Lemurian City of Ladies

A Lemurian City Built in Memory of Christine de Pizan

Archive for June 2008

arrival in Lemuria

with 6 comments


When I visited Paris, my friends and I rode the Metro all around town.  I had no idea where we were going, but when we’d walk up the stairs and out onto the sidewalk, I would see something wonderful I had only read about before:  the Louvre, Notre Dame, Musee’ D’Orsay, Opera House, Left Bank, Champs Elysees, Sacre’ Coeur, the Arc de Triomphe…it was magical.  I did not always know where I was, but I knew it was somewhere I wanted to be.

            I had a feeling this road trip to Lemuria would be something like that.  So when I popped up from the magical Metro station, and saw the beautiful colored gates, I knew this would be the first step of a wonderful journey.

            I checked my itinerary, which said my first stop would be the Lemurian Gateway of Choice, so called because I could choose to stay or go, seek for answers or ignore the questions, ,  look within and see if there were anything I liked, pursue my talents or give up, wonder what might have been.  I might find love and enlightenment – or it might be a waste of time and energy.  Who knew?  But I’d never know unless I tried…

            Besides, who could resist entering such a beautiful, enchanting passageway?  And besides, I’d heard some of my fellow pilgrims might be a bunch of girls who just wanna have fun…

            As I walked through the archway, I thought I heard the fluttering of hundreds of raven wings, the sweet strains of a gypsy violin, and maybe a siren’s song…

            Next on the itinerary was a stop at the undersea Atlantic Cathedral, more like a giant aquarium, with a small alcove where land mammals like me could look in at the wonders, be amazed, be humbled, be thankful for such beauty, and pray to the Muse for the grace to always be inspired.



(photo of Wahington National Cathedral by Gary Stiles)



Written by kvwordsmith

June 30, 2008 at 7:58 pm

Her Eyes Are Wrong

with 12 comments

Here’s a strange little item


a strange little tale

that you can find in one of the many Curiosity Shops

lost in the backstreets of the

Lumerian City of Ladies


The picture is in a gold frame and

and it is hanging in a basement in a little room with a coal shoot door that won’t stay nailed shut where I used to play as a child.

One year I pulled the picture down, turned it over and saw written on the back in dark red ink:

“Her eyes are wrong- and it’s to late to change them now “

I turned the picture so that it faced the wall.

But the words scared me more then the photograph itself

so I turned it back around

and I never looked into the eyes in that picture again.

But it didn’t matter.

Because those eyes, those wrong eyes, saw me.

I know it.

And I know that they still do.


