Friday, April 25, 2014

Sigils, Semiotics and Symbols

You can hear the hiss of the snake in these words - sigils…semiotics...symbols. The words hold power, an alchemical power that unites the mundane to the magical. Worlds colliding. Veiling lifting. Mists dissolving.

This world that I inhabit takes great pleasure in weighing me down. Since childhood I have felt the shackles that bind me here. Why struggle?

Then, the realization that, even more than my words, my images (imaging/imagining) brought me the hidden powers necessary to connect beyond. To go deeper. To break the shackles.


My art becomes my portal to travel there…


My art becomes the portal to envision… differently… the shimmering instant when the mundane merges with the other…














And the other is Mystery - cloaked…hidden... and then,  revealed.


All images © Denise Sallee 2014






















Friday, April 18, 2014

The Dream Endures


Photograph © Denise Sallee 2010

Is it wrong to speak of loss as Spring brings us abundant signs of new life? Perhaps we should honor the element of sacrifice and look for what is birthed anew within us as we surrender to what is no more?

Ella Young knew loss - she wrote a few poems in which her grief, cloaked in mystical imagery and tales of valor, is painfully raw. We will never know the name of the one, her Prince of Night,  Ella mourns. I wonder if the person was ever aware of the love she bore them - or the words they inspired?




The Prince of Night remained an unpublished poem until it was included in the anthology At the Gates of Dawn: A Collection of Writings by Ella Young by myself and John Matthews.



Prince of Night

Wisdom I have, Like those who are so wise
That they make bargain for it overnight
And have it from their birth-hour. So delight
That is but shadow-sooth, and sorrow dies.
No morn of Spring, no morning yet rise,
Will glad you on my threshold; nor will sight,
Sun-royal sight of you, make noontide bright:
Nor Hesper bring you with the darkening skies.

Fragile, alas, the world by dreaming won!
Perdurable, some alien world may be:
Let who will, vaunt its perils or its lures,
Make pattern of its stars, and mightier sun,
Despoil its jeweled empires, happily –
My world may perish, but the Dream endures!

Wednesday, April 9, 2014

The City

Peter and I wrote this novella (or, perhaps it is a short story?) late in 2001. Peter died in 2008 but here I have an example of what defined our relationship - we were, and perhaps still are, creative partners. 

I would love anyone's idea on how best to describe this book. Does it fit into a genre? There are so many terms today for so many types of writing. Me, I just like to write, so thank you for helping me on the others bits!

Here is an excerpt from The City.

Desire drew the men along the City’s streets. The great moon, now higher in the sky, stood witness to promises of pleasure and of moments of escape where the blood tides flowed thickly in the streets. They passed through the Third Avenue underpass, across the now-unused train tracks, and into a realm that hid its secrets behind barred windows and half-broken neon lights. They left the crowds behind when they entered this part of the City, as the loneliness of the unfulfilled now haunted their every step. The secrets of sensation beckoned them forward and they walked in silence, beyond the pale and into the grime-slicked abyss. Whores, pimps, junkies, and bouncers inhaled together as if from one half-burned cigarette. Exhaling, their smoke rose and clouded the glow of a streetlamp The Man and his Friend shared a joint together, stiffening their courage and loosening their inhibitions. For tonight’s journey, though they frequently discussed such a venture, was now a reality.
Loud music, the raised voices of drunken men, and the sound of breaking glass greeted them as they turned around the first corner. Here stood a bar with no name; a half-hidden place for those still hedging their bets and for others intent only in the disillusion of the moment. A gigantic electric sign, that had once proclaimed the glories of the industrial age, stood atop a squared-off six story building in which the bar was situated. This mighty sign which once could have been seen for miles, is now as dark as the heart’s of those who walked on the sidewalks below - a monster who in death had sworn revenge on the humanity that had both given it birth and condemned it to death. It was not a sad creature but a malevolent one.
Indeed the whole neighborhood seemed malevolent – not merely the half-human souls who had found refuge here but the buildings themselves, structures which one could hardly imagine ever saw a pleasant morning or a summer afternoon’s shower. It was as though the architects of these buildings, sober men working in brightly lit offices, with warm cheerful homes to retreat into at the evening, had deliberately set about to create nightmarish, fun house reflections of the hopeful world in which they lived. But the Man thought, “No, the architects could not do this deliberately. They have simply impressed their emptiness upon blueprint paper and this forest of shadows is what emerged.”
It seemed as though the cigarette smoke that perpetually hung in the air had gradually grown denser; a fog, or something like a fog, emanating from the street lamps themselves. Perhaps it was just the eerie yellowish color of the sodium vapor bulbs, a lack of contrast, a trick of the light. Or, perhaps it really was that phantoms rose from the sewer gratings, seeped around the edges of the manhole covers, and thus, though it was bright, it was almost impossible to see clearly. Perhaps the fog had drawn together and was now wedging itself between the Man and his Friend and the doorway of the bar that yawned in front of them. Or, had it opened, not because it was sleepy but because it was hungry? In either case, the closer they came to the door the more difficult it was for them to walk. Phantoms foul or phantoms fair, mercy and mystery, the repentant souls of thieves, murderers, and worse. An ancient neon sign, half of which had long ago burned out, caught the Friend’s attention. What remained of the sign glowed red, two horizontal parenthesis, that had once proudly highlighted the name of a beer not brewed in thirty years. Oddly enough, it now resembled a pair of female lips, blowing them a kiss through the grimy window; or a sideways vulva, inviting them to a cheap screw in an even cheaper hotel. It was easy to become confused in a place like this, to take blood for shadows and longing for love. Solid objects grew liquid under the influence of the confounding fog, shifting shape at will. A man might pass through a wall in such a fog, a woman might ooze under a door like a puddle of spilled paint. The closer one looked the quicker the texture of reality became blank, an imprint being lifted off before their hazy mind could comprehend what it really was. Here there were no illusions. In the world from which the two men came illusion persisted through the collective denial of those who beheld it. But denial was futile here. “What omen brought me here?” thought the Man, a moment before he penetrated the invisible surface of the looking glass that masqueraded as a door. The Friend, one step behind, felt something brush his face – a cobweb, or the wash of the mirror’s surface momentarily snapping back before it yielded again to him. They could almost hear the crystalline gate shut behind them.

