LUCK, FORTUNE AND FATE

"This is the third time; I hope good luck lies in odd numbers...
There is divinity in odd numbers, either in nativity, chance or death."
William Shakespeare 1564 - 1616 "The Merry Wives of Windsor" Viii,10

Last week at my Memoirs group, we had an interesting discussion on habits and 'old wives tales'. One of the members who is of Greek descent, brought in a list of the beliefs the Greeks have, many of them going right back to ancient times. One was the discussion about how things happen in threes. For instance, the Greeks with 'spit' (Ptoo, ptoo, ptoo) three times to ward off evil.

"Our concern be peace of mind: some old crone let us seek,
To spit on us for luck and keep unlovely things afar." Theocritus 310-250 BC "Idylls" VII

The "mati", or "eye" is a charm worn to ward of the Evil Eye. I have several of these charms and wear them often.

The 'things come in threes' theory was proven once again on the weekend when I got a phone call early Saturday morning from the Greek Man on the Bus who is an aquaintance I knew when I lived in Athens, and happens to be a friend of the taverna owners where I hang out there. I hadn't heard from Dimitris for awhile and suddenly he called, inviting me to join him one day for coffee. This call was followed by one from my favorite nephew who I also had not heard from for several months. He also invited me for coffee. Then, a third call from a cousin back East who almost never phones except perhaps at Christmas. Was this simply a coincidence or is it true: Things happen in threes?

As far as luck is concerned, I feel fairly lucky, and fortunate too. Because just when I feel at my wits end about things, someone or something happens to help out or change things. I was lucky the other week when a brick came through my window in the middle of the night as I sat at my computer chair. If I'd been in my bed I'd have been showered with shards of glass. And when I found the brick right behind my computer chair I realize how lucky I was not to have been conked on the head! (I actually thought the 'explosion' I heard was a gunshot. Lucky me!)

The ancient Greeks were great believers in Fate and Fortune. It was called "Moira" . The Persians called it "Qismet". So the characters in my novel often talk about fate and fortune, piously appealing to the gods for 'signs' and guidance, just as we do in our modern lives.

In this scene from Part II of "Shadow of the Lion" Alexander the Great's little son questions his Uncle Ptolemy:

The child looked intently at Ptolemy. "What is moira?"
"That is your destiny," Ptolemy explained. "The path the god has chosen for you. It is why your father took his army to Persia. He was following his moira. While he lived, he always walked with the gods and went where they led him. His death was ordained by the gods. The seers foretold his coming to Babylon. They also foretold his death. Alexander was like the fire that falls from heaven. He burned so brightly he lit the sky more brilliantly than the sun. All the world marveled at his deeds and will speak of them fo years to come."

"Leave all else to the gods - "
"Cease to ask what the morrow will bring forth,
and set down as gain each day that Fortune grants."
Horace (Quintus Horatius Flaccus) 65-8 BC "Odes" 1:13
Sometimes the characters in Shadow seized opportunities to improve their good fortune, as did Alexander's half-sister Thessaloniki. (You'll recognize her name. She had a city named after her. But how did that come about?) Kassandros, son of the recently deceased Regent Antiipater, and a long-time rival and enemy of Alexander, plots to seize the Regency by engaging himself to a daughter of the Royal House.

"Let me help you," insisted Kassandros. "Marry me and I will not only put you on the throne, but name a city after you!"

Thessaloniki's eyes narrowed. "Is this a brbie, Sir?"

"I beseech you,Madam," he said in a tone of conciliation. "Do not entrust your kinsman's throne to a foreign child of dubious birthright, who is under the control of a has-been soldier of fortune who cares nothing for your well-being. Give consideration to what I have offered you."

She looked at him silently. "Leave now!" she commanded. Then her voice softened. "I am not prepared to give you my answer now, but I will consider it."

Kassandros bowed with exaggerated deference. "As you desire, Princess. May you prosper."

Thessaloniki turned quickly back to her loom. She knew Kassandros had gone only by the sound of the door closing. She realized her head was aching and her hands trembled so her fingers snagged the threads. Had she insulted him by refusing to answer immediately?

For a long time she sat, until the lamps had burned so low the wicks spluttered in the oil. Kassandros' proposal both startled and confused her and bred in her mind curious thoughts. She needed wise counsel, but who was there to turn to? She was alone and friendless in the palace. Kassandros had offered her protection and a name. A city named in her honour! What other Macedonian princess could claim that? The Regent's son and the King's daughter. Such a combination might well suit both their purposes. How could she turn him down?

She allowed herself to smile. "To prosperity!" she thought.

"Do you wish to roam farther and farther?
See! The Good lies so near.
Only learn to seize good fortune,
For fortune's always here."
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe 1749 - 1832 "Remembrance"

But will the new Regent, Polyperchon, be so fortunate when he appeals to the god for counsel in bringing peace to the Greek city states and appeasing the Athenians?

The shrine was in a grove of sacred oaks. The clearing trilled with birdsong. Polyperchon was alone in the grove yet, even in the stillness, he could feel a Presence and his nape prickled. In the midst of the wood was the most sacred spot, a small-roofed colonnaded temple adorned with paintings and statues of bronze and marble. Here the holy altar stood, guarded by Zeus' eagle, its wings spread wide. A curl of smoke rose from the alter stones and the semll of burnt offering hung in the air.

He stpped forward. Last year's oak leaves rustled under his feet. He bowed and made the proskynesis, bringing his right hand to his lips to kiss the tips of his fingers. He burned an offering of frankincense on the altar and spread his hands to invoke the god with the proper praises and epithets.

"Oh Zeus, much honoured, Zeus supremely great, to Thee these holy rites I consecrate, my prayers and expectations. King Divine, be favourable to me, Father Zeus, and what I shall undertake, according to my prayers."

He prayed that he would receive the God's guidance in all that must be done to save the peace. He knew he was holding the destiny of Athens in his hands. What if the Athenians rejected his edict? He recalled the battle at Chaironeia after Thebes and Athens had refused Philip's treaty. General Phokion had urged them to heed the oracles at Delphi and accept it, but he had been laughed down by Demosthenes who derided Philip and said that everyone knew Philip had bribed the Pythia. The resulting slaughter and defeat had been a complete victory for Macedon, acknowledging Philip as Grand Hegamon, supreme war-leader of Greece. But could he, Polyperhcon, lead his country to victory again if the city states rebelled?

He was not a pious man, but he calle ddown Zeus' power, invoking the god for wisdom in his actions and success in his conquest.

"Father Zeus, Send me a sign now, and I will follow your command."

He felt the great carved eyes of Zeus' eagle bore into him. A chill draught brushed by him and the breeze ruffled the leaves of the sacred oaks. He thought of the fleet he must raise, and the army he must deploy to bring order to Athens. He wondered what Antipater would have done and what he should do in Antipater's place. And Alexander? And Philip? Their legacy was too great for him, but he must do his best for Macedon.

And so we too face our "Fortunes" and our "Fate". And are we the masters of the way things turn out? Why is it that someone who is passionate with life is suddenly snatched away by accident or terminal illness? Is it fate? Why do things happen, good or bad? Is it just a matter of 'luck' like winning the lottery? (Or me, winning a trip to Malaysia?) How much is simply coincidence like the three phone calls I got on Saturday morning, or escaping injury from a flying brick and exploding window?

"Lead me, Zeus, and you, Fate, wherever you have assigned me.
I shall follow without hesitation; but even if I am disobedient and do not wish to,
I shall follow no less surely."
Cleanthes 3300-232 BC from "EPICTETUS, Enchiridion." sec. 53

PSYCHIC CONNECTIONS

DEJA VU: (F. deja vu - ad.) literal: 'already seen"
PARANMESIA: something overly or unpleasantly familiar. The illusion of remembering scenes and events experienced for the first time = deja vu
EXTRASENSORY PERCEPTION: residing beyond or outside the ordinary senses.

"The fancy is indeed no other than a mode of memory emancipated from the order of time and space." Sameul Taylor Coleridge 1772 - 1834

I've always experienced a sense of feeling connections with something or someone outside the ordinary, as in ESP. It goes back to my childhood, when I was convinced there were spirits (ghosts). Perhaps it was just part of the early development of my writer's imagination. But I do know these feelings have carried over into my adult life, and I have many examples of this. Most recently, there were the dreams, the psychic connections I had related to very close friends who have passed. One distinct event happened five years ago when my close friend and soul-brother Roberto was dying in a hospice in Athens.