by a.m. moscoso

Written by Anita Marie

June 30, 2008 at 2:57 pm

Sacrifice to the Muse

with 5 comments

    “We are now entering the Mouseion, the Hall of the Muses,” announced the were-pen.
    “How a-muse-ing,” I quipped.  The floating were pen hovered right before my eyes, shaking, and I swear if looks could kill I would be dead, cremated, and scattered to the Lemurian winds already.  “I’m sorry.  I will try to be more respectful,” I said.
    The were-pen seemed appeased and continued.  “The Mouseion was a sanctuary of learning – it contained great libraries, laboratories, class rooms, lecture halls, art galleries, botanical gardens, music wings, and dormitories for those who wanted to learn all the Muses had to offer.”
    “Like today’s junior colleges?” I goaded.  The were-pen clicked its top in rapid succession, a staccato tattoo of ballpoint aggravation. 
    The were-pen glared.  “Yes, but more like the greatest universities throughout history, and world class museums and conservatories.  Masters level only.”
    “No online correspondence courses?” I teased.  The were-pen shook hard and I was afraid she’d ink all over herself.  “Sorry,” I said.  “I’ll try to behave.”
    I looked around and I was truly impressed – the terrazzo floors, the marble sculpture, the perfect acoustics, the subtle recessed lighting, everything but the little descriptive printed cards explaining each work of art, and who donated it.  “This is marvelous.”
    The were-pen nodded agreement.  “But you are not here just to have a nice time, appreciating the talents of those far more gifted than you.  I brought you here because it is time for you to pay homage to, to make sacrifice, to your Muse.”
    “But I put a few dollars in the donation box when we came in,” I protested.
    Now the were-pen clicked slowly, like a clock, “tic-toc, tic-toc”.  I did not think that was a good sign.  It reminded me of those loud little clocks attached to bombs in the movies.  The were-pen told me, “This is not just a token offering you are supposed to make, to bribe the Muse into being your best buddy and grant you a favor or two.  You are asking for the power to create something out of nothing.  You are asking to be like God.  This requires real, old fashioned, atonement-through-blood, ritual sacrifice.  You don’t get something for nothing, you know.”
    “I give the Muse my time, in studies, in practice.  Isn’t that enough?  It’s not like there are any turtledoves or scapegoats around here for me to buy and butcher on the alter,” I said.
    “You say you want inspiration.  You say you’d do anything, give your right arm, your first-born, your money, your life.”
    “I meant that figuratively, not literally!” I said.
    “Do not trifle with the Muses, human.  They do not take insincerity lightly.  Have you not heard of Faust, who sold his soul to the devil?  Of the blues singer Robert Johnson who met the devil at the crossroads and traded his soul for talent?  What price are you willing to pay?”
    “I don’t know.  What do I have that the Muse could want?  What could I give?”
    “I cannot tell you.  You have to find out for yourself.  Be still – pray – meditate – let the Muse speak to you – you will have your answer.  I will give you some privacy for now, and return later.”
    I knelt down in front of a carved stone table and asked the Muse what I should offer.  I knew she would not want 21st century human toys, cars, laptops, iPods, and such – but what?  “Oh dear Muse, I would give anything – what do you want?”
    I waited.  Silence.  “Please, tell me.  What can I bring you?  What do you want?”
    A silent voice very clearly informed me that what the Muse demanded was this:  the still beating heart of a child.
    That could not be right.  “A child’s heart?  How could you be so cruel?  What would you do with it?  Hold it in your hand and crush it?” I asked.  “And why a child’s heart?”
    “A child’s heart is pure.  Like a poet, a child wants to sing, and play, and ask 100 questions.  A child wants to be seen and loved and recognized for who they are.  They want attention and praise.  They cry, “‘Look at me! Look at me!’  Just like you.  Isn’t that why you want to create art?  For the same reasons?”
    “Yes,” I confessed.  “But I cannot kill someone’s child.” 
   That same quiet way of knowing, not so much an inner voice as a conviction, told me, “Why do you assume the worse?  Why do you think I mean great harm?  Perhaps I want to hold that child’s beating heart, not to kill it, but to heal it.  And perhaps that child belongs to you – because she is you, way down deep.”
    “But can I trust you not to hurt this child?” I wondered.
    “We divine ones have an old saying…’Expect the worst but hope for the best,'” the Muse said, with a slight smile.
    “Ye gods and goddesses, would it hurt you so much to give us a  guarantee now and then?” I sighed.  “I will do my best, to use my talents as best I can, for the good.  It’s all I can promise.”
    “It’s all I ask.”
    The were-pen wobbled back into sight.  “Did the Muse answer your prayers?”
    “Yes and no…”
by Kerry Vincent (c) 2008

Written by kvwordsmith

June 29, 2008 at 7:06 pm


with 6 comments

Still pondering the reason why Apollo and Thalia would be depicted on the same coin the ghost in the Hall of Remembrances gave her, she entered the Lemurian Mouseion in the City of Ladies.  Entering between huge columns, she thought of the many museums she had visited in her life, all with columns, within and without: Metropolitan Museum of Art and the Cloisters in New York City, the University of Pennsylvania Museum in Philadelphia, the Carnegie Museum in Pittsburgh, PA., the British Museum, etc. 


She moved into the coolness of the House of Muse and was intrigued by the richly detailed mosaic floor, which the sign said was Roman and exhibiting the nine Muses.   



And here was a sarcophagus, the “Muses Sarcophagus” representing the nine Muses and their attributes.  Made of marble in the first half of the second century AD, it had been seized by Napoleon and then exchanged in 1815.  What does that mean? 



