chapter 8
Time for the stasimon. In Greek tragedy, a musical interlude, a helpful aside to make sure you, the audience, understand what just transpired, a face-to-face so that we can be mind to mind.
In times past, it would be up to the chorus to sing the stasimon. But that was then. Big choruses and girl groups are a thing of the past. We now live in a culture of solo acts, live journals, celebrity autobiographies penned by those who are known around the world by one name only.
Jesus. Madonna. Tupac.
Ambrosia. I fit right in.
In case you’re wondering, Ambrosia is not some nom de stasimon to hide my identity. I am not unavenged Clytemnestra, nor her wronged daughter Iphigenia, nor Cassandra whose woeful story echoes so perfectly with mine. Why Aeschylus didn’t jot down my tale for all eternity is a mystery to me. But his literary snub hasn’t stopped my need for revenge. That remains endless, enduring, immortal.
So given my longevity, who is better suited to make sure you understand how the plot is congealing and thickening?
I’ve called them and they’ve done their first experiment. It’s written down in my book. So for now, I let them sleep. But not for long. Too much rest and they will not feel enough rage for what I’ve endured. Sleep can suck the strength of the serpent.
Awake, awake, awake, you artists of pain. Ugly and beautiful, that potent and combustible mix.
FIRST STASIMON, THE BOOK OF FURIOUS