Cyberia - The City of Ladies

It was “Mojito Week” at Il Taverna di Muse, and the Proprietress sent me to the Apothecary Shop to purchase bundles of fresh mint leaves, an essential ingredient for the drink. I was excited to make my first visit to the Shop as I had heard it was an extraordinary sensory experience.

The moment the door chimes announced my entrance into the Shop I was assaulted by the pungent scent of spices, the earthy smell of fresh clipped herbs, bundled and hanging from the rafters, and the warm, inviting aromas of tea and fresh baked pastries.

Besides providing apothecary services to the neighborhood, the Shop was also a place for writers and craftspeople to gather who preferred a quieter, less frenetic environment. There were some tables and chairs near the pastry section and in the back was the Stitching Room were some textile artists were piecing together a quilt.

After I made my purchase and was heading toward the door with the wrapped bundle of mint under my arm, I noticed a middle-aged woman in a Victorian-style dress, black silk with starched white lace around the collar. Her hair was pulled high and she balanced a pair of wire glasses on her nose. She was busy reading a book. I stopped and stared for a moment. She was so familiar. Then I knew—it was her!

The woman became aware of me and looked up. “May I be of assistance?” she said with a prim clip.

“Oh, excuse me, I didn’t mean to stare… you look just like…. I mean…. Oh what am I trying to say….Maam, are you Miss Alcott? Louisa May Alcott?”

“I am she.”

“Oh, this is such an honor, Miss Alcott! I’ve enjoyed your work so much.”

“Thank you, my dear. I am gratified that my little women mean so much to you.”

“Maam, I wasn’t referring to Little Women—I mean, don’t misunderstand me, Little Women was wonderful, but I was referring to your…your…..”

“Potboilers? Blood and Thunder stories?”

“Well, yeah.” I sheepishly smiled.

“Please, have a seat, my dear.” She smiled. “Most of my readers don’t know about those stories.”

“And it’s a shame—Pauline’s Passion and Punishment, A Long, Fatal Love Chase, and my favorite, A Modern Mephistopheles—they were innovative, way ahead of their time.”

“Their time?”

“Oh, yes, well, you see, I’m from your future. It’s a little strange, I know.”

“Strange? My dear, this is Lemuria. Everything is strange in Lemuria.”

“Yes, maam.”

“So you read my potboilers?”

“Yes, maam, as part of a research project.”

“My works will be researched? “

“Yes, indeed. You were, er, ARE, one of the first feminists. Your women’s suffrage work is well documented and your literary works reflect this as well.”

“Feminist?”

“Yes, a person who supports women’s rights and strives for justice and social equality.”

“I see. And you see this in my writings?”

“Yes. Your female characters are fiery, independent women, most particularly in your potboilers, but even in Little Women—Jo for example.”

Miss Alcott chuckled. “May I share a secret with you, uh…..”

“Lori.”

“Lori, the fact of the matter is….” She leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I wasn’t very eager to write Little Women.

I suppressed a smile. I already knew that her publisher pushed her to write this simple moral tale for children. “Really!” I said.

“No, I didn’t really want to write it. Very dull and ordinary.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “I very much enjoyed writing my potboilers. They are so …lurid.” I believe Miss Alcott was beginning to blush. She continued, “The women in those stories were far more interesting and….and….” She struggled for a word.

“…More real?” I said.

“Yes, indeed. More real.”

I glanced at the clock on the wall. “Is that the time?! Miss Alcott, I don’t want to be rude but I really need to get back to the Tavern.”

“Of course, dear. It was a pleasure making your acquaintance.”

“Likewise, Miss Alcott.” I headed towards the door.

“Miss Lori.”

“Yes, maam?”

“Did women ever get the right to vote, in the future, I mean?”

“Yes, maam, we did.”

Miss Alcott picked up her book and resumed her reading.

“Outstanding” she muttered with a smile.

Lori Gloyd © 2006

Eleanor of Aquitaine was one of the most significant historical figures of the middle ages. In 1137, at the age of fifteen, she inherited the duchy of Aquitaine, which comprised nearly one-third of France; this ensured her a unique existence as a politically powerful woman of the middle ages. By the time of her death in 1204, she was a former queen of France functioning as regent queen of England, and had firmly established the blood line of the future English monarchy through her children. This historical importance is profound; yet, underlying her vast political influence was a social one of innumerable value to Western Art. Her lifelong patronage of the troubadour music of her home region directly resulted in the introduction of this oldest known genre of medieval secular music throughout France, and to a lesser extent, the Norman court of England. In addition, she indirectly influenced the formation of the next influentional secular genre, the music of the trouveres.

These trouveres are playing the love song Flow My Tears

Per our agreement, the Proprietess rented to me a tiny loft on the top floor of the Taverna overlooking the Piazza.  A number of artists, writers, and performers lived there as well, and I was very grateful to secure this space among them.  I was equally glad that my loft was ABOVE the flamenco dancer’s studio and not under it.

My space had a skylight and many windows, and sunlight flooded the space.  Though small, the space served my purposes– I needed only a place to read, write and sleep.  I could eat and entertain downstairs in the Taverna, and with the entire city of Cyberia waiting to be explored, I knew I often would not be home.

