Alysse Aallyn

Tag: Writing Community

  • Queen of Swords – the Tarot play by Alysse Aallyn


    (Lights up on The Library Basement Stacks at Dead Lake Community College a mini set with bookcase and elderly woman – MRS PREECE – wearing coke bottle glasses perched atop library ladder, putting books away. )


    MRS PREECE
    Why are all these students so freakishly tall? I’m going to kill myself, one of those days, trying to approximate the eye line of some basketball-playing mutant.
    (WHITNEY appears shyly around the bookcase.)


    WHITNEY
    Are you Mrs. Preece?


    MRS. PREECE
    No need to shout. I’m half-blind, not deaf. Depends who’s asking.


    WHITNEY
    I’ve been researching past Dead Lake students and the girl at the front desk said you know everything.


    MRS. PREECE
    (Coming down the ladder)
    Then I’m that Mrs. Preece. For all I knew you were looking for my mother in law and she’s been dead these forty years. And believe you me, she was no picnic when she was alive, and now that she’s dead she’s been particularly troublesome.


    (Looks WHITNEY up & down)


    Aren’t you a nice young lady! Most girls these days look so terrible I pity them. They want to look terrible is what I conclude. It’s all I can do to keep from jumping back and gagging when I see one coming – it’s like some vision of the Apocalypse. They’re arming up for something – God knows what.


    (Crosses herself)


    You look like a strong healthy girl. Not like those female zombies.


    WHITNEY
    I missed a lot. I guess I’ve been… held back.


    MRS. PREECE
    Well, stay in school forever, that’s my advice. You, – you play hockey? What’s your sport?


    WHITNEY
    God no. I hate sports.


    MRS. PREECE
    Don’t say that, girl. Games are all we have to look forward to. The only time we get to win. I was a left wing in my time. But you can’t even say “left-wing” these days.
    Teatime!


    (She swivels the ladder & bookcase to reveal two basket chairs and a squat bookcase holding a smoking kettle, which she unplugs. She pours two mugs of tea and settles into chair with a sigh.)


    WHITNEY
    (Accepting a mug)
    Do you live down here?

    MRS. PREECE
    Might as well. They’ve got facilities, haven’t they? Heat, light, the whole ball of wax. I’ve got a home but why go there? The spirit of my dead mother-in-law makes it clear she doesn’t approve of my housekeeping. No, libraries are where it’s at! Temples of learning, sanctuaries of knowledge. And they’re too cheap to hire a security guard for all this treasure. Scary. All they’ve got is little old me. When I go, it’s “poof” for all these memories. If I’m going to be haunted by somebody, I choose Emerson. Or any of the Transcendentalists, really.


    (Waves a hand)


    Education is SO wasted on the young. And it don’t stick long on the old folks, neither. People remember the way things SHOULD have happened. But I –


    (Taps her head)


    Been blessed in the brain-basket. I like the past. I remember the way things REALLY happened. So, long story short, you’ve come to the right place. Sit down and make yourself to home.


    (Long sip)


    Such a pleasure having company I’d smoke if I thought I could get away with it, but they’ve got them damn detectors. Interested in the Lake, you say? Good riddance to it! The Black Lagoon, we used to call it! Oh, it was a pile of muck after all the frogs died. You one of those conservation nuts? An echo-terrorist?


    WHITNEY
    Eco-terrorist? No. Actually I’m looking for a person. I’m Whitney Quantreau, and I’m looking for Charmayne Carr. She claims she attended this school. Charmayne Carr?

    MRS. PREECE
    I should have guessed right away that’s what you wanted! EVERYBODY’S looking for that one. Nobody knows what became of her. She just abandoned her house and walked away! But she wasn’t a student, she was a teacher. Health Ed.


    WHITNEY
    She was? Who – who’s looking for her?


    MRS. PREECE
    Her family. They need to know where she’s at! Got no idea in hell what’s become of her! And she used to support the lot of them. So it came as a shock. Does make a motive for sneaking away, having that pack hounding after you, I’d be thinking. And the cops say adults can go where they please. It’s a free country. You know what became of her?


    WHITNEY
    Well – she got married. That’s all.


    MRS. PREECE
    Married? To a MAN?


    WHITNEY
    (Flustered)
    To my father, actually. What did you think?


    MRS. PREECE
    Well, I’m not sure what’s the PC word for it, but she was one of them long-time dykes. Dressed like a man most of the time! Oh she was miserable when they tried to get her up into any sort of skirt. Nowadays she’d just go and get her sex fixed to something matching her desires.


    WHITNEY
    (Shows her phone)


    Is this her?


    MRS. PREECE
    (Clutches her heart like she’s seen a ghost)
    Oh my goodness!


    (Takes the phone)


    Never thought I’d see HER again. So she’s a blonde now? She was a redhead when I knew her.


    WHITNEY
    Isn’t that Charmayne Carr?


    MRS. PREECE
    No, it most certainly isn’t! That’s Pearleen Purdy – Charmayne’s – I don’t know WHAT you’d call her. Doctor Carr’s girlfriend.


    WHITNEY
    Are you certain?


    MRS. PREECE
    How could a body be wrong about a thing like that? Nobody ever forgot Pearleen once they saw her. I’ve even got a picture of them together here somewhere.


    (Produces a pile of college yearbooks from squat bookcase and shuffles through them)


    These are my own personal Firewalkers. I don’t let them out of my hands.


    WHITNEY
    Firewalkers!


    MRS. PREECE
    Name of our basketball team, you know, the Firewalkers. Ought to be Airwalkers, but that was taken and we’re obligated to honor the Indians since we took their land whether they like it or not. Everyone walks through fire around here. Burning up the countryside’s practically a ritual. Let’s see, fourteen years ago, wasn’t it? The two of them were in a play together. “The Real Inspector Hound.”


    (Offers the book)


    Charmayne’s the one with the moustache. She was playing a man of course. Inspector Foot of the Yard.


    (Agitated)


    Now don’t you get stains on that!


    WHITNEY
    (Puts mug down respectfully)


    She – Pearleen looks so different!


    MRS. PREECE
    Pearleen was older than most of the students. Word was she’d been a stripper out of Branson, Missouri. You’ve heard of Branson, Missouri? At The Gentleman’s Secret.
    Well, Dr. Carr had a nice big house out on the Heights and poor Pearleen grew up on that sorry lake. She came home when the developers passed out education money. Dr. Carr liked to invite girl students – poor students – I should say PRETTY students out to the Heights to live with her. She “helped” them. Folks around here called her place “The Opium Den” because it was so – I don’t know what you’d call it. Eastern-like. Cultish. With draperies and bronzes and incense. The works.


    WHITNEY
    Cult-ish?


    MRS. PREECE
    Yeah, Dr. Carr had one of them goddess religions she was the queen of. To each her own, I say. Live and let live.


