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Posted on January 18, 2014 by Jamieson Wolf
The lights had started to flicker weeks ago.
He hadn’t paid them any mind; he lived in an older building, it was bound to happen from time to time. Then, as the lights to flicker on a more regular basis, he began to worry. Every time he came into his apartment, the lights would work fine for a second or two. He would wait, however; he knew what was coming.
He had lights in the kitchen, living room, bedroom. Whether he had turned the light on or not, it began to flicker. This would go on for a few moments and then the clocks began to reset themselves.
His alarm clock, his coffee machine, the clock on his microwave, his VCR. The clocks weren’t reset to simple zero’s. They flashed random letters at him. He would watch all the clocks, looking for some sense in the words, but none would come to him.
Then his stereo would cut out in the middle of a song, his television in the middle of a movie. The phone was useless, being a cordless. He’d had to go out and buy a rotery phone as anything involving electricity wouldn’t function for long.
The only object that worked was his laptop. He would open it every morning and click open his word processor. It would sit there like a blank eye, looking at him, waiting; and every day it was the same thing: he couldn’t write a thing.
His agent, Susannah Cursewell, was trying to be supportive, but she was loosing her patience. “Berkus, I don’t why you’re blocked, but you have to break down the wall. It’s been three years.”
“I know how long it’s been.”
He was talking to her on a payphone and it was long distance. He kept feeding it quarters. Talking to Susannah cost him a fortune in change every week.
“So why the silence? Your first few books were New York Times best sellers, all of them stayed at the number one spot for months! And don’t get me started about your last book! You won all the major awards and got worldwide acclaim! Anything you write will sell millions of copies, it doesn’t matter what you write, Berkus! They’ll buy anything you write!”
“I have to write when the words are there and they haven’t been.”
“Look, Berkus. I know you creative types. You have to find your Muse at the bottom of the well. I’ve seen it before.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The well, the well! You know, all you writers are supposed to have a creative well? And a Muse? Someone that guides you and inspires you. Don’t all writers have a voice or voices in their head?”
“You’re making me sound like a lunatic.”
“Not at all, I just know that’s how creative people like you think, how you operate. Me? I’m creative, but don’t have the passion you creative types do. I like money, so I get creative, but that’s all. You, well, you have something in you.”
“Then what do I do?” Berkus asked.
“Honey, you do what you used to do: break down that fucking wall, and find your Muse. All you have to do is look for her. And for fuck sakes, fixt your god damned electrical problem, would you? I want to call you at home like a regular person, not wait for your call like you’re a fucking spy.”
Berkus didn’t think it was that simple. He thought about the wall he would have to break down. The only problem was that he hadn’t known he was building it in the first place. By the time the wall was in place, the last brick in its spot, it was too late.
How did you break down a wall you couldn’t see? How did you go about finding a Muse that had left you? How did he find the well? These thoughts and more were on his mind as he entered his apartment. He was through the door and had locked it behind him before he realised that anything was wrong.
Berkus turned around and stared in wonder. His apartment was full of light, but it wasn’t coming from the lights or lamps in his apartment. It was coming from a woman sitting in front of his computer.
“What the hell is going on? Who are you?”
The woman turned looked up at him. Berkus was astounded by how she glowed. She was almost too bright to look at. “Hello Berkus, long time no see. And don’t you know who I am? You must know, it hasn’t been that long. Or have you found another?”
Her voice was like the a fire crackling away, full of warmth and heat. The sound of it filled him with heat he hadn’t experienced since he last wrote. He used to feel the warmth in his fingers after typing for a long stretch of time or a particularly difficult plot point.
“You’re my Muse.” He said.
“Yes, I’m one of them. You can call me Jude.”
“How can you be here? How is this even possible?”
She smiled at him and it was beautiful, like receiving a benediction. “Well, I admit, you’ve been a tricky one. The lights didn’t get you inspired to write. You just lived with them as they were. I even tried sending you messages through your clocks. Weren’t you able to make out the words?”
“No, I couldn’t read them. They moved too quickly and made no sense to me.”
“That’s because you weren’t looking clearly. The words said ‘Believe in yourself’. I thought for sure you would write a story about your VCR talking to you but you just continued to stare at the screen. I realzed that the wall you had built around yourself was very large indeed. So here I am.”
