Lemurian City of Ladies

A Lemurian City Built in Memory of Christine de Pizan

Archive for the ‘Lemurian Mouseion’ Category

Henry and I Enter the Mouseion

with 7 comments

“We sh-sh-should’a brought a l-ladder!” Henry murmured.

“Wow.” This was awe, pure and simple.

Henry and I had decided to spend a day touring the famous center of learning in the City of Ladies, but we had not been prepared for the reality that stood before us. Our first glimpse as we’d turned the corner from Avenue Palazio to Museum Way seemed to indicate it was very close and yet we’d walked at least three or four blocks before arriving at the sweeping stone steps fronting the enormous sandstone building that was the entrance to a whole series of museums, courtyards, gardens and libraries.

The arched and sculpted bronze doors to the Lemurian Mouseion soared nearly twenty feet high. My first thought was disbelief at what we were seeing. Who could have had the artistic and engineering know-how to produce such massive metal doors? How could they have been hung?

“Legend says the doors grow in size as new knowledge and art are accumulated,” I said. Henry’s remark about the ladder was apt, but I was wishing for a bench where we could sit and study the intricate panels. I gauged the majority to be two feet square and, these, like pages in a book, hinted at the art exhibits inside. Architectural panels were tall and narrow and honored buildings easily recognized from around the world: churches like Chartres and Notre Dame, landmarks like the Empire State Building and the Eiffel Tower, even a replica of the Mouseion itself. Others were unknown to me. Every six feet or so long landscape panels divided the doors horizontally. Stepping back in order to see above my head, I saw the New York skyline and on the opposite door, Sidney Harbor and its sailing ship Opera House.

I probably would have stayed there for an hour or more trying to identify all the sculpted scenes when Henry asked, “H-h-h-how do we get inside?”

Too engrossed to have even pondered this obvious question, I blinked stupidly and admitted, “I have no idea.” I couldn’t imagine doors of this size and obvious weight swinging either in or out.

To my surprise Henry began laughing. “G-g-g-got it,” he said as his fingers searched the Mouseion in miniature. With barely a sound, the heavy doors eased inward as gently as a curtain blowing in the breeze.

There before us loomed a city within a city, with tree-lined streets, stone and wooden buildings and charming little shops.

To be continued.

Written by porchsitter

July 9, 2008 at 2:56 am

Posted in Lemurian Mouseion

Bay Laurel Walking

with 9 comments

 

Gaia was calling,

walking to the Mouseion,

telling the tale of Apollo and Daphne –

the same way the sun chased the moon.

The Bay Laurel whispered in the

warm breeze, of salt and sea

and wild lavender and olive hills, –

– as the books in the

Mouseion spoke the

tale, ancient of myth and song.

(copyright Imogen Crest 2008.)

Written by imogen88

July 8, 2008 at 10:40 am

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

A-mus-ing

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

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.”

“Right…….”

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

Dreams for Sale

with 6 comments

The sleepy basket girl
walks through the pink Lemurian mist
each early morning,
singing out, in a sweet alto voice,
“Dreams for sale!
Look in my basket,
full of pretty dreams!
Pick any one you like!
Only cost you a quick kindness,
don’t cost nothin’ to look!
Old dreams, new dreams,
anything you can dream of!
Anything can happen today
in the City of Ladies!
Come on, now, my dears,
you beautiful Lemurian dreamers,
Try one of my fresh dreams right now –
today could be amazing!  (Stay tuned…)”
And where she walks she leaves a magic trail
of pink and purple glittering pixie dust,
a few sand dollars, some pretty shells,
the heavy, sweet scent of longing
for what could have been,
and just a hint of what may yet be… 
 
by Kerry Vincent (c) 2008

Written by kvwordsmith

June 25, 2008 at 2:28 am

Muse’s Gifts

with 12 comments

“Your sacred space is
where you can find yourself
again and again.”Joseph Campbell

Strength is a twisting vine that won’t let go

Strength is a will that will not give all the way

Strength is a quiet root that digs in and survives.

I confront my past and all my pain

I confront my grief and my loss

I confront the unfairness of life

I accept it – it is mine –

But it is not all that I am.

I heal by the salve of poetry

I heal by creativity’s touch

Art can’t change what happened

But it changes me so I can heal myself.

It renews me, empowers me,

Gives me choices,

Puts me back in control,

Lets me connect.

Pain is a great teacher

Art is a great healer

Together they make me strong.

The Muse never promised this life would be easy.

She never said I’d get riches or fame.

She only stands in the vortex

Pointing to the Sacred Way.

Kerry Vincent © 2008

Written by kvwordsmith

June 20, 2008 at 8:33 pm