    WHITNEY
    Isis? TAROT? Let me guess, was she…the Queen of Swords?


    MRS. PREECE
    Bingo. That’s it exactly. She played the cards and Pearleen played her. Dr. Carr made a pot of money with one of them role-playing games. Dr. Carr was the Queen and Pearleen was supposed to be a Princess, I think that’s the way it went. But Pearleen got rid of all those other girls one by one. Reminds me of a cat I used to have. He just couldn’t share. He chased all the other cats right off my bed. Couldn’t abide the competition. We try to turn the other cheek to promote a professional atmosphere but I‘m telling you, it was the scandal of the campus!


    WHITNEY
    (Produces phone, uses zoom)


    Did Charmayne Carr – Dr Carr – ever wear this necklace?


    MRS. PREECE
    That dagger there? Well, it looks familiar. She had lots of totem like materials. But Dr. Carr had all these folds around her neck, you see… No one wants to gaze at that too closely! No, she was never one of the “pretty ones!”


    WHITNEY
    And then she disappeared! Didn’t anybody find it suspicious?


    MRS PREECE
    Suspicious! Wasn’t I telling you her family had a meltdown! They came out here screaming like banshees! Finally declared her legally dead so they could sell her property!


    WHITNEY
    Do you remember any of their names?

    MRS PREECE
    Her brother had some very ordinary name. Like John. But I’m telling you, they don’t care anymore. The estate’s settled! They’ve even got a fake gravesite established somewhere – had a service with shrieking and wailing. Be quite a shock to them when she comes back. They’re not wanting to resurrect the dead. You’ve got a different problem than that.


    WHITNEY
    My stepmom’s an identity thief!


    MRS. PREECE
    Your poor dad’s the one got trouble, bless his heart. Play and then pay, I say! Usually through the nose. I demand all my bills up front.


    WHITNEY
    Too late for that. He’s dead, too.


    (MRS PREECE drops her Firewalker with a resounding bang. Lights out.)

  • Queen of Swords – the Tarot play by Alysse Aallyn

    WHITNEY

    (Thinking aloud)

    A demon’s real name…

    (Silence while WHITNEY thinks.  Decision.)

    WHITNEY

    Be not afraid.

    (She resumes hammering on the door.)

    Charmayne! Charmayne! Charmayne!

    CHARMAYNE

    (Seductively from the door open only a slit)

    I thought we had an agreement, Whitney.

    WHITNEY

    (Bravely)

    I’d like you to tell my fortune.  Give me a reading.  You know.  With the cards.

    CHARMAYNE

    (Instantly interested)

    Oh, you’d like that, would you? Why the sudden change of tune?

    WHITNEY

    (Graceless shrug)

    I don’t want to come back on Thursday.

    CHARMAYNE

    (Rippling laugh)

    I like you, Whitney. You shouldn’t be so teasable.  I guess it’s Ramon who will have to come back Thursday.  Surprises refresh me. You’ve never availed yourself of my gift of cartomancy before. Let me get my cards.

    (Door snaps shut)

    WHITNEY

    (Seats herself in a patio chair)

    Here goes nothing.

    CHARMAYNE

    (Appearing with a full tray)

    Here, take this.  

    (Lumbers WHITNEY with enormous tray while CHARMAYNE carefully closes door behind her)

    Careful with that!

    (WHITNEY unloads tray onto patio table)

    CHARMAYNE

    I’m so pleased about this little tête a tête. Choose your poison. Kids these days drink only vodka. Vodka! (She snorts) Youth is so wasted on the young.

    WHITNEY

    I drink tequila.

    CHARMAYNE

    Oh, I bet you do.  Care to knock back some shots?

    (She mimes it)

    In vino veritas, Whitney. I’ll save you the worm.

    WHITNEY

    Please don’t quote Latin at me.  It makes me feel I’m back at boarding school.

    CHARMAYNE

    Life’s one school after another, Whitney.  Endless initiation into unimagined horizons.  All birth’s painful. A little medicine eases the transition.

    WHITNEY

    No thanks.  I still have to drive home.  Water’s fine.

    CHARMAYNE

    You always were as stubborn as a mule.  So be it! Ready to concentrate on the future?

    WHITNEY

    I still have some questions about the past.

    CHARMAYNE

    (Sits, bounces a leg impatiently)

    Oh, Whitney, Whitney!  If I could only get you to see that your obsession with the past is so self-defeating!  Here you are a young girl – an almost beautiful young girl who could be better than beautiful if she made any effort – and all you do is look back.  On a mere nineteen years of life!

    (Shakes her head)

    If I’d stayed stuck like you, I’d still be gigging frogs down by the lake.

    WHITNEY

    What lake?

    CHARMAYNE

    (Immediate self-protection)

    Oh, I grew up on a lake.  Didn’t I mention?  A sad sleazy little lake surrounded by wooden cabins – some of them actually on wheels. It’s all gone now.

    WHITNEY

    Maybe, but surely the lake is still there.

    CHARMAYNE

    Oh no.  It’s all gone now. Paved over. Things change, Whitney.  Get used to it!  The past is always more disgusting than people are willing to concede.

    WHITNEY

    But who would pave a lake?

    CHARMAYNE

    The water was attacked by some invasive…they had to get rid of it. I would have walked through fire to get out of that place.

    WHITNEY

    (Very stubborn)

    But how could you still be at the lake if it’s gone?

    CHARMAYNE

    I would have fought the changes, that’s my point.  But what would I get? A dead lake and a dying life ! Instead, look at this!

    (Waves over the audience)

    I have the ocean!  The whole Atlantic Ocean…

    WHITNEY

    So tell me about that dagger you wear around your neck.

    CHARMAYNE

    (Playing with it)

    A girl after my own heart!  No sooner do I give one gift than you want another. This golden dagger is a dear memento given to me by my mentor years ago. On completing my study of tarot.

    WHITNEY

    (Flat footedly)

    What was her name?

    CHARMAYNE

    Oh, Whitney…Whitney…You can never bathe in the same river twice!  I only care about the future. All this could be yours someday… if you play your cards right.  

                                                    WHITNEY

    Depends which deck we’re using.

    CHARMAYNE

    (Silvery laughter)

    My deck of course! You don’t have a deck! Whitney, I want to be your friend. I treasured my own mentor – she made all the difference in my life –  I’ve often wondered what it would be like to have a protégée. I never knew it would be you.

                                                    WHITNEY

    Why do you think so? 

    CHARMAYNE

    You’re so young, so unformed. And you have such a thirst for knowledge!  I was that way once, wondering how things work.

    (Reaches out to touch WHITNEY’S hair – WHITNEY steels herself)

    If only you knew how much I want to give you things.

    WHITNEY

    You do?

    (This disturbs her)

    Like what?

