never really died? Are they waiting there, as the
morning birds? Their songs, filled with the most meaningful words?
Can they know the fragrant clouds that burst in the sweep of my
breath? Can they know of the love that lives beyond this pointless
death? Sleeping ones … I must go, so to make rainbows for those
still awake. And begin the fires … for the murdering bastards who,
were nature’s mistake.
I beseech you, Marianna. Love is our makeup and we are also
extremely fortunate to be this truth and this beauty which is,
the Mother’s gift. Well, I shall say, enjoy what you have in the house
where there are many to tend you and where nature has what keeps you warm,
then, together, into the eternal.”
Her eyes had become visibly affected. Soon, huge mascara-filled
droplets would trickle down her cheeks. Octavian quickly tendered
his own handkerchief. This, together with softly spoken words of
understanding. “Marianna,” he whispered. “You will make it rain all
over the world.”
While dabbing her eyes with his handkerchief, she replied, “I am
all right. Truly, I am.”
“I will do the speaking from now on,” said Octavian, still showing concern.
“Would you, please?” she asked.
“Of course,” came the understanding reply.
Moments later, her hand had begun tapping the letter, W.
Octavian spoke the message;
“William Wordsworth says that Bluebell Woods are happy now
that Marianna and Lawrence are together here. He wishes to speak
directly to you, Maria. He has an offering titled, ‘For you.’ Thus:
Beneath the stars. Upon mountains and within fountains of lighted
night. Dreams upon dreams, beginning and fading into serene
moonbeams of delight. The dissolving into bliss, is this, the
stirring of life today. In morning ardours, to sink within her.
Falling deeply and fading away.
William thinks that you should forget the tainted fruits
of past human discourse and pursue what guarantees your happiness.
He wants to tell more, but while you walk among the trees
and sail on Bluebell Lake. He wants to end this message with,
‘Canto for, Maria Magnificentia’. Again, thus:
Forever love. Bounteous love. Entangled within your whisper-laden
lights. Timeless whispers within your arms. Grasping tightly through
ecstatic nights. In oblivion’s depths. Stretching. Within auroras
burning brilliantly white. Among worlds ending and beginning. An
exploding during our joining flight.
Mixed and flowing in existence, together. We lovers. We universal
lovers. Immortal streams of passion-made beauty, for our
sisters and our brothers. Love, in dimensionless time. Sublime.
Spread amidst symphonies of fire. Grasping at the colours of stars.
While moving on and on, into universal desire.”
“Thank you,” she said. “I love you dearly and your words are
simply wonderful.”
Marianna moved her hand from beneath ours. She was obviously
needing of a moment’s respite. My assumption was proven to be
correct, because she said to Octavian, “I think we should take a
break and have a drink.” I am not an admirer of liquor, so she
knew not to ask me. I would take something much softer. She and
Octavian moved away from the oracle, so to pour their drinks.
In this, what I considered, a too sudden change from having
embraced a reality charged with emotion, to a contemplating of
one much lighter, it is prudent for me to consider what someone
would think if they had been eavesdropping? Possibly, it would not
make sense to them because if something cannot be seen at all,
then there is little, if anything to make sense of? Such an
assuming would be justifiable, but incorrect, of course. Our
reality during these moments is extremely subtle, yet is the
power beyond unseeing eyes in ways no imagination would hold.
I recall when Octavian would ask me to observe the heavens
and try to imagine that what encompassed the far, far away and
beyond my sight was, in fact, my own awareness.
Marianna was smiling. It was therefore, an opportune moment to
present her with a kiss on the hand. “You have bigger, more red
eyes, now,” I said.
“I know,” came her reply.
It was not long, a mere few minutes, before she was poised and beckoning
for Octavian and me to continue. We complied and joined her, to sit close.
Immediately upon our hands touching hers, all three were lifted
into a broad sweep, this in the shape of a figure eight. We were brought down
very slowly, so to gently touch the letter, M, then, G.
“It is, Mary Garden,” was Octavian’s announcement. “She bades that …”
“Mary,” squealed Maria, interrupting Octavian’s reading of
her introduction. “Mary … Where have you been?”
