Creativepoint

Hate is a strong word. Preferable perhaps is the motto Eurymachus lived by; a willful propensity to dislike anything and everything that crossed his path.

Eurymachus was forced to court that blessed Penelope. At first out of duty; then from an insatiable desire to prove himself stronger, more cunning and handsomer than any of the other suitors and, finally, to get his hands on the one thing which had eluded him so long. To finally own that which strove so hard to remain independent. Just once he wished to make sweet love to Penelope and then she could go and live in squalor. Yes; Eurymachus was very much a man of possession, he knew the worth of everything he owned and he knew that Penelope’s worth would far outstrip his entire household. She was to be his prized possession from the moment he could ravish and ruin her.

Penelope was not stupid; she was a woman of brain and cunning beyond her years. A woman who knew her mind. She knew for instance that when a suitor of some form or other complimented her eyes, more often than not their focus was on her nose hair. When a suitor admired her wit really they were just waiting for the day they could put her in her place; quieten and mould her into the perfect trophy wife. No Penelope was not stupid, yet, for a woman who was by all accounts average: height, intelligence and  looking she could most certainly say she was more than a little flattered when the suitors preemed their feathers and donned their hats just for her benefit. Oh! She knew they didn’t mean it but since she could not shake them off, she may as well enjoy the few benefits which go with being eaten out of house and home.

How Eurymachus enjoyed watching Penelope. The way in which she swaggered around as if she were the man of the house. The great ruler of all, Penelope! And she a female none the less. Yes he enjoyed watching her. The way her buttock would sway slightly and her skirt would swish to reveal just a hint of bare flesh. Not milky white or smooth alabaster no; but desirable none the less being not only female but also the container, the doorway to riches beyond his wildest dreams. At nights he would lie awake waiting for the day he could grip that flesh and turn it black, blue and red ensuring that no more would she look at him as though she pitied him and no more would her flesh cry out to be held and touched and ravished. No more would she give that half smile which screamed ‘you are small and meek and worthless. You have no power here’. He would ensure that one day; in life or in death he would own the sweet Penelope and she would fear and honor him.

Pity? Oh but she did pity him. Eurymachus and all his fellow suitors. For they strove so hard to fall so far. They would never own her though they may try and fight with all their might. Nay she would sooner die than lay with one of those men for one night. How Penelope had learnt to despise men and the way they walked around with some misguided idea of manhood and courage. The way in which they thought themselves irresistible to womankind; even the God’s who deposited their seed left right and centre. How she pitied them. Even her own son who was growing to be just like his father, having his wicked way with the servant girls (and he thought she didn’t know!) and brawling over some misguided idea of duty and honor and possession. Oh she despised men and would sooner cast herself to Hades than smirk and simper over the superficial compliments and smarmy flourishes the suitors deemed to toss her way.

Blood; blood everywhere, across the walls and the floors and the ceiling. And above it all twelve dancing feet.

Odysseus will regret this. And so will Penelope. Oh! Blessed Penelope how she hid in her chambers as men, strong and courageous in life were slaughtered like lambs. Penelope would regret the day she cowered as he, who had been so favored in life, the great Eurymachus! Was bled dry on the palace floors. And how his lover who had been so naive and innocent had been hung. He had not loved her. Nay he could not love her. But there was something from her which urged him to long for something more- she made him feel powerful and adored. And that was cut short. He had died and looked down on a scene of utter chaos and torture at the hands of ‘Valiant’ Odysseus and his ‘beloved’ wife Penelope. But death would come for Odysseus and Penelope as death comes for all. Let them enjoy these last few years as they feast and cheer and tell stories of the day Odysseus killed a palace of warriors. Let them enjoy it for he would be here, waiting, always waiting and watching and soon, so soon he could almost touch it they too would enter the halls of Hades and here he would have his revenge. Here he would torture and torment them; gnaw away at them. They would be running; as Odysseus ran in life towards fame and glory they would run from him through the halls of Hades, seeking an escape and refuge that would never come. Cursed, cursed Penelope and her doomed lover Odysseus.

The art of association. What is it that gives an object meaning beyond its physical worth? The chasm between what an object costs and what it is worth. This idea has been played on since the dawn of time. A child drops his ball to play with a  toy bear. A little girl comes along to play with the ball and suddenly a fight breaks out. The boy wants his ball back because of the threat of losing it. Suddenly there is more meaning to the ball; it is his, a symbol that he must protect from the threat of the girl.