    CHARMAYNE

    I could show you the lynchpins of the universe if only you would let me.  Very few of us were born with a silver spoon in our mouths and a golden rattle clutched in our chubby baby hands the way you were, Whitney.  You need to see the world for what it really is. You don’t accept what’s on offer – you go your own way – I was like that, too. I can teach you how to never be defeated. But first I must know.  Are you a Querent or a Firewalker?

    WHITNEY

    A what?

    CHARMAYNE

    Is this idle curiosity or will you accept the challenge that is offered – whatever it requires? Can you stand up to what must be revealed?

    (She produced and shuffles the tarot cards – with threatening skill)

    The time is never riper.  Open your mind, Whitney and accept.  IF that’s what you’re here for.

    WHITNEY

    I’m definitely a firewalker.

    CHARMAYNE

    I thought so! Welcome to the Way of Fire.  Enter the temple. Cut.

    (Offers cards to WHITNEY who cuts the deck and selects one.)

                                                    CHARMAYNE

    Don’t just take a card. Wait for the proper moment. 

    WHITNEY

    Did you ever wait? 

    CHARMAYNE

    (CHARMAYNE takes the card from her and studies it)

                Touché!

    I suppose you chose the card most eager to speak to you.  Look, it’s The Fool!

    (Tarot of The Fool springs up as a hologram or on projection screen)

    WHITNEY

    That’s supposed to be me?

    CHARMAYNE

    It’s the card you chose so yes, it has something to say to you. Look at it.

    WHITNEY

    That I‘m a number zero? Is that what it’s telling me? I don’t like your tarot language.

    CHARMAYNE

    You’re always braced for insult, Whitney. In your private language you can never be defined by someone else. Open your cage. The Fool is stuck, he can’t move on. Moving on is the First Principle of Life.

    WHITNEY

    (Leaning across the table)

    My father is gone.

    CHARMAYNE

    He was almost ninety, Whitney.  Death happens.  You had him longer than I did.  Get over it. I never question the past.

    WHITNEY

    I was raised to appreciate history because if you don’t understand it, you repeat it.

    CHARMAYNE

    We all were born graceless and angry, raging and accusatory.  It’s only a shame if you stay that way. Look at the fool’s face. He thinks he’s free.  See the rose he picked?  All the while he’s standing on a cliff edge!

                                                    WHITNEY

    I reject this card. I demand another card.

     (Snatches one up. CHARMAYNE is unflustered.)

    CHARMAYNE

    That’s not the way this game is played.

    WHITNEY

    Maybe it’s the way I play.  You don’t get to define me.

    CHARMAYNE

    Fortunately the tarot is wiser than you. Look what you’ve chosen! The Tarot laughs!

    (Queen of Swords card appears onscreen – bare breasted and swinging double knives)

                                                    WHITNEY

    You put that there!

                                                    CHARMAYNE

    You chose it yourself!

    WHITNEY

    You probably had that card up your sleeve. Here’s my card – I’ll turn it up myself.

    (Priestess Tarot card onscreen)

    CHARMAYNE

    The High Priestess! How appropriate! 

    WHITNEY

    What’s appropriate about that?

    CHARMAYNE

    The High Priestess is a woman pretending to be a man, Whitney.  She abhors feminine wiles. Because you’re so interested in history you might as well know she’s base on Pope Joan,  the only female Pope.  She’s the guardian of hidden knowledge. See, she’s holding the Torah with the last letter hidden.

    (WHITNEY bridles)

                                                    WHITNEY

    She looks like a little old man.

    CHARMAYNE

    Don’t take everything so personally.  Seekers are often forced to wear disguise. Life’s a contest and the weak go to the wall.  Look at the Priestess standing on the moon between the lotus pillars and ask yourself, how does that make you feel?

    WHITNEY

    Weak.   

    CHARMAYNE

    Well don’t admit it ever. Never spill your guts. The first law is bluster.  After awhile it comes naturally. 

    WHITNEY

    I thought the first law was moving on.

                                                    CHARMAYNE

    (Irritated)

    That’s the first principle.  Try to keep up.

                                                    WHITNEY

    Doesn’t bluster risk losing yourself? 

                                                    CHARMAYNE

    There is no self! We are self-created. Your father always used to say – oh, never mind. The Priestess reveals her secret when the time is right.

                                                    WHITNEY

    What did my father always say?

                                                    CHARMAYNE

    You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Now allow me to choose a card for you.

     (Prince of Wands appears. He looks a lot like EIGHT) 

    CHARMAYNE

    I knew a man would show up sooner or later. Do you know this handsome devil?  What do you suppose is the meaning of his big, big stick?

    (She laughs)

    (WHITNEY works hard to stay cool)

    WHITNEY

    I‘ve met him.

    CHARMAYNE

    (Surprised and nettled that there’s anything she doesn’t know)

    Oh? Where? Is he your boyfriend?

                                                    WHITNEY

    (Smug)

    You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.

    CHARMAYNE

    Still waters run deep!  Possibly he’s your power card, Whitney. The elegant Prince of Wands has been pushed out of his home and sent on a journey with no weapon to protect himself other than sticks he picks up.  He’s a dowser.

    WHITNEY

    He’s a treasure seeker.

    CHARMAYNE

    Well I’d very much like to meet him.  We could have a tequila party. Would you like that?

                                                    WHITNEY

    No. Just tell me what it means.

    CHARMAYNE

    This must be very new – I don’t blame you wanting to keep him to yourself. The Prince of Wands is about developing intuition, cultivating talents. He’s a wily character, not well born like the Prince of Swords. He’s scrappy, like me, came from nothing. He’s had to learn to excel at something – to master it. He presages sudden changes of direction, even a journey.  It could be a lucky card, Whitney, especially since you rejected The Fool.  But like everything else in life, you must claim it. Claim your power, Whitney, I can show you how. Should you fail; the card’s power is reversed.  Then it presages devastating loss, capture, and imprisonment.

    WHITNEY

    Imprisonment?

    CHARMAYNE

    (Exasperated)

    I could say more if you would tell me about him.

                                                    WHITNEY

    Forget it. Give me another card.

                                                    CHARMAYNE

    You’re entitled to an eight card spread.

    WHITNEY

    Eight?

                                                    CHARMAYNE

    Is that your lucky number?

    WHITNEY

    Maybe.

    (WHITNEY spreads cards messily over the table)

    CHARMAYNE

    This isn’t slapjack, Whitney. We all have to play the cards the goddess deals. You’ll cancel out the reading!

    (WHITNEY throws cards to the ground.)

                                                    CHARMAYNE

    Some reverence if you please!

    WHITNEY

    (Produces a card triumphantly)

    Here’s the one I want!  Judgment!

    (The Judgment card appears onscreen)

    Even this one’s not very impressive. Why does the Tarot show nothing but little old men? 