I was in the bathroom getting ready to go out for the evening but my thoughts were focused entirely on Roberto, and I stopped what I was doing to project myself to his bedside, praying that he would know I was 'with' him. At that moment something squeezed my hand so tightly that my ring was crushed onto my finger and bent out of shape with the force. It startled me, of course. I had to pry the ring off my finger and was amazed at how it had bent that way. But I knew somehow that Roberto had transfered psychic thoughts to me at that moment and had squeezed my hand tightly. What I didn't know was that was around the time he died.

Late last July, when I had lost track of my friend Anibal but knew something was wrong as people had reported seeing him and said he looked unwell, I had a dream that I was in a community centre where there had been entertainment and people were sitting around at tables eating. I spotted him and his friend H. and went to speak to them. Anibal looked thin and gray and was sitting staring down at his plate, unsmiling. I spoke to them and H. grinned at me in his boyish way. When I greeted Anibal he looked up and held out his hand. When I took his hand in mine it was ice cold. This startled me as he always had a warm touch. A few days later I found out he was in the hospital with terminal cancer. When I went to see him, he held out his hand to take mine, and his hand was ice cold, and he looked thin and gray just like in the dream.

Last week, I woke suddenly at 8.15, looked at the clock and went back to sleep. I had a troubling dream about being in a house in a place called White Rock. There was a lot of noice, tv blaring, music and people talking and I was distressed because I couldn't concentrate to do my writing. I woke, relieved to be in my own apartment. An hour later I got the call from his daughter to say Anibal had died at 8.15. And later, when I told her about the dream, she said her Dad and Mother had once had a house in White Rock.

How can we explain these eerie psychic connections? I knew from the start there was some kind of mental connection between A. and myself. That was what drew us together as friends, and in the same way my friend Roberto and I were very connected, almost like brother and sister - Gemini twins.

There are been many other incidents in my life, and in particular some vividly connected with deja vu or "Paramnesia" in which I have been somewhere that seemed uncannily familiar, as if I have been there before. A lot of these incidents have been connected to my historical fiction writing and travel experiences.

I first began to write about Alexander the Great's world when I was seventeen. At that time I had never been to Greece and only read about it in library books but the characters and places became familiar to me. People used to ask if I thought perhaps I'd 'been there' -- lived in that time in a past life. Perhaps. Because the first time I went to Greece, many years later, then referred back to that original manuscript, the descriptions of the land and other details were uncannily as they were. In fact, the first time I walked into the ancient Agora in Athens, I stopped dead in my tracks and burst into tears, because the whole scene unfolded as if I was back in time and could see it all exactly as it had been. I've had that happen a few places in Greece.

When I began my second novel (a w.i.p.) "Dragons in the Sky: A Celtic Tale" in which I narrate the story in the voice of "Olwen" a girl who has been raised by the Druids, there is also an Alexander connection. Olwen is very much like my alter-ego. She speaks through me to tell her amazing story. When I first went to visit Stonehenge which is part of the setting, I was waiting in the bus depot at Salisbury and learned of an Iron Age hillfort nearby. I walked out to the site, and as I approached the grassy, tree-covered mound, I could suddenly visualize it exactly as it had been. I turned down a path through the fields to explore. But something held me back. I tried a couple of times to pass by, but couldn't, and realized that something foreboding had happened there. Later, Olwen would reveal this incident to me. She had witnessed a murder there!

Another interesting psychic connection with this story was my inclusion of some details about a Druid holy place, Senghenydd, in Wales. When I showed my father the early draft of the MSS to get his opinion on the cadence of the Welsh speakers, he remarked that my great grandfather had been killed in a mining explosion in Senghendd. A couple of years ago, I actually visited there.

While I was researching on site for my current novel "Shadow of the Lion" I was hiking up the road toward Amphipolis, the hill fort where Alexander's son was murdered. As I approached, the sky grew dark, and a bolt of lightening struck right above the place where the citadel was located. I took this as a very eerie omen, and that day I didn't reach the site. But on a second visit a year or so later, I went all the way up to where the fortress ruins were, then climbed down the embankment under the remains of the walls, on a quest to retrace the path the boy (Alexander's son) and his friend might have taken in their attempt to escape. When you put yourself right into the scene, and let your imagination loose, it's surprising what psychic connections you can conjur!

How much of this is imagination and how much is 'real'? I suppose it depends on what you believe in and how you react to incidents -- if you are open and sensitive to accept these paranormal and psychic experiences. I do believe that we are sent signs and messages from the loved ones who have departed, and I have had enough deja vu experiences (especially in Greece) to firmly believe I might have lived there in another time. What do you think?

"And those who have insight will shine brightly like the brighteness of the expanse of Heaven, and those who lead the many to righteousness, like the stars forever and ever." Daniel 12:3

"The earth's about five m illion years old, at least,
Who can afford to live in the past?" Harold Ppinter 1930 - "The Homecoming" 1965 act iii

REQUIEM FOR A HERO

Please don't mourn as I depart, for that is when my life will start.
No longer will I be facing death, I'll be breathing Heaven's breath.
Please don't weep, don't weep for me,
I'll be home in Eternity." Bob Gotti 1957 from "Don't Weep for Me."

F. Scott Fitzgerald wrote "Show me a hero, and I'll write you a tragedy."
Somehow, for me, a writer, I always seem to be writing tragedies. My play "The Street: A Modern Tragedy" was partly autobiographical, based on the unfortunate demise of my first love who had become a heroin addict. My second play House of the Muses (work in progress) is about the poet Sappho who committed suicide because of unrequited love. The protagonist, Olwen, of my first-person w.i.p. novel Dragons in the Sky: A Celtic Tale is a somewhat tragic heroine too. And my current w.i.p. Shadow of the Lion about the fall of Alexander the Great's dynasty, is a classic Greek tragedy.

And once again, today, I am writing a tragedy -- one that is true. That is, the unfortunate death of my friend Anibal who passed away last Friday.

He was a man who loved life, who was a champion for social justice, working for the poor and oppressed, a hero in his own country, Chile, who was forced to flee Pinochet's military junta and lived here in exile. He was a scholar, a philosopher, a writer, a poet, a musician -- a man who lived passionately in everything he did. He was my mentor, in a way, as well as my friend. He encouraged me to read more, learn more about philosophy and educated me about the politics of his country. He spoke often of "nostalgia" and "melancholy". He longed for his homeland. He read voraciously -- almost always had a book with him -- and it was he who introduced me to his favorite poet, Pablo Neruda.

You are taken in the net of my music, my love,
and my nets of music are wide as the sky.
My soul is born on the shore of your eyes of mourning,
In your eyes of mourning the land of dreams begin.
Pablo Neruda "In My Sky at Twilight."

It was truly a tragedy that Anibal had to die. He said to me several times during his weeks of intense suffering "What have I done that was bad?" Of course, he had done nothing. His illness, cancer, was one of the great misfortunes that can happen to any of us. He had lived his life well, taken care of himself, so who can say why these things happen? Truly, his death is a tragedy, a great loss for everyone -- his family, his many friends. He said to me once, "We will be friends til the end of time." And yes, we will be, Anibal, because I will never forget you. Nor will I forget all the wonderful things you taught me in our long talks and discussions. Especially, when I hear the music, I will remember you and your brilliant smile. But now you are going home, where you always wanted to be. And we who loved you will never forget you.

The hour of departure has arrived, and we go our ways -
I to die, and you to live. Which is better, God only knows.
Plato 428-348 BC Apology (ibid 42)

Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet prince,
And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!
William Shakespeare 1564-1616 Hamlet Vii, 373

A WEEKEND IN LITERARY LAND

"You can declare at the very start that it's impossible to write a novel nowadays, but then, behind your back so to speak, give birth to a whopper, a novel to end all novels."
Gunter Grass (1927 -) The Tin Drum (1959) bk 7 "The Wide Skirt"

This weekend was the Surrey International Writer's Conference (www.siwc.com) and I was a volunteer (mainly because, being a poor full-time writer I can never afford to attend it otherwise.) I was thrilled with the jobs I was given: to introduce several of the authors and agents for their workshops. I was also able to attend a few of the workshops where I was either a door monitor or just sitting in. I made a lot of notes, and will include them here to share the information with you other writers who sometimes visit my blog site.

I introduced Deirdre Knight of the Knight Agency. This is what she had to say about the Author/Agent Relationship:
There will be several good agents, so start with the right person. Keep a good personality fit. You want someone who likes the full scope of what you are doing. Agents are the managers of your careers. Regarding blogs: Blogs help you equip yourself better.