Thursday, April 3, 2014

On a Glimpse of Castle Island




W.B. Yeats, Maud Gonne, and (for a time) A.E. were involved in a magical project usually referred to as "The Celtic Mysteries."  There is no documentation to show that Ella Young was ever involved, though she knew all about what they were doing. How Ella's magical endeavors influenced Yeats, and perhaps vice-versa, has yet to be shown.
Photo by Franc.c  https://www.flickr.com/photos/francz/

Here is how I imagine the moment when Yeats first glimpsed the place that inspired his Mysteries. 
EXT: IRELAND.  A lLARGE LAKE.  SUMMER 1892 - MORNING.

YEATS and DOUGLAS HYDE, 35, a tall bearded man of great dignity and presence, are boating together on Lough Key in County Roscommon. A heavy mist rises from the lake.
Hyde rows with great ease and precision.
Yeats leans back in the boat and gazing up toward the sky.

YEATS
There are forces, mighty forces, that can do more for the revolution than my words will ever accomplish alone!
HYDE
Your occult experiments are a distraction - it is your poetry that should fill your days - and your nights!  

Hydes’ voice deepens.

Be careful of what you are asked to sacrifice so that you may gain this magic!

At that moment Yeats turns toward the lakes' center, watching as the wind sweeps away the mist to reveal a small island.  
As he sees the abandoned Castle on the island he remembers Gonne's words from an earlier time.

FLASHBACK - EXT.  IRELAND. A RUGGEDLY BEAUTIFUL SPOT FULL OF OLD STONES AND TREES. - MORNING  
Gonne and Yeats walk together, hands clasped.
GONNE
If only we could make contact with the hidden forces of the land it would give us strength for the freeing of Ireland.  The land will help us expel our enemy.  England, like the ancient Fir Bolg, will flee when our true gods empower us!
The wind on the hill blows through Gonne's dark hair and her eyes shine with her passion.

EXT. THE LAKE.
GONNE
(V.O.)
I see a tower in the middle of a lake, a shrine of Irish tradition where only those who dedicate their lives to this great land can go. It will be built of stone and decorated only with the Jewels of the Tuatha Dé Danann!

Yeats stands up in the boat and turns to Hyde.
YEATS
There! That of which my muse has spoken!  An obsession more constant than anything but my love itself is the need for mystical rites ... to reunite the perception of the spirit, of the divine, with natural beauty ... 

HYDE
Sit down, man - you'll topple us both over!  You are right about one thing - this land is holy and each of us must find our way to serve that holiness.

Yeats sits reluctantly and looks at Hyde. His voice rises with excitement.
YEATS
This is my destiny, Hyde. There are those who will serve with guns, and others with speeches, but as I serve magic so will magic serve Ireland!

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