She wondered which one was her adopted namesake.  There’s Thalia or Thaleia, according to the sign, holding the comic mask—second from the left.  Funny, how it all developed.


Years ago she had come across a medium-sized box turtle while both were walking in the Ozark woods.  This turtle didn’t draw in its head or extremities like most she had come across.  Its head stayed out and slowly looked up at her eyes.  Whoa!  What is this?  Not afraid and not looking at my feet, but directly into my eyes.  And what beautiful eyes it has—soft and warm.  How can a turtle have warm eyes?  They’re cold-blooded reptiles.


She reached down and slowly picked up the turtle who kept looking at her.  For some reason, unknown to her consciously, the name “Thalia” came to mind, so that’s what she called the sweet turtle.  She built Thalia a three-level habitat and kept Thalia for a number of years.


Remembering Thalia-turtle, she adopted the nickname at various times, liking the sound of it.  Previously, she had known Thalia was one of the Greek Muses but didn’t know anything beyond that.


She moved around the room, reading about each of the Muses.  Fascinating!  Where’s Thalia?  Oh, here she is.  Thalia is Latin whereas Thaleia is Greek.  What a lovely statue. Maybe I can get a picture of this and make a collage from it.   This is from the Vatican Museum in Rome from the second century C.E.  And this one is from the Heritage Museum in St. Petersburg, a Roman copy of the original from the second century AD earlier in Greek.  Hmmm, some say C.E. and others say A.D.  Wonder what’s the difference? 


Let’s see what this says: she was the muse of pastoral poetry and comedy and is usually seen with a shepherd’s crook and a mask of comedy.  She was either one of the nine Muses (the eighth daughter of Zeus and Mnemosyne) or one of the three Graces born of Zeus and Euryrome, daughter of Oceanus.  Some even speculate they are one and the same.


Ah!  Here it is—Thaleia becomes mother of the Corybentes (or Korybentes) by Apollo.  That’s why they are together on the coin.  She reached into her pocket for the coin, brought it out and moved it back and forth so it caught the light, and from one side to the other.  Then she looked back to the caption which stated there had been a coin made, a denarius, with the head of Apollo and the reverse had Thalia, Muse of Comedy, holding an actor’s mask.  This was a rare depiction of a Muse on a coin.


Wow!  And now I have one.  It’s beautiful!  How did that ghost have one?  And a real one at that?  I’ll have to go back to the Hall of Remembrances and get his story.


She held onto it, looking at it occasionally as she continued around the room, looking at statues and reading the information.  She moved to the center of the circular room where there was an elaborate, large urn with a sign saying anyone making an offering or a hymn to the Muses, or of one in particular receives the honor-offering back three-fold.


There was some blank notepaper and pencils there if anyone needed it.  Quite a few folded papers were in the urn along with some coins and paper money, what looked to be a necklace and even a ring.  A lovely silk scarf was half in and half out of the urn.  A few pages had obviously been prepared at home and brought here since the paper was decorative.  And someone placed some fresh flowers in an ivy wreath.  A pretty, lacy embroidered handkerchief peeked out of the pile of offerings.


What can I offer at this altar?  I could do a quick poem, or maybe tell a story about who my muse might be… but wait a minute… I think Thalia is my muse.  What could I leave for her?


She suddenly realized her fingers had been unconsciously playing with the coin she had returned to her pocket for safe keeping.  She brought it out and looked at the smooth edges where many fingers had worn them down over time. 


I don’t need the coin to remember to go back to the Hall of Remembrances.  I love it, and it feels right to be touching it, but really… I guess I’ve had Thalia as my muse for many years without realizing it.  What better place could there be, for this coin?  But not as an offering, but a gift in gratitude.  My life is already flourishing and flowering (what they say is the meaning of the name ‘Thalia’).  Perhaps that has been my muse’s influence already combined with Grace from beyond the realm of muses.  What more do I need?  My life overflows with love and support and gratitude.  The choosing of the name Thalia years ago for the turtle was either from the deep unconscious or the higher consciousness.  In either case, it has worked.  My muse found me.