    CHARMAYNE

    It doesn’t. The Major Arcana is strongly female. 

    WHITNEY

    Well the Judgment Card looks like my Dad to me.

    CHARMAYNE

    That shows your ignorance. Some have eyes but are too blind to see.

    (Wearily picking up cards)

    The Tarot won’t be mocked, Whitney.  You’re asking for trouble.

    WHITNEY

    I don’t think I’m the one in trouble.

                                                    CHARMAYNE

    Believe me, you are.

                                                    WHITNEY

    I DON’T believe you. Your threats are vague – you can’t even be specific.

    CHARMAYNE

    (Threateningly)

    It’s whatever you most fear that stalks you. Behind the fear lies…the wish.

    (She laughs)

    The ignorant are so helpless! This card doesn’t even signify what you think it means.

    WHITNEY

    So what does it mean, then? 

    CHARMAYNE

    It’s the regeneration card. See the dead rising on the bottom of the card there? That angel’s going to suck them right up into her trumpet!

    (She laughs wildly)

    WHITNEY

    You don’t think the dead can rise?

    CHARMAYNE

    Depends on how they died.

                                                    WHITNEY

    What do you mean, HOW?

    CHARMAYNE

    (Threateningly)

    They can’t rise if they’ve lost their souls.

    WHITNEY

    (Shaken)

    Oh, that’s bullshit.  Who says that?

    CHARMAYNE

    The Book of the Dead.  They’re the experts. Your firewalk is just beginning, Whitney! I’ve been doing it for years. My feet are well-hardened. There’s so much you don’t know.

    WHITNEY

    (Overturns the table standing up)

    I guess the reading’s over.

    (They face each other across the mess)

    CHARMAYNE

    I guess it is.  Some people can’t be helped. 

    (As CHARMAYNE bends down WHITNEY pretends to leave but hides behind the boulder, trying to calm her breathing).

    CHARMAYNE

    (Calling after her)

    That was a one-time offer! Let me know if you ever get serious about claiming your power!

    (Shrugs)

    Kids. They insist on leaving the field to me. Which is fine, knowing how I hate to share.

    (Clears the table, takes tray into house EXIT).

    WHITNEY

    (Pulls out her phone and starts typing)

    Book of the Dead, eh?   I have some magic of my own and it’s called Google.  I remember now, that faked up résumé said something about Dead Lake Community College…

    (Lights down.)

  • Writing a novel for class – a memoir by Alysse Aallyn

    THE PINCH OF DEATH – Writing a novel for class

    After my fiancé graduated law school in Kentucky, we came East – where our families lived – to get married. I applied to Brooklyn College for the MFA program and was hired as a writing fellow. What followed was an experience so discouraging I can well understand why graduate students are at a high risk of suicide.

    First, there’s the contrast between the high prestige of the position and the pitiable pay. You could literally make more money (and spend the same amount of time) combing the subway for lost change.

    Next, there’s the “job” they want you to do, which is to prepare seriously undereducated freshman to write an essay justifying their admission into the hallowed world of academe.

    I had fun developing my own syllabus, which was basically teaching critical thinking in the most fun way I could possibly imagine. A teacher “reviewer” who came to watch the class wrote me a rave review – I don’t think anyone in my life has ever praised me as much as he did. I still cherish that evaluation. But don’t get excited – the second guy (months later) disparaged me so much that if you add the two reviews together I think you’d have to give me a sad C-. But at that point, They Knew About Me – that I had no college degree -and so they were trying to get rid of me. Really, you can’t blame them – how could I prepare students to get something I didn’t have myself? And what – you may ask – was wrong with MY thinking and reasoning powers that I had not expected this?

    The truth is, I had flouted “rules” all my life – they always seemed ridiculous – and because I was a “rara avis” I usually got away with it. But clearly, this could not continue. Much chastened by my brush with the universe (which represented itself as “sanity”) I did go ahead and get a BA degree in psychology from LaSalle. I even got half a masters under my belt from Springfield College until I saw that it was useless.

    But back to Brooklyn. There were classes I took, of course, in WRITING – which was my absorbing interest and passion. I kept the fact that I had actually published a novel a secret because the class expressed such a tragic belief that being published was their deepest desire and most desperate and holy quest. I knew that it was the writing of the book itself – finding the subject AND the expression that was your spiritual release into the world – that was the most important absorbing and exciting. My first book was written to specifications – what was “popular” – under the ingenuous theory that I would develop important publishing relationships (my editor lost her job, my company bought out and revamped.) You could hardly brag about an experience like that.

    For my class on the Novel I decided to write a novel. I thought it would be fun. If you wrote a chapter every week you would have a novel at the end.

    One of my classmates was an ex-nun – a most interesting person – whose experiences strongly affected me. I effortlessly adapted her into my heroine, because my book was a mystery. Surely these are the easiest to write – they must evolve according to a plan. You have to introduce the problem, then the suspects, give clues, and make the reader care about the outcome. I had an idea it would be less emotional than my first book, which got bogged down into a bizarre love story about a fatherless girl pathetically seeking mentorship. THIS book would be all business.

    I got such massive pushback from the class I’m kind of surprised I went through with it – but I was enjoying the writing and the characters were alive to me. “Criticism” in class was students laboriously reading each others’ work, describing its emotional effect on them and describing different ways things could be said. The forward motion of a novel – the sweep, the assumption of power – was thereby utterly dissipated. Everyone just rewrote the first chapters of different books endlessly. So it shouldn’t have been called “Novel Writing”, it should have been called “Paragraph Writing” – a class I wouldn’t take.

    This teacher and I butted heads on all kinds of issues. First off, he said great writing couldn’t have a “happy ending.” I saw his point but I thought it shallow. Surely completion of a quest – solving a mystery – is an enormous relief. But mysteries aren’t serious writing, he insisted. (Uh oh. Since I was engaged on one.) Well, what about the Odyssey? Jane Austen? {Probably Tom Jones, if I could recall the ending.)

    MODERN literature!! He insisted. We can’t have happy endings anymore!

    That was when I realized the whole thing was bogus. If I was bogus, they were even more bogus. I was eight months’ pregnant at the time and this man’s feeble philosophy defied the spinning of the planets, the arrival of spring, the creation of Life itself. What a silly fellow.

    I finished Pinch of Death, and still reread it with pleasure, A very charming book.

  • The Demon Lover – a play for 2 voices by Alysse Aallyn

    SCENE IV – THE LAST SCENE

    EVA
    I am gnawed by an aching hopeless wish.
    Loneliness leads to breakdown,
    Becomes dementia. I batter
    Around the rooms of this castle,
    However brightly-plumaged,
    Knocking into furniture,
    A tragic bird who’s trapped indoors.
    Even dizzy with drink I maintain the frigidity
    Of an Edwardian hostess
    Intolerant of scenes at meals.
    Without you life’s a half-lit room.

