Monera Mason is a mischief-maker.  Her work includes: starting questionable cults with notorious software gurus, writing abstract fiction, catalyzing shenanigans which she deploys on unsuspecting bystanders in the City of Neon. 

Oceans and Months

Have you ever had that experience where you know you have you met your person.  Where all the Meg Ryan movies suddenly make sense and you get that romance is a comedy.  You can almost call into being field mice and bluebirds to do your bidding in animal slavery.  Where every note rings tender and you find yourself perpetually needing kleenex?  

Then there are all the poems I have written and all the songs he has left on my voice mail.  When you live in your daily Nora Ephron novel you wonder what ended up happening to Harry and Sally.  Is your inner critic dying and are you even remotely sad about it?  Not really.  Like every good romantic comedy, circumstances have kept us apart for the time being.  We could even shoot this split screen where we are each crushing our dreams but still deeply missing each other.  

Where temptation is around every corner but it never feels right.   The gay best friend is really my Straight adopted kid brother who plays Overwatch with him while listening to me fawn about how in love I am in.  Who knows we are perfect for each other.  Whoever is in central casting is a bloody genius, way to nail compatibility.  

What have I been doing this month?  Working on large art projects for the party of the decade. Meeting all the brilliant people I have admired in the last ten years . . .  my heroes.  While my heart sings love songs.  He gets it that THIS is important to me.  The writing and the creativity.  Inspiration and the trading of words we are engaging in.  It makes me a better artist.  

I often worried that a relationship would so hinder me but when it's right it has inspired me.  This is why there are so many ballads that pepper the sound scape.  I wish I knew more words to capture what I feel and so I find myself in the annals of obscure word lists in order to write more impressively.  

It has been hard to keep the 200 crappy words within the flourish of poems I am tempted to pen.  Pouring out of me in private communication.  Poetic is becoming my default and I so want to live in the world where such words are endless.  I want to gather every dulcet adjective and weave them into halcyon landscapes.  This all started in an opulent offing and it has been the panacea for both of us.   

A month of magic auguring our pastiche fairy tales.

Myth and Roadkill

Uncharted Ephermera