I monitored and sat in on an exception lecture by Michael Slade, crime/suspense writer. Interestingly, this is his pen name. He also co-writes with his daughter. He used to be a lawyer and is a dynamic speaker as well as a high-impact writer!
Suspense - How to Avoid the Mistakes that Break It:
Keep the reader on the edge of their seat. Start with action, explain later. Hook the reader with the first line. Every chapter ends with a hook too. Write the last sentence in the book before you write the first one. Then you know where the payoff goes and the plot will all move to this point.Make it tough for your hero. Give him a worthy villain.

I introduced a B.C. author who writes Memoirs. This is what Luanne Armstrong had to say:
Memoirs are a best-selling genre these days. You can make a brilliant story out of ordinary life. ("Pilgrim at Tinker Creek" by Annie Dillard was an example of this.Attention to details is important in a memoir. Involve the reader. Turn the focus on to ordinary things. The memorist's job is to get under the story: What happened? Why? Ask yourself "What is the story beneath your story?"

At the workshop for "Why Anne Boleyn is the Poster Girl for Historical Fiction" I introduced agent Irene Goodman. She told us:
The story must capture the imagination of the reader. Write with authenticity. Write what comes from the deepest part of you.The time for historical fiction has never been better than now. Her agency looks for stories with strong, interesting women heroines drawn from real historical characters. (The agency also handles other genres.)

It was quite a thrill for me to be chosen as the introducers for three best-selling authors:
Jean Auel, Diana Gabaldon and Terry Brooks for the workshop: "Worlds that Were and Worlds that Used to Be" This was a panel discussion with a lot of input from the audience. Here's some of the comments the authors made:
Terry Brooks, author of the best-selling Magic Kingdom series -- "The Sword of Shannara" etc.On World-building: It has to resonate in a way to make sense. There must be a level of believablity - a willing suspension of disbelief. He says he outlines everything but doesn't necessarily do a lot of research.

Jean Auel ("The Earth's Children" series, most notably "Clan of the Cave Bear") says she starts with a story idea, researching and makes lots of notes, and then makes a bare outline. She is still using the origianal draft of "Clan of the Cave Bear" to build on her newest novel in the series (book six).

Diana Gabaldon, author of the best-selling "Outlander" series, warns that researching can be a pitfall for historical writers. (Be careful you aren't just researching and not writing!) Research and writing feed off each other. Interesting pieces of information can trigger plot ideas. She writes in bits and pieces (randomly) rather than in a linear way.

They all said: Keep working at something! You need to keep writing! Trust your instincts!

Both Diana Gabaldon and Jack Whyte, a B.C. writer, are very popular presenters at the Surrey Conference. I was pleased to be able to introduce Jack Whyte for his interesting workshop on
Description.
Jack Whyte has a series of books about the Arthurian legends and Roman Britain and is currently writing a series on the Knights Templar. One thing he emphasized was: Don't over-describe. Description is crucially important. Set the scene and describe what is visually relevant. In "telling" you have to "show" Don't use complicated words. Keep it simple. Don't give too much detail. Leave something to the reader's own imagination.

I also attended a workshop on Blogging: A Writer's Tool by Teresa Nielsen Hayden, an editor.

Blogging helps you break out of writer's block. It keeps you in touch with other writers and puts your words out there. She says she always replies to comments on her blog site!

I sat in on two workshops with author Jessica Morrell. One was "Nail the Ending" in which she pointed out:
The final lines are important. Make your ending satisfying to the reader. Spectacular endings may seem false. Keep your work true to itself.

In the lecture : "Bullies, Bastards, and Bitches -- Bad Guys in Fiction" she suggested:
Work on the back story of the antagonist or villain. Create a plot so the secrets of the back story come up toward the end of the story. She went over the various types of antagonists and their personality flaws, traits etc. She said an unlikeable antagonist is difficult to pull off and has to have an extreme personality. (such as Don Corlioni). Anti Heros are somewhere between villain and protagonist and often seen as an outsider. (Willie Loman). Is he redeemable?Multiple point of view works best when you have unlikable protagonists in your story. The come-uppance in your story can't be contrived. Usually the unlikable character brings himself /herself down. Show your characters are like us, not unlike us, by presenting their back-story. Where did they go wrong? What made them into the kind of person they are now?

I found this workshop relevant to my own novel in that I have a multiple point of view with many of the historical characters portrayed as anti-heros - and one distinct villain! In fact, I created a couple of fictional 'heros' for my novel because so many of the key players in the fall of Alexander's dynasty were anti-heros or antagonists. This particular lecture also gave me some good insights and ideas for strengthening the real heros of my novel. I have also built up the characters of several of the women involved because historians gave them bad press and in researching their lives I realized what strong women they really were. In fact, there's a couple of them who deserve books of their own!

It was a great conference and I was so glad I was able to participate, although it would have been even more excellent had we been invited into the lunches (especially the genre lunch) and dinners. We did manage to schmooze a ticket for the Saturday dinner with the keynote speaker award winning author Jennifer Cruisie. And on Sunday we sat in on the keynote address by Diana Gabaldon who is a delightful person. I came home yesterday (Sunday) totally exhausted, my head full of ideas, burning with inspiration. So this week I am determine to focus entirely on my novel writing, although I'm happy to learn the teacher's strike is over so my night-school classes will resume this week too. Lots to write. So little time! Better get to work right now!

"Really, the writer doesn't want success. He knows he has a short span of life, that the day will come when he must pass through the wall of oblivion, and he wants to leave a scratch on that wall - 'Kilroy Was Here' - that somebody a hundred, or a thousand years later will see."
William Faulkner (1897-1962) From "Faulkner in the University (1959) session 8

TIME TRAVELLING

"I felt once more the strange equivocal power of the city -- its flat alluvial landscape and exhausted airs...Alexandria, which is neither Greek, Syrian nor Egyptian, but a hybrid: a joint."
Lawrence George Durrell (1912-1990) "Justine" (1957) pt.1

It was April 331 BC when Alexander founded the city still named after him. It is said that he wanted the city he built to be a port and one night he dreamed that he saw a grey-haired man standing reciting those lines from 'The Odyssey': "Out of the tossing sea, where it breaks on the Egyptian beaches, Rises an island from the water and the name men give it is Pharos.'

Alexander woke the next morning and went to the lighthouse known as Pharos and saw the perfect site for his city. "Mark it out," he ordered the architects. They had no chalk so they took barley meal, marked out a semi-circle on the dark earth and also marked the outlines of the city and the plan of the street in grids. The street plan of Alexandria is much the same today." Nick McCarty "Alexander the Great"

Of all the places where I have visited while researching my novel "Shadow of the Lion", I have never visited Alexandria Egypt. It definitely ranks high on my 'to go' list, but I've not been able to afford the trip although ten years or so ago when I did have a windfall of money I probably should have gone, but didn't. I've visited Alexandria (the ancient city) several times in my mind though. And this past week I've been there again, with Ptolemy, founder of the Ptolemaic dynasty, and so I'll take you there with me, dear readers, on a time-travel to that magnificent jewel of the Nile that was built from Alexander's dream.

Our first visit is in 322 BC not long after Alexander's death.

From the terrace of his elegant house in Alexandria, Ptolemy surveyed the long lines of straight streets and public buildings, their gilded pastel facades gleaming with new paint. A thermal sirocco dragged across the red desert sands to fan the arid afternoon air. Without it, the Egyptian summer would be unbearable.

Beyond the terra-cotta rooftops, the aquamarine sea curdled with froth. In the harbour, where a fleet of sleek, curve-prowed merchants ships unloaded grain and produce from the north, Ptolemy sighted a crew of workmen hauling stones to build the causeway that would connect the off-shore island to the main city.

He thought of Homer's words as Alexander had quoted them when his feet first touched Egytpian soil. "An island lies within sounding surf--an island Pharos, on the Egyptian shore."

Ten years had passed since they had strode this site together planning with the architects and engineers where Alexander would build his new city. Now it was prospering, just as the prophets had predicted it would.

The torrid breath of the sirocco shifted through the palm trees in the courtyard. In the distance, over the delta, green with life drawn fro the ceaslessly flowing Nile, the gulls soared, wheeling against the wind.

It was Alexander's wish to be buried here in Egypt, he thought. They had discussed it some time after their visit to Siwah, where Alexander had met with the priests of Ammon-Ra. Something they had said convinced him of his divinity.

