Singer Sisters Leaping....

Singer sisters leaping from the cliffs of despair and into the sonic tides of bliss

There is no home for us but the stage
And at dinner, before the show, over candlelight,

We see, we know through our hearts, we love like the hush of nightingales and it echoes bittersweet from cliff to cliff

(Darling! I have looked into your eyes, I have felt the recognition. Tell me we are not alone? And if that was but a fantasy of my mind... then please, at least... join with me in song.)

Ageless and ever, our sisters know 'round the globe,

Any dream fulfilled of the lie of the world leads to death,

For the world offers paper moons and persecutes passion (quella fiamma)

But we, singers of the earth, have known that light sublime, which, alchemically transporting sound and dust particles from sorrow to aliveness, believe beyond reason: there must be some reason to live.

There must be, for here we stand once again at the piano, as we stood once for the lyre, for the king,for the sea-

(Sous le dôme épais...)

For the Aegean, for the Mississippi, for the Rhine and the Caspian, the Styx, Atlantis, Rome, for the belle époque, for the academy. It matters not for whom!

(Où le blanc jasmin...)

We. Hands enjoined, hearts entwined, sweet counterpoint:
Sweet, yes, and sad. We turn then, to joy. (À la rose s’assemble...)

The ending yet foretold, having but one supernova eternal,

We leap -

(....Sail....)
Où le blanc jasmin
À la rose s’assemble

There are Jesters in the Morning

 

The Imaginative Mind, upon walking the dog on a Sunday morning

We overslept… rather… I overslept, and Henry bit my finger to announce the time.

Walking out, then, in a haze,

the cool air was fresh, a hint of salt lingering in the inhale exhale

and my feet seemed to feel the dew through

the inch of thickness of my uggs

the parade roses were in bloom, booming whiteness,

while what was left of the night blooms?

The jasmine hung, slowly turning away, the sad girls at the prom.

Approaching the broad expanse of green in front of the Zen Temple,

a deck of cards scattered about, as if

the morning sun had interrupted the court jesters at poker,

and here, a card face down in a puddle, red with two men on bicycles.

I picked it up, expecting to see a Jack of Hearts

and was surprised to see

it was blank!

Ah, the sweet assurance of conquerance,

the laughter to one’s own self

as around the table made of pavement,

the others’ eyes, beady and black in the moonless night,

life in curiosity.

I’ve a blank up my sleeve! I’ve a blank up my sleeve!

Oh, the rupturious joy, they could never know-

those jesters from all corners of the world,

so proud of their lineage.

“I’ve come from His Majesty’s in Francia,”

he couldn’t even say it right, that one,

sticking his tongue too close between his teeth to

render his ess as effectual as a dehydrated peach.

“I’ve flown in on Pegasus from Atlantis,”

announced the one with the crazy fish eye, green and hanging

next to broken blood vessels and

the smell of rotten kelp all round him.

“Atlantis isn’t real,” snarled another one,

a surly fellow but who at least had brought bagels.

I laughed to myself, for

they never had a chance! They who had flown in to MY City of Angels,

MY world of subcultural subterfugistic delights…

And the games continued and bagel boy was out, and then

mandolin playing troubadour with a lisp was out, and

it was down to me and down to the self-proclaimed magician

of the sea, and I am sure I saw him hide a fishbone behind his ear,

although in the darkest hour before dawn, how could I be sure?

Until at last,

shifting the point of my red and green hat from left to right

and left again, the jingle bell jangling in the silence

as deftly, my blank, I withdrew and replaced

to lay down atop an Ace

and I was about to take it all, winner takes ALL

when

The God of the Morning! From out of nowhere!

That be-damned golden orb of secrets revealed

emerged from the swathes of black silk

and foiled our game, with such tremendous force that we,

in uproar, fled in a swirl of dirt and trash and baggies,

leaving the effects of our game flying into the sky,

the sound of tinkering bells as we jesters fled

turning back only to notice the cards, floating down like feathers.

But it was 9 am on a Sunday, and I had places to be.