“Don’t I have to go and find you? Break down the wall? Find you in the well?”
“Oh, that’s all symbolism, really. Besides, I broke down your wall for you. If I hadn’t, we’d be waiting forever!” She laughed and the sound was like a fire crackling into a log of wood. Berkus expected to see sparks fly from her mouth. “We couldn’t have that have we? We have lost of writing to do!”
“But I have to find the well!” Berkus said.
“The well is inside you, Berkus. It’s just symbolism. All you have to do it put your fingers to the keyboard and write. You have to climb over the wall to get a look at the vast field of green there, the wide expanses of land waiting to be explored.”
“How do I find it? How do I get over the wall?”
“By conquering your fears and writing despite your fear. What is stopping you?”
Berkus shook his head and began to pace his office. Finally, he faced her again. “I’m afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“My last novel did so well, it won all kinds of awards. What is people expect another book like that from me? What if I can’t do it?”
“Berkus, shouldn’t the fun be in trying? In using your art to discover uncharted territories? You can’t let fear stop you from living your life. You can only try. Write the story you want to write, the one that comes to your fingers. The rest will work itself out in time. You have to write Berkus. It’s as simple as that.”
“I don’t think I know how any more.”
“It’s like riding a bike. You never forget. Now enough of this, here sit down.”
She rose from the desk chair and stood beside it, holding out an arm as if welcoming him to it. “Sit, Berkus.”
He nodded and sat in the chair. It was warm from where she had perched. “What do I do now?”
“Stop over thinking, stop over plotting, let the stories that are in your head out to play on the paper. The well is inside of you Berkus. Let it out.”
Berkus put his fingers to the keyboard and wrote the first words he had written in over three year: The lights had started to flicker weeks ago.
He heard a noise behind him and turned to see Jude with a smile on her face made of flame. “Thank you.” She said.
She grew brighter then and brighter still. Berkus had to cover his eyes for a moment and when he looked again, Jude was gone. Not completely however. His walls were covered in constellations of stars and they shone from the walls of his office as if they were the real thing.
Berkus sat there for a moment, taking it all in. “You’re welcome.” He said.
Then he turned to the keyboard and continued to write under the glow of stars.
Posted on January 14, 2014 by Jamieson Wolf
I’m doing formatting for my upcoming volume of poetry titled Talking to the Sky. I collected all of my poems from 2013. The poem Sometimes/Words was among them, but it wasn’t written in 2013, so it gets cut. I wrote it several years ago, I would say 2009
So I’m going to share it with all of you. Stay tuned for more info on what Talking to the Sky is all about.
Enjoy!
i
Sometimes
I steep myself in the words of another
Letting the words rush over me
Around me
In a protective embrace
Consonants harsh and sharp
Scrape along my skin
Vowels soft and yielding
Caress my tired body
ii
I open a book
Any book will do
I feel its pages rife with wisdom
As they slide between my fingers
Slick and wet
Black like oil spills
Across a white expanse
Just begging to bleed
Begging to bleed out the words
So that they can be free
iii
When I am sleeping
I can hear the words
The vowels whispering sweet nothing
The consonants jeering and cheering
Whispering Sweet Whispering
Begging me to look upon them
To open a book
To set them free
To let my eyes look upon them
So that they are given life
iv
I wake
I go to the books
Trying to quiet them
Before they wake the others
Before they wake their dreams
I stroke their spines
To settle them
And listen to their pages
Ruffle Shuffle Rustle
Whispering their words
Like a song or tribal melody.
v
I take down a book from the shelf
A big heavy book
A thick volume, pages
smell of dust and wishes.
I open the book to a random page
Ruffle Shuffle Rustle Whisper
“I do so love tea parties.”
Blond girl down the rabbit hole
“Why is a raven like a writing desk?”
A mad cackle from the man in a hat
I close the book, let the pages talk once more
Whisper Rustle Listen Hustle
vi
I look for another book
Try to find another story to lose myself in
I find a slim book
A thin book of dreams
Wiffle Whisper Muffle Wister
I remember him as if it were yesterday
Fifteen men on the dead man’s chest-
Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum!
The Black Spot! It’s the Black Spot!