Thinking on Metonymy I see a poor, beat up dog. Wonky eared, greying and with a distinct lack of stuffing. It isn’t attractive, it certainly isn’t worthy of being allowed in the bed and cuddled, but it is home. A memory of childhood, youth and naivety. It is the idea that this toy for all that it is, is greater than flesh. This toy had the power to rid the world of all the monsters from under the bed and in the wardrobe and the walls. As a child it was the most powerful being in the nighttimes, beyond the power of even Mum and Dad.  Today its power has gone yet, it is still there as a safety net. Just in case.

It proved itself once. As an eight year old girl who had been allowed to stay up and finish Lord of the Rings. Suddenly when the lights went out there were Orks and ghosts everywhere. They hid in the shadows behind the door, laughed in the wardrobe and every creak was a threat of their imminent escape and atatck. This old dog was the sole reminder of the physical, of what was real and what was imagination. I held onto him until the sun rose again. And in the morning, it was all forgotten, there were shadows no more.

Of course this is not the most important thing in the world. But it is the sole physical thing which holds any inkling of importance. To cling to something physical as something important seems to destroy the idea. Continually the risk is then faced of its loss or destruction. Preferable perhaps is to hold everything in the head. Every memory, idea and hope then gains a life of its own.Parisin December, a balding baby, a ballpoint pen, Christmastime,Essex, snowy mountains, broken skis, childhood.

And thus everything is metonymic, it’s just finding how. Not metonymic as a memory but because of its deeper meaning, a place as a symbol of hope, a person as a symbol of love or youth and above all else an overwhelming idea that we are alive. Every memory, thought or dream invokes and cements the idea that always, always we are living and creating and altering the planet. We are making a difference.

She didn’t have the willpower anymore. Not the willpower to resist nor the willpower to continue. She glanced up into those sleazy eyes which held a loathsome absence of colour, took in the oiled, slicked mop of hair, glanced past the scrawny body to where he was undoing his buckle and she quite literally shuddered. Life should not be like this. She should not be forced into such situations. With a swift jolt she kneed him, and then ran for her existence.

He was just another worthless guy created to make her feel good. She didn’t even want to. Often the self loathing increased following such incidents. But for just a moment, a fraction of a second in time she could pretend these strangers, these passing shadows in the night, these flecks on her bleak existence cared, made her feel belonging or, worse still they made her care. For just a second, she actually felt important. Then she came to her senses and the illusion was broken.

It hadn’t started like this, she didn’t used to be the freaky girl involved in illicit affairs. But then he came. He showed her things and asked for nothing. Absolutely nothing. Sometimes a stolen kiss on the sidewalk or a cheeky brushing of hands as they walked. Enough to make her care, and she thought she made him care. But he was far too gone. This was a game of strategy, of control and she was the pawn. In the briefest space of time she went from adored to being abused. She wasn’t pretty anymore. She wasn’t even decent, she was ‘worthless’, a ‘mug’ and ‘irritating’. Now there wasn’t stolen kisses, he stole far more than kisses, slowly he drained away her belief in life and the goodness of life and people. And the lying began, lying to him ‘of course I love you; of course i’d never leave’ lying to her friends ‘what this bruise? No I just fell into the ironing board’ lying to herself ‘of course he cares; his just stressed at the moment’.

Of course this only lasted so long. Soon the number was deleted, the calls avoided and the friends and family once more let in. But faith in humanity is harder to heal. In fact; on occasion, faith in humanity is impossible to heal. And that is why every Tom, Dick and Larry was let in, why she allowed them to call her pretty and hold her hands make her feel for a fraction of time decent. And that is why, time and again she would end up cold and alone on the sidewalk or walking home at 3am. It’s not even that she was ugly or horrible. She was average. But everything about her screamed ‘self loathing’ ‘desperation’ or even ‘easy’. And these were exactly the characteristics all the foulest rattiest of men preyed on and that made all the best of men run a mile. A dozen things to destroy her faith in mankind and send her crumbling into a pit of misery. A string of sordid relationships with nobody’s and wannabe’s and has beens all looking to exert their power in one way or another. And that is why, once more she has arrived home at 7am, and once more she is desperately trying to convince herself she isn’t worthless while all the while her heart and even her life thus far are screaming at her otherwise.

For all the creatives. I read somewhere that the more creative/ imaginative you are the more vivid and frequent your dreams (this may not be true but is certainly popular myth) according to Freud dreams are our sub-conscious desires coming to light in a form of riddle. For instance, if we have blocked out a thought or idea-our dreams make it apparent and yet concealed within the dream reality. All dreams have meaning (according to Freud) so were our dreams merely a projection of our subconscious desires humans largely are linked by many neanderthal desires and ideas. That is not to say that we are psychically connected but rather that since birth because of our society or upbringing or some other cosmic force we all have similar fears and desires. For instance a large percentage of the population dream of falling- fear of death or failure? and flying- desire for freedom? It’s just a thought but seems to project at least a slight amount of truth within it.