“Come on, boy,” I muttered. “Let’s go.”

I am not even the wind

…for I would rather be a sucker

than believe in lies

because once they were true

because once they were safe

because once I had it all figured out.

…

he thinks I am a fool

and full well I suppose I am

For loving?

Well worth it.

Or not. What care I?

because it is too late for me to do anything other than love.

(and in my mind’s eye,

I remember everything about that day.)

I would do anything, for you, anything

and no other man has that power, none,

for god speaks to me through you

and only you

and how I know that to be true?

I don’t know.

That is the only thing

that separates me from you:

your knowing yourself to be true.

I know myself to be:

a baby’s breath, sweet and warm, milk of her mother;

a flock of geese, the moon and dusk.

the warm, firm belly of my horse as I lean my head against him,

the coarseness of his hair and the softness of my skin.

I know myself to be a song,

and bells ringing, and phones ringing,

and ticks and tacks and clicks and clacks

and the whirring machinery of the human heart

of the human body of the universal speck of dust

that we believe is modernity

and I know myself to be your eyes,

and the light behind them.

I know myself to be a great roar from a stadium,

a dandelion, a snowflake, a crash, a stabbing wound,

a toothless, hapless smelly man

and the Queen.

And I am available to all of these,

and more,

to know themselves as me:

Here is where you sign your name.

And now my makeup’s smudged, and I’m late for a class,

and Christmas songs, and gifts, and dogs, and mailmen, and

all of the day to day distractions which I love

do beckon for my eyes upon them.

But know this:

in my secret time, within my heart, where

days exist as eons and lifetimes are a smile:

you will forever live.

I am nothing, not even the wind. And yet, I love you so.

...it lingers in the air here...

 

It lingers in the air here

by Erin Elizabeth Muir

It was a bright and cheerful morning, but cool. Very cool in running shorts, I discovered as I exited the building, skipping along the yellow and cream tiled corridor and down the marble steps to the busy street. Henry tugged at my leash more forecefully than usual.

            “Henry!”

            Ah…. there’s Doris and Mitzi further down the street!

            Henry led, but I ran to so that we could catch up to my neighbor lady and her young rescue pup, Mitzi. Henry loves Mitzi. Mitzi ignores Henry.

            “Good morning!” I shouted over the sound of cars and mowers and tree trimmers.

            “Good morning!” she returned. “Aren’t you cold!?”

           

            “Yes. I’m freezing!” We laughed.

            I smiled, looking over the dew on the clovers in the little courtyard where we led our pups, hip hop from a Honda Civic stopped in a line of traffic.

           

            “Did you know,” I began, in the hushed tones of gossip, “I read something on Yahoo today that I had never heard before, that Clark Gable and Loretta Young had a child, and no one ever told about it until the 90s, and that child only recently just died?”

            “Oh, yes!” Doris answered, letting Mitzi’s leash out a bit so she could continue to torture Henry by sometimes giving him a “come hither” look and usually rebuffing him. “I read that obituary in the paper the other day!”

            “I had no clue!” I erupted.

            “Neither did I,” Doris exclaimed, “And that was my generation! I’m 86, you know! And she only saw her father twice in her life, and at first, her mother adopted her out! Well, you know, that’s how it was done in those days.”

            “Yeah,” I said, “These days the rules of any kind of propriety don’t apply. And when it comes to this kind of thing, I’m thankful.”

            “Oh, it just wasn’t done back then. But that Clark Gable…” Doris trailed off….

