Yesterday, I realized I can author the great American Novel, but, it has to be better than ‘Gone With the Wind’ and ‘Wuthering Heights’ which happens to be my mother’s favorite book-movies. Two women wrote these For Women Tales. I must decide right there whether I should secretly apply a woman’s name to my masterpiece, because a male will not be able to get away with this title. No man is allowed to be a great proponent of Jesus and the Christian religion, and, at the same time reveal what millions of women, dead and alive, long to reveal, that Christian Men, severely victimized them, did all that a man can do, to destroy them.
How perfect is this haunted house, that gets moved to a precarious perch overlooking the midnight turbulent sea. From here, in a candle-lit window, a poem is trying to be born, from this poet’s perch, born from a woman’s adventurous heart, that is not content to look for her sailing lovers, her man’s return from his Argonauts encouters with the Cyclops.
Hither she goes to be onboard, not by their side but, charging at brave men with an Amazon’s bloody lust, and, – a wiccan wand? Such is the fate of a Puritan adventure, disguised as trappers of beaver, lovers of Indians, and all those English things, stowed below. Like Elisabeth’s hunger for Habsburg gold.
Haunted House. Stormy Sea. Beautiful Maiden. All these things come with a curse that only a woman can own and bare. So, I will invite her to possess me, even through a clever Ouija board, like the one in Pynchon’s lousy movie, that feiged daring-do. Did Jeannette, the author, read William Pychon’s forbidden burning book?
Come here to America thou persecuted in his name, ones! Come hither ye men of the Book and the Cross. Bring your Calvinist Coo-Coos Nest and the May Pole of your famous Fay. For your women are dark and mysterious, and as elusive as Blanchflour, whom Caesar sought. Gone are his reasonable Stoics. Gone to sea with the Crusaders. Gone there, with the Cross.
Tis the hour of fairy ban and spell:
The wood-tick has kept the minutes well;
He has counted them all with click and stroke,
Deep in the heart of the mountain oak,
And he has awakened the sentry elve
Who sleeps with him in the haunted tree,
To bid him ring the hour of twelve,
And call the fays to their revelry;
Twelve small strokes on his tinkling bell –
(‘Twas made of the white snail’s pearly shell:- )
‘Midnight comes, and all is well!
Hither, hither, wing your way!
‘Tis the dawn of the fairy day.’