I could not bear to keep Syren locked up in a livery all day so I arranged for a local horse farm to keep her for a small fee.  She was close enough for me to visit regularly and I planned to go exploring with her on my days off.

Cyberia!   I took a big breath of fresh air as I stepped onto my balcony.  I felt aloft upon a breeze of hope and opportunity.

Lori Gloyd (c) 2006

This piece, found in the library was written for festivities in early Medieval Spain.  The whole town would involve themselves in these events, which would usually last for days at a time.  The text dates from around 1100, so is interesting to relate to as a part of history, and it made me think of ancient cities and who must have lived there.

Red Book of Montserrat - Round Dance

Resplendent star on the mountain, like a sunbeam miraculously glowing, hear the people.

All joyous people come together: rich and poor, young and old,
climb the mountain to see with their own eyes, and return from it filled with grace.

Rulers and magnates of royal stripes, the mighty of the world, possessing grace,
proclaim their sins, beating their breast, and call on bended knee: Ave Maria.

Prelates and barons with their noble suite, all monks and also priests,
soldiers, merchands, citizens, sailors, townspeople and fishermen are praising here.

Peasants, ploughmen and also scribes, advocates, stone-masons and all carpenters,
tailors and shoemakers and also weavers, all craftsmen thank here.

Queens, countesses, illustrious ladies of power and maidens, young girls,
virgins and old women and widows, climb the mountain, and also nuns.

The community is gathered here to make a vow, to give thanks and to fulfil the vow for the glory of this place,
so that all may see and return in joy, partaking of salvation.

We shall all - of both sexes - pray, and full of humility confess our sins to the glorious virgin,
mother of clemency, so that in heaven we may be with the merciful.

(Full lyrics are available through a Google search.)

In celebration of all the irishness here tonight, I will perform a poem based on a favorite childhood joke.

Himself Went into Confession, and knelt in the Holy stall.
He said, “Father, forgive me, for I have sinned – shall I start with the great or the small?”
The Father said, “Now listen, son, I’ll tell you where to begin,
We’ll save the best for last, and you start with the smaller sin.”

“Well, Father, me brother has a farm, and he brings me meat for me dish,
And I eat it on a Friday, for, God Help Me, I can’t stand fish.”
“Now God doesn’t care,” the Father said, “if himself owns a couple of dairies.
You can’t eat steak on a Friday, so that’ll be three Hail Marys.

Now tell me about the other sin, though I fear for the state of your soul.
If it’s any worse than the first one, you’re looking at Hell’s black hole.”
So himself said, “It’s my neighbor, she looks like that Sharon Stone,
“With lovely blonde hair and a killer shape, and she just won’t leave me alone.

“Each day when I’m making my dinner, I see her out on her lawn,
“And, Father I swear she has nothing at all but little bikini pants on.
“She’s giving me lustful thoughts, and Father, I’m in such a state,
“For here I am a married man with more than enough on me plate.

“I’m having to fend for meself these days, while me wife is at her mothers’,
“The old lady’s sick, and the worst of it is, me wife has four big brothers.”
The Father scratched his chin, and then he nodded and said,
“Three Hail Marys is not enough, I’ve got to get into your head,

“There’s a trick we priests have often used, which I’ll pass on to you,
“You say to yourself these powerful words, until you believe it is true –
“’You’re not a lovely young girl, says you, you’re a withered and wrinkled old crone.’
“If it worked for me with Sophia Loren, it’ll work with this Sharon Stone.”

Next Friday came and the Father was passing down the street.
He thought he’d call in and see if himself was eating meat.
The door was standing open, so the Father went inside,
And found your man in the kitchen, and crept up to his side.

Himself was cooking his dinner as out of the window he stared,
At a lovely young woman sunning herself, and his lips were moving in prayer.
And this is what the Father heard, as himself reached for the dish…
“By the Holy Crook of St Patrick, you’re not a steak, you’re a fish.”

One of my new job tasks is to advertise the nightly acts at the Taverna. I spent my first afternoon handing out these leaflets in the Piazza:

Headlining tonight at

Il Taverna di Muse

Mira Bai

Preserving Tribal Rhythm

10:45 p.m.

No Cover. Two drink minimum.

Image: Lori Gloyd (c) 2006

He plays an old record
the mellow tones of the saxaphone
a piano, a base, a drum or two
and the big band songs that they made their own
as they danced until dawn
and kissed at the gate
as her landlady checked

when she came in late

The carved stone high cross stood outside the scriptorium, my favourite room in all the monastery because here I worked alone for hour after hour, with none to disturb the writing and decorating of the manuscripts. I loved everything about this job — the parchment and vellum backgrounds; the goose feather quills; the coloured inks mixed from berries, crushed acorns, metals, and even African beetles. The manuscripts which are carefully worked copies of the gospels, epistles and prayers are all written in Latin. The page borders and capital letters are elaborately decorated in colourful Celtic designs. As I finish the books I sew them together and bind them with leather covers. Time passes by quickly up here in this room, where my cat Pangur Bán, and I spend as much of the waking hours as we possibly can away from the rest of the monastery work. Still sometimes the close work and copying becomes a little tedious. It was on a night such as this that the restlessness entered my bones and there was no way in God’s heaven that I could concentrate on the work at hand. So I began to write the following poem, something I did more often than I should. But on this night I forgot my self and found later that the entire poem had been written in the margins of the manuscript. Ah, as long as my superiors didn’t discover the lapse of attention and the consequent irreverence, no matter.

