No Second Troy

Why should I blame her that she filled my days
With misery, or that she would of late
Have taught to ignorant men most violent ways,
Or hurled the little streets upon the great.
Had they but courage equal to desire?
What could have made her peaceful with a mind
That nobleness made simple as a fire,
With beauty like a tightened bow, a kind
That is not natural in an age like this,
Being high and solitary and most stern?
Why, what could she have done, being what she is?
Was there another Troy for her to burn?
-W.B. Yeats

I am thinking real hard about participating in Nanowrimo this year, and writing the story of one of my many, many, many, "for funsies" plots... Ideas/events/characters whom I often escape into but have no plan nor desire to formally/'professionally' produce and publish.

If I do, it will probably be the story surrounding my characters named Yeats and Ms. Bell.

Ms. Bell was an actress who was forced into retirement at the peak of her career due to issues regarding her mental health. It began with anxiety which progressed into a debilitating agoraphobia. Depression and feelings of worthlessness followed closely behind.

Her house was a mess and so was she--rarely able to pull herself out of bed, struggling to find the motivation to engage in the basic activities required for survival.

It was out of concern for her well being that Ms. Bell's sister purchased Yeats for her... a creature specifically designed to be a doting and gentle care taker. At first, Ms. Bell wanted nothing to do with him. The creature terrified her... and so, during her waking hours, Yeats hid himself away. He emerged from his hiding place while she slept, which gave him plenty of time to clean house, buy food, and make meals.

Upon learning that Ms. Bell greatly missed walking among the flowers of spring, Yeats went out of his way to visit a local flower shop, so that Ms. Bell could wake up to the sight of flowers within the safety of her home.

This simple gesture worked to help Ms. Bell warm up to her peculiar caretaker--and in time, a strange relationship thrived.

Yeats, while he has a voice--has never spoken a word and is best described as being mute. However, he writes poetry in his free time, and always has plenty to say through written word and metaphors.

Lately, however, all of his poems have been on the topic of love.

(The forth image is by a friend of mine, http://commissionsbyj.tumblr.com the rest are my own work)