“You know where, to repose in our Hesperus, our garden. I
have something to expose, Marianna.”
“Yes, Mary. I implore you, tell me of it.”
“When you sang, I was always in your voice. I helped it travel
far away for all to embrace. I mean, on both occasions that
you have dwelt as a human person, but during your career this time,
I have been the busiest because you have performed so often. I
want you to carry on because the colours in all of the skies
become more obvious upon hearing you sing. Everything here
is the same, yes it is, especially in the place which you love the most, by
the mists of the blue trees. The touch you left there, upon the
smallest tree is as you left it and joined to you every-where
that you go.”
Octavian ceased his speaking which presaged a pause in the
colloquium.
Marianna was smiling. She was obviously seeing paradise in her
mind. Mary Garden’s mention of the blue trees had been a
metaphorical reference to eternal domain, wherein resides completeness, as immortality.
Octavian began again:
“Marianna, there are many who wish to speak with you, so I shall
leave you, for the moment. May I say that when you and Lawrence are ready,
I want to fly with you upon my wings. Fly you into the far away. Adieu.”
“Mary, Mary … Good bye.”
“Are you sufficiently able to carry on with this, Maria?” asked
Octavian, having again suspected an outpouring of emotion teeming
from her eyes.
Her reply came as a subdued, “Yes, of course,” followed by a
smile.
It was a few moments in silence spent, before her hand began to move again. When
it did, she guided Octavian and I to the letter, V.
“Ah, it is Vincent Van Gogh,” declared Octavian.
Marianna greeted the visitor with an exaggerated ‘hello’.
Octavian continued speaking the words as the letters were quickly indicated;
“Bonjour, mes amis, en particulier à vous Marianna …
Greetings, my friends, especially to you Marianna, for I want
to say that I am joyful that you adore the art I have inspired
you to buy. Though me thought you would. Might I request of you a small favour s‘il vous plaît ?”
“Yes, please do ask me,” beckoned Marianna and with an obvious eagerness to know evident in her voice.
“I wish to create the painting of you, lying curled upon the bed.
Well, you do not know about it yet, but it is being planned by Lawrence.
He desires your beautiful human aspect to remain in that world forever.
Because impossibility holds many possibilities, I can
inspire a fellow as great as was I to paint you, Marianna.
I believe it to be a wonderful idea because it will make the artist famous in this
lifetime, not following his death, as was the case when I was Vincent,
that thankless life that, when all love was driven from my heart was different applause
than is yours. Je suis désolé pour l’ambiance de ma dernière remarque.”
(I am sorry for the mood of my last remark).
“That is all right,” was her glad voice. “I think you are absolutely justified.”
While she had been speaking, a glance from the corner of her eyes
told me that she had something to say to the one who had been planning
the painting, namely, me.
“It would be my privilege to be painted by someone inspired by
you, Vincent. But, I lay on the bed unclothed. Presumably it is my
doing this, which my Lawrence had in his thoughts?”
“Methinks that Lawrence carries the beautiful visage of woman-love in his thoughts.
But most recently, he spent hours watching you sleeping dormant and
he was dreaming of an oil painting. Ha. Ha. Ha.”
“I would be honoured to pose,” she replied.
“Marianna, I am very pleased that you took Bluebell Woods and
this mansion. It be my warrant to inspire a painting of the special week too,
when all of the woodlands are covered by blue. Me sees the blue hue as were my eyes, mes yeux sont le votre.”
“Vincent … of course …” she said and then immediately the movement
of her hand interrupted what she was saying.
“Be there those in multitudes wishing to speak, but I have also created
words for you, words that blow about the trees. Not only those dwelling within,
but all trees, throughout yon orb. Would you like to hear them? Trees? Les arbres de bleu?”
“Yes, Vincent. of course. Yes, please.”
“I blow them from my hand, for you. I called the words, ‘Trees, of
Blue’.”:
Trees, trees, and such treasure you share. Tangled branches,
embracing the air. In awe at you all, I stand and stare. At wooden
fingers and arms laid bare. And in spring a majesty of green there.