I and Pangur Ban my Cat

Tis a like task we are at;

Hunting mice is his delight

Hunting words I sit all night

Better far than praise of men

‘Tis to sit with book and pen;

Pangur bears me no ill will,

He too plies his simple skill.

‘ Tis a merry thing to see

At our tasks how glad are we,

When at home we sit and find

Entertainment to our mind.

Oftentimes a mouse will stray

In the hero Pangur’s way;

Oftentimes my keen thought set

Takes a meaning in its net.

‘ Gainst the wall he sets his eye

Full and fierce and sharp and sly;

‘ Gainst the wall of knowledge I

All my little wisdom try.

When a mouse darts from its den,

O how glad is Pangur then!

O what gladness do I prove

When I solve the doubts I love!

So in peace our tasks we ply,

Pangur Bán, my cat, and I;

In our arts we find our bliss,

I have mine and he has his.

Practice every day has made

Pangur perfect in his trade;

I get wisdom day and night

Turning darkness into light.

(“Pangur Bán” This poem was written by an Irish monk and was found in the margins of a manuscript which was written sometime around the 8^th or 9^th century.)

Original Irish version:

Mise agus Pangur bán,

Ceachtar again lena shan-dhán; Bíonn a mheanma-san le seilg,

Mo mheanma féin i mo shain-cheird.

Caraimse fos, forereach clú

Ag mo leabhrán, ag tuiscint go dícheallach;

Níl sé faradic liom, Pangur bán:

Carann sé féin a mhac-dhán.

Nuair a bhímid, scéal gan scís,

Inár teach, sinn araon go haonarach,

Tá cluiche éigríochta again,

Rud a dtugaimid ár mbeartaíocht dó.

De ghnáth ar uairantaibh, tar éis greasaibh galacha

Gleanann luch ina líon-san;

Agus mé, titeann i mo líon féin

Dlí doraidh is deacair a tusking.

Greamaíonn sé i bhfraigh fáil

A rosc geal comhlán;

Greamaín féin i hedge an fheasa

Mo rosc réil, cé go bhfuil sé an-lag.

Tá átha air a dhul go tapa

Nuair a ghleanann luch ina chrúb ghéar;

Nuair a thug aim ceist dhoraidh dhil

Tá átha ormsa féin.

Cé go mbeimis go deimhin ar uaireantaibh

Ní bhodhraímid a chéile:

Is maith le ceachtar a dhán;

Subhaigh gach aon fúthu.

Is é féin máistir dó

Na hoibre a dheineann sé gach aon lá;

A thabhairt doraidh do shoiléireacht

Is í m’obair féin.

This is an illustration from a very famous old Irish manuscript called The Book of Kells. (Although Pangur Bán did not appear in this book!)

I stood for a moment in the dim light of the taverna, lit only by some red Chinese lanterns and strings of tiny white Christmas lights.   The sound of chimes, gongs, and drums pulsed through the air. I saw a Gamelan orchestra on a small stage and a beautiful Balinese girl in a sparkling sarong dancing to the music.I moved among the tables filled with patrons intently watching the dancer until I reached the bar.

The bartender leaned forward. “What can I get you, darling?”

“L’Enchanteur?”

“Nah, she’s my cousin. She’s always passing herself off as me. You look a might thirsty and tired.”

“Yes, may I have a bottle of Senorial? “

“Mexican Sangria? Of course. And you’ll need some chips and salsa to cut the sweetness, I should think.”

“Absolutely. Say, can you tell me the rent for a studio?”

“How much you got?”

I felt the ever lightening bag of Lemurian shekels in my cloak.  “Well, not a lot.”

“Hmmm….” The bartender eyed me up and down. “You ever tended bar?”

“No.”

“Ever been in the hospitality or restaurant business?”

“No to that one too.”

The bartender squinted her blue eyes at me. “How well can you listen?”

“That I do very well.”

“Good. You’re hired.”

“For what? As a bartender?”

“Yep, pulling pints. Can’t handle all the night shift by myself. And, I’ll throw in one of the small studios in the back for half off the rent.”

I didn’t know a mojito from a martini.  How could I be a bartender?  I paused for a minute and looked around. I did come to Cyberia to be around the artsy types and to work on my own projects. I couldn’t do much better than this at the moment.

The patrons erupted in applause as the Balinese Gamelan players took their bows.

“Oh–I’m up now to announce the start of the poetry readings. Be a dear and watch the bar for me, will you?”

She handed me a towel before she slid over countertop  and headed towards the stage.

A patron hollered to me from a table. “You there, could you bring me another Shandy, please? Thank you, dear.”

Shandy? Oh dear.

Lori Gloyd (c) 2006