The Muse's Advisory typed & spellchecked by Tom Riordan
The Urns - Muse's Advisory, Sept. 16
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- Epistle to the Tobeloans - Muses Advisory, Sept. 17 – St. Paul the White Cockatoo
- Revivicist - Muses Advisory, Sept. 18 – Miriam to Zeus, in Urn
- The Bride Euterpe - Muses Advisory, Sept. 19
- Sources Cited
The Urns - Muse's Advisory, Sept. 16 Frederic Weatherly: Oh, Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling From glen to glen, and down the mountain side. The summer's gone, and all the roses falling, It's you, it's you must go and I must bide. But come ye back when summer's in the meadow, Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow, It's I'll be here in sunshine or in shadow, Oh, Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so! But when ye come, and all the flowers are dying, If I am dead, as dead I well may be, Ye'll come and find the place where I am lying, And kneel and say an Ave there for me. And I shall hear, though soft you tread above me, And all my grave will warmer, sweeter be, For you will bend and tell me that you love me, And I shall sleep in peace until you come to me! CNN U.S.: The giant yellow arms of heavy machines ceased their steady rumble to honor
Miriam to Zeus: You tickled me!
And there you are, again! My goodness, bits of you and bits of me are all mixed up together in this urn! And now, in your urn, too! I feel one of my knuckles butting you. Oh, this is rich! How will you wriggle out of this? Epistle to the Tobeloans - Muse's Advisory, Sept. 17 – St. Paul the White Cockatoo: Creation, incarnation, conservation, annihilation— the craft of gods is complex, hard. No one was ever born omnipotent, nor ever neared that notional capacity who was not dedicated, disciplined. These ranks of opal urns arrayed like China's terra-cotta warriors on the mantel-shelf you chicks delight to call the Milky Way—each has a story to it— archimage, scops-owl, handmaiden, conscript, ghost-fish, Penzanceman. That one? A monk too fond of food. Yet there is always profit. The catastrophe at Gamalama taught me hope; my submission to the crush of Zeus's hand confirmed my self-restraint, and saw to it I don't forget affection's fallacy. My brood-mates wolfed the fruit and boxed my beak; the nesting hen and cock both shrugged. But as Yeshua said, “The last are first.” At least they have a shot at it, I think. So when Hephaistos begged my help— exactly, yes, God's actual First Son, the one who stitched my left half to my right, who set my bill back in its jaw— so when he begged my help to re-inspire Zeus's effigy, to lure him from the comfort of the ashes of his trophy wife by common law, I told him, quickly, “Count me in.” He said:
You hear those doting lover's coos? It's has to stop. I want to sentence him to go on with his shitty life indefinitely, as he did me. I drafted plans— my aspiration, once, was to be Muse of Architects, did you know that?— to build a holodome, an office building sim: an elevator lobby and an upstairs hall, framed artwork on the walls all perfectly innocuous, a consultation room, Venetian curtains drawn, a smoke-and-mirror world like in The Matrixor Mission Impossible. What I need you to do— nobody fiddles Zeus's heart-strings with more virtuosity than you— is to entice him back out here with that pathetic poor-hurt-parrot call.” Experience brings precision, and precision, accomplishment. I want you one day to be proud too of whatever you effect by force of will. My nine poor orphans, do you think you understand? Your mother, no, she never really got it right, she cherrypicked her lovers' memories and thought the truth would never come to light. She nurtured you on fantasies, encouraged you to dabble, as if ducks, in sediment, to shut your lids and nose around in—browse on— mysteries that offer tasty braird and sprouts to deep-sea acolytes who bow and scrape to keep dreams out of sight, yet ever in the mind— but she is still your mother, and each one of you is bright. Children! Contemplate the reliquaries lined up on this altar ledge. Can any part of you believe their contents are inert, incapable, extinct, and sit there idly twiddling their thumbs awaiting—What? Is that the nature of things?Or does the bigger picture ask more toughness intellectually? A more engaged approach? The grander scheme— survival in a state that's worth surviving in— asks much of us. When Phaestos threw his switch, I placed my bill between the sighing urns, Lee-Strasberged back to scalding in the flood of molten rock, and desolately whimpered, “Fuck!” Revivicist - Muse's Advisory, Sept. 18 – Miriam to Zeus, in Urn: Do you hear a distant rumble, a machinelike fuck fuck fuck? Who does that remind you of? He's out there somewhere, isn't he? Come here. Hah! How much herer could you be? I mean come closer spiritually. Inside this mummy case of sooty dust, the noise outside isn't as thunderous as it would like to think. Now, over in the other urn, I wonder if the same thing's happening or if our other halves re-recombined to different DNA. Is that us?—Hear it?— Whispers?— dry red phosphorus to powdered glass? There's no imperative to care. We're bits and pieces 99.9% burnt off, and 99.9% of what is left, irrevocably lost, then the remainder cut like cards, half dealt and half a cairn for junkyard cats and curs to paw, and we
