The Luniferous Gazette 10: A Substack Party at Cinderella's Corner

You are Cordially Invited to Attend . . .

“In my own little corner in my own little chair
I can be whatever I want to be.”

Lyrics By Oscar Hammerstein II 
Music By Richard Rodgers

I grew up listening to Brandy sing Rodger & Hammerstein’s Cinderella melody “In My Own Little Corner” on replay. There was a familiar comfort and magic in watching her dream-croon beside her little corner chair. Tucked away from the wide world, Cinderella was free to imagine every adventurous impossibility with full glitz and glamor.

I’ve come to realize that Substack is my little corner chair in cyberspace. I’m truly grateful for this platform, which allows me to drop a multimodal smorgasbord of random audio-visual elements, and PDFs like I’m the Crown Princess of the Greater Pedantic Empire! And let’s not forget the fancy formatting for prickmedainty poetry: *(See my Substack Post for all the extras)

Starry Untold

Shy star, quiet star, beaming in the dark!

Don’t shadow and dim even when
none marvel under your light,
Don’t cry if no gaze ever
catches your secret
blaze and slant—  

You are the starry untold,
but not unwritten,
the story bleeding
bright ink wishes
without a wisp of
gathered glory— 

So trail your embers
far and wide as
wings dare
take you.

*

Pure ink fun however I choose to share it. While I’m not the most tech-savvy person, I’m enjoying experimenting with the many features available on Substack.

And today, I’m celebrating the first ten posts of The Luniferous Gazette! Perhaps an entire cake might be a little premature, but a petite crystal slice seems an ample treat for my efforts—  

Mmm, just a subtle hint of Swarovksi sparklestars. 

So far, this weekly newsletter challenge has pushed me to dabble in such disparate subjects as ash diamonds, synestias, errant drops of cream, and holographic beasties. I feel like I’m getting back in touch with a lost spirit of curiosity that was finely ground to cinders by the weariness of adulthood.  

My mother homeschooled my sisters and I for much of our childhood education, requiring us to turn in a short story and a poem every Friday. Unfortunately, the only surviving material that I could locate was a water-logged booklet that my father compiled and gave to our grandparents at Christmas:

*Purrito graces this photo with his fluffy paw.

Clearly, I am no Judith Shakespeare (nor am I sure why I considered myself such an authority on the athletic activities of spirits). But while my creative ink might’ve been a mediocre mess, I still credit these weekly assignments for getting me thinking. Inking. Dreaming—

And in the spirit of trying new things on Substack, I present my very first comic:

Whatever your dream, I wish you brightness in your little corner of the world. Oh, and a pixie’s wishing penny for luck! 

 

 

~*~

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The Luniferous Gazette #9: What Emily Knew About Pearls

 In Pursuit of Ink "Gem-Tactics"

I must confess that I can only recite three poems off the top of my head, all mercifully short! My first and favorite memorized strand of syllables is Emily Dickinson’s ink gem, “We Play at Paste.” Today, I want to dive into the nitty-gritty luster of Poem 320, and how it’s helped to shape me as a writer. 

This poem is deceptively simple in both structure and subject matter. When read aloud, the sentences slip easily off the tongue like falling water, each em dash a subtle eddy that lilts softly into the next phrase. It took me barely eighteen seconds to recite eight tidy lines whose meaning is open to endless interpretations by the reader.

In the first stanza, the paste pearls, once so satisfying in their allure, are eventually reduced to objects of frustration and shame that are tossed aside in favor of real pearls. Yet in the second stanza, Emily asserts that “gem-tactics” are learned precisely because we’ve practiced with the lesser, imperfect version first, gaining a familiar feel for these spherical “sands.” Now, our hands are capable of tracing a similarity in shape that runs deeper than the mere surface level of a faux pearl—

Perhaps because a true pearl also holds a grit at its core? 

As an English Major, it’s rather expected that I make confident claims while pontificating on literary icons. However, I can’t glimpse into the rolling facets of Emily’s mind and know for certain that she was penning metaphors about such weighty topics as the transition between childhood innocence and adult maturity. Her dust has slept peacefully beyond human questioning in Amherst, Massachusetts for 139 years now, and yet we still try to nacre her thoughts and intents to fit our narratives.

What I can say is that the first time I read this poem, I was instantly drawn to her enigmatic concept of “gem-tactics.” For me, the pearls in her poem shimmer with the essence of revision. They represent the tedious act of plodding, plotting, and pearling my way to story completion. Of constantly rolling a stubborn little grit over in my mind like a ball of paste and pages until I polish it into the rarest of jewels: the finished draft, the final revision—the flawless ink world, an orb entire to itself!

Sometimes, we carry our half-formed pearls with us for years until the nacreous bolt strikes and we know exactly how to layer our dreams just so. I inked this wispy little poetry fragment as a teenager:

Linear time makes a line, and the angels keep singing.

