epic poems are tragic poems

Calliope, sing me sweetly, my breath is supposed to come like a hum but it burns into the air like a drum, and the patterns are songs I never heard before.  This song should be the song about the twist of an ancestor stick in the ribs, should not play too hard or too sad on the ribs of the living, this burning in the chest comes out too quickly, and there's not enough time to seal the room so no one else can hear the words, only an echo from the edges of these worlds, playing 56 octaves lower than last night's dreams.  This is a time of dark spells and salt on doorways, even though it looks like there should be bird songs in the air, but all the birds are nervous, and all the messages at my door talk about the things I have to close.  The new year starts with an anxious prayer, one that goes on relentlessly until the words no longer make any sense, and the storyteller has to switch tactics, because the main characters already think this is a different kind of story than the one they are living in, and this kind of recognition of powerlessness, coupled with the beginnings of a map, are the things that tragedies are made on.

At the beginning of the chapter, the hero knows he does not get the girl, and the adventures ahead won't make him rich, and the rest is still too unknowable.  The only way to enter into the poem is to place oneself at the will of the muse, and let the poor excuse for a map be the only light to serve as a guide.  The rest of the guides are liars, and they tell the truth only often enough to keep things interesting.  There is no clear light in them. 

At the beginning of the chapter, there is a woman hanging upside down, looking at the world with ironic eyes, this is a waste, this is a tragedy in the making, this is a version of something real that happens on the surface of the earth to those people who might believe in it.  But she has been born and raised to believe in nothing, but there is a map, and that's more than enough, and no reason not to, let herself be cut loose to begin the first part.

The first part is a little rough, because it is unformed, because it will only take form when the second and third parts start to unravel and we can see the threads start to weave together.  Right now this is all much too loose, and there are too many variables, and objects that no one understands yet.

The objects are (in order of appearance): an arab strap, a round ball of white powder, a container of water from the muse of the erotic (she runs through all of this because water runs through all of this because water runs that's what it does), a prayer card from a funeral, and a small round mirror.

He is lying in state at the start, only not so stately, having been recently torn up a bit and living a little too much like a fake rock star, even though he is already much too old.  He's been told who he is, and even acts it sometimes, and sometimes dresses the part, but he doesn't recognize it enough as something that belongs under his skin, so it feels like a costume.

If he were a little more well-rested, he could put some of these things to make spells with to good use, but he's still waiting for his shadow body to wake up.  He doesn't know, however, little does he know, that the shadow is already up and clearing paths and everything is in the right place.  Little does he know that all the prayers and songs made in the dark in the middle of the desert are about to be answered, and it would be too easy to say that the same thing is happening to her, but it is, and this is where the last epic tragedy starts to come to tell its story, because they do that, so that we might recognize what the territory can be like if we decide to go through it all again with our eyes sealed shut.  That decision is still and always up for negotiations.

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