    EVAN
    I’ve become a character in your melodrama
    An absurd creature of romantic vice.
    Hopeless dilemma.

    EVA
    What could be more beautiful than our ten days in New York,
    Walking among the perverted architecture.
    No loss of illusion, rather an increase.
    I’m in the midst of a dreary financial crisis,
    Having breakdown on my feet.
    I hope I don’t sound too shocked and sad.
    You are life to me as nothing is.
    My fingers still tremble,
    Touching you after 17 years.

    EVAN
    This is the Eva I first met, first knew, first loved.
    We waited it out and didn’t lose each other.
    I was sane or mad to doubt you & myself.
    We are like two people sweating blood
    I feel further from you than ever. I dread losing you
    But Elayna’s power still holds me.
    I fear I may do one of you harm.

    EVA
    Thanks for the money,
    I hope it doesn’t embarrass you too much.
    You are a reviver and a balm.
    We must be in Paris together before we die.

    EVAN
    If you want me to be unselfish, let me be unselfish.
    You are my greatest friend. I’m
    Trying to keep off the drink while you’re here,
    Otherwise I know I’ll wreck everything.
    Three manhattans makes me crazy.
    Your feverish cheer does not seem solid.
    Is this the wreckage of our love?
    Once frightened of your clinical eye
    Now I’m more frightened of my own.
    I’ve matriculated in
    Your fearful university.

    EVA
    We sheer away in horror
    Scenting fumes of evil
    As we lose control.
    Defeat and exhaustion, alarm and despondency.
    Demoralized and sad.
    Slam down the lid on pain and resentment:
    I have taken against your family.
    Let’s dance. To sit
    In silence denigrates our love.

    EVAN
    My heart aches for you.
    We talked for the first time in weeks
    About hurt and resentment.
    I could manage my life if it weren’t for you
    And you could manage yours if it weren’t for me.
    You infect me with your despair and I flee to my wife
    To release the pressure.
    Her quickening influence works my imagination.

    EVA
    I hate that you are in New York without me.
    You pervade that place as God pervades our hearts.
    My life is based on my assumption
    Of togetherness and my
    Secret fear you’re being got at
    When we could be snug together.
    I obsess that you’re in places where I’m not.
    I could not live without seeing you.
    I dread our visit may turn sour.

    EVAN
    Everything except your beautiful self rusts
    Or dies or goes away.
    My love only seems dead;
    it’s alive underneath. If you die
    I shall never forgive you
    We need ideas that are less about ourselves.

    EVAN
    I hurt Elayna tonight
    But there’s no help for it.
    She cares for me and I only care for a life apart.
    A clean break, an amputation
    Makes me frantic and guilty.
    She says we have a happy marriage only because
    She willed it. This smell of death and decay
    Makes me long for sex.
    Could you help me find a girl – any girl you choose –
    Or will you call me a sex mad degenerate?
    Panic makes my hands shake.
    I thought of Elayna and I wept.

    EVA
    I received your sad, wild letter.
    I accept that you can’t free yourself.
    Do you accept it?
    I feel so very near you.
    I accept that you make sex
    Desperately with strangers –
    Do you accept it?
    Can anyone love such a cold-blooded person?

    EVAN
    How silly I am, I thought
    I was reconciled to our ending,
    Expected a falling off of tension & illusion.
    But it’s a prospect I can’t face.

    EVA
    Miracles happen but
    The gift of love causes guilt & pain.

    EVAN
    I am utterly becalmed.
    What I dread most is silence,
    The latest form of impotence.
    I need stringing up and tautening.
    Revenge on love. Revenge on me.

    EVA
    I am suffused with love because I am free.
    My work becomes our child,
    An extension of us. Immortal. Still,
    Something vanishes when you’re not there.

    EVAN
    Elayna broke her hip.
    How irreplaceable she is to me.
    Our brand of married happiness is entirely unsung.
    I shrink to leave her even for a day.

    EVA
    I’m sorry it’s not fatal.
    Am I dispensable to you?
    You love no one. If you turn against me
    I’ll die in a week because
    I have no one looking after me.

    EVAN
    Turn against you! Agonizing!
    In spite of the hangover of humiliation
    I broke down all reserves so we could be together.
    A very happy day and I was sorry to leave you.

    EVA
    Wed & sad.
    Past distress is muffled by age & habit.
    Today we meet formally as if at a garden party.
    A promise unfulfilled.

    EVAN
    You looked so ill
    I was nagged by fear I bored you.
    I long for the happiness of old age,
    Guilt free, pain free, fear free.
    In your silence
    I feel your calming hand.

    EVA
    I invited Elayna to lunch.

    EVAN
    I am not best pleased.
    The day you come to like each other
    Our love will die. It will be
    Poison to our love.
    Elayna rarely admits depression.
    I have had not just love but loyalty.
    Your ghost will haunt me till I die.
    You force ruthlessness.
    It is a good thing your throat is sore
    Or you would never stop talking.

    EVA
    Are you sending me your signet ring?
    I want something solid to remember you
    As I dodge death, fight off this
    Paralyzing loneliness.
    Our last communion.

    (EVA fades away. EVAN is alone.)

    EVAN
    Is the flaw in love a flaw in me?
    I never should have married.
    My heart jumps with pain like a hooked fish.
    I am rudderless. Upon your death
    My ring comes back,
    All your contrivances revealed.
    Now you are gone, I find you everywhere.
    We will never see each other again;
    Never, never, never.
    You are gone from me forever.
    I walk the streets and weep.
    Is this delayed shock? Boredom or despair?
    I will never cease to feel this pain till
    I cease feeling anything.
    For the last three nights, I dreamed of you.
    Did I anger you, neglect you?
    It’s too late to pray –
    I await your final book with horror.
    I need to know I was your life.
    Please
    Come back one last time to tell me
    Just for an hour.
    If you ever thought you loved more than I
    You are revenged.

    THE END

  • The Demon Lover – a play for 2 voices by Alysse Aallyn

    SCENE III

    EVAN
    This is the letter I would write you if I dared,
    if I weren’t frightened bf the cancer
    Of your Elayna-hatred.
    I am overworked, wrung out.
    I feel possessed by you.
    You must always live at the pitch of anguish.
    Our love has roots in good and evil,
    It lives in the darkest places of our natures
    Despite of its pleasant surface.
    Shall we end by destroying each other?
    You have the deadlier weapons.

    EVA
    I have a bad effect on people.
    Guilt, conspiracy, love,
    I cannot breathe without them.
    Oh, the pain of your reproach!
    Not seeing you would kill me.
    I live for the memory of our every moment.
    I wouldn’t give a damn if I had a month to live.

