Maybe it's writing collaboratively (a screenplay; a speech; copy for brochures; letters of rec); maybe it's writing academically for licensure courses and grad courses; maybe it's sending out a hundred plus resumes and cover letters (plus untold first chapters and letters of inquiry for publishers)? Maybe it's too much texting or blogging or e-mail?
Whatever the reason, the Muse (my Muse) is off on her own trek for the umpteenth time. Each adventure/absence grows a wee bit longer. Does it make my heart grow fonder? You bet...as well as my head growing lighter. It seems that though I use old methods of filling the hours via journal writing, cartooning, reading the classics or watching old movies, nothing truly primes the pump of the poetry waters. The drought rages and I grow more and more parched at her absence. Nothing seems to work.
I've looked for her at other readings. I've stalked her in nightclubs, poetry slams, coffeehouses, open- miked barrooms, and even in support groups for the Poetically Challenged. She eludes me. Sometimes I get news of her--a sighting via FaceBook; rumors carried by college buddies from afar. Once I know I caught a whiff of her perfume blowing down the street in Silver Lake, the last spring I wandered L.A. When I stopped, it was gone, leaving a lump in my throat and a watery eye. (Silver Lake had changed for good; forever.) I stopped going back.
Close friends and family don't even ask about her anymore. (It is out of pity.) A few beloved students inquire, full of the excitement and promise of their own Muse Sightings--the possibility of a Real Relationship with Inspiration flickering before them. It tantalizes, as does all first loves. I don't tell them the truth.
I don't mention the heated exchanges, the heartbreaks, the empty nights and cold mornings of absence. I never reveal the disappointments or the fickle-flights of fancy. I sometimes allude to the homecomings. The brilliant relief at her first step back --though I have precious little evidence to prove those re-unitings. (They exist! They do!) Better to allow the Young to hope. In yearning, there may be genius. (One can't be sure.)
I've tried voodoo. Voudun. Wiccan Love and Creativity Spells. Holy Candles. Rosary beads. Scapular medals.Communion. Sufi Dancing and Zen sitting. I've taken retreats, alone, to craggy shores and windy deserts. I've heard distant flutes sounding--but no drums. I've seen mirages and they were beautiful. (Maybe, even, besides the paw prints of coyotes, a footprint...or not.) One morning I woke to find lipstick on my cheek...the tent flap flapping...but, she had fled, without a sound. (All of my pens were dry; the notebook bereft of pages.)
I'm ready for her to come home. I keep the lamp burning on the bedstand. There are plums and blueberries in the frig. (I'll spring for a bottle of Merlot, if she'll only appear.) If you see her when you look up, tell her these things for me, please.
I'm waiting...
Whatever the reason, the Muse (my Muse) is off on her own trek for the umpteenth time. Each adventure/absence grows a wee bit longer. Does it make my heart grow fonder? You bet...as well as my head growing lighter. It seems that though I use old methods of filling the hours via journal writing, cartooning, reading the classics or watching old movies, nothing truly primes the pump of the poetry waters. The drought rages and I grow more and more parched at her absence. Nothing seems to work.
I've looked for her at other readings. I've stalked her in nightclubs, poetry slams, coffeehouses, open- miked barrooms, and even in support groups for the Poetically Challenged. She eludes me. Sometimes I get news of her--a sighting via FaceBook; rumors carried by college buddies from afar. Once I know I caught a whiff of her perfume blowing down the street in Silver Lake, the last spring I wandered L.A. When I stopped, it was gone, leaving a lump in my throat and a watery eye. (Silver Lake had changed for good; forever.) I stopped going back.
Close friends and family don't even ask about her anymore. (It is out of pity.) A few beloved students inquire, full of the excitement and promise of their own Muse Sightings--the possibility of a Real Relationship with Inspiration flickering before them. It tantalizes, as does all first loves. I don't tell them the truth.
I don't mention the heated exchanges, the heartbreaks, the empty nights and cold mornings of absence. I never reveal the disappointments or the fickle-flights of fancy. I sometimes allude to the homecomings. The brilliant relief at her first step back --though I have precious little evidence to prove those re-unitings. (They exist! They do!) Better to allow the Young to hope. In yearning, there may be genius. (One can't be sure.)
I've tried voodoo. Voudun. Wiccan Love and Creativity Spells. Holy Candles. Rosary beads. Scapular medals.Communion. Sufi Dancing and Zen sitting. I've taken retreats, alone, to craggy shores and windy deserts. I've heard distant flutes sounding--but no drums. I've seen mirages and they were beautiful. (Maybe, even, besides the paw prints of coyotes, a footprint...or not.) One morning I woke to find lipstick on my cheek...the tent flap flapping...but, she had fled, without a sound. (All of my pens were dry; the notebook bereft of pages.)
I'm ready for her to come home. I keep the lamp burning on the bedstand. There are plums and blueberries in the frig. (I'll spring for a bottle of Merlot, if she'll only appear.) If you see her when you look up, tell her these things for me, please.
I'm waiting...
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