To consider your demise, some even dare. Trees, trees, and such
treasure you share. Reach for the sky, reach for the sky. My friends
throw your branches high. In the wind, even spider’s webs can fly.
They do, I have seen them, but you will not try. Instead, stay and
let your webbed branches cry. As fools cut you. But their time is
nigh. Long, long before yours. Trees, reach for the sky.”
“Your words are so very pertinent, Vincent,” was Octavian’s compliment.
It appeared that Vincent had more to say:
“Immortality not be of those most degenerate of all bastards, those unnatural hags,
those superfluous rags, those terrors of the earth and who touch you with their anger.
Immortality is beauty, it heralds unrivaled force, the blow and the rage and the
fired singe that your enemies cannot cater. The fellow whom I and many other artists
have been nurturing will present there forthwith to paint you.
He does not know of his true rage yet, but he will represent you
in a manner that will reflect who you, in truth be … Betwixt shaking thunder,
fire and grateful space. Fare thee well.”
“Adieu, Vincent,” she said and while appearing as though she were
pondering over Vincent’s last statement regarding an artist arriving soon.
However, the moments of reflecting were terminated as Octavian
gestured that there was an immortal wishing to speak through him. I
knew who it was even before his announcement. It was someone
very special to Marianna. A person who had been particularly close to
her during her previous life as a citizen of Rome. The visitor was her ‘sister’
and her protector in immortality, Athene.
“Marianna, there is someone whom …”
Amidst a huge smile came her whispered reply, “I know who she is.”
This time, the words were being spelled out very forcefully,
“ATHENE … FROM CORINTHIUS … ACHAEA.”
“Greetings, dearest, Athene.”
“Greetings, Aphrodite. I adore you and you two there also and equally.
Please, revel in that I have never gone from your heart’s tempest.”
Marianna was eager to reply, “Your presence has meant great strength to me,
Athene, truly. So very much do I miss being as you be now.
The art of our necessities is deeply attired.
Your benediction over me causes me to know well my imperfect mind.”
“You shall be as I,” came the response. “Shed, we shall be one,
as shall all amaranthine beings, in the oneness that be our everlasting paradise.”
Marianna was silent. There was no doubting that her mind was being
cast back to our lives as Romans. When Athene had been with Maria and
I, and they, the sisters, had applied together on the play, ‘Ariadne
and Dio’. Obviously, that time owns special comfort to Marianna. Octavian and myself too.
Athene began communing; “Dearest, as in Roma, as when we were
together I taught you the skill of the actress and you became acclaimed as the
finest dramatic singer.”
Marianna replied, “Yes, Athene. I do recall. The condition remains with me.”
“Your performances at the theatre hallowed to the great Pompey
were so very resplendent with our energy. As the months and the cycles,
they were dangling garlands, friends of the beauteous flowers and winnowing winds.
I knowest well what does adorn and enrich all eyes and minds.
Oh, I am reminded of our beloved Vergillius Maro, of Euripides
equally, whose blasting weight so enriched our music.
But ah! our rendition of Jason, was the finest and the most fulfilling for me as it did claw at their ears.”
“I remember them too,” said Marianna, softly.
“But our play, our very own ‘Ariadne and Dio’, that we did caste and
which Octavian did complete upon our departure be the finest,
as it represents we; you, Octavian, Lawrence and myself, though it
hallows divine blooms that were before, during and after us, equally.
Though it curses every sense of those who are not.”
“Athene, I was considering using the play to tell the truth about myself,
to show humans who we really are.”
“I know your thoughts. Do not fret for the consequences. I
am to protect you. What did ensue in Roma can n’er be allowed again.
No one will hurt either of you, as I am to repose again as the golden eagle
and the most vengeful creature of all history.
Recall, when I tore out the eyes of Dio’s slayer in the arena?
I will act so furthermore and greater in same and difference.