    EVAN
    Boredom, dissipation, remorse,
    And apprehension– I can’t escape this obsessive cycle.
    Beneath the controlled surface of my mind
    Opportunities to be frenzied are endless.
    I’m afraid of saying something evil which many stick.

    EVA
    Gratitude for our happiness chokes me.
    This restlessness of things going to waste.
    Missing you is like an illness.
    I have never fallen out of love with you.
    The flame is always there.
    The place is full of you.
    I can no longer look at hyacinths

    EVAN
    There’s a worm in this bud
    But who is its corruptor?
    Your insights are so powerful they alter mine.
    I’m sorry for your husband’s death.
    I feel a shift in the angle of vision.
    A sadness fell on me
    A foreboding so final it seemed the end.
    Your pleading for our life dissolved my will.
    I agree to renewal, something I can live by
    But I refuse your guilt.

    EVA
    Did I leave my diary behind?
    Don’t read it, not that you would.
    It’s anaphrodisiac. I am filled with envious admiration
    For the way you spend your time.
    You get so much done!

    EVAN
    Of course, it’s an incentive to work, being alone.
    You have created your own circle
    Even if the intelligentsia is as insensitive as you say.
    I’m grateful we are calm,
    Those fearful scenes never likely to begin again.
    I’m sure the panic of youth has played a part.
    I used to hope you would love me less over time
    But now I think we love each other equally.

    EVA
    I believe we should exchange rings.
    Do you think this faux? Would Elayna object?
    This is so I have something in case you die of that itch or fall out of an airplane.
    I wonder why Elayna’s throat won’t heal?
    I believe she is ice-bound.
    She’s sealing you away from life.

    EVAN
    You witch, you have
    Frozen Elayna’s throat.
    I begged you not to. You make
    Sadness physical.

    EVA
    Elayna’s frozen her own throat
    I wish you’d see it.
    Depression is hallucinatory.
    Guilt and sorrow undermine all confidence,
    I refuse to give them credence.

    You are so near me I feel we are one person.
    I feel you now beside me.
    I will make you real.

    EVAN
    These acute waves of feeling sometimes come over me
    As if you’re signaling.
    I owe you happiness
    But I can’t express it.
    We must always believe life is as beautiful as the music
    Says it is. The illusions you must cultivate are in fact
    A form of courage.
    Forget my deficiencies
    Find amusement in the worldly game.

    EVA
    Without Allen, I re-experience my youth.
    Oh, the bafflement of the young!
    I broke off my engagement because I loved too much
    And cast about for a spouse I could
    Control. I believe you did that, too.

    EVAN
    Our parting was unbearable.
    I had to run away –
    Your rush of talk was like someone bursting into tears.
    I feel like an executioner robbing you of sleep.
    My nose began to bleed and
    It’s been bleeding ever since.
    We must love each other less to become more tranquil.

    EVA
    I am a witch and you should fear me.
    I glow with contempt and boredom and fury.
    I don’t understand why
    I can’t experience life by your side.
    We share the same senses,
    The same vein of joy.
    Our life together is timeless, continuous.

    EVAN
    Your letter’s fraught with dynamite.
    I can never be alone, it is me and the gin bottle.
    I am home nowhere now – except with you.

    EVA
    I don’t want you getting yourself into a state
    But Edgar has proposed, forcing me to face the fact
    That I literally cannot live without you.

    EVAN
    I dread you will fall for Edgar.
    You called him “sweet” and “cozy” and “brilliantly entertaining”
    And I am none of those things. Did you bewitch him?
    he said in a persecuted voice.
    It would your justice, sending me to hell.
    We would lose each other by inches,
    But aren’t we doing that already?

    EVA
    I can’t show Edgar the brutal candor
    Behind my loving kindness.
    He mistakes the hostess for a person.
    I arrange the flowers in symbols of you
    And everyone’s too stupid to notice.
    To bed alone again tonight.
    I wish Elayna would die.
    Then we should be equals.

  • The Demon Lover – a play for 2 voices by Alysse Aallyn

    SCENE II

    EVAN
    Do you really love me?
    Why should you?
    I don’t seem any longer
    To be able to cope with friendships.

    EVA
    It is a horror, an outrage
    That we should not be here together. I struggle against
    The wound of not knowing where you are each minute.
    Everything you do is more important to me than my own life.
    The whole of me is with you.
    I see and feel you so distinctly,
    your beloved cold hand in mine
    Your touch on the nape of my neck.
    Both joy and agony
    – my insides torn by pincers.
    A double goodbye would have been awful
    – two bites on the bullet of pain.
    This love is like something we have given birth to.
    We must never blunt our imagination or tenderness.
    Don’t get a cold in your soul.

    EVAN
    I disappoint everyone.
    I deliberately left one of your letters for Elayna to find.
    With me love is linked with
    A need to betray. I invite possessiveness.
    She made me promise our love would never be physical.
    I lied fluidly.

    EVA
    Even the thought of
    Such a loss of pleasure tears at my heart
    Like some medieval torture.
    You harrow me unbearably.
    My defenses are down.
    I’m filled me with a sense of ghastly injury.
    How I wish I were more beautiful –
    It’s my mouth that ages me.
    I want you seeing all of me –
    Even if it hurts.
    You are your own child,
    You preserve your youth with the harm
    That you cause.
    I am dead and already
    Interred – in you.
    You are my eternity.

    EVAN
    You can’t have everything.
    I am kept aloft by the conflict of
    Unbearables.
    I am happy.

    EVA
    Our dancing life is over –
    Shall I enter a convent?
    There’s no point in being alive
    if we’re not together.
    I show my deepest self to you alone.

    EVAN
    Please – no more shaming conversations
    Over Irish whisky. Let’s cut our losses
    And get some fun from life.

    EVA

    
The gash in our love might close
    But I can’t forget it’s there.
    Life with you is a remote happiness to which I cling.

    EVAN
    And all this time you write
    Fantastic books. If you were as unhappy as you say,
    You couldn’t write so well.
    I am the whetstone on which you sharpen –
    I should be thanked for all your works.

    EVA
    You shed your light around me.
    I am always aware of that other world we share
    – Or do we? Our pattern seems set –
    If treachery can’t break it,
    There is no death.

    EVAN
    I am losing interest in sex.
    My bed gets so icy in the small hours of the morning –
    I feel I am trying to communicate with the spirit world.
    I am in limbo and will never escape this place.
    The adolescent remains alive in me, I have a
    Panic fear of conformity.
    So I cast myself as the elderly rake.
    I’m the bore –
    Marriage gets me down.

    EVA
    When you go on and on about yourself
    You’re a man I don’t recognize.
    I prefer your adolescent self.
    The man of the house is a free agent.
    A respected prowler
    Who looks benevolently upon the faces of his womenfolk.
    Then he’s away – with mistresses or boyfriends.
    In my attack of loneliness, I’m housebound,
    Eating baked beans and drinking stewed tea.