No, this will not do at all
I close the book, listening for the gossip
Whisper Sister Ruffle Hustle
vii
I search for another book
Like a treasure hunt X marks the spot
I look for another life
To hold in my hands
To feel the ink that slides along the pages
Pulse in my hands
Like a heartbeat
Pulse Throb Beat Pulse Throb Beat
I long to lose myself in the pages
To hide from the light
The bright light that blinds me
Inside the page of books
I am free
viii
I reach for a book
For another life
One with a green spine
I can feel the ink
Throb Beat Pulse
When I hold it, can feel the words
Whisper Muffle Wuffle Rustle
When I flip the book open
Striking red head with freckles
“I am Anne with an e”
I feel something stirring in my heart for this girl
“Can I really stay at Green Gables?”
Yes this will do nicely
I let the pages flip and slip so that they can talk
So that I can hear their gossip
Whisper Sister Muffle Wustle
Rustle Wuffle Whisper Mister
Whisper Whisper Whisper Whisper
ix
I want to stay
Within these pages
These words that
Pulse Throb Beat
Before my eyes
I want to lose myself in the page
Within the heart that beats
Inside this book
The words are calling to me
Singing their singsong songsing
Whisper Whisper Whisper Whisper
x
I slide my finger along the edge of a page
Let the page cut into me
Slide along the grooves in my finger
My finger print breaking open
With an offering
Blood wells to the surface of my skin
Like an oil spill
And the pages begin to
WHISPER WHISPER WHISPER WHISPER
Loudly, so loudly, so loud I can hear
Nothing else
Only the
whisper whisper WHISPER
Of the pages within my hands
Of the words that begin to swirl
like a wind filled with hope
As I hold my finger over a page
And watch as my blood begins to fall
Watch as it drops to the page like a kiss
Like a caress
Of black words along an expanse of white
I am in the words now
The words have become me
Sometimes words any day words
I have found my home
I have found my freedom.
Posted on January 12, 2014 by Jamieson Wolf
I’ve been watching Under the Dome Season One. My first impression still stand: I prefer the book-but then again, I’m a book guy. I will always prefer the book. The Harry Potter films, The Chronicles of Narnia, The Princess Bride; it doesn’t matter which films they are, I will always prefer the book.
However, since watching the first season of Under the Dome aired, I’ve had one line from the show running through my head. It’s a line spoken by Julia Shumway, played on the show by Rachel Lefevre. It stuck with me.
After Dale Barbara saved Julia from dying in an epidemic, she wakes and turns to him. She says: “Was it you? The one who saved me?”
At the time, it struck me as a horribly corny line, but out of the whole show, that’s been the one that stuck with me. Odd right? However, I couldn’t get it out of my head.
So, I asked for the first season for Christmas and got it. I did a little skip of joy inside when I opened the wrapping. Although my first impression of the show was

based on a book lovers reaction, now I could watch the season again and just enjoy it. And you know what? It’s pretty freaking awesome.
I’m about to start episode 8 and I love it. I’ve become really involved in the characters, the ever shifting story lines, the sub-plots. the mystery and intrigue. The story has me hooked. I vaguely remember what happens from watching it the first time around, but I missed a few episodes.
Either way, it rocks and feels like we’re watching a Stephen King novel. It’s like a mirror of its literary cousin, three times removed. The show is different from the novel, almost completely, but Under the Dome the show and the book are awesome in their own way.
I can’t wait to find out what happens next, all over again. It’s like re-reading a book, but in video!
Posted on January 11, 2014 by Jamieson Wolf
was in a large banquet hall.
I was surrounded by those
I loved, even people that I
had not seen in years.
and the hall was filled with
the sound of people talking.
Their voices were like music.
I had no idea why we were there;
it was like I had woken up
all of a sudden only to find myself
surrounded by a Shangri-La of
friends and family.
I was sitting in a throne that
was in the centre of the room.
The party was going on around me,
and I was as it’s centre. It was as if
I was the sun and the people
I loved were the planets.
A woman stood up and
clinked the edge of her cup
with a long, pointed knife.
It looked like a sword.
The room fell silent and
everyone was expectant.
“We all know why we’re here.”
She smiled at me and raised
her glass. She was shining and bright,
like the moon, full of light that
rippled all over her skin
and made her sparkle.
