'Shall I be prisoner 'til my pulses stop'

So I've been reading a lot of Millay lately. There is a book of sonnets which tell the  story of a love affair, tragic from the start. It's called Fatal Interview. The way this woman could string together a thought is extraordinary. Here's something from #18:  "Shall I be prisoner 'til my pulses stop", or from #20: 'let your mind,/ Wearied with thinking, doze upon the thought."

Ordinary sentiment, ordinary words; put together in a way which captures and exalts the emotion. "Til my pulses stop"; easily understood. Some form of the meaning is common, cliche even. 'Be still my heart, 'racing pulses', hearts that 'skip a beat'; these and more are all part of our cardiovascular vernacular. But to put the words together in that way, so close to what is familiar, but not. It gives the phrasing a startling freshness which is met with immediate recognition.

Millay was an artistic genius an intellectual romantic; with emphasis on 'artist' and 'romantic. She never tried to impress with tricked out words. She communicated in plain language on topics of love, death nature artistic integrity.  And with such beauty and ingenuity. Amazing. There's no one like her. Let your mind wearied with thinking doze upon that thought.

More evidence of my startling brilliance....and a teaser

So in the middle of the night I was fooling with ideas for an online auction to raise money for Bakery's film (yes, I said film...more on that tomorrow) project.

Actually, no . . . I can't wait. I had this idea for a movie..have had for years, and now with  my new 'If I Fail...Fail Spectacularly' mind set I thought, 'Why the heck not?' Give it the old college try.

My brain turned to first steps of lawyers and screenplays and incorporation and coming up with the green to make the bus go. One of the ideas was to do an online auction featuring these fabulous little getaway packages put together by a Charity Villas LLC specifically for nonprofits. But where, oh where, to list the auction? That's when I made my third mistake (the first and second being to surf the web in the middle of the night with 'ideas' brewing in my brain) of downloading Overstock.com's listing software.

It seemed like a brilliant idea at the time, create the listing now and fine tune it over the next week or so while laying the groundwork for the auction itself. . . promoting it, etc. Well. . .don't ask how ('cause I don't know) some how I managed to list the darn trip . . . twice. I soon discovered that though I could cancel the items, I would be charged for listing them anyway...and given the high-ticket reserve . . . um . . . they ain't cheap. So my dearly darlings if you are or know anyone who is hankering after a 4 day, 3 night stay at the Hyatt Regency in SF w/ airfare included please point them in the direction of our first auction...or the second.

The Roses of Victory...Or the Smell of De-feet

My current situation has me thinking a lot about success and failure and fear; fear of success for which there is no roadmap; or failure that is public, humiliating and makes one look foolish for having tried at all. I'm alright by the way, safely ensconced with friends in beautiful Trinity County. Getting better, getting stronger and thinking about next steps.
I've always felt there was glory in Attempt. Something beautiful and even sacred in the process of inspiration and bringing an idea into reality. But I've always held my hand . . . attempted, but without really risking enough to either succeed or fail completely. So many dreams deferred, but none ridden into the dust of defeat or soaring on the wings of victory; but always that bizarre purgatory of . . . almost or . . . eventually.
Next steps, geographically at any rate will most probably see me in Holland before the year is out, either temporarily or permanently. What next for Maya/de Bergerac . . . the kid herself? Well, if you know your cinema history that last sentence was a bit of a hint. What should be my next goal?

The only thing I know for certain is that I'm tired of whiny whimper-y half-keistered failure. The ones that make it hard put for anyone to blame me for the situation, even if they can't fully comprehend the circumstances. I'm also sick of half-stepped victory, the ones where I execute a 'unique' idea 'wisely' (French, for a watering down brilliant inspiration) and get part of what I want, but not the whole enchilada. I still look like an 'eccentric' to my more straight-laced friends without having felt either the cleansing burn of an idea going up in flames or the vindication of victory.

So for my next number, I've decided on a new motto. If I fail . . . fail spectacularly.
He-hee, the very thought makes me giggle like a schoolgirl. What a thrill. My entire life has felt like a high-wire act attempting to balance my own nature against the desire to act, and be seen to act, wisely. My natural wish to get out and do something astonishing has always been tempered by a wish to blend; which, um . . . I never have, but 'hope springs' . . you know. The rational I think was that as long as I acted wisely and was seen to do so, how ever 'out there' the plan I'd been working on seemed to others, I would always have a safety net when I really needed it. It's in the unspoken family contract.
Now I say, what the hay.