Ptolemy turned into the refreshing sanctuary of his study and took a page of papyrus to his writing table. He must record everything now, w hile his memory of it was still keen, the details vivid in his mind.

We return to Alexandria again in the Spring of 320 BC. Acting on Alexander's wishes, Ptolemy had hijacked the funeral carriage that was taking Alexander's body from Babylon to be interred in the royal tombs at Aigai in Macedonia. Now Perdikkas, commander-in-chief of the Macedonian army, has chased him back to Egypt and declared war in the attempt to retrieve the body.

The windows of Ptolemy's study faced a view of the sea where he could watch ships enter the wide curve of Alexandria's harbour. Today a fleet of triremes was anchored off the mole, their bright standards fluttering from the masts, oars resting high out of the water. He could just make out the stevedores who scrambled among the bales of cargo, and the bright glint of soldier's armour. The triremes were warships which he had inherited from Alexander's fleet. He had called them to Alexandria when the mounted scouts informed him that Perdikkas' army was advancing toward the Nile Delta.

He turned from the window and went to stand beside his huge writing-desk which was piled high with scorlls and papyrus -- petitions and state documents from his day's work. That morning, before coming to his study, he had spent some time at the sea flats supervising the drills of his new cavalry squadrons. When he left Babylonia two years ago, Perdikkas had only allowed him two thousand men, and with the threat of an encounter looming he had been forced to appeal for new conscripts. The response had astonished him. Not only did young men willingly answer his call, but thousands of retired veterans came, leaving their comfortable new homes, begging to reenlist and resume their former commissions. Within weeks, the army had swelled to ten thousand, adequate in numbers to meet the troops of the Grand Chiliarch. Ptolemy's ships too, far outnumbered those of Perdikkas' fleet.

He sat at his desk on the big chair with the sphynx-headed arms and began to sift through the tablets and scrolls. He must study the plans fo the new library that Dinocrates, the architect, had brought him that afternoon. As the foundations were already laid, it would be unfortunate to halt its construction. Dinocrates had suggested they should keep the Egyptian workmen busy erecting the lime-stone walls, even though all the able-bodied Greeks, Macedonians, Libyans and Kyrenians had been conscripted into the army. The confrontation with Perdikkas must be solved quickly so as not to hinder progress of the building of Alexander's new city.

Now it is Winter, 319 BC. Ptolemy has received a request from Kassandros, commander of the Macedonian army, to send him some ships. He claims that Polyperchon, the Regent of Macedon is planning to march on Greece. Kassandros wants to overthrow Polyperchon. Ptolemy respects the Regent, but knows that Polyperchon is incomeptant. He is also bound by his marriage to Kassandros' sister, to honour the request. Faced with this difficult dilemma he visits Alexander's tomb.

As was his daily habit, he left the palace, escorted by his personal guard, and walked down the broad avenue of the Canopic Way that led to Alexander's tomb where he would offer prayers and sacrifices. He usually visited the tomb early each morning, but today the arrival of Kassandros' letter had upset his routine. He walked briskly despite the mid-afternoon heat. In the morning, the street was usually bustling with crowds but at this time of day it was deserted.

The street was bordered with wide colonnades of gleaming white marble. It ran the length of the city to the sacred site where Alexander's body was enshrined in the temple he'd had built for Hephaestion. The tomb sat at the crossroads of Canopic Way and the Soma that ran from the south shore of Lake Mareotis to the sea. Spread out around it, Alexander's city sparkled, a pristine vision of white against the brilliant turquoise of the Mediterranean.

Ahead, Ptolemy could see the beacon that burned on the temple roof, sacred fire brought from Persia signifying the immortality of the king. In front of the entrance the golden flagstaffs with their starburst emblems of Macedon stirred in the light breeze. Everyone who came to Alexandria stopped to pay obeisance at Alexander's tomb and he noted, with a sense of relief, the absence of pilgrims at the sacred site this day.

Ptolemy offers incense and invokes the power of the gods: Oserapis, protector of Alexandria; Zeus, God the Father; Ammon-Ra the All-Powerful; and Alexander, born of the horned serpent, beloved of Ammon, son of Ra. Then he goes inside the cold, silent crypt.

Around the alabaster sarcophagus lighted candles burned flickering like tiny stars. Under it's shield of transparent blown glass, the body of Alexander lay, dressed in a polished breastplate, his hands crossed over his breast. The flesh of his face was sunken and taut over the strong bones, the familiar features rigid as a statue, no longer animated. Yet his lion's mane of hair was still crisp and bright as gold. The embalmers had preserved him well. Death had made him immortal.

Ptolemy placed both his hands on the sarcophagus. Leaning over it, he spoke directly to Alexander as he would have in life.

"You were invincible, Alexander, so you made us feel invincible," he said. "You had the knack of making everything seem possible, so we did the imposslbe. When you died, Alexander, so did that magic that had so captivated us and we became ordinary men, with unexceptional limits. Look down on us now, Alexander. We are the survivors of your Empire. Help us. Do not let your accomplishments be destroyed by corruption and greed. Show me what I must do or your kingdom will be devoured by the vultures who once called you friend and supreme leader. Give me your strength, Alexander."

He had risked everything, even his own life, when he had waylaid Alexander's funeral bier and brought Alexander's corpse to Alexandria. He had meant to take it to the bural place at Siwah, but it had proved impossible to make the arduous journey across the desert, so he had kept it here in Hephaestion's temple. The ransomed body was the symbol of almighty power. How long would it be before one of the Successors would try to steal it away?

I'll be returning to Alexandria a few more times in the future. Ptolemy is the lynch-pin of my novel, beginning with the Prologue and ending with the Epilogue. So perhaps you'll meet him again and together we'll take you on an other visit to his Alexandria.

"His (the poet's) function is to make his imagination theirs (the people's) and he fulfills himself only as he sees his imagination become the light in the mind of others."

Wallace Stevens (1879-1955) "The Necessary Angel" (1951)

RIDING LIFE'S ROLLERCOASTER: The Ups and Downs of This Writer's Life

"Into each life some rain must fall,
Some days must be dark and dreary."
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (1807-1882) The Rainy Day (1842) st. 3

It's true. Life isn't always a bed of roses, though mostly I try to keep my little garden blooming and gay. However lately there have been some ups and downs and a few set-backs. And some days I simply haven't had the heart to write. In fact, this week, on top of other things, I came down with a bad flu and was laid up for a couple of days, an usual thing for me.

It seems just when things get back on track, something happens to throw a wrench into the works. In this case, it's the teacher's strike which has caused my night school classes to be cancelled. Of course, because I was sick this week I would have had to cancel anyway, but I'm worried now that this strike will go on and next week's classes will be cancelled too, thereby totally screwing up my finances once again. I'm already on poverty rations for the next week and it's likely to get worse. You just can't win! (The strike, I must add, is totally justified, and although our totalitarian provincial government has declared the strike 'illegal', the teachers are determined to stay out. ) I know things will even out in the end as they'll extend the classes to cover the full 8 weeks, but who knows when this will be settled? Frustrating, indeed!

The other thing weighing heavily on my mind these days is my friend's illness. Since he came home last weekend he seemed on a steady decline into despair. I realize now he likely had the flu virus too and fortunately today when I passed by I was informed he was much better. There have been some positive doctor's reports, he's been up and around and at last, friends are starting to drop by to see him. Still, it has been such a sad thing to see this man who is an intellectual with such a passion for life being so brought down by this cancer and, in the past week reduced to sitting zombie-like in front of the TV depressed, sick and bewildered by all that is going on.

I went out today, the first time since earlier in the week, and met up with a couple of nice guy friends, had some pleasant chats, sat awhile my favorite Italian coffee shop listening to uplifting Italian music. On the way home I stopped by to see A. and was so pleased to hear the news. That certainly brightened what has been a rather bleak week.

Still, there are events coming up that will make up for these periods of 'down'. Yesterday I got the program for volunteers for the Surrey International Writer's Conference that will take place here next week. (check the website at www.siwc.com ) I was thrilled to find out I've been chosen to introduce some of the authors who are presenting workshops. These include well-known best-selling authors Diana Gabaldon, Jean Auel, Terry Brooks, and Jack Whyte, a couple of agents and a local author specializing in Memoirs. Wow! I was quite taken aback by this assignment. I spent some time yesterday writing up my intros. It happens I can't usually afford to attend the Conference so this year I volunteered for all three days and this is a special bonus and certainly an honour.