“We’re here to celebrate you.”
She pointed at me and I was filled
with love and contentment.
“We have a gift for you.”
She held up large piece of paper.
On it, I saw myself as I was
when I was younger.
It was a photograph
that had been blown up to full size.
I looked at my younger self
and recognized myself there,
even though I no longer felt
like the same person.
She pulled out something
that looked like a wand.
Waving it in front of the paper,
I watched the photo begin to
shimmer and undulate.
I watched the photograph
settle itself on the paper
as if it were a Polaroid.
When the picture started
to came into focus,
I saw myself as I was now,
holding out two gold disks,
one balanced in each palm.
“Who you were has changed
into who you are.”
She pointed with her wand at
the paper again and it began
to shimmer once more,
When it came into focus,
I saw myself again.
I was standing on a grassy knoll,
looking towards the future,
surrounded by the sun and sky.
The disks from the previous photo
had multiplied and surrounded me.
They were floating in the sky
like several small suns.
There were animals in the grass.
They looked as if they were protecting me,
or offering me guidance on the journey
that I was about to take into the unknown.
“You are not afraid of yourself anymore.”
She smiled again and her brightness
increased until it looked
as if she were made of stars.
She raised her glass and said “Slainte!”
Everyone in the room raised their own glass
and repeated the word.
They clinked their glasses
their neighbours and the room
sounded as if it were filled
with the tinkling of bells.
Light began to pour from their cups
until all I could see was
was the brightness
of the sun.
Posted on January 10, 2014 by Jamieson Wolf
Vilma looked up. The same woman that had shown her to the green room upon her arrival was standing there. Vilma put the script she had been reading back into her bag and stood. “Thank you Ms….?”
The woman gave her a quick up and down glance, taking all of her in. Vilma had been shocked by her brisk manner. The woman had dark grey hair that was cut in a short bob and a face that gave nothing away. She was just shy of four feet tall; for such a small woman, she had an incredibly large presence, almost as if it could not be contained in her small body.
She nodded, as if Vilma had said something. “You get the part and I’ll tell you my name. And I think you will. He’ll like you. Follow me.”
Vilma was led past the set builders; they were making a large cathedral and the air was filled with the singing of saws, the drone of drills and the thudding of hammers. The short woman led her to a plain faced door. When the woman opened it, Vilma gasped.
The office beyond the door was sumptuous. The walls were painted a rich chocolate brown and complimented by dark leather furniture. The floors were made of hardwood and shone as if lit from below. In the centre of the room was a white table with a crystal vase. In the vase sat one black rose.
“You can go in. Mr. Tivanga is waiting for you.”
“Where is he? I don’t see him.”
“He’s waiting for you.”
Vilma nodded and stepped into the room. The woman closed the door and Vilma experienced a feeling of being trapped. Trying to distract herself, she sat on the couch, took the script out of her purse and started reading it. Whatever the behaviour of his assistant, if that was in fact what the woman’s role was around here, Vilma knew that she was getting the chance of a lifetime.
Landing a part in a film by Tivanga was a once in a lifetime chance. It made an actor’s career. People went on to stellar roles, won Oscar’s and worldwide fame. If you were in a Tivanga film, it opened doors for you.
You couldn’t just audition for one of his films, however. You were invited to. Tivanga was notoriously picky and often chose unknowns to star in his films. It not only made their career, it changed their lives.
Vilma was not an unknown actor. She had starred in three pictures to date and done lots of television and stage work. She had been waiting for years to get the Part, the one that changed her career and turned her from passing fancy into a household name.
This was her chance. This was more than a role, this was the role. The only problem was that she had no idea which part she would be reading for. Her agent had called early in the morning three days ago, telling her that he was going to send her a script and that a reading had been booked.
He was strangely excited. Vilma asked him why he was acting so oddly and he answered with only one word: Tivanaga.
So here she was in a beautiful office, waiting to see if her life would change for the better. The script was for a film called Cascade and it concerned a woman who learned a secret about her lover. He turned out to be a high priest of some sort of black magic order. The further she delved into the darkness, the more she lost herself.
It was a powerful piece. Vilma only hoped that she would play the lead; it was the strongest female lead role she had ever read. She knew that Tivanaga wrote as well as directed his films, letting no one else into the writing process. Some interviewers claimed that he wrote as if he were channeling the words.