I must tell you that above my head at the twenty-third hour of each day will appear a star,
the very puissance that Octavian witnessed
when Gaius Julius reappeared for him. Beneath the shroud of my golden wings,
you shall consume the ultimate protection. My beloved sister, this, I swear.
Hail The Almighty Caesar. Hail Aphrodite.”
The heated communion ceased. Marianna, obviously perturbed over
Athene’s abrupt departure sat and stared toward the nearby wall, at
the huge oil painting depicting the Recumbent Woman, her faltering
executioner to her left. Octavian had begun taking a breather and was sitting back in his chair.
This break would provide me the opportunity to quickly think about what Athene had foretold.
Marianna has divulged a great deal to me regarding our having lived as Romans,
during the reign of the Emperor, Octavianus Caesar, and of her beloved sister,
Athene, about how her sister, the golden blond angel, had traveled long from
Achaea, to stay and tutor her at our villa on The Quirinal. Athene had departed not
long after I had been born as Ariadne’s son, Dio. Athene had died soon after
her return to Achaea. Marianna has spoken often about how Athene
had reappeared after I had been slain defending my mother’s (Marianna’s) honour
in the arena. Athene, embodied, as a huge golden eagle had accompanied
what I can best describe as ‘a descent of the divine’, to avenge my death.
Athene was the only being the murderers could see. These, to be very brief,
were the actual events that Octavian used to complete the play, ‘Ariadne and Dio’.
In considering what we have just been doing, it appears that
Athene has contradicted what the other visitors prior to her,
especially Rudy, had shown caution and great sensitivity toward.
That she should go ahead with the controversial opera regardless,
and also that her sister is determined to appear again as the golden
eagle. It will be very interesting, in a ‘supernatural’ way,
to witness such an avenging, eye-tearing appearance.
It seemed that Athene wished to continue. Octavian and I sat
close to Marianna, as before. Immediately, Octavian began speaking
Athene’s message;
“I implore you to perform, ‘Ariadne and Dio’, to music. As we
performed the plays when I was biding as the human female.
I hold that your heart does yearn and it is that we all wish to hear and hold that voice.”
“I want it too,” was Marianna’s response given to Athene with great longing evident
both in her expression and her words.
“There is a further bestowment upon you, my sister.
The understanding that already the undivulged who does walk in undying life
has inspired the making of the music. It is true. It has been done.
Our poetry is exalted by the most beautiful music of all, to practice hence, upon all lives.”
While Marianna was smiling, her fingers began tapping the letters,
G.V. She said,
“The immortal who was, Giuseppe Verdi. Yes, it really is true.
But there are many others whose wishes cannot be ignored. They
wish to contribute.”
Now, her hand was touching many pairs of letters, E.C., B.G.,
G.T., C.V., T.G., N.V., M.C., F.L., S.B., A.B…The list appeared
endless.
“You mean, Caruso, Gigli … as well as the artists, Frederick Leighton
and Adolphe Bouguereau, the actress Sarah Bernhardt and …
and Sergei Rachmaninov too?… My!
“Yes, the roles are many performers. Is it not their revelation wonderful?”
“Athene. I don’t know what to say. Really I don’t.”
“The voices of our opera are the most richly enthused. They cannot be born tamely.”
“Where do wish for ‘Ariadne and Dio’ to be performed?” asked Maria.
“In supplication to the Divine Mother, upon the site of our
Roman theatres, in the shadows made by the remains of
the Temple of Jupiter Capitolene, the sacred site.
Elsewhere, Dodonna in Greece, additionally, for there,
remains the site of a shrine to the Divine Mother.
I am aware that it is consequent upon many factors. Octavian knows.”
Marianna glanced over at the man in question and said, “Octavian,
I feel so very fulfilled.” To which he reciprocated with a tacit smile. Athene continued;
“Marianna, you are the one whom the poets name, Aphrodite.
I do love you in completeness and in everlasting life.
Look for me as I dwell in the celestial abyss. I shall mingle with you.
I do cease. As I do arise and am rebirthed. Now I have a request of you, Octavian.”
“Yes Athene,” came the immediate response, accompanied by a
raised brow of anticipation of what was to be asked of him.