I never wrote the rest of the poem that went with it, but I always carried it in the back pocket of my brain. Decades later, I snapped a picture of the sidewalk during a stroll through my neighborhood. It didn’t occur to me until a while later that I’d finally found it: The missing iridescence that perfectly pearled my fragment:  

Linear time makes a line, and the angels keep singing  . . . 

Other times, the writing process proves far more painstaking and uncertain, and I, too, am left feeling “a fool.” I’ve been scribbling my current work in progress, Agent Regalia, since 2018, and at times I desperately wish to toss my quill and quit—but I can’t. Not with Emily’s wisdom glimmering in the back of my mind. Now, whenever I am mired in the muck of drafting and revisions, I try to remember that I’m not merely “practicing sands.” I’m in my Pearling Era! For even the tiniest mote of an idea holds semi-precious potential and may yet gain luster if we persist in our ink gem-tactics. 

INK of Others:

When Elizabeth and I announced the closure of Young Ravens Literary Review earlier this February, we received a kind farewell email from a frequent contributor whose poetry was always a true pleasure to see pop up in our inbox. Anne Whitehouse also graciously gifted me a copy of her newest poetry collection, Steady. It took me several months to finish it as I lingered over each poem, and I know I will be reading it again! It’s hard to choose a favorite piece from this collection, but I was absolutely hypnotized by the haunting beauty of “Bernadette.” I would like to add my humble review of her gorgeous work:

Praise for Steady:

Anne Whitehouse’s poetry wrestles with the exuberant, lonesome ache of human existence. She lingers over the promise of dormant wildflowers while challenging the edge of “elsewhere” with questions about what may come and how love survives after the last page turns. Her ink traces a clear, indelible line deep into the reader’s heart that gleams “(. . .) like twinkling / light between dark trees at twilight.”

  

-S.E. Page, Co-editor of Young Ravens Literary Review

 

 

~*~

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The Luniferous Gazette #8: Breathing in the Summer Rain

Thoughts from Space Station Sarah 

 

I live in a far northern state, which means I might as well dwell inside a sealed space station for five-six months out of the year with outside temperatures that can dip as low -50°F. The sun may blaze the snow outside my window to white diamonds, but I know better than to stray beyond my shelter and touch them. 

I don’t want to breathe in the cold glitter that can frost my nose hairs and bite my breath in the time it takes to pull my trash to the curb. The days are short and teasing with their wan sunbeams, and the dark nights swathe my mind until I can barely think straight. I try to play it cozy with the winter, but by March, I’m veering into cabin-fever crazy! 

Why am I sharing all this in the dead heat of August? Because the promise of the bright and warm months used to get me through the mandatory icy season. But as our world boils just a few degrees hotter every year, my summers have changed. 

More often than ever, I am driven out of my precious green haven back into the refuge of my house as wildfire smoke drifts in from burning forests. My eyes and lungs sting as I watch behind the glass as a palpable haze smothers everything. Even the sun dims into a different, angry red star from a shadow dimension.

Yet after relentless days of smoke, my state finally got a respite this past Sunday with the rainfall. I was so happy for a chance to go outside and just frolic in the wide world again! Armed with my trusty five dollar yellow umbrella from a 7-Eleven in Japan, I set out—nothing fancy, just a wet walk around the neighborhood.

I took so many pictures of random things, cataloguing spangled spider webs—

 

Ripening seed pods—

 

Dew-pinned rose scraps—

And damp, incarnadine-threaded leaves.

All of nature’s little live jewels that I was forced to abandon because of the smoke.

 

I couldn’t help wondering if all my summers will end up being like this now; something to run and hide from behind air conditioning and fancy filters, with only brief forays into the outside world permitted when the rain falls and cleans the air just enough—

To breathe in a forsaken paradise.

To gulp deep Earth’s atmosphere like a lost astronaut returning planet-side after a far and lonely journey home.

Future/?/INK

TO TECH WITH IT ALL

First, we replaced live circus animals
with cruelty-free entertainment—
Holograms hurt nobody.

And later, when famine, flood
and fire erase the last flesh
and blood creatures

From their natural habitats,
we’ll repopulate with even
more holobeasties!

Turns out, all we ever really
needed from the world
was the IDEA—

Not the thing of it.


*In 2018, the German Circus Roncalli replaced all animals with holograms in concern for animal welfare—a noble sentiment in an ailing world.

INK of Others:

Epic by Conor Kostick

I adore this book because of how the author explores the power of duality. The society of New Earth relies on the virtual game world of Epic to resolve all conflicts, banning violence in their physical reality by allowing it exclusively in Epic.

But by becoming dependent on a game to function as their legal and economic system, poorer citizens are forced to waste valuable time earning wealth in a virtual world to gain a meager allotment of resources in reality. While a person’s entire livelihood can be wiped out with their player’s death, those players who amass enough wealth in the game can become privileged members of New Earth’s elite Central Allocations.