She lovingly rubbed the coin and looked at both sides to engrave the images into her mind’s eye for future reference.  Then gently and reverently placed the coin on top of all the other offerings in the urn with a reverent Thank you. 




She then turned and walked outside.


When I finish this walking tour and return home, I think I’ll make a collage card using pictures of these statues and the sarcophagus and, maybe even a turtle, to represent this part of the tour.  And if I answer the Soul College questions, I will learn even more about this aspect of myself that is Thalia.


As she walked, she mulled over how she might arrange the pictures on her Thalia/Thaleia collage card.




Maybe I’ll even post the completed card and related answers on my blog when I get it finished.  What an adventure this walking tour has been.  And there’s still more to go. Hope my feet hold out.  I wonder how far it is to the Labyrinth and the Tholos.  This older body and weary feet need a rest.

Written by thalia

June 28, 2008 at 8:13 pm

Check in at the City of Ladies

with 4 comments

At Long last I spotted the “City of Ladies”.  How long I’d been walking I can not tell you but it seems as though it was ment to be that way.  Somewhere along the road I began to collect the things that I thought  were important for the trip.  Sitting at the top of the hill with my cart which had been traded for some of the things collected along the way;  some journals which I never got around to write in, a set of colored pens because I already had two other sets, a crystal clock because times has come to be less important and five robes that were hand embriodered with silk and rayon cords, embellished with semi precious stones made of beatiful fabrics.  These were added to my offering for the cart because I finally realized that the joy was in makinging these garments.  Love them, enjoy them, now pass them on.

After rearranging my little cart I headed for the city.  Down the hill and across the meadow I pushed finally arriving at the entrance where I was met by a woman who directed  me to the check in stall.  After being warmly greeted by the lady manning the booth she pointed to a place where I could leave my cart, gave me a claim check and said “After your stay in the city you can come back to claim your belongings or donate them to the offering for the Saturday night bonfire”  I must have looked startled for she went on and said “you might be surprised at what people find the no longer need after staying here a while”.   I thanked her and turned around.  Now where will I go?  It was still morning but I was tired from the long trip and pushing that cart.  Feeling rather relieved not to have to drag it around through this magical place.  Magical?  I knew in my bones there was magic to be had here.

A tall beautifully dressed woman walked up to me and said “Maven Maker?, we have been waiting for you, come with me to meet your guide.”  I guess I don’t have to decide what to do next the next has already been decided for me.  The tall woman, whose name is Minerva, took me to a small outdoor cafe where we sat.  Immediately a hand came around placing a goblet on the table filled with the most delicious orange, pineapple, mango concoction I had ever tasted.  It was cold, tart and sweet.  Then a woman came up to the table carrying three small plates of food.  She sat down and Minerva introduced her as Pleasant.  I came to find out that Pleasant was to be my guide.  She would help me find my way around the City.  As we sat and talked like we had been friends forever I realized that this was to be a life changing event.  I had not been this comfortable with anyone for a long time.  It felt safe to expose the most intimate parts of myself to these ladies.  Was it just these women or was it the city?  I don’t know, however, I want to find out.

Pleasant say she has a surprise for me but it will have to wait until tomorrow.  First I need to get a good nights rest.  She takes me to the Ladies Chalet were a room has been reserved.  I’m shown my room a large room with ochre walls, carpets on the floor, a dressing table with a mirror on it.  It seems vaguely familiar.  The bed is in an alcove with curtains that are being rustled from the breeze that is coming in through the open french doors that lead to a balcony.  There steps lead down to a garden with a fountain.  I am suddenly exhausted.  Taking a cool shower using the moss and rose scented soap,  I then wrap myself in a towel.  Later I find a caftan has been hung on back of the door, slipping into it I lie down and immediately fall asleep. 

Thoughts for tomorrow will have to wait until tomorrow.   Right now sleep, restful, peaceful sleep.  I feel someone touch me cheek gently then say ” sleep my child,  for tomorrow is another day.