“May we audience the silent acting (movie), Amalfi, with Dolores Rainer,
tomorrow evening? It is lying beneath the seat in your Jaguar traverse-machine (car)?”
Octavian was obviously delighted by the request. “Yes, of course,” he said.
He would have to set up the old projector and screen. He and I
used to watch silent films together. Most apparently, there had been
heaven’s monarchs enjoying them too. (Note, silent films.
Not those more up to date. Those I had to watch by myself).
“Athene,” voiced Maria with sadness. “Must you depart from me? Mustyou?”
“I can never leave you, but there awaits the most special one of
all. Farewell now. I have your love and I hold it, reposing hence, with the light making
the diurnal summer.”
With more than a hint of her prior sadness, Marianna stared down at
her unmoving hand. Athene had ‘stepped aside’, as it were.
Suddenly, Octavian appeared startled, and Marianna looked equally
astonished. Our hands were moving with enormous force and I could
hear the words in my mind, without Octavian speaking them.
“I, am the Mother. I, am love. I, am all existence what reigneth within me.”
“It is The Mother. It is Mother.” Marianna was beside herself with
excitement. The sudden change of atmosphere was as though a bolt of
lightning had entered and set the room ablaze. It was our Mother,
The Creator. It really was.
The magnificent deity continued Her speaking;
“Myne own be yonder flock … What thou doest be of my
omnipotence. Scatter the legacy aforementioned, be it reflecting
of both thyne selves corporealis and of I. Infinite.”
“I shall,” Marianna proclaimed, moving her arms to exaggerate
her words. Mother was going to speak directly to her.
“I signify by virtue of and through yonder conjurer . . . . (silence) . . . .
My child. My bequeathing of symphony . . . . (silence) . . .
Thyne abode in the midst of trees draping. Be high emotion in thee.
Be I domicile whilst espying them for the first occassioning.
Whilst browns and greens in thee causeth imagining of thine intended’s eyes.
The light traversing, as did illumine thy self pouring through fingers
reacheth wild, made thee heaven with me. I am thy knowing, not grown to ever fadeth
as all that grown fadeth be. In thee be one dwelling and dwelling all . . . .
capacity . . . . Speak that thou knowest. Do that thou doest.
In me. Conclude not glory be in nothingness, yonder infected manners,
yonder hitted nails. Be I, this thy mien strong, biding thee hence.
Zeus. Jupiter. Mother. Maker. Sustainment of all holding,
emergent in my Creation, cast wordless firmament. Forever.”
No longer were any letters being touched. Nor was there
anything else spoken into my mind. Octavian, with a cajoling
consolation very uncharacteristic of him, touched Marianna’s cheek.
He did not actually speak to her, but if he had, it would probably
have been something like, “Mother has not left, we are part of
Her, she enshrouds and nurtures both we and everything there is with Her omnipotence.”
‘In thee be one dwelling and dwelling all capacity.
Speak that thou knowest. Do that thou doest. In me’.
With that, Marianna had been given sanction by Mother,
to act on her desire to stage and perform in what, without doubt,
would become the controversial opera, ‘Ariadne and Dio’.
She had also been told it would neither be liked or accepted.
(‘Conclude not glory be in nothingness, yonder infected manners, yonder hitted nails’).
Hopefully she would not be nailed to a cross.
The music associated with the opera had already been created by
the one who had been the genius, Giuseppi Verdi. It was to be
the ultimate Roman tragedy, performed by the writer and other
immortal aliens with the aim of imparting the truth (a rendition) of infinite reality.
I looked to Marianna. Strands of her hair had fought their way
from beneath her turban and were lying across her shoulder. In the
evening candlelight, the strands of hair displayed traces of translucent
red and of brown. I decided to say something to her.
“So, it’s going to happen? . . . The opera?”
“Yes,” she said. “Did you enjoy your surprise?”
“Of course. It was all so very dramatic. I’m proud of who I
am with in ways I cannot even begin to describe.”
