Sunday, June 14, 2009


Years ago I wrote a play about Morgan Le Fay, King Arthur's half-sister. The work had one public reading, and then I withdrew it. Not altogether sure why.

Anyway, today I was organizing - stuff, and ran across my master hard copy. Here's one of the monologues. At this point Morgan is desolate – life has no meaning. Even the stars at night cause her pain.

I once thought they be not stars, but mirrors of my soul – those myriad twinklings set apart, aloof. How alike we are, I thought, to watch as bourgeois’ kingdoms rise, gasp for life, and fall. To remain pure, chaste – unreached and unreachable – thereby avoiding the countenance of that soiled creature, God – in His perfect wisdom – permitted to begrime the earth. To live forever! To never age or … or if to die, to die purposed, a bright burning gash across the heavens.

I thought them supreme. Omnipotent! One with the creator! But with the coming of the simple morn, they depart, those stars. Frightened, no, offended by the belligerence of the sun.

I remain. I.

Take me with you! Leave me not to face the iniquities of this little life – which draw me away, which make me less like you.

They do not hear me. Or, if hearing, disdainfully ignore my supplication. And in my heart, that secret place where truth be not denied, I am pleased – grateful! For if in compassion they respond, then they be more like me than I would be like them.

And so, for a space I forgot them, moved as I was toward consuming sorrow, the pain within all too jealous for attention.

And now … now I think again we are alike, those stars and I. Distant. Untouched. Unknowing – affecting not the nature of any living thing, save as a curiosity. Existing for the mere sake of …



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