Sunday, February 7, 2010

Magpie #1: NeoClassical Pewter Vase circa 1860

Magpie #1: NeoClassical Pewter Vase circa 1860

The exquisite Neoclassical pewter vase had sat for many years on the Italian marble mantle. Looking out upon the idyllic pastures the vase had not weathered, its patina a noble part of its integrity. It wore the weight of time like a lead sinker, chronicling the events in the Sandford family.

Emma could remember well what caused the ding on the reverse side of the vase. "I think it looks like the Holy Grail" Bobby spoke out loud. "There is no way there is any Holy about that cup, ummm, vase, Bobby, you know that". Bobby appeared stunned, his mouth hung open and his eyes widened.
"Don't you remember when you use to play football with the vase, when Moisey was out? Isn't that how it got the ding?"
Bobby shook his head "No, Emma, it was not at all how it happened, you do so like to embellish things". Bobby smirked at the wide-eyed sister Emma. "Not how I heard it, Sis". Emma implored "Well Bobby, what's your story about how Old Neo got his scar".

Bobby stretched back in the leather wing chair and put his athletic socks on the overstuffed davenport. "Emma, promise you won't tell anyone?" Emma squinted and gave an unbelieving smirk "Sure, go ahead, Bobby, tell your story, I'm sure I am going to believe it." Bobby shrugged his shoulders and appeared nonchalant. "Look sis, you weren't born yet, so you can hardly be expected to know this story." Emma frowned and shook her head. "Ok smartie-pants, what exactly have you been hiding from me all these years, spill the beans!"

Bobby sat at the edge of his chair. "Emma, I'm not sure you are ready for this." Emma walked casually over to the mantle and grabbed the metal vase. "It is hard to believe this old pewter bric-a-brac has an history. I thought it was a reproduction." Bobby stood up and pointed at the vase. "That vase should be respected Em, you shouldn't treat it like it's nothing, it could come back to haunt you."

Outside the manse the light from the setted sun cast an errie light in the keeping room. The light had cast a reddish glow on the pewter vessel. Emma held the cup above her head and stated ominously "All those who drink of this cup shall live forever!" Quickly she grabbed a bottle of brandy from the stocked liquor cabinet.

"Emma, you shouldn't..." Bobby tried to stop Emma from filling the vase with Napoleon brandy but it was too late. Emma had filled the pewter cup and had began to drink greedily of its wares and with total disregards to Bobby's pleas. "I am invinsible!" Emma's deep brown eyes started to catch the same reddish glow from the setting sun, as if she and the cup had caught the same infectious glow. Emma fell back on the silk-covered loveseat, laughing hysterically.


  1. Thank you for your visit and comment to my Abe Lincoln Blogs about Red on Blue. I like words and pictures and combining them makes a lot of sense. I also learned, ages ago, to write what pops in my head and then go back and read what I wrote and when I do that I can get rid of 70% of the words. I got in a habit of doing this when I was writing newsletters out by hand for calligraphers around the world. No matter how good you are you still can't make words work if they are too small so I had to get rid of words.

    Maybe I am just nuts about words. LOL

    You seem to also have a way with words that interests me and others.

    Abe Lincoln Blogs

  2. Dear Abe: Your ability to self-edit is commendable! As you are amazingly only using 30 percent of your original material means that you are only allowing "creme de la creme" of writerly excellence. Unfortunately, I have yet to learn the fine art of self-editing. Wish I could find others to do this daunting task of being editor-in-chief of my "streaming concepts".
    Definitely, I do love editing others work, just not my own work.
    Trying to stay in the free flow of "stream of consciousness" rendering, better known as "flying by the seat of the pants" type of writing style.
    The method to my madness is similar to Expressionist painting and the like ilk. The necessary ingredient to my "style" is the required intrinsic need of having to know exactly when to stop painting and not over-paint, but allow the creative process more space.

  3. It is the journey not the destination which is my philosophy.
    I do try to clean up old work sometimes, if inspired, but rarely am I inspired by my old writing and strive in a new poem or short story further development of newer ideas. My old ideas get shelved and I "sit on it" hoping that I will hatch something that I may be mulling or stewing in my pot of idears that day. Poet as Chief Cook and Bottle Washer?
    As I submit to the "process" of writing I intend for the creative energies to be released more than I could consciously intend. This is why I leave my writing and move on, without care or concern of the "need to perfect" in the strictest sense of the word. This free-flow has shown some new developments which I no doubt would have not considered if I worked in a linear, non-intuitive fashion.
    "This is me, this is my style, like it, or lump it" I say to my detractors who really loves the attractors!

  4. Yes, I am the first to admit my style is somewhat crude and rough; but I sort of like it that way.
    It is my intention to "show the paint", to show the rough edges and the paint brush marks in my work.
    For me, writing is best as it departs the parts from whence it was formed in the brain box.
    Art to me is art when it is raw, and energetic; real life as much as possible. My favourite artist being Jackson Pollock.
    By finding the happy accidents and deliberate mistakes I try to taking writing into the moment which I call "Live Write".
    As all parts of the process should make a whole concept overall; form following function. The function of writing is to find the form which is intrinsic to the individual writer.
    And as much as I enjoy writing, I enjoy the process of writing the most. Hearing the keyboard keys clacking in rhythm, ideas popping out of "nowhere".
    I hope to, in my writing to contribute to the zen moment of "is" or "being" or "now" concept.
    To me, being true to life means accepting error, not an easy task for any wannabe perfectionist professional.
    Thank-you for your interest in my writing. I am so much more interested in others writing than my own, and love you and your lovely wife's blogs. I shall continue to lurk daily and share my impressions with you. This I love about blogging; the sharing of ideas and concepts.
    In hindsight maybe I am just a newbie or an "emerging writer" with dreams of Stephen King greatness (aren't we all)? Oddly enough I must sit and ponder the concept of "emerging writer". What exactly am I, or others emerging from? (please excuse my dangling participle). As I write this in February I am reminded of my own ground-hog like existence as I push ideas up and out and lay bare my soul to all who should wander near.
    Emerging from an emergency? Emerging from the womb? Eme A neccessant or naiscent need to be reborn, to emerge like the cliche phoenix from the ashes of all that decays. And life has one up on the decomposition process; it is eternal as as "perrenial as the grass" (Desirata). As we all emerge from something sometime somewhere.
    It that is pushing out of my cloistered sense of self or ego to merge with the world of ideas that fast-flow like a flooded stream, reaching by sheer forcefulness the far banks of distant shores.
    This is the miracle of the internet today, the ripple of ideas on blogs.
    A better understanding of life as we think we know it, but are always challenged daily by new ideas allowed to surface from anyone and everyone.
    An inclusive world rather than exclusive. Or as James Thurber would say "My World And Welcome To It". ps I will keep posting if you will! The Great Writer's Race to achieve an emergent form of necessary "coming from" somewhere? Maybe my ancients being from Limerick gave me a bit of a hand-me-down? Love to compare what I would have in common with Irish gaelic. Probably not much? Maybe in some way I still have a "wee bit of the poetic musings of the Irish". I can only hope for this, and learn from and embellish this rich heritage of World Lit as I try to take the best of what I feel is important and necessary for our survival as human "be"- ings.