For the muse
November 28, 2011
There are mornings when the muse is so far away…By muse, I mean the connection to that almost-magic force of creativity that draws lines and circles of connection in what we write – but that we are not entirely aware of. One can always write. I can always write. I am never blocked. But the muse is not always present. Sometimes she just wants me to get the words down and then, after bathing in some exotic perfume, she will come and sit with me during the rewriting. This sorbet, from last week, is for the muse.
Connecting with the muse
Some mornings the only way in is through sadness. You open the door to sorrow, and in you go. She will be sitting at a table by herself with a half empty bottle of red and cigarette. You will sit down across from her and say nothing. She’s heard every possible line – she knows them all. You look at her. She’s very pretty in a maintained kind of way. She’s an illusion of beauty – a faded tattoo. Blond hair frames and softens a face that does not need softening. Her eyes are grey. The kindness in her eyes breaks your heart. It’s just that she’s just been at this for too long. Mostly, she’s beautiful and desperate and sad.
“What do you want?” she whispers. “What do you want from me?”
“I don’t want anything,” you say.
“Everybody wants something.” She does not look up from the table.
“Well, I already have what I came for.”
She looks up. “But the music hasn’t even started.”
“Just finding you here, at this table, alone – was enough.” And it is. Feeling her sadness was enough. Feeling something deeply, is enough. Because it’s all connected in here – sadness, joy, pain, love, hatred, despair, bliss.
She takes a gulp of her wine. Her teeth are stained by the wine. “Will you still want to dance?”
“It doesn’t matter,” you say. You look at her hands. They are slender and strong. She’s wearing a solid gold band on her right hand. You start to form a question but stop, then think – what does it matter? “When was the last time you made love?” you say. “When was the last time a lover smoothed his hand along the curve of your hip, traced a finger tip just below your breast, kissed the nape of your neck? When was the last time you were hopelessly lost in that dance?”
Across the dance floor, the band starts to play a slow and mournful tango. You hadn’t noticed the band before. She closes her eyes and breathes. When she opens her eyes and finds yours, you can feel the fierceness and intensity. She reaches across the table and takes your hand in hers. “I don’t know,” she says.