I've found the best way to cope with the down side of things is to have lots of 'ups' to balance the 'downs' and tomorrow night is a big Libra Bash with three bands, including my son's Westcoast Blues Review (see their website at http://members.shaw.ca/westcoastblues )
My Havana Buddy and I got on the guest list, he because he's a radio guy and plays the band's music on his shows and me because I'm Steve's mom, the band's main groupie.

Tonight I'm heading for my favorite bistro for a bit of salsa dancing. I'm also on mission to alert some of A's friends that he really needs some music therapy and cheering up. And I just had a call from another of my good friends who wants to drop by Sunday eve to watch some videos.
That takes care of the weekend. Now, if only that strike would end!

"What's the use? Yesterday an egg, tomorrow a feather duster."
Mark Fenderson (1873-1944) Caption for cartoon "The Dejected Rooster."

but remember:

"Keep your sunny side up."
Buddy (George Gard) De Sylva (1895-1950) "Sunny Side Up" (1929) title song.

CAN YOU GO HOME?

"Home is where one starts from. As we grow older
The world becomes stranger, the pattern more
complicated
Of dead and living. Not the intense moment
Insolated, with no before and after,
But a lifetime burning in every moment
And not the lifetime of one man only
But of old stories that cannot be deciphered."
Thomas Stearns Eliot 1888-1965 "Four Quartets. East Cober" 1940 stanza V

Last week my Memoir group had an assignment to write a piece titled "Can You Go Home?"
It was interesting to hear what people wrote and since then I've been giving a great deal of thought to this subject. I began to review all the 'homes' that I have lived in, considering which one I thought of as really 'home'. As I've moved around a great deal, it was a difficult choice.

My earliest memories of 'home' are from when I was five. We lived in a little railway town at the border of Alberta/Saskachewan called Lloyminster. During the early '60's when my husband and I moved to Alberta, when my Dad came to visit we drove to Lloyminster, the first time Dad and I had ever returned there. His old church was still there, as was the house next door where we lived. But everything seemed much smaller to me than what I'd remembered as a kid.

The next real 'home' I often think of was in Stratford Ontario when we lived at Grandpa's house during the war when my Dad was serving overseas as a chaplain in an army field hospital. Grandpa had bought that house when it was 100 years old and renovated it, and when Mom and my little sister and I moved in he'd made the upstairs into a private suite for us. I loved that old house and went back there in the early 60's for a visit. My little Grandma (Grandpa's second wife) was still living in the house and it was exactly as I remembered it. But I wonder if it's still standing. Doubtful, as it was already such an old house and I would think it has been torn down to make way for something modern.

After we moved from Stratford, we came here to the West Coast where my Dad was pastor of a church that happens to be in the district I live in now. We didn't live close to the church but our lovely old house is near enough that sometimes I go by there to take a look. It's still the same as it was then and I feel sure my parent's spirits are there. It was a two-story white frame house and I had a bedroom upstairs where I spent many hours at my desk typing stories on an old Underwood typewriter. I guess that is the house where my dreams of becoming a writer really took shape.

Later, when I was married, my family and I moved to Edmonton Alberta. Those days in our brand new house in suburbia have unhappy memories for me so I've only gone back once and haven't had a desire to return. In between then and now have been a couple of other houses, one was my dream home which I lost due to the tragedy of my husband's alcholism. The next was a marvelous old house known as "The Opium Palace" where I learned to survive on a shoe-string with my two kids and house full of free spirits who included my best friend Suzaki, a couple of American army deserters and several hippies. I have enough stories to write a book about that house as well as the infamous Hazel Street House where we lived for several years.

Next I moved to a wonderful old Victorian house which happened to be one of the first houses built in the city. During the late 60's and early 70's it had been known as "The Acid Kool-Aid House". By the time I moved in to the top floor it was due for demolition. I fixed it all up and it was by far one of the best places I've ever lived. I stayed there for a couple of years until I decided to move to Greece. After that the house was torn down to make way for a rather ugly condo.

In Greece, which is also my home, I shared a courtyard and lived in a basement suite on Odos Vironos (Byron's Street). I still pass by there every time I'm Athens, and stop to look through the gate into the courtyard. That home also is full of stories waiting to be told.

Besides the house on Vironos St., I had a little shepherd's cottage up on the mountain in Evvia in a tiny hamlet called Lala. This was my Garden of Eden, the place I dream about and astral-travel to. But since my shepherd died three years ago, some of the magic has left the village so it is painful to return. For sure, this year I found I couldn't go home to Lala. I wonder if I ever will again.

At the present time I'm living in an apartment in a building where I've lived (except for 1 year) since 1993. I've had various suites in the building and the one I have now is probably the best one. For that one year, when I chose to move to a larger apartment to share with a friend, I was so homesick for this building that as soon as I was able I came back here to live. So I guess you can say I did come 'home' and this is where I hope to stay for awhile.

My friend A. is home from the hospital now. It's a difficult adjustment for him but hopefully he will soon feel better about being home in his own apartment, with his family and friends around him. The wish is that he will recover enough to make a journey to Chile to see his family. He has lived here as an exile for many years and I know he longs to return home.

Home really is where your heart is.

"Breathes there the man with soul so dead,
Who never to himself hath said,
This is my own, my native land!
Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'd
As home his footsepts he hath turn'd"
Sir Walter Scott 1771-1832 "The Lay of the Last Minstrel" V1, st1

CLEANING HOUSE

"It never occurred to her that if the drainpipes of the house are clogged, the rain may collect in pools on the roof; and she suspected no danger until suddenly she discovered a crack in the wall."
Gustave Flaubert 1821 - 1880 "Madame Bovary" 1857 pt. ll ch.5

Although I desperately wanted to get back to my writing yesterday, I found myself instead cleaning up the clutter that has gathered this past week in my apartment. I find it difficult to concentrate when there is a lot of junk lying around. In this case it was the suitcases I keep my winter clothes in. Time to sort out the closets and chuck out the stuff I'm not using. This always creates a dilemma for me. Why do I feel inclined to hang on to those old souvenier T-shirts that I bought long ago in Greece? Or the clothes that are too small or so very old. Yet at the moment, if I throw away too many things my closets will be empty and I will be naked. I can't afford to toss everything away until I buy some new replacements. At any rate, by the time I sorted things out my room is a lot tidier and so are my drawers and closets.

Same thing somehow with my writing. Last night I took out my whole manuscript and started checking through it to see which pages and chapters my character PTOLEMY is actively participating in or at least mentioned. As he's a 'thread' thoughout the story, it's important to keep him woven into the text. Lo and behold! I discovered that though he is featured a lot in Part I and some of Part II, he is only mentioned in one place in Part III, which means I need to write in at least one scene with him actively involved in the plot. No big deal, because while thumbing through this massive piece of work, I realize there are many passages that will have to go. Just like cleaning the closet you have to go through the unnecessary scenes in a novel to tighten it up and make it sparkling and fresh. So I'm not too dismayed about writing more of Ptolemy into the story. After all, he's a major character in Alexander's life and as he begins and ends the novel (Prologue and Epilogue) he deserves a larger role in the whole picture.

At the moment I've been working on an "Epitasis" (Interlude) chapter for Part IV in which I return to Alexandria, Egypt and Ptolemy. This is why I decided to look through the manuscript to find the places where he is featured. This included a couple of scenes also set in Alexandria, so it was rather fun returning there. And I happen to be rather fond of Ptolemy as a character too, so it's nice to get reaquainted with him.

Hopefully by tomorrow, between hospital visits and writer's meetings and other things I have in my daily life, I will get back to the novel. And when I do, I'll take you there with me, on a little visit to Alexandria, as it was back in 318 BC when Ptolemy was overseeing the building of the new city, as Alexander had wanted it. See you there...soon!

"Today we have naming of parts. Yesterday
We had daily cleaning..." Henry Reed 1914 -

RETRACING STEPS

"One of the pleasantest things in the world is going on a journey..."
William Hazlitt 1778-1830 "On Going on a Journey"

Just as a traveller often enjoys returning to familiar haunts, retracing steps to places that have special memories, so the writer enjoys returning to reread passages, sometimes long-forgotten, tracing steps back in time to historical or imaginary places.