Hearing a rustling noise, Vilma looked up and at first could see nothing amiss. However, the rustling noise came again, from very close to her. She looked around again and noticed the black rose in the vase on the table in front of her. It was shivering and vibrating. As she watched it, the black colour of its petals began to fall away as if it were shedding the blackness. A vibrant red showed through, growing in dominance until it was no longer a black rose.
Vilma reached out to touch the flowers petals when a deep, gravelly voice spoke. “Please don’t touch the flower.”
Looking up, Vilma sucked in a breath. In front of her stood Carolos Tivanaga in all his glory. He was just as he looked in his promotional shoots: dark hair cut short, coffee coloured skin, bright blue eyes that seemed not to just look out at you but shine. He stood an impressive six foot six. Taking him in, Vilma was breathless for a moment before she extended her hand.
“It’s very nice to meet you Mr. Tivanga. It’s an honour.”
“The honour is all mine Miss Lopez. It’s all mine. Please sit.”
She did so and he pulled up a small chair she had not noticed before and sat down across from her. “Shooting begins in three days. You will have to sign a non-disclosure agreement and shooting will take three months. I look forward to having you in my film.”
Vilma was shaken. “You mean you want me for Cascade? But who will I be playing? My agent didn’t say.”
“Why the lead, of course! Did you not picture yourself in the role? Did you not see yourself in her features? I wrote the part with you in mind. I hope you’re not offended that I took such a liberty with your person. I was inspired when I saw you in Come and Catch Me. You were wasted in that film, but you were the only shining light worth watching. I watched it thirteen times so that I could bask in your light.”
Vilma shook her head. “I don’t have a light.”
“Oh, but you do. It’s why you’re here, why you were able to wake up the rose.”
She looked at the flower and it had grown fuller, more vibrant. “I don’t understand.”
Tivanga regarded her for a moment and then tented his fingers together. “You do have a light inside you. I employ people who shine, Miss Lopez. I don’t employ mere actors. You have to shine brightly and you do. I want to let that light shine through the film, through the celluloid, touching every heart in that theatre. A mere actor can’t do this. They are talking head, meat puppets without strings.”
“I still don’t understand. Why did you mean by waking up the flower?”
“That flower was dead. It was a husk of itself. Yet being across from you for a few moments was enough to bring it back to its full glory. That is your light, Miss Lopez, your shine, your essence. No mere actor has this, but you do. I want to use that, to pull the essence from you through your performance. I will make you a star.”
For some reason, Vilma shivered. She didn’t like the way he was speaking about her and it unnerved her for some reason. However, she knew that starring in a Tivanga picture was a once in a lifetime opportunity. She pasted a smile on her face. “I’d be happy to sir!”
He considered her for a moment and she wondered if he was going to speak. When he finally did, his voice was almost a whisper. “There is something you should know. I don’t usually tell any of my leading men or ladies this. But I will tell you.”
“What is it?” Vilma was frightened now.
“By the end of the picture, you will be a star, yes. However, there is a cost, a sacrifice. By the end of the picture, your light will be depleted. It goes out into the world for others like myself that need that light to live. You will be a star, go on to have any starring role you could wish for. But the light will be gone from you.”
He held out his hands in the air. “On one hand, mediocrity.” He raised his left hand. “On the other, stardom.” He raised his right hand. “Stars don’t come cheap. I can make you one, Miss Lopez. I can change your life. All you have to do is choose.”
Vilma believed him. He was being completely sincere and the fear in her grew until it was clamouring to get out of her skin. “Why are you telling me this?”
“I have never seen someone shine as brightly as you, and you have no idea of your true power. I must have your choice, Miss Lopez. Choose.”
Vilma looked at his upheld hands, what they could give to her and what they would take away. Vilma looked at his hands and knew her what her choice would be.
Dedicated to Vilma Lopez who is a star.

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Jamieson Wolf has written a compelling story about navigating multiple sclerosis and cerebral palsy. His story will touch your heart, make you cry, then laugh, and inspire you. A touching memoir with a bit of magic…and tarot! ~ Theresa Reed, author of The Tarot Coloring Book
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