How one twenty first century married mortal male (me - Matthew Scott Harris)...

found himself bewitched about Circe,
particularly after reading book title by the same name.

An enchantress and a minor goddess
in ancient Greek mythology and religion
depicted as living on the island of Aeaea
(pronounced "ee-EE-uh"),
the daughter of the sun god Helios
and the Oceanid nymph Perse
Circe renowned for her vast knowledge
of potions and herbs
unwittingly cast her magic
across millenniums of space and time,
whose fictitious existence spanned
during the Bronze Age
and the Greek Heroic Age,
which roughly corresponds
to the period of the Trojan War
and Odysseus's journey home
courtesy Madeline Miller
an American novelist,
author of The Song of Achilles and Circe,
who spent ten years writing
The Song of Achilles
while she worked as a teacher
of Latin and Greek.

After reading the first hundred pages
of aforementioned well written novel,
(a riddle wrapped
in a mystery inside an enigma -
In an October 1939 radio speech,
Winston Churchill used this phrase
to describe a situation
difficult to comprehend,
when he analyzed the early events
of the second war to end all wars),
yours truly experienced
increased familiarity towards Circe,
which inadvertently brought admiration
and eventual infatuation - ha
to said subject matter at hand
compliments aforesaid
forty six year young autheress
weaned on the classics as a little girl
courtesy her mother,
(who shares the same first name)
a librarian, started reading her
The Iliad at five years old
and she started learning Latin at eleven,
hence no surprise the daughter
started writing her first novel,
The Song of Achilles,
during the final year of her bachelor's
after co-directing a production
of Troilus and Cressida.
Most of my life of threescore and six years
found me a piss poor bloke transfixed
with reading about
femme fatale fictional personas in general,
and Circe in particular,
whom yours truly
found himself besotted with
because of her intriguing charisma
and found himself pretending
to wine and dine
said figment of Grecian imagination
à la suit of lovers such as
Telemachus, Hermes,
and most significant
life changing relationship Odysseus.

Short of cash
since becoming aware
of the importance of money
(particularly the lack thereof
of said currency),
I lucked out being a Guinea Pig
to test run the latest iteration
of time machine technology
and willingly accepted the opportunity
to volunteer myself
aware that any number of quirks
could find me stranded
somewhere in time
cue The 18th variation
of Sergei Rachmaninoff's
"Rhapsody on a Theme of Paganini"
never to return to the present moment
(March Madness 2025)
before circumstances
leisurely cruising thru cyberspace
texting one of the countless friends
I met courtesy social media platforms
until accursed ill-fate
found me experiencing
a series of unfortunate events.

After an instantaneous
indeterminable interval
of fleeting seconds or minutes,
a blinding flash indicated
that space-age contrivance
approached speed of light,
which pure energy form
accompanied with surrealistic kaleidoscope
of brilliant and spectacular colors,
which virtual phenomena
analogous to a rave party
typically featuring
electronic dance music (EDM),
with other genres like house, techno,
trance, drum and bass,
and dubstep being common choices
quite visible even with protective gear
donned over entire talking heads.
Unfortunately due
to some ghost in the machine,
a mechanical breakdown
within the Elon Musk
made contrivance
where time travel
to classical Greece
original objective in general
and experiencing firsthand
the invisible presence of Circe in particular
found the airy mission
thwarted (possibly a conspiracy linkedin
with John Wilkes Booth)
to pre antebellum America instead
birthing the following snippet
from a more lengthy vignette.

Nothing unusual, but
please pardon my lack of ability
to communicate in a clear and concise fashion.
The heat from summer like temperature-
induced drowsiness, which effort
to keep eyelids opened
tantamount to a futile effort.

So this fellow relented to visit
Doctor Mehmet Ozzy Osbourne land
during his Black Sabbath.

Thus mere moments ago,
while adrift in deep,
profound and tranquil sleep
(which seemed to encompass
more than the usual
one hour or so dog gone cat nap)
an undetectable transformation
quietly, softly, and subtly
jettisoned me from the here and now
to the flux of events
awash mid eighteen hundreds America.

Prior to waking
from hypnotic, trancelike state
(populated with exquisite
redolent viz psychedelic furs dreams
nearly true to realistic personages)
held me spellbound.

Akin to a frictionless,
gliding locomotion mechanism
(safely and securely
transporting human cargo
known as Matthew Scott beyond present)
ferried me across corridors,
labyrinths and passageways
countless decades ago,
I absorbed the ambient
mind-set, beliefs, creeds, ethos,
gentility, integrity, morality,
nuanced opinions, political thought-processes,
vices and virtues
of progressive think
men and women,
for their time,
who accident of fate
writ (unbeknownst to them)
their incomplete biographies
cradle to grave scores of years ago.