            …I did too… I was remembering the first time I ever knew who Clark Gable even was. I was 12. My grandmother was living at our house, dying of emphysema. She was breathing through the respirator and every day she and I together watched an old black and white movie. I loved those old movies and wished that I had been born just 50 or 60 years earlier. I made us tomato soup with crackers and cheese, and we started watching the movie. Then came that moment, that first moment when Scarlett (Vivien Leigh) is coming down the steps and Rhett (Clark Gable) rests on his elbow and turns and looks up at her. I was STRUCK…. something my little 12 year old body had barely felt before… if ever…. suddenly, I heard heavy breathing coming from the tiny little body with tubes coming out of it everywhere…. my Grandmother was breathing verrrrrrry heavily. “Grandma,” I said, checking in on her. Her eyes were RAPT. “Grandma, who’s that?” She snapped out of HER reverie, surprised to see me. She smiled. She breathed in one long, heavy rasp: “Clark…” She breathed out, slowly, tasting the name… “Gaaaaaable.” “Ah,” I repeated. “Claaaaark… Gaaaaable.” And a femme fatale was born…..

            Both Doris and I shook our heads out of our respective daydreams and we both looked sharply at our dogs. Mitzi was poking around a tree and Henry was happily chewing on his leash, planning how he and Mitzi would run away and feast on the leftovers that the McDonald’s up the street threw in the dumpsters.

            “Well,” I said, “You know, I think Clark Gable was one of the most…” I put my thumbs up, winked and smiled… that… knowing…. Claaaark Gaaaaable…. kind of smile.

            “Oh yes,” she said, “Even better than George Clooney.”

            “Although,” I said, “George Clooney is pretty darn Clark Gable.”

            We laughed.

            “You know, I used to always want to be born in that era,” I confessed. “I romanticized it. But when I hear about the limitations on our choices… having to adopt out a child, or hush it up, I’m glad I live today, as a woman I’m grateful for my choices.” After all, I live alone, or sometimes with a roommate, I run my own businesses, I date freely whom I choose (well, if they choose back! LOL). I have traveled the world on my own and had an incredible life and it’s not even half over, God-willing.

            “Oh, yes,” Doris said. “When I graduated high school, your only choices were to get married, or go to college to be a nurse, or be a teacher. Well I didn’t go to college, because my parents couldn’t afford that, so I went and became a teacher. These days, my nephew’s son, he is in his third year of college and he has already traveled the world!”

            “I used to really romanticize Jane Austen, and the Bronte sisters, and Lucy Maud Montgomery,” I said. “I used to romanticize those eras.”

            “Well, sure, if you were lucky, it was probably an interesting time to be alive. If you were a girl from a well off family, you had very few responsibilities. Getting married and learning your manners. That sounds like a fairly nice life…” she trailed off, a look of doubt crossing her face.

            “Well, you know, my mother says, ‘Marry for money, and you earn EVERY penny.’ I guess the same was probably true back then.” I said.

            Doris laughed, as we headed back to her building, next door from mine. “Hello, John,” she called out to the handsome janitor. I smiled an waved. He was a total cutie, and he always was sweet to Henry. “And you’re still looking for the rich man, aren’t you?” She pointed a finger, almost accusatorily at me.

            “Oh, no,” I said, watching the look of surprise on her face with a secret smile in my heart. “I’ve dated the rich man, and I’ve dated the poor man, and deep down, it really doesn’t make much difference. I want a nice man.”

            She smiled and nodded, shaking her finger and her head in uniform approval. And with that, she turned and walked Mitzi into her building.

            Henry jumped up and put his little paws on my legs. I looked into his little Henry Fonda eyes. “Let’s race!” I said. And with that, we were off, sprinting the rest of the way back to my little 1950s era Hollywood apartment, full of leftover dreams and wishes from all the people who have come and gone. Those dreams linger in the walls here, in the poof of dust that escapes a closet door as you open it, in the little statue of the Chinese Lady plastered on the wall as you head out toward the pool. Those dreams never strike me as bitter, but hopeful, and sweetly innocent.

The Love Song of E. Elizabeth Prufrock

 

The Love Song of E. Elizabeth Prufrock

by Erin Elizabeth Muir

Amidst my avocations, distraction and demons,

and music, strains from another room.

Today the metamorphose is incomplete, and I have awakened as J. Alfred.