    EVAN
    In other countries women
    Are less bossy and more decorative.

  • The Demon Lover – a play for two voices by Alysse Aallyn

    Scene I

    EVAN

    I like women willful, late
    For appointments,
    fond of showy clothes and society, vague, drifting, dreamy,
    yet of course all of that is tiresome.
    But I don’t like competence, intellectual honesty, intelligent sensuality.
    Women keep turning on me saying,
    “You don’t love me.”
    What good is it to have been so happy
    when it ends so painfully?
    I am a “crook”, a “torturer of women”,
    “Murderer.” She has made me feel a monster.
    Below the surface of the will
    I feel deep animal distress, as if I had wives
    Hidden away somewhere
    To marry my present wife.

    EVA
    I find your misery gratifying.
    When I was younger I used to
    Accommodate everyone –
    Now I’m recalcitrant.
    You’re never out of my thoughts, but
    Sadness dulls one.
    Honestly, I always risk failing you,
    Failing you in outstandingness.
    You are extraordinary, I am extraordinary,
    we have been extraordinary together.
    We’re specimens under glass.
    It hurts because the pin runs through both of us.
    The agonizing force of missing you
    Is sweeping over me.
    We have eternity connecting us,
    Backward & forward but
    I can’t get anyone to believe it.

    EVAN
    Would my death simplify things?
    My wife struggles with carrying the conversation
    While I stare glumly at the rain.
    We go to an expensive little restaurant
    And pretend we are on a date to really talk.

    EVA
    That woman’s killing you.
    Imagine if you were dead and your wife
    Wrote a book explaining you
    To everyone! That’s true suffering –
    Fodder for the mealy-mouthed.

    EVAN
    My wife won’t be writing any books
    About me or about anything. You’re the one
    To write the book.
    I feel safe in your hands.

    EVA
    Except I’ve told you over and over
    You’ll outlive me.
    You’re killing me.
    Or your wife is.
    I’ll die of my addiction –
    We always do.
    We prefer it.
    Will you write about me?

    EVAN
    I’ve lied to everyone for
    So long, I’m sure that truth
    Is beyond me.

    EVA
    I’d rather see you dead at my feet
    Than dead ON your feet.
    That would be a mercy killing –
    The last unbearable agony –
    Wondering if you existed at all.
    I have small talent for this.
    I have disgraced my idealism,
    Pretending boredom can be fruitful.
    Waiting, waiting for you everywhere. I
    Wake one day to find I’ve lost my looks, my hair,
    fascination, brain – everything.

    EVAN
    You’re simply waking up
    In an empty hotel.
    The light is always different
    The morning after.
    This is what middle-aged people do.
    I love the brutality of your world.
    You never fade. You are my word made flesh.

    EVA
    You are my religion.
    Until In fell in love with you I was 25 inside.
    I lived in a world of dreams and theories.
    Your experiences seem realer to me than mine.

    EVAN
    To have touched the same places
    Is a bond between us.
    Social instinct is my religion.

    EVA
    Middle-aged people go to weddings
    Out of perverse fascination for the bride.
    I was that bride –
    My day was all champagne.
    Anaesthetized
    It doesn’t hurt so much.
    Such a sense of enormity came over me
    I almost fainted. I gave Allen the dirtiest look: “You caused this.”
    Without wedding dress
    I was a restless, dowdy snob.
    People were falling in love left and right –
    Even in decaying marriages.
    I wanted that –
    He read my subtext.
    And I was caught.

    EVAN
    These dreary parties have a decaying effect.
    My loneliness for you is like a whiplash.
    Your absence is a bitter injury
    But nothing can injure our love –
    We’re too strong for them.
    I’m silenced till I hear from you.
    If I let myself go I would feel desperate.
    I can’t bear you’re going to France without me –
    isn’t love our country?

    EVA
    I won’t say “I’ll die if you don’t come”
    Because I know you would come if you possibly could.
    What a skeleton in the cupboard a wife is.

    EVAN
    Don’t be jealous of Elayna. You are the only goal
    Toward which my life is tending.
    You are the meaning of my life.
    I could never live for work alone.

    EVA
    You enlarge my soul.
    In your mind is my existence.
    You’re more real to me than me.
    I’m in a peculiar psychic state.
    It’s an atmosphere of illusion.
    I envy Elayna all the time.
    It drips like an irritant over my nerves.

    EVAN
    What of Allen? You
    Have your worse half too.

    EVA
    Oh, Allen spends his time lost in woods,
    Falling in love with trees. He’s
    No threat to anyone.

    EVAN
    To understand one’s destiny
    One needs a framework for this mass of experience.
    How can I live separated from you?
    If I stopped caring for you
    I couldn’t care for anything.
    I need my wife, her whip-cracking organization.
    I loathe living in the squalor I get into on my own.
    Having breakfast OUT of bed is the last horror.
    Miasmic feelings of impossibility and terror. Help me.

    EVA
    We help each other
    By existing. Except for God I have no help but you.
    Our love is growing more formidable as our unshakeable belief
    Grows stronger. Like grace, it renews itself.
    All yesterday I glowed. My inability to accept your wife
    Is my deformity – help me with it.
    The light of our love is the only light for me.

  • Secrets of the Self – Second Book Contract by Alysse Aallyn

    My second book contract was a two-book contract. I had long been working on a novel, Model Prisoner, that was based largely on the true crime story described in Barthel’s Death in California , where a man murdered his best friend and kidnapped the friend’s wife. I was working through the issues created when women are forced to cooperate with dangerous men. As often happens, the characters hijacked the story. The relationship between the two men became more and more important – my poor heroine was just a marker of success or loss. In a lucky flash of intuition, I realized the mythic proportions of what I was dealing with – my protagonist became Persephone, uncomfortably contended over by two Lords of Darkness.

    Another character pushed his way onstage – Persey’s dog, Digger. Because Persey loved him, he was an object of jealousy by the Lords of Darkness, who wanted her all to themselves. This evoked the legends around domesticating wild creatures into household pets and the story became Woman Into Wolf.

    When I was ready to submit the novel I discovered my publisher Bridgeworks had been bought by another publisher, Rowman & Littlefield, so I sent it to them and prepared myself for the uncomfortable weeks long wait for consideration lowly authors are subjected to. A few weeks later I heard from my old editor (who I’d dedicated my second novel to!) that Rowman & Littlefield in fact had no editorial department, and so my contract was essentially null and void. I submitted Woman Into Wolf to my old editor to see if she had any good ideas about what I should do next. She suggested I de-emphasize one of the characters (the Bird Lady) and play down Persey’s past life – I took all her suggestions. But when I sent her the revised manuscript I discovered she had forgotten all about it and wanted me to tell her how the novel USED to be!