Written by mavenmaker

June 28, 2008 at 7:42 pm

Posted in Walking Tour


with 4 comments

by a.m. moscoso

This is Sylvester.

Guess what we talk about.


I’ll tell you.

I’ve been visiting Sylvester at Ye Olde Curiousity Shop in Seattle on Alaska Way  since I was about five years old ( I’m almost 44 now ).

Sylvester knows all about me:

When I decided to become a magician at age 8, I told Sylvester. When I started to write a year later I told him about that too, when I got my license to drive guess who I visited first…

and when I become a Mortician guess who heard all about it.

Now asI write my short stories, as I work on my book it has not gone unnoticed that I visit Sylvester a lot more then I ever have before.

And we still talk.

I do it because I still think he listens.

I know I do.


Sylvester at the Shop HERE

Science and Sylvester HERE

Visit Ye Olde Curiosity Shop HERE

Ye Olde Curiosity Shop Ghost Tours HERE

Written by Anita Marie

June 28, 2008 at 5:08 pm

It’s Today! (a virtual party in a blog)

with 2 comments

As a new citizen of the City of Ladies I’ve decided to give a little party for my new friends and neighbors here in this colorful city. A little virtual celebration is always a nice chance to share works and favorite music and just have fun for no particular reason except that it’s today!



It’S a MaD tEa PaRtY!!

Everyone, gather ’round for some singing and dancing.

Got your own trumpets, cymbals and other unusual and delightful musical instruments?

Feel free to dance the twist, jump around in sheer glee or simply just wave your arms about and shake your bodies to the sound of the music.

It’s today!
Though it may not be anyone’s birthday,
And though it’s far from the first of the year,
I know that this very minute has history in it, we’re here!


Have a seat in our makeshift little Parisian café, with spindly metal tables and chairs with heart-shaped backs and those pretty silver cutlery and dainty china cafés seem to come with.

How about some refreshments?

We’ve got coffee and sandwiches for you.

I’m afraid we don’t have any raspberry cordial today but someone gave us a bottle of currant wine, if you would like to try that. I hear it’s quite good; Diana Barry drank a whole bottle of it once, to her parents’ horror but everyone else’s delight.


A perfect day to relax and to rejuvenate.

A perfect time for dancing and dreaming, for trying out new things and making new friends.

Before you go, don’t forget to browse the italicized words around the room for surprise gifts!

{And if you’d like a copy of the image for yourself, click on it to go to my flickr page to view the full size.}

Written by foxndragon

June 28, 2008 at 11:21 am

Posted in Uncategorized

Tagged with ,

street art in the beggars quarter

with 12 comments

On any walking tour in any city – and Lemuria is no exception – if you keep your eyes open you will see any variety of what might be called street art. To my mind this encompasses graffiti, murals, trompe l’oeils (those pictures designed to look like something else) and odd pictures that an artist might have  made and stuck up somewhere just for the pleasure.

On my last walk through the beggars quarter, for this is where most of these pictures were taken, I came across an extraordinary variety of art.

This one is an example of stencil graffiti. The artist cuts out a stencil and then, using a can of spray paint, can quickly daub any number of these pictures in a very short time. This one is only as big as my hand. Blink and you might have missed it.

stencil graffiti

These next three examples are more the sort of thing that people associate with the word graffiti




How about these two? graffiti or a piece of art that might have been commissioned?



and this last one, my favourite. Someone has painted these vibrant poppies on to a sheet of plastic and stuck it up on a metal door. Someone else perhaps has taken a knife to it and scored out sections which have been replaced but not quite in their original positions thus giving it the look of a collage.

street art

Written by traveller2006

June 27, 2008 at 5:34 pm

The Raven Stomp

with 11 comments


You do the hokey pokey and you turn yourself about
that’s what it’s all about
You do the hokey pokey and you turn your self about
That’s what
The Raven Stomp
Is ALL About

Heather Blakey June 2008 in The Taverna di Muse

Written by Heather Blakey

June 27, 2008 at 12:31 pm

In the Mouseion

with 9 comments

T. Rae grabbed her bag. She was eager to be off. It was Saturday morning and she had the whole weekend ahead of her. Friday night, she had scrambled to do her laundry, cleaning, and grocery shopping so she wouldn’t have to spend precious weekend time with such mundane necessities.