I am falling, again and again I am falling, you see,

and willfully, and against my will, an ancient pain,

sweetly, sensually, unrootable:

vines from a mobius strip wrapping round my body,

chains made of a flesh eating green, like a venus fly trap,

a nature, a desire. I want it. I fear it. It is me. It is he. It is all of us at once.

and words and words and words

and the poet sings

in dreams the message is perfect

but waking, she becomes ineffectual in her babel tower.

beautiful, and desirous, and possibly quite mad.

If ever I had known how to never

allow bitterness in my heart,

then I am child-like now, and so imagine my

shock at my own self-dismay,

as from all my shadows emerge, dusty, now dusting off the drapery,

the drudgery, engaging, on fire, a Demon.

like the brightest star that fell from the heavens,

plunging e’er deeper into the murky sludge, the far corners of paradise,

rising up now, the mists of eternity clearing way for that

truth greater than all facts and figures, the inhuman form

which whispering, places a single icicle of fear in my heart.

Oh, love! To be Juliet. To have died within moments of the first sweet lock,

to never know the other side of purity.

But I am not asleep, and nor am I awake.

I am breathless, I am all the breathing of the sky,

a billion stars shining in the heavens,

a single pebble on the sand.

No, I am no J. Alfred. Nor was meant to be.

And in the room, the girls giggle, talking of

nothing.

I am not walking on the beach, trousers rolled. I am not standing on the balcony, I am not sculpting David, I am not whimpering and I am not banging, I am singing-

I am singing!

 (Each to each.) Which means-

the mermaid-

is me.

ah, drawing breath again, do I dare to be a human?

Emerging from this sea of crystal thoughts, wearing a crown of anemone and kelp?

Do you see? These waves are you dreams,

and these pink shells are recompense for your hopes that washed away

where once you wrote them along the beach,

and these glistening pearls within are made rarer, truer, more valuable in your eyes.

If you say so, I will remove my fishy scales,

lay down my cerulean triton, and emerge

                                                           

a woman.

And if I say so, too, then the human voices waking us shall be our own.

(and it will have been worth it, and we will never know what we meant.)

A Sonnet A Day Keeps The Hoardes Away

Reversal

Quite deep, surprised! E’en- mystified- and thrilled.

For who foretold the heart would dance, would build?

And shift forever the way one knows how to know

True love. That piece which cannot, will not be killed.

This mark’ed pain, so deep you’ve pierced your arrow.

Particular poison, an antidote to sorrow.

I crave... Withdrawing now the blade, to thee

I give my heart, a thousand times the morrow.

Yet wonder, did you mean to aim at me?

My seeking eyes so damn all fear to see-

Unfolding fortune’s plan, whither I willed

It so? No! I will not hide my dreams-

No self-taught lies of day can succeed to thwart

What you, in sweet of night, placed in my heart.

I, Forgiver

 

I, Forgiver

A wisp of brunette hair, a shade of song,

Pacific in her slides, her curves, he saw

And looked away, he dare not speak, nor say,

If he, his mouth, opened wide? O! his heart-

He jack; then king! His queen, would leap away:

And that, he could not fear to let astray,

Asserts, in modern times, him-self he owns:

A Man- a boy- no King. No Jack. Ashamed.

A Solitude. A Study of Alone.

His angel, in his mind, at dawn, has flown.

If eyes, and light, and opening would come,

Her peace, so warm, would melt his mask of stone.

He cries: "Where dwells this sea-wreathed soul-mate who saves?!"
To keep from crying, she laughs, forgive her, dear knave.

Erin Elizabeth Muir

how to be magic

 

how to be magic

“that’s right,” she said, I asked, “how to be magic?

no, not magical, but magic itself?”

who brings this unsigned petition to the sun?

who carries the water, dying of thirst, to the moon?

‘tis you who read this, ‘tis you who seek the sky

yet knowing truth an unascertainable thing,

pursue with faith (like a dog), the love of your life

and finding it not, again the heavens you lap.

“so. lesson one. forget everything you know.

lesson two, learn to follow your heart.

section three begins with emptiness.

that’s all,” she said. “what do you mean?” I asked.

