Muse

Have you ever known someone you could write a book about? I'm using book as a generic noun here, it is what fits me, for you it could be draw a picture, sing a song, name your favorite sandwich after, whatever. It is more about the feeling than the result of that infatuation. You look at them and you see the words forming, you can feel your hand moving the pen across the smooth texture of the paper. The callous on your index finger from years of refusing to do anything but write everything by hand starts to itch. Chest tightens a little bit. If you are lucky you have real experiences to draw those words from. You know for a fact and are not just assuming that the taste of them lingers for days; the smell of their hair permeates the atmosphere around you. Think about that last line for a moment, just how extraordinary is the power of smell to those memories. I am still unable to catch a whiff of pear lotion on the air without the image of a woman I haven't seen in eight or nine years blind siding me into a sweet smelling remembrance of days gone by. If you are lucky you can tell a story that is believable, truth, one that makes the reader think about the person they want to name their favorite sandwich after. That’s a metaphor; think about it for a minute. (That is a metaphor isn't it?)


Now think about that feeling, we have all had it, or are having it. How do you turn it into the medium that is the string on our finger that reminds us we are still sane? How do you convert it? Fahrenheit to Celsius is easy (F: 32/C: 0 extrapolate). Feelings to substance, that’s harder than doing calculus on an abacus. So we turn to something to fill in that hole that remains where the conversion should be, alcohol, drugs, sex, reality TV. The smart ones turn to religion or run marathons, climb mountains, save children from Sally Struthers. The fools write blogs on Myspace at three in the morning, while listening to illegally downloaded Mp3s of Chris Isaak, knowing they have to get up in less than four hours so they can go do errands in time to get to where the muse will be as soon as she gets there. Can't miss one damn moment can you? No you can't because that one minute might be the one that the epiphany happens in. Clarity waits for no man.


Thing is you know in the back of your mind, somewhere a little past that episode where Sammy Davis Jr. guest starred on All in the Family, that she won't be the last muse, she certainly wasn't the first. Now you read that and say to yourself, "Well that’s good, the more muses the better", but you are mistaken. Muses suck. Do you realize the time it takes to convince someone in this day and age that they are a muse? They look at you like you are ****ing crazy. So you sigh, light a smoke, beg yourself to get a vodka and tonic, order an iced tea with lemon instead, and carry on. The tea sucks in St. Louis, damn I can not wait to go home in May, all I want is a cold mason jar, straight out of the deep freeze, and some tea. Can iced tea be a muse? Vodka tonics can be, of that I am sure.


Muses should be sold at the Farmer's Market, put them next to the carrots and string beans, and when the season is right, place them by the Vidalia onions. Sweet onions and people who inspire go together.


You walk in, and look over; your whole day may rest on whether or not Muse is smiling. You know it really ain't got anything to do with you anymore, but if you were frowning or had that anxious look you get in your eyes, then Muse would feel it, and the feeling is reciprocal. The cool breeze of relief hits you like an extra in 300. The eyes are twinkling, Muse stayed in last night and wasn't drinking whiskey till five in the morning, the smile is there, crooked but it is genuine. Muse says your name and you have a memory of a cold snowy night, wet hair, freezing hands and fingers, warm lips, please don't stop.


They should make ice cream that tastes like Muse does. Serve it in a waffle cone, no spoon allowed. Muse asks you if you want Diet Coke or tea, you reply tea, but if you had said White Russian-tall, she wouldn't have blinked. Muse doesn't know how to pass judgment on you. You ask Muse if she has fixed her trim around the windows yet because the city is gonna send her another letter soon. Muse hasn't of course, and you tell her when you are off the coming week, and tell her to get the stuff, you'll help her. You were saying that long before you got to count the freckles on her shoulders. You give her the book you bought for her, tell her you never finished it, but its okay you read it first. You also have a new CD for her, Aretha, Bill Withers, and Susan Tedeschi.

A few hours pass by, it is time to go. You light another smoke, curse your inability to quit the nasty habit, and put your debit card on the bar. Muse looks at you, you shiver, she says "What’s that mean?", and you wonder if she wants you to stay. You walk home; it is sunny even in the rain. Curtis Mayfield's “Here but I'm Gone" plays in your head. You smile, and tell yourself you are going to quit smoking, but as you walk into the store the man working hands you two buy one get one packs of Marlboro Reds. That's why you go there, they don’t ask what you want, they just give it to you.

You lean over the porch and look out over the city, see the steeple of the Lutheran Church, the Budweiser sign, the Arch, the homeless man you bought a sandwich for yesterday. You wonder why you are so much happier now that Muse isn't yours anymore. Clarity strikes, Muse is for writing about, or for inspiring you to write. She isn't for writing to. You can't be that close, not all the time, it will burn you out from the inside. Just thank God you can still see Muse, thank him every day when you drive to work and see her car at Joanie's and feel relieved she is okay for one more day. Pray the smile will be there the next time you stop by. Write something, share Muse, or at least what Muse means, how she inspires. Love is on the opposite end of the spectrum than Muse. They are cohorts, but not the same.

Find a muse people. Be a muse. Tell the people that look at you like you are crazy to go on about their unoriginal life.


Muse: The personification of the source of inspiration of a poet or other writer.