She zipped open her shoulder bag and took note of the usual contents: wallet, key ring, cell phone and makeup case. She tossed in her camera, extra batteries, note pad and pen, a bottle of water and granola bar, and, finally, her newest toy: an Apricot 2000, a PDA with full internet connectivity—a portable research center in her purse. With her bag packed, she left her apartment and hurried down the street to the bus stop. An hour later she arrived at the Mouseion.

As she entered the marble foyer of the Mouseion, a wash of humility swept over her. The knowledge of all the cultures of the world resided in the Mouseion’s book shelves and electronic databases or in the artifacts so carefully arranged on display. Scholars from every part of the world came to the Mouseion to study, interact with one another, and exchange ideas. T.Rae knew she had nothing to contribute to these dialogues here, but still she loved to come to soak up the wonders of the world. Most young women her age would be sharing their Saturday with friends over lunch, gossiping about their boyfriends, or going shopping or to the movies. T. Rae’s companions were the books and artifacts of the Mousieon. And she was just fine with that.

T. Rae wandered into the central gallery. She paused for a moment to get her bearings. Standing in the cool, dimly lit gallery, she felt like she was entering a sacred space. It was as if the collective energy of every natural wonder on earth, every culture, and every period in history was converging in this place and she was partaking in some sort of communion with that energy.

T Rae began to wander and ended up in the gem and mineral gallery, one of her favorite exhibits. She strolled through the gallery, examining the precious stones, marveling that such beauty could be dug out of the bowels of the earth. She stopped in front of a display of cut and polished rubies. As she studied the gems, her attention was drawn to a small white card stuck between the gem case’s metal framework and glass. She cocked her head sideways to look at it.  It was someone’s business card. She slid the card out of the frame. Printed on one side was:

Clio Anne Reinhardt, Ph.D.
Independent Scholar and Consultant
E-Mail: WingORaven @ aol.com

T. Rae turned over the card and did a double-take. In elegant handwriting, the card read:
“Dear Theresa: Please meet me at 11 a.m. in front of the Aztec calendar in the Meso-American Gallery. C.R.”

She looked over her shoulder. Except for a man with two small children at the opposite end of the gallery, she was alone. She shook her head and slid the card back between the frame and the glass. This must be for some other Theresa, she thought.

T. Rae left the gem gallery and strolled to the Hall of Paleontology, another of her favorite places. After studying the dinosaur fossils for a while, she realized it was nearly noon when she felt her stomach growl. As she headed towards the Mouseion’s cantin, a voice came over the p.a. system: “Will patron Theresa Rae McIntyre please come to the Meso-American Gallery. Your party is waiting for you.” T. Rae spun around. This must be some sort of mistake, she thought, as she hurried down the corridor towards the Gallery. She was hungry and in no mood for this distraction.

She entered the Meso-American Gallery. Looming before he was an enormous stone wheel, an intricately carved replica of the great Aztec calendar discovered in Mexico. Standing in front of the calendar was a middle aged woman in khaki pants and green t-shirt.   She was holding a canvas hat in one hand and wore a large ruby cabochon on a chain around her neck. When she saw T. Rae, she smiled and extended a hand. “Hello, T-Rae. I’m Prof. Reinhardt. I’m glad you could make it.” Not wanting to be rude, T.Rae limply shook her hand.

“Excuse me, but do I know you?” T. Rae asked.

“Well, you should. I’m going to be your tour guide!”

T. Rae stared at the woman.

“Oh, by the way, you can call me Clio. All my students do. I might as well tell you now before we begin our tour.”

“Tour? Look, I’m sorry but there must be some mistake. I don’t need a tour and I am not a student.”

“Honey, we are all students. Learning never ceases. And you will need a tour guide where we’re going.”

T. Rae shifted uneasily on her feet. “Um, I really do think you have the wrong person, Professor.”

“No, T. Rae, you’re just the right person for this.”