A gentle stroke of her hand against mine had the effect of
lighting up her face with a warmth suggestive of enormous satisfaction
with how things were. Her granting of what she wanted had been given
final seal of approval. I looked over to Octavian, who had risen
from the chair where he’d been sitting so to seek out his cigars.
There was no doubting in my mind that he had already known
what she was going to be told. His prior forebodings reflected
a perception of this everyday (politico-religious) world and its
potential reactions to a woman making statements regarding the
place, or lack thereof, of the human race in the universe. He had not been usurped,
rather, he and the management company would very obviously be
ensuring that the whole enterprise of Marianna’s opera be staged in
accord with best practice. In other words, in line with their
perceptions of how it should be offered and inclusive of many,
if not complete changes.
I glanced at her and immediately, I felt enchantingly drawn
to sit close. I wanted to touch the velvet of her dress, to
kiss her shoulder and taste her skin, then wrap the strand of hair
that was hanging loose from her turban around my fingers.
Oftentimes, I feel over-awed by her beauty, of who she really is. This feeling is also
intertwined with an awareness of being very, very fortunate to be
with her. I also enjoy reveling in my idolatry of her.
Marianna was not looking toward me, but to Octavian. I suspected
that she was pondering over the same as I had just been thinking,
this being about Octavian’s prior knowledge of what had transpired.
There was much of the already in progress regarding Marianna’s opera.
“If Giuseppe Verdi has ‘inspired’ the composing of the music,
then who has the score now?” she asked him.
“A young Italian, a friend of yours, Iva Cremona, she’s been
composing a great deal over the years, which has got much to do with
the play and its operatic potential.”
Her expression having suddenly turned to one of incredulity,
she began demanding enlightenment. “Octavian, these developments
have been taking place and I have been completely unaware?”
There was pain in her voice. I knew she was imagining the
creativity that had been taking place with her play and without
any input from her.
Octavian was obviously sensitive to her potential upset.
“Iva has not been aware of exactly why she’s been composing.
She has, as you can imagine, felt enormously compelled. When she
is eventually handed the play, then I would say that she will most
likely become confused for a while. This is what we spoke of
earlier, remember? Other immortals coming to know the truth about
themselves through association with this enterprise. Maestro Iva,
was the one I was thinking about at the time.”
“Ha! My close friends will be learning many fascinating truths.”
“Yes, Maria,” he conceded, (but did not appear to be agreeing
with her in full), “And there are very subtle ways necessary for such
awareness to be imparted. If indeed it be so, to whomever.”
I laughed. I did not assume Octavian was alluding to her being
insensitive. She was not so with the people she liked. But there has
been much talk recently between her and myself on the subject of the
people who had made offensive remarks about her personality and her
voice, probably many aspects of her in addition,
the culprits being the music critics and certain others.
Octavian knows of this too of course and I think he was making reference
to them by his use of the word, ‘whomever.’
After all, she has stated that she intends to tell the truth about herself to all and sundry.
That group, by definition, includes those whom she sees as her tormentors.
Though it also includes, as Rudy most endearingly informed her,
many who are most deserving of our special gift, notably the beautiful ones
whom as he sadly said, have been taken away by the deluded.
I think Rudy is profound too and also that Octavian
shares precisely this same insightfulness and will wield it in the weeks to come.
In other words, she can’t go off telling people that she has the ultimate gift
and that they, do not. Besides it being on the face of it hard to accept and worse,
the reasons are many. The makeup of aliens is not what recent humans assume.
The antique Madeleine clock was indicating the time to be one-thirty.
This evening had begun with wondrous events and there was the
promise of more to come. Soon, Octavian would be coaxing Marianna into
playing her piano. The room will be filled with an additional atmospheric
component, a feminine and a lulling magic. Perhaps,
she might play rock and roll? I jest because I know she will not,
though stranger things do happen.
This evening has been wonderment beyond words and it will,
without doubt, affect me in equally wonderful ways during the
rest of my life, herewithin and beyond …
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(c) Regd. MMXIX Callassa Media Company. London
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CALLASSA
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Big Eyes and Bluebell Woods
A Story of Idolatry