which half of which 1/10 of 1% we are: but it's enough we're here. fuck fuck fuck Fuck! Is that a puff of ash where your left phantom ear pricked up? You sack of shit!A single atom of your entity is all it takes, I swear! Each microsec the earth averts its face and stars roar as the universe's membrane beats a terrified retreat inevitably there spring to life another fifty ways to leave your lover. The Bride Euterpe - Muse's Advisory, Sept. 19 1. Downstairs In the LobbyEuterpe: “God says...” The typewriter bell rings and the carriage returns. Cantell, evangelist, is losing feeling in his hands. Ambrosia crusted on his penis burns. “Jehovah was a lecherous fat Turk,” the Cretan Kazantzakis wrote. “He fingered the Muses but that was as far as he got.” Tom, let me tell you what to write. As soon as you put down your pen, the handsome jackals congregate like wraiths, and far birds start to trace slow halos on the sky. You have to plant a big warm piece of meat to cover your escape. This isn't anyplace for dabbling and diddling, for monkey-dancing, dilettante and debutante. Of nine of us, I took the keenest interest in your character. I know who's in the jars upstairs on your fake mantelpiece. I've followed you—how many steps? I split my dower into eighths to bribe my sisters and make sure I'd be the one to meet you here. The elevator's coming... 7... 6... 5... 4... 3... Wait until the final second, then we'll dash inside and I'll de-synchronize the worm gears and the door cascade so that the car can't take on any other passengers— and there I'll be, alone with you— and finally free to kiss the perfect crescent at the tip of your big toe. Don't answer yet. Your final line, however it comes out, will seal my fate— but no, no pressure— do you understand? I cast my lot with you as permanently, trustingly, as parting lovers commend strands of one another's hair to heart-shaped lockets. Some one's got to notify your family once you're gone. Yes, you'll still mope around, and wash the dishes, mutter darkly as you switch off carelessly left blazing lights, take garbage out, still kiss the kids goodnight, and grope the missus— the part of you I'll take may not be missed at all— the high, surprised note in your voice when the elevator door glides shut and you discover who I really am. I always had the most extraordinary eyes. That's what was asked of me and what I gave. And what have youthat fits my bill? You know exactly what I'm going to name: I feel you subtly, subconsciously withdrawing it, secreting it away. Tom. Tom, Tom, Tom, Tom, Tom. Who do you think you're putting something over on? Give me that Chinese take-out bag. Now, take your pants down. Yes. Right here. Now, touch your toes. Yes, both palms pressed flat
Your grotesque characters are dead. They make their way, today, as ash. Not you. You still feel hope— still subject to my regiment. Ding! Stand up, quickly!
2. Upstairs in the OfficeMiriam: I see we interrupted your Chinese. What is that, shrimp in black bean sauce and vegetable lo mein? I'm starved! No, thanks. Alright, but just one tiny bite. Zeus: So, Doctor T., I still can't die— but thanks to brother Phaestos I'm 3/4 blind in both my eyes! My gentle daughters nine, who I despise, if truth were told, take turns hand-holding me at myriad appointments made with quacks and charlatans like you who grope to re-root happy thoughts into the muck inside my mind. Oh, yes, I've taken pills!Talk therapy? Till blue. Re-visioning the story of my life? We've tried that too. That's why, although your meter has a lively spring to it, I haven't so much as a eunuch's wife's cunt's shred of faith in you. My wife? Oh, here we go again! I think professional virgin is the technical term. She says she'll love me till the end, but hasn't even let me see her bush since Burning Angel aired that spread on “Waking Up With Strange Trim” New Year's Day, 2010. I love her too, don't get me wrong. We've had our ups and downs, only not for a very long time. No, Doc, I'm joking!Lighten up! Pull off that frown! My lovely little girl Euterpe's one your most ardent fans! Why can't we talk aboutyour facts of life? Why does it have to be my way-too-thoroughly-raked-over failings with this child or that wife? The truth? Nobody wants to hear it— that's one thing that hasn't changed. My girls have made flirtation with you shrink-wrapped, self-styled geniuses the highlight of their woeful, isolated lives. Don't say I hold them back,manipulate them into being lifelong handmaids to my own depression. It's only grudgingly—for them—I'm here. I want Pandora and her swarm of ills to come and punch my ticket! I want to locate the bucket and kick it. Why can't I moon and wallow, if I like?Why can't I redefine myself as Omni-Impotent? You and Euterpe, trot along to Ang Lee's porno flick. Feel free to take my wife— leave me alone here in the cold and dark to play cat's cradle with what used to be my prick. Miriam: I hear this sad-ass bullshit every day! I'm terrified I'll hear it till eternity! I know it's quite a lot to ask, Tom, this late in the game, but is there some way to rewrite a bit and have me to tell the tall, dark stranger in the road outside my father's house: “No thanks, I'm not that kind of dame”? With everything I've learned, I have a feeling I could live the kind of life you fucking read about! Tom, one more bite? Besides experience, what else have I to show? I'm hitting goddam menopause— at least I think I am, how do you tell for sure, it's been six, seven months?