T. Rae was nervous now.  How did she know her nick-name?  How would she know that T.Rae would be in the gem vault at just the right time to find her card?  Clio seemed to read her mind:

“You’re here quite a bit, like me, and I’ve been watching you. I know you will understand the purpose of the tour once we begin.”

“Look, it was nice talking with you, Professor, but I really gotta go now. Bye.” She turned to leave.

“Don’t you think it’s odd that a grown woman spends so much time in a mouseion? Some would say that’s a tad ‘nerdish’”.

T. Rae swung around to face her. “Just who do you think—-”

“BUT, I don’t. You are drawn here like a pilgrim to a sacred well.” She stepped towards T.Rae and gazed at her with intensity. “And I can help you drink from that well.”

T. Rae wanted to get away from this crazy woman but something about her passion intrigued her.  Then Clio asked, “Have you heard of ley lines?”

“Um, yeah, They’re supposed to be lines of energy that criss-cross the earth. But that’s nonsense. There’s no scientific evidence for them. They don’t exist.”

“Ah, but they do, and there’s an intersection of two lines right here in the mouseion.”

“There are no known ley lines in this area. The closest vortex is in Sedona, Arizona.

The professor’s green eyes sparkled. “For someone who doesn’t believe in ley lines, you sure know a lot about them.”

T. Rae frowned at her. “What’s your point?”

“My point is that ley lines are conduits of energy. We are beings of energy. Therefore, we can employ the lines to travel anywhere on earth in any time.”

“You’re kidding me, right? Using ley lines to pop from place to place– like ‘Beam me up, Scotty?”

She laughed. “Something like that. We are all interconnected– with the earth, with each other, with the universe. It is all one. It’s just a matter of physics, honey.”

T. Rae was getting a headache and she really didn’t want to get into a discussion about quantum physics. “If what you say is true, then why aren’t people already flitting about on this cosmic superhighway?”

“What makes you think people don’t? All you need is to believe.”

Clio reached into on of the deep pockets in her khakis and pulled out a chain with a ruby, just like the one she wore.

“This might help. Wear this and you can access the Lines.”

” Who am I? Dorothy of Oz and that’s supposed to work like her pair of ruby slippers?”

“Okay. Sorry. It worked with the others. I should have figured you’d be too sophisticated for that.” She put the necklace back in her pocket.

“But,” she fished around in the same pocket, “you will need this.” She pulled out a folded piece of paper. “This is a map of all known ley lines and their intersection points. Just stand on any intersection, picture in your mind another point on a line, think of a date, and, well, you’re on your way.”

“Poof. Just like that?”

“Just like that.”


Clio shook her head. “I guess I’ll have to demonstrate.” She motioned T.Rae to follow her. “The intersection point in the museum is right behind this Aztec Calendar.”

T. Rae peered around her. A space of a few feet separated the stone wheel from the gallery wall. Clio stepped behind the wheel and closed her eyes. ”Sedona. Present time.”

A white light flickered like a camera flash and T. Rae heard a faint crackling in the air. Clio vanished.

T.Rae spun around and surveyed the gallery. There were a few other patrons, oblivious to what had just happened.

She couldn’t believe what was happening. All she wanted to do was stroll around the Mouseion today. That’s all. Her head was spinning. But what if Clio were right? How fantastic would this be! To see the world, to see the people who made history.

“No, no, no! This was just too weird. I can’t go. I have to go to work on Monday.” She started to walk away. She noticed a family looking at some Native American woven baskets, and she paused to watch them as they strained to look through the glass at the baskets. To actually see the people who made those baskets…. what a trip that would be.

T-Rae sighed and rolled her eyes to the ceiling. Then she turned back to the stone calendar.

“Ah, well, I guess I could miss work on Monday.” She glanced around to see if anyone was looking, then stepped behind the stone. “Sedona. Present time.”

Then everything exploded in a white flash.

L. Gloyd (c) 2008

Written by Pelican1

June 27, 2008 at 12:01 pm

Posted in Lemurian Mouseion