“The paper has been torn away after that,”

she said, laughing.

                        She laughed, damn star! at loss!

It was the end of my belief in rules.

If she could not tell me how to do it,

Then damn all four leaf clovers, damn them all.

And give me instead, the grass in which they grow.

Gemstones falling from my mouth

Today I awakened,
    words like gemstones
  falling from my mouth.

The morning duties,
   the birds, the cars.

Perhaps this gift of mine,
these thoughts that form
a constellation between
the recesses of my heart and mind

is to make up for all my lost years:
immortality? ha.
She, gate keeper of the soul's dictionary.

Bemused.

And you, my friend?

I suppose these lines,

be they in poems or in music,
these lines at once reveal my hidden truths,
those things I say only in times of death
or deep purity...

and at once they allow me
to circle my secrets
in an ecstasy
that erases the pain from where
and how long I have starved:

were my heart but fed by breath alone-

ah, but it is,
it must be,
for I dance upon a table
where no banquet ever showed.

...


And tell me, my dear one, my darling,
what is it like to be the beloved
in a world that tosses love out the window
like medieval trash?

Modern conveniences
become archaic in the
light of love's dawn

and every lover
becomes ancient,
knowing somehow
their city to be false.

...


Silence, you say?

(Deep, roaring laughter, the swell and groan

of love making between planets.)

....

Well. I will tell you,
my beloved muse,

what it is like to be creatrix
of so much nothingness
and so many pearls:

it is like swimming in this sea of stars
and feasting upon the light
never wanting for anything
except for a single human touch
where so few of us are truly human

for when we threw that love out the window
into the gutters and the plains
we threw ourselves.

Not me.

I am human.

I am stardust.

I am human.

...

(Planets, roaring with laughter again.)

These stars, these words, these diamonds, these pearls.


These stars... these words.... these-

Notes Upon Searching for a CarWash on a Friday Morning

Life is a prison and
a joyful one at that

You cannot break out of this prison of love
only through

There is no they
there is only we

So when you say,
be careful of them

You tell me you are fearful
of you

In your eyes, hush,
yes, and inside your whisper

Furtive, a preciousness,
a hopefulness.

You say you are waiting until
life begins and you are strong

I say
I have loved you from the start.

When I am alone in the car,
looking for carwashes,
I think of you and dream.

When I am in a hurry,
feeling the stress of the city,
I turn off the radio
and think of love.

My Heart Opens When I Hear Your Voice

            Hey everyone! I haven’t written a blog in a while because I have been editing the third draft of my novel, “My Life as a Phone Psychic.” Those of you who have known me since 2004 remember the Fringe Festival play version of that same name. Those of you who know me from 12Listen.com have known the author version of that same name as well, differently, of course! This blog isn’t about the novel, but I wanted to explain where I have been!!

            Meanwhile…

            I’m preparing some arias for an audition…. I have some amazing projects in the works as a writer, as an actress, as a singer… and as I grow “up,” I am reviving some long lost dreams… dreams I had given up in the name of addiction, fear, bad relationships, good relationships, life. I mean, truly, I think I’ve made pretty much every bad decision I could have made with my life, and yet, they all led me here, and I love here so very much and I am so grateful to be me, so, who’s to say they weren’t the BEST decisions I could have made?

            I know that I cannot regret the “sins” (thinking of the archery term, sin, meaning, to “miss the mark!”) of my past but I CAN learn from them here. And I have! And I do not mean intellectually that I am saving myself but that

            HERE I LIVE

            I AM

            HERE

            IN MY HEART

            And I act from that heart space.

            So, trust me, I am still taking a lot of actions that aren’t “culturally” or “intellectually” wise. But I am risking my ideas of safety to speak my truth. I am risking my idea of getting hurt to love truly and passionately and purely. It’s like that great Norman Cousins quote: the tragedy of life is not death, but what dies in a man while he lives. [sic] (props to Candace Silvers for always quoting that.)

            Life is in session, that’s for sure.