— and Zeus tells anyone who cares to hear I've been an albatross around his neck the last 200 years. I might have clung, moped, nagged a bit, but my life's been no bed of roses, has it? Yeshua pulled up stakes 2000 years ago, and hasn't shown one ounce of interest in my happiness. And Yusuf—please excuse me, but no Cock Ace in the first place— left me high and dry, and now re-woos me as an alcoholic televangelist! Man kind has profited, you say?Tom, time put that Purple Kush away! Before this dullard's sperm attacked my egg the world was cruel and human nature stank but it was still a golden age for men and arts because the voice of gods was vital, frank: you sluiced out of your mother's womb on shit and piss and blood, then paid your taxes for the right to eat the holy farts of sacred cows, until at last you died. Tom: Dad, Mom—is it too soon to call you that?— Pak Zeus and Mami Miriam, as St. Paul said?— Zeus: Don't even breathe that lousy opportunist's name! Tom: —you're having one or two bad days or weeks or months or years, but if you'd add up all the pros and cons and take the slightly longer view— Zeus: Excuse me, Doc, but who the fuck are you to tell us how to count or what to view? Tom: If you would shut your yap just once and listen to a different take on what gods can or cannot be and do, you might be pleasantly surprised to find out there's still hope for you— Go, finish it. I ate my fill. Miriam: Thanks, Tom. Zeus: Why not? Why look like half a cow?Tom: —to find out that the son you disinherited is man and god enough to make you proud you're you— Zeus: Oh, cut that crap! And cut the rhyme! You're blowing smoke! That dud is lucky if he ends up shoveling manure or bottling Coke. Euterpe: Stop interrupting, Dad! You've had over 1000 lines to speak. Please let Tom wrap this fucking epic up— Zeus: —and what?Euterpe: Is that what's eating you? You like it in this poem? Miriam: You put your finger on the thorn stuck in the mighty lion's paw! This gig brought Zeus to life— of course he's scared of going back to being little more than Google hits. Though I've been amply vitalized, throughout, by myriad admirers and supplicants, I'm horrified myself to think I'll have to close my lips and legs and sweetly grin again while sobbing women kneel and light 6-hour votive candles— stand on sideboards watching pedophile priests get plastered— be consigned to bobbling my head on Lublin van and Fiat Punto dashes. Euterpe: That isn't going to happen. Is it, Tom?Tom: I haven't really thought it through, but— Euterpe: You would never do thatto my dad and stepmom. Tom: —all else being equal— Zeus: No! No fucking wayyou're gonna stick us in a sequel! Miriam: The two of you, leave him alone! Poor kid has clearly got his hands full ending this poem! Euterpe: Stepmom common-law,boss Zeus around as much as he'll permit— who doesn't like their guy compliant?— so you can bottle the admonishments about the way I handle my man— er, I mean my poet client. Zeus: Aha! At last! You're getting laid! I knew it!And now all us other dickless popeyes in this cockamamie yarn are going to have no more consequence than potted palms compared to e. e. casanova here: I can already read the postings on the wall of an unfaithful daughter's Facebook page! But good. I'm glad. It's easier for me to say goodbye with you in someone else's hands. Miriam: Zeus! No!Tom, help us! Tell him not to leave! Sweet god, before you irretrievably resign your role
as simple, blue-balled john lured halfway to domestication by the doe-eyed faux-immaculate who cast you in her dead-end third-tier-market roadshow second-fiddling as her adored son's absent, passé—yes, cartoonish—dad, before you cite artistic differences and amateurish operatic plotting— before you break my heart and go— How is your stomach
I'm getting supernatural cramps, myself. Oh Jesus, not again. I'm spotting... -The End- Sources Cited [I'm still putting this together. - Tom] Directory: files files -> Answer True False 2 points Question 2 files -> Integer programming and game theory files -> 4 Integer Programming files -> Bpa vehicle Window Repair Scenario #1 task: Procure vehicle window relacement. Objective files -> Pop Warner History files -> North Carolina Inclusion Initiative Mapping Where Children with ieps are Being Served Purpose files -> Fall 2013 Spring 2014 Program Data: Standard 1 Exhibit 4d files -> Hanban – asia society confucius classrooms network 2010 request for proposal files -> Northern England’s set-jetting locations Download 1.87 Mb. Share with your friends:
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