A week ago a fellow writer posted a blog about meandering the Asia-Minor coast to the ancient Lydian city of Sardis. This sparked a memory for me, about my own 'visit' to this city. It seems so long ago now, because it takes place in Part One of my novel "Shadow fo the Lion" so I was curious to return, to see if my descriptions matched his. It happens Scott and I are writing a similar period of history with some of the same characters and this has been an interesting connection. He's never been to Asia Minor (Turkey) or Greece so sometimes we exchange information about the sites. (He says he's 'travelling' to Assos now. I visited there back in the '80's so it brought all the memories of that trip back when he mentioned it.)

I've passed near by the site of ancient Sardis but haven't actually explored the ruins there. But from research and memories of the landscapes, I constructed a descriptive passage about the place. You can read Scott's at http://scottoden.blogspot.com Here's mine:

In this scene, General Perdikkas, Chiliarch of the Macedonian army since Alexander the Great's death in Babylon, is leading his army up the coast of Asia Minor from Ephesus. With
Perdikkas is one of the the titular kings, Alexander's half-wit brother Arridaios. At Ephesus there had been an attempt to kill Arridaios.

Perdikkas' army departed from Ephesus and the cool green coast, and turned inland toward the rugged landscape of Lydia. The curious pointed red-rock mounds of the Lydian hills loomed over the wind-swept plain where Lydian kings lay in their ancient tombs. At one time, in this wild country, girls were expected to earn their dowers by prostitution. Perdikkas thought grimly of how, because of his capricious night of passion with the flute girl, it almost cost Arridiaos his life. He berated himself for such a lack of discipline. The assassination attempt on the king had unnerved him. But how could he have known? And who had sent the temple maiden to poison Arridiaos? For surely Gazelle-Eyes was merely the innocent tool of someone far deadlier.

Ahead, on the knoll of a russet crag, the thick-walled citadel of Sardis towered against the cloudless sky. Flanked by a new guard composed of troops of Greek Argives sent from the garrison of Sardis, Perdikkas sat stiffly on his horse, his face set in a harsh scowl.

This city, the terminus of the eastern post road, had once been the headquarters of Persian administration. Ten years ago the Lydians had welcomed Alexander here, but they were capable of striking a bargain with the enemy just as readily as they had with the Macedonians. Would the assassin follow them here?

As the soldiers advanced up the steep roadway, a deep-throated rumble of excitement sounded throughout the ranks. Perdikkas scanned the ramparts and observed on every battlement the familiar blue pennants, the golden star-burst of Macedon, unfurled and dazzling in the sun.

A thunderous cheer rumbled down the rank. Perdikkas beamed, relishing this as an auspicious omen. For now, he would try to put the events of Ephesus behind him. His bride awaited him here at Sardis, the cornerstone of his future. Once the royal caravan arrived from Babylon, he would take charge of Alexander's son himself and consider the blood-price of the child's Soghdian mother.

Perdikkas' bride-to-be is Nikaia, daughter of Antipatros, the Regent of Macedon. She has arrived at Sardis recently to await her bridegroom.

She had arrived here to this fine house, given to her by her bridegroom, with only her personal servants and a small baggage train containing dowry gifts and wardrobes. It was her first time separated from her mother and sisters. She longed for news from home, but heard nothing, not even from her elder brother, Kassandros, who had gloated that now she was marrying Perdikkas, her children would inherit the Regency of Asia.

The house, whose terraces hugged the slope of the hill below the russet-walled fortress, had a tall portico of red Samian marble and walls with painted murals. It was more lavish than she was used to, but she felt wrenched from the homely comforts of a country home in Macedon where her father's horses ranged free on the grasslands and the air was scented with thyme and sage. She longed for the northern mountains with their black pine forests, and Pella's reedy lake. Here, from the portico, she viewed the stark buttress of the fortress walls, and on the summit of the hill, the pristine gilded columns of the small Temple of Zeus, built as an offering by Alexander when he had conquered the old city. In the parched fields below the acropolis, herds of sheep grazed along the bank of a brown, serpentine river. The city, which was three times as big as Pella, lay on the western slope, hidden from her view. Still, she felt like a kind of prisoner, and cursed her father for having sent her so far from home.

While I was making this return trip to Sardis, I decided to visit Ephesus too, and renew my acquaintance with Barsine, who is also featured in Scott's novel.

As the royal caravan entered Ephesus, through the western portals where the statues of lions guarded the gates, the woman, an aristocrat, dressed in a gold-bordered himation, alighted from her slave-borne litter with her young son, and climbed the high platform of the long, pillared stoa to view the approaching procession. She had come from her wealthy villa on the Hill of Nightingales, accompanied by her chamberlain and her child. It was a rare and unusual treat for them to venture alone into the city.

The boy, his fair cheeks flushed with excitement, held a basket of rose petals which he tossed in a fluttering shower into the path of the processional. He was a handsome child, immaculate in a spotless white chiton, his blonde curly hair adorned with a gold ribbon diadem. He was seven years old, and tall for his age.

He climbed the plinth of a statue to perch where he could easily see over the heads of the gathering ghrong. His mother watched admiringly, occasionally reaching up to straighten the folds of his garment or to stroke his shining hair.

The red-caped soldiers paraded by, marching to the cadence of the deep-toned aulos and drums,
standards unfurled, silver armour gleaming.

The boy began to cheer. "Look, Mama!" he cried eagerly. "See the cavalry!" He admired horses and could name all the breeds -- the tall, heavy-boned Nisaians of the Persians, the spirited steeds of Marakanda ridden by the Soghdian honour guard, the stocky, long-maned war stallions of Thessaly favoured by the Macedonian cavalry. He nearly emptied the basket of it contents, grinning in delight as the flower petals swirled around the horses' prancing hooves.

"One day I shall have a stallion like that one!" He pointed out a sleek honey-coloured Nisaian, its mane and tail woven with scarlet ribbons, the ornate jeweled headstall and harnesses jangling with golden bells. The handsome rider, a man of grave and noble bearing, rode before the imperial cortege. He was exquisitely garbed in garments of iridescent pearl like a dove's breast.

The woman drew her chamberlain aside and whispered something to him. She gazed long at the Persian rider as the cavalcade passed.

"Is he the king, Mama?" asked the boy. "Is he a friend of Grandfather? Do you know him?"
But his mother was quiet with her own thoughts.

Later, the woman, Barsine, sends for the Persian courtier, Nabarzanes, who is a Court advisor and Royal Cousin of Roxana, Alexander's Soghdian widow.

Barsine's house, built on the slope of the hill, had terraced gardens and a marble paved peristyle with an oval pool in the fountain court. The eunuch led Nabarzanes into an arched reception room furnished with a wealth of bronze, marble and ivory. There were statues of Artemis in the niches, and a floor mosaic of Apollo and the Muses.

As she woman stepped into the stream of lamplight between the pillars, Nabarzanes made a graceful genuflection and touched his forehead to the slender fingers of her outstretched hand.

"My esteemed Lady, Barsine. How pleasurable it is that we should meet again."

She clasped his hand in a gesture of friendship, a custom learned from her Greek husband. "Nabarzanes, how pleased I am that you have come. Have you been blessed, my friend, through all the years?"

Her height was almost equal to his, and as he gazed into her eyes, green-gold as pools reflecting sunlight, he felt a sudden nostalgia for Ekbatana's verdant mountains. He studied her pensively. She had kept her age well. Past forty now, she was a dignified woman, stylish in a Greek peplos and upswept hair.

"I am serving the royal household of Macedon now. And since the birth of Alexander's son, I have been appointed court advisor and governor of the child."

"You serve the Soghdian then?" A shadow crossed Barsine's fine-boned face. She withdrew her hand from his and studied him solemnly.

"I serve the son of Alexander," Nabarzanes said. He remembered how bitterly Barsine had wept beside the fountain court that night in Ekbatana when he had last seen her, the night they had learned of Alexander's marriage to Roxana.

Alexander would have done well to have married her instead of the Soghdian, he thought.

She led him to the privacy of the courtyard where tall lamps burned among urns of roses. She sat on the edge of the stone balustrade, her face turned into the shadows, hidden from him. The moon bathed her in a platinum light. After a long, meditative silence, she spoke.

"I have waited for you, my friend...for a man of your integrity and virtue...someone I could entrust with my cause. When I saw you ride by the with the royal caravan, I knew you had been sent by the Benevolent God. A long time has passed since we last spoke in Ekbatana. Seven years. A long, long time..." She drew in a long, shuddering breath. "There was something I could not tell you that night when you caught me weeping. " She looked up at him, her face pale in the moonlight. "I was pregnant with Alexander's child."