    At that point I lost faith in her. My trusty Girl Focus Group (my daughter’s friends) loved the book, and I feared further monkeying around might break something important! It seemed a better idea to jut publish the thing myself. And the reviews bore me out.

    …a thrill-ride, unique and highly recommended reading.” –Entrepreneur.com


    “deceit, rape, fertility, imprisonment and a mother’s grief…as each piece of the tightly coiled fiction was loosed I waited for the revelation to come…she couldn’t imagine the extent of the deception until it was spelled out. Neither could I.” – MyShelf.com

    “one of the most unusual mysteries I have ever read…I loved reading Woman Into Wolf … kept me on the edge of my seat right through the end…I highly recommend this novel to fans of crime mysteries that also
    enjoy some extra spice in their stories.” – Readerviews.com

    “a very fine psychological thriller…
    the characters in this book are as bright
    as crystal and as sharp as shattered glass.
    Aallyn not only can describe them to a
    neo-noun, she can make them speak
    true to those characters.
    Quite a talent…a novel every bit as worthy as
    her first.” –ArmchairInterviews.com

    “Satisfying as hell.” – Quoth the Raven

  • ALYSSE AALLYN

    Alysse Aallyn is the author of four well-received thrillers, Find Courtney, Depraved Heart, Woman Into Wolf and I’ll Sleep When You’re Dead, one historical novel (Devlyn) and a book of short stories (Awake Till the End.) Her work has been translated into German and Italian. She has three published books of poetry – The Sacred Quiver, The Hot Skin, Haunted Wedding and The Five Wounds and edited another (The Feathered Violin.) She trained in theatre at Circle in the Square Theatre School and Martha Graham School of Dance. She appeared in the part of Isabella in Jean Giraudoux’s The Enchanted at the New Yorker Theatre. She has held writing fellowships at Brooklyn College and LaSalle University. Her novel Depraved Heart won a 2011 CT Press Club fiction award and her play Queen of Swords was a semi-finalist in the 2014 National Arts Council First Play award. She has been invited to read her original work at The Folger Shakespeare Library in Washington, DC and has taught creative writing at Catonsville Community College. Woman Into Wolf was a semi-finalist for The National Playwrights Conference (2016) and her play Our Father’s Restaurant was performed on Pacifica Radio. She has also appeared as a crime commentator on ID – TV’s Blood Relatives. Her play, Let’s Speak Vietnamese was published in Dramatika Magazine. She directed The Maids and played the Mother in Jules Feiffer’s Little Murders for Theatre Upstairs. Other plays she’s written are The Honey & the Pang about Emily Dickinson’s posthumous career, Cuck’d – a modern Othello, and Caving, in which the theatre is transformed into a cave for a spelunking dare. Rough Sleep, (based on her novel I’ll Sleep When You’re Dead) was produced by Manhattan Repertory Theatre (W. 45th St) in 2019. Her latest play, The Dalingridge Horror, (short version Leonard & Virginia) explores the partnership between Leonard & Virginia Woolf in their own words and was a finalist for the Tennessee Williams 2021 award. Her newest poetry collection, Haunted Wedding appeared in 2022 from Thriller Library.

    Her current work is The WarriorOracle – Becoming a Warrior on the path to enlightenment.

  • Becoming a Warrior – The Warrior Oracle by Alysse Aallyn

    Duality – Ambivalence:

    If This Card Chooses You – How many people are you? Twinning is Entwining. Sometimes we dream disturbingly about things we don’t want and people we aren’t. Feminists dream of rape, vegetarians dream of meat, pacifists dream of fighting. It’s confusing. What gives?

    Language Isn’t Subtle Enough to Explain You – Your personality manifests all feelings, all thoughts, all ideas, rippling through you in a vast subconscious river. Your unconscious connects with the “collective unconscious” of other peoples – dead, alive, even fictional. Why isn’t “hate-love” a word? You experience that regularly. How about “fear-attraction”? Common! What I’m suggesting is that we need to accept the fact that a “personality” is a dynamism, not a label.

    Warrior Challenge – Facing this might seem the toughest part, but it isn’t for artists, who routinely “play” along their edge, peeking over it and imagining life on the other side. Art is the best way to express this, an enormous relief since it’s non-committal. Of course, you’ll have to face the surprise of your relatives when your work becomes public: “Where did THAT come from?” But if truth be told, we’ve always been surprised to be related to those people.

    Warrior Danger – Society seeks to label, limit and stigmatize. Everyone is afraid of becoming our fear but Warriors need to explore our fear. A simple safe word can’t work when people – bankers, politicians, therapists, employers – are so fundamentally untrustworthy. That is why our identification of ourselves as Brave Warriors is so vital. The vastness of our potential cannot be controlled by language. We will never be butterflies pinned down in a museum box for the instruction/curiosity of others.

    Warrior Opportunity – Appreciate your Self. Don’t slam the door on your potentialities too soon. Sometimes the worst labeler, the most determined jailor, is Us. We are deeply afraid of wandering in the forest and losing the way to get home safe. But Warriors carry Home within them. As Nelson Mandela used to quote from his prison cell, if we are the captains of our souls we can be the masters of our fates. (Henley.) We can learn to tolerate a little ambiguity/uncertainty/ambivalence.

    Warriors Tolerate Uncertainty – Being a warrior is all about balance. The experience of balance-seeking is indescribable linguistically – it must be felt experientially. Warriors learn to live in a world beyond language where we can savor uncertainty and foretaste eternity.

    Warriors Relish Paradox – Two contraries not only exist together but empower each other – that creative tension is the lifeblood of emotion, imagination and personality.

    Warriors Coast on the Knife-Edge of Ambivalence – The desired is undesirable, the only possibility is impossible and the act of wanting forbids getting. Warriors become comfortable with the pleasures of this dance: “My future dissolves in beads of sweat, my present is my mirror, my past’s a shape-shifting whirligig.” (Aallyn)

    Leaders Must Surrender – Physics is magic and dreams embody history. This quantum world of “spooky entanglements” is one in which we warriors become expert. We accept not only that the cave we fear holds the treasure we desire, but that we are both cave and treasure, indeed, fear itself.

    Models & Mentors – “It seems we are capable of immense love and loyalty and as capable of deceit and atrocity. It is this shocking ambivalence that makes us unique.” – John Scott

    “Ambivalence is a wonderful tune to dance to. It has a rhythm all its own.” – Erica Jong

    “The Simpsons is about alienation and the ambivalence of living with a family who you love but drives you crazy” – Matt Groening

    “Poetry is the home of ambiguity, ambivalence and uncertainty.” – Billy Collins

    #Haiku: Yin/yang

    Inclined to spring forward
    Fade back; yin;
    Urge to return?
    Float forward;
    Yang.