The young boy Erik tries to beat the system by creating “Cindella,” a swashbuckling character who attracts the attention of an ancient electronic sentience in Epic. I could go on, but I don’t want to spoil the story. I think what draws me deep into this story are the simultaneous double stakes—Erik must balance two identities, his own and that of his female player Cindella, and exist in two worlds, New Earth and Epic. What happens in one can have dire consequences in the other. That’s cool (whichever way/world you slice it). Also, don’t forget to check out the sequels!

~*~

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The Luniferous Gazette #7: I'll take a dash of cream with my delusions, thanks

 “Why be succinct when you can be a sesquipedalian?”

 -Seraphina Sapphira Says, Allegedly

The Scene:

S.E. Page was enjoying a quiet Sunday brunch with her husband at a local café when a minor gravitational disturbance occurred. The tiny creamer pitcher—already an object of intense coveting as its precious contents required precise division with said beloved—spilled three drops of heavy cream across the table.

Page considered unfolding her napkin and obliterating this tragedy in three dairy dots, but her hand was stayed as her eyes drank in a most delicious scene:

  

Flat pearls like a mermaid’s tears? Maybe. Or was this perfectly aligned triad a secret pictograph for a spy thriller? No, perhaps these selenite dots fell from the last vessel holding the elixir of eternal life!

Oh dear. Her consternation grew with each new ridiculuscious scenario, and she hadn’t even had her second coffee yet.

She shooed her darling’s hands off the table so that she could freely photograph—er, capture the essence of this dilemma for future creative digestion.

For writers must consume every moment twice, thrice, forever ravening for scrumptious bites of symbolism even in the most mundane accidents of fate.

The ReVision:

Seraphina Sapphira, the obscenely wealthy and flippant princess persona of writer S.E. Page, has gone on an indefinite sabbatical from modern society. She has reportedly donated a sizable portion of her fortune to charity. She leaves behind thirteen mansions, one rumored herd of miniature unicorns, and an art vault deep in the heart of an impenetrable mountain. Unless you have access to her subterranean gondola system, that is.

We sent Reporter Val Query there to investigate what treasures the quixotic princess left behind. Surprisingly, Ms. Query focused her editorial entirely on one piece of artwork. It was given its own private room in the vault, complete with overstuffed ottomans where viewers might comfortably contemplate a most mysterious trio of dots—

 

Reporter Val Query interviewed several experts to hopefully elucidate the mystery of the Tri-Dot Canvas.

The Interviewees

The Art Critic: The dots are pointless. Just cunning alabaster distractions. It’s the negative space around them that demands the viewer’s full attention!

Can’t you feel the subtle scratches of darkness encroaching upon the outer edges? The canvas is just a mirror for the soul’s dual nature. A rumination on the Italian technique of ‘chiaroscuro,’ which is the vivid tonal contrast between light and dark.

The Biographer: Nonsense! It’s quite obvious why the princess treasured this particular piece when you analyze the viscosity and velvety texture of the cream. It’s far too fine to be from common dairy milk, it could only have spilled from a silver pitcher in the Upper Fae Café of Carolai.

Seraphina Sapphira bid her fiancé Sterling Daremore farewell there in her early twenties. They famously shared a late-night cup of hot chocolate before Daremore vanished during an interportal expedition to Atlantis. These flyaway drops memorialize the lost jewels of her youth and true love. Tragic, really.

The Philosopher: I would argue that a meta-analysis of the tri-dot structure points to a more profound reflection on human nature. The three spheres clearly represent the quest to maintain one’s inner balance.

Without a strong sense of self, external forces or orbiting ‘satellites’ of discontent can dislodge you from the copacetic center of your confidence and power. The simplicity of this concept is as evident as it is effective.

The Poet: Hold my quill—

I meant to drink you . . .

A thimble’s worth of spilled dreams

My mind sips instead. 

 

 

Word on the Street: (Transcript)

Reporter: “This is Val Query with a question for the Peoples! The Tri-Dot Canvas is currently valued at thirteen million dollars. Do you think that is a fair estimate of its worth considering it was owned by Princess—”

Random Person: “Wait, so wall bananas weren’t enough of a joke, now we’re calling table slop ‘High Art?’ That’s it! I’m going home. I’m going to throw macaroni noodles on my driveway until I crack the code.”

Conclusion:

Perhaps we will never really know what Her Royal Highness found so intensely fascinating about this magical mishap in three dairy dots. 

 

However, as the Primary Penholder, I would like to note that Substack is an extraordinary multimodal space to preen in the ink over even the smallest absurdity. Sometimes the most minute detail in our lives deserves celebration, too.

Wait, did you actually read all the way to the end of this prickmedainty newsletter? I wonder how many seconds I spirited away from your life with three errant drops of cream . . . .

 

 ~*~

Thanks for reading! If you'd like my free newsletter dropped into your inbox every Wednesday, subscribe to my Substack account here.