Nabarzanes was stunned by her revelation and could not find words of reply. Accustomed to more liberal Greek traditions, a woman twice married and widowed, Barsine did not follow the strict purdah of the Persian court, but her reputation was impeccable. While she had served as his mistress after her husband's death, after she had been taken captive with the Persian royal women, Alexander had treated her with deep respect and fondness. His abandonment of her had shocked the Persian court. And now she was exposing her shame.

"Did Alexander know?" Nabarzanes asked finally.

Barsine replied in a faint, trembling voice. "I believe he did, though I dared not tell him myself. He had the world to conquer, you see. He had no time to spare for fatherhood." She peered up at him with a wry little smile. "Father thought it best I leave Ekbatana before the gossip reached the Soghdian. We are all familiar with the vicious intrigues of the harem."

* * *

Sometimes the act of revisiting our writing, like returning to the familiar places where we once travelled, helps stimulate the memories, revives the spirit, recalls the Muse.

I'm ready to start working on the novel again after a few weeks of distraction. It felt good just rewriting these passages, recalling the characters who have become like old friends to me. And actually, now I am closer to the end of the novel, I'll be revisiting Barsine again too. I'm looking forward that that!

"Re-vision -- the act of looking back, of seeing with fresh eyes, of entering an old text from a new critical direction --" Adrienne Rich 1929-

"On Lies, Secrets and Silence" 1970. "When We Dead Awaken."'

MAKING THE MOST OUT OF TIME

"The hours I spent with thee, dear heart,
Are as a string of pearls to me.
I count them over, every one apart,
My rosary, my rosary."
Robert Cameron Rogers 1862-1912 "The Rosary" 1894


"Time is of the essence" so the saying goes. And these days I'm trying to make the best of it. Without my computer I am 'lost', what to do after my housework is finished by 10 a.m.? What to do in the evenings when there isn't anything worthwhile to watch on TV? It's times like this that I realize how much time I actually spend at the computer. And right now, without it, I feel frustrated and a bit at loose ends. For one thing, just as it crashed (sick with a virus) I was ready to launch into some serious editing on the last chapter of my novel. There's also other writing projects to keep up-to-date, and of course, the email correspondence which I miss. I've had to resort to the local web cafe or library and perhaps by next week I'll actually have to try doing my writing here at the cafe if things aren't fixed by then. Today a techie friend is coming by to check and give a diagnosis. But it might mean lugging the precious machine to the computer hospital. Another unexpected expense!

A lot of my time these days is spent at the hospital with my friend. Yesterday I stayed six hours, cancelled going to my writer's critique group because he needed/wanted company. It was a pleasure though. These times we spend visiting, talking, and helping him out by warming meals, making tea, are precious moments. It's emotionally exhausting, but worthwhile. He's an intellectual and loves to discuss books and tell stories about his country (Chile) and his life. These days there's a lot of soul searching and meditations. And I know my company, especially on a day like yesterday where few other visitors came, was much appreciated.

Today I made a pleasant diversion by figuring out what to write here and doing some research for my future trip to Malaysia, so I have added a new chapter to my travel blog at http://travelthroughhistory.blogspot.com

I'm getting antsy, anxious to be working on my novel, but somehow I'll have that figured out soon. Meanwhile, another blessing came my way this morning just when things had been a bit bleak. The daycare sent me the two days pay they owed me and the government informed me my rental subsidy will be increased at the end of the month. Prayers do get answered!

"A little time for laughter
A little time to sing.
A little time to kiss and cling
And no more kissing after."

Philip Bourke Marston 1850 - 1887 "After" st.1

GUARDIAN ANGELS

"Behold, I send an Angel before thee, to keep thee in the way."
The Holy Bible: The Second Book of Moses, Called Exodus: 23:20

One thing about living the writer's life is this: You have to be prepared to make a lot of sacrifices and learn to live on the edge. I always tell the students in my writing classes (especially travel journalism) "Don't quit your day job!" Because the truth is, until you get to be a best-selling author you are not going to make a lot of money out of writing. These days especially, free-lancing has become particularly grim and you're lucky if you get a measly $25 for a story. I've made up to $700 (including photos) but lately, the newspapers have formed their own little groups (umbrellas) and take very little free-lance material. So you're always on the look-out for new markets. And frankly, most of the internet markets don't pay much if anything.

I've managed to live a 95% writer's life for the last couple of years because I teach writing classes, though these are seasonal and I'm on 8 week contracts for them. Therefore I keep my name in one daycare which I sometimes work for, though over the past few months this has turned into a rare occasion. I don't teach during the summer other than the short four-week "Writing in the Park" memoirs group I did. So believe me, I am an expert at living on the edge. In fact, the past two months have been about as grim as they could get. My modest pension barely covers rent and utilities and any extra expenses quickly run the bank account dry. I've gotten used to not buying new clothes, carefully chosing where I shop for groceries, and scrimping wherever I can. It isn't always fun. I have no car but I have a bus pass which allows me free access around town and I walk whenever I can. Because of my low income I have a leisure pass that allows me free access to swimming pools.

When things happen like expected paycheques that dont materialize, and no calls to work, then I'm in a big fix. But thanks to my GUARDIAN ANGELS and very kind, generous friends, somehow I have managed to get by all summer, by the skin of my teeth.

In one respect, being home and not at work outside has given me more time for my writing. But that's the catch. No work. No money. And that's where the guardian angels have been so attentive, watching over me to make sure my needs are met. And they always are! From care packages of groceries to small loans, my friends have assissted me.

I'm sure my father is one of those Guardian Angels who are looking after me. Lately he's been very close, showing up in my dreams and always in my thoughts. And again today, there was 'help' when I needed it.

I went to pick up my pay and found it only covered one short day, not three as expected. What to do with the end of the month still almost 2 weeks away? I felt pretty close to tears, desparing over this endless plight of pennilessness. Decided to treat myself to lunch and think things over, say a few prayers, send some good thoughts to the cosmos.

Walking home down the Drive, along came a Guardian Angel (that lovely Frenchman whose smile lights up my world!) Had an inspiring, though short chat with him, then on down the Drive. Ran into my surrogate daughter/friend who I hadn't seen for ages. We went for coffee and a talk. Then, on the way down the street, we stopped to buy some autumn flowers to brighten up my apartment, and suddenly she slipped me $50. I was astonished! Such kindness. And now another friend has offered to loan me a bit more so I can pay my apartment insurance. See? The Guardian Angels are watching over me. I have a lot to be thankful for!

I thought my Memoir class was starting up today, but it was a mistake and not til next week and at that time my 3 night school classes also begin. So the end is in sight! Meanwhile I will concentrate on more writing. Have to fine-tune the last chapter segment of the novel and think about writing another travel article. After all, if you don't send things out to market you won't get any returns, no matter how small.

"When at night I go to sleep
Fourteen angels watch do keep..."


"Let brotherly love continue.
Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby
some have entertained angels unawares."
The Epistle of Paul to the Hebrews 13: 1-2

DREAMS AND DIVINATIONS

INITIATE: "I come from a virtuous people, oh pure Queen of Hades...for I believe I belong to your kind, but destiny struck me down...I broke free from the circle of pain and sorrow and I leapt lightly towards my chosen crown, I took refuge in the arms of the Lady, Queen of Hades."
THE GODDESS REPLIES: "Oh Fortunate One! Oh Blessed One! You have become a God, from the man you once were."
(Words which form the rites of initiation to the cult of Orpheus.)

I have been preoccupied lately with dreams and divinations mainly dreams regarding the illness of my friend. Last night I dreamt that I was visiting him in the hospital. I knew that my father was in a room down at the end of the long hall. I went to my father and urged him to go and speak to my friend, to say some words of comfort and encouragement. This is probably because on the weekend I found some sermon notes written by Dad in his old Bible. They were just the words I had wanted to say to A. last Friday when he was suffering so much pain. So I wrote them out...how soldiers are not made in the barracks ground, how, like the blacksmith forges from a piece of metal by fire and hammering, a strong horse-shoe...so we are made stronger by times of distress and tribulation.

In ancient Greek religion, dreams were under the control of the Olympian dieties. Gods and daemons were used for thepurpose of dream requests and in transmitting dreams. The moon goddess (Selene, Hecate) was active in both procedures and often a likeness of her was fashioned from a magic mixture of potter's clay, sulfur and the blood of a spotted goat.