            So back to my auditions. Among the interesting projects I have, one is an opera project…. more to be revealed but for now, I will just talk about the fun and glory of that kind of singing and experience of life!

            I have been singing since I was 5. My mother once told me that when I was little, she prayed that I would give up my dream of being a singer because I was so bad! haha!! Well, by the time I got to high school, I was becoming- if I do say so myself, for the sake of story telling, at least, not to be immodest but to further along my blog-tale) rather accomplished as a young mezzo. Of course, I had a few kinks to work out in my personal and emotional life, those of which I am not ashamed but speak of proudly to give hope to people who are suffering like I once did. I struggled with desperate eating disorders, which led to other emotional problems like depression, and then, other addictions and bad relationships. It took me a few years to recover from THOSE bad decisions, but I write this as a very healthy, joyful, grateful young woman who has been to hell and back. So, faithful readers and friends, strangers suffering in similar pain: you are NOT alone. And you are NOT doomed. Life is SO  SO SO possible for you, and I am LIVING proof. Someday, when I am older, I may write those stories of my life, about the recovery process. But for now, you got this blog. haha!

            Now, I continue to sing through all my troubles and struggles. And I believe it has given my voice a richness, a texture, a wisdom. Oh. I think it’s called soul. Anyway. I have been working with an incredible vocal coach, overcoming some bad vocal habits and vocal damage and strain, and re-discovered my love of opera. While once we thought I was a Spinto Soprano, It turns out I’m really a mezzo with a big ol’ range. Anyway, it’s fun for me, because I am returning to a life I had turned my back on from fear and bad decisions. Who knows what’s in store career-wise? I don’t even care. I’m remembering why I sing: because I must. Because I am a singer. Because I am song. Because of joy, and because of love.

            So a few weeks back, my Dad sent me a HUGE BOX of high school artifacts, including, but not limited to, old h.s. newspapers, essays and sheet music! I was rifling through this box the other day and pulled out a very tattered copy of my old Schirmer’s Operatic Anthology….. for MEZZOS! haha!!!! I must have misremembered. And oh, the old thrills returned, just placing my hands upon this book…. the possibility of singing, the glory of these beautiful arias, the special opening in my heart every time I would sing…. Faites-Lui Mes Aveux…. Mon Coeur S’ouvre ta voix….. la Habañera from Carmen…. Voi, che sapete….. oh, man, oh, man. I was running late (of course) and so just dropped the tome in my bag to bring to my sessio with Calvin, my coach, later that afternoon.

            A few hours later, in a studio in Van Nuys, CA, surrounded by roses (he has a beautiful rose garden in his front yard and the studio looks out onto it!), Calvin and I discussed the arias I would prepare for an upcoming audition….. he suggested I leave the Soprano arias alone because the quality of my voice is darker, more mezzo, truly. He said, “Do you know Voi Che Sapete?” I said, indeed I did, I had sung it long ago in high school. He pulled out… his copy…. of the Schirmer Operatic Anthology. I smiled but he motioned for me to get right to singing, sight-reading over his shoulder, and so I didn’t get to tell him what I had pulled out (out of hundreds of books and pieces of music my Dad had sent!) earlier that morning….. then, we looked at the aria from Samson et Delilah, Mon Coeur S’ouvre ta voix….. perhaps the most ERIN song that ever was written after La Vie En Rose- my exact best vocal placement, my exact best kind of character, my subject, my language….. and I laughed and I said, “Calvin, guess what? My Dad sent me a box of hundreds of pieces of music left over from high school and out of all that music, do you know what I brought to today’s lesson?” I pulled out my copy, tattered, rebound, tagged with notes…. he put his hand to his cheek, smiled.

            It was… kismet…

            And as I continue to risk…. speaking truth…. living from my HEART instead of my fear, or my intellect, or my ideas….. I continue to have my heart opened by my voice, and my voice opened by my heart, and my listening deepened by yours, and my eyes smiling into your soul, and you, you, you, the witness to my joy, so increase my own.

Thank You.

http://youtu.be/E_TVys3zd64