"Now o'er the one half-world
Nature seeems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
the curtain'd sleep; witchcraft celebrates
Pale Hecate's offerings."
William Shakespear (1564=1616) "Macbeth" Act II,l.49

The history of Alexander the Great is interwoven with his reliance on consulting the seers regarding dreams, occurances in the heavens and auguries of blood sacrifices. No vital decisions were made in the ancient world without consulting the Oracles first.

I've visited most of the major oracles in Greece, including the healing shrines where interpreting the patient's dreams was a vital part of the psycho-therapy: Delphi, Epidaurus, the Amphiarion, the Sanctuary of the Great Gods at Samothraki, the sacred oak sanctuary of Zeus-Ammon at Dodoni, and the Necromanteion of Ayfa (the Oracle of the Dead) This Oracle existed from the Bronze Age. Odysseus visited it to conjur the ghost of Achilles. We can only speculate if Alexander ever went there for the same reason, but undoubtedly his mother Olympias did because it is located in her domain of Epirus. An article I wrote about visiting this Oracle has been published and is on-line
at www.http://travel-wise.com (Titled "Sailing to Hades")

"The soul, at the moment of death, feels the same impression as those who are initiated into the Great Mysteries. First it is like being lost on a long, winding walk through eerie darkness, then just before the end, the terror, the cold sweat, the horror are at their greatest. At once, a marvelous light appears to the eyes: we pass into a green meadow where singing is heard."
Themistius: "Religious chants to Persephone."


A long time ago I started recording my own significant dreams, a way of analyzing my life and figuring out what the dreams meant. My reoccuring dreams of tidal waves usually indicate that I'm stressed and overwhelmed by events; frightening nightmares are also stress related (though I've found that ceating choclate late at night is also a culprit.) Dreams of flying are usually carefree and celebrate a sense of 'freedom'.

Should our characters dream? In my novel "Shadow of the Lion", because dream analysis and auguries were a way of life in ancient times, I have sometimes used dreams as a way of enhancing the characters and events. And a couple of times I have used my own dreams as my characters'. (Or was I, in my dream, becoming my character?)

A big mistake in fiction is to allow your plot to be influenced by dreams. Except in some kinds of fantasy or sci-fi, where dreams are part of either magic or alternate science, dreams shouldn't be used as character motivation, climax or resolution. (Don't ever end a story with "And then he/she woke up"!) It will be contrived too, if your character doesn't know a piece of vital knowlege until it is revealed in a dream.

The use of dreams in fiction is to illuminate character, so simply recount the dream as the character has it, especially if that character is under great pressure. A short dream, mentioned in passing, can hint at complex emotions underneath. Some dreams, if used subtly, may also be symbolisms. Just so, daydreams can be used along with internal thought to tell your reader more about your characters. Your characters dreams and daydreams say a lot about them. Use them to see just who your characters truly are.

"Then be thou jocund. Ere the bat hath flown
His cloister'd flight, ere, to black Hecate's
summons
The shard-borne betetle with his drowsy hums
Hath run night's yawning peal, there shall be
done
a deed of dreadful note."

William Shakespeare "Macbeth" Act III, l.40

SWEET DREAMS!

ELEGY TO A CITY

"Lo! Death has reared himself a throne
In a strange city, lying alone
Far down within the dim West,
Where the good and the bad and the worst and
the best
Have gone to their eternal rest."
Edgar Allan Poe 1809-1849 "The City In the Sea" 1831 st. 1

Such a tragedy, this horrifying destruction of beautiful New Orleans and the terrible anguish facing Her people. I have felt heartsick as I've watched and read the news reports of this horrendous event. New Orleans was always a city of my dreams, a place I'd wanted to visit since my teens. Perhaps I first got the yen to visit after seeing the stage production (and later the movie) of A Streetcar Named Desire. Perhaps it was later, when I first started listening to jazz and blues music and learned of its southern roots. (Louis Armstrong, Fats Domino and all those great musicians!) But it wasn't until 1994 when my dream was realized.

My friend Sylvie and I decided to go to the Mardis Gras. What an experience! Certainly that will never be forgotten. It made me want to see more of New Orleans. I've always wanted to go back sometime in the Spring when the magnolias were in bloom. Now, to see it all destroyed is so heartbreaking!

I was leafing through my travel writing portfolio the other day and ran across the articles I wrote about my visit to New Orleans. So as a tribute to this wonderful old city, and the exceptionally warm and friendly people I'd met there, I will include here some parts of my articles as a tribute to the City.

Like a rich, savory gumbo, spiced with just the right combination of ingredients, New Orleans is a feast for all senses. From hot cuisine to cool jazz, as the refrain goes: "You'll know what it means to miss New Orleans" once you've experienced this unique city.

Seasoned with a blend of history, charm and joie de vivre, this genteel 280 year old metropolis, cradled in a bend of the Mississippi River, is a city where you can lose yourself in time. As you stroll under the ornate wrought iron balconies of the French Quarter or meander on the manicured lawns of gracious colonial estates, its a rare opportunity to see and experience the Southern way of life.

Since the days when the fabled pirates Jean and Pierre Lafitte haunted Bourbon Street, New Orleans has had the reputation of being one of the most dangerous cities in America. But don't let this intimidate you, because it is equally renown for its southern hospitality. People are friendly here, and you can get a conversation started instantly by talking about cooking, food or music.

In New Orleans, there's music everywhere: blues, jazz, lively Cajun two-step. Bourbon Street is famous for its jazz clubs. Busker entertain on every street corner while little boys tap-dance on the curb. You can sing along with a banjo player strumming on the wharf, or watch a junior version of Louis Armstrong, a boy not more than ten years old, wailing on a trumpet in Jackson Square. In this bold, decadent city, a host of famous musicians had their start. In "N'awlins" Perservation Hall, Dixiland jazz was born.

I wonder what has become of the many beautiful colonial plantation houses near the city. I know some of them were close to the levees.

If you want a touch of the romantic south, visit the plantation homes near New Orleans. While sipping on a mint julep under the oaks of Oak Alley, you cannot help but find yourself transported into the world of Scarlet O'Hara and Rhett Butler. As you look out on the green lawns and gracious Greek Revival architecture of the manor, you are offered a clear view of the past.

So much history has been destroyed and can never be replaced even if they do rebuild the city.
And what about the bayous where the Cajuns have lived since the 1800's.

The boat glides down the narrow channels where egret, blue heron and water fowl nest among the red swamp maples. Grey-green tufts of Spanish moss hang from the ciypress trees. Snapping turtles sun themsleves on the mud banks. These turtles, which grow to an immense size, can sanp off a stick with their jaws.

Poisonous snakes such as the copper head and water-moccasin lurk in the moss and the root systems of the trees making it a dangerous occupation for the Cajun folk who pick the Spanish moss for sale to florists.

In spring and summer, water hyacinths cover the murkey surface of these forboding waterways concealing the deadly alligators which the guide and his father hunt.

Of course, it's also hard to imagine a year passing by in New Orleans without the traditional Mardis Gras when more than two million people jam into the French Quarter to celebrate.

New Orlean's grandest celebration, Mardis Gras, was brought to New Orleans from Europe in 1870. Carnival is a mystical combination of Christian beliefs, pagan rituals, glamour and debauchery that begins twelve days after Christmas when Balls are held, hosted by the carnival "krewes" to choose the King and Queen of "misrule."

There are things you will see in New Orleans during Mardis Gras that you will never experience anywhere else. The balconies of the French Quarter are hung with purple, yellow and green streamers and flags, the Mardis Gras colors. The streets literally run with beer and are ankle deep with rubbish and discarded plastic cups. Anything goes during Mardis Gras, and the New Orleans police, who are visible everywhere, are tolerant and polite but very firm in enforcing the law if necessary.

The parade floats, lavishly decorated with feathers, flowers and stereamers of vibrant hues are manned by the masked and costumed krewes and carry guest celebrities. A freezing gale howls down St. Charles Street but fails to chill the enthusiasm of the revelers.

But Mardis gras is just one day and by midnight the party is over. New Orleans mounted policemen sweep through the French Quarter followed by the street cleaners who wipe away all traces of Carnival for another year. By morning the streets of Vieux Carre are spotless and the crowds of merrymakers have gone. You can once again enjoy New Orleans in all its elegance.

I wonder if we ever will again!

"We have come over a way that with tears has
been watered
We have come, treading our path through the
blood of the slaughtered."
John Weldon Johnson 1871-1938 "Lift Every Voice and Sing" 1900 st. 2