My Muse

How I write-where it comes from-the experience of creating and writing...a piece of prose about my muse...

MY MUSE by Susan Buffum

My muse lies sprawled on a chaise, drunk as a lord and giddy, unable to get up.  The yellow sun glares down on his head making his longish, wind-blown hair look shot through with fiery highlights so that he seems like a bright, liquid flame in a brazier. 

     I scowl at him like a thunderhead from the chilly shadows of my den, seethe at his wasted brilliance while the keyboard lies stiff and cold beneath my cramped fingers.  The blind eye of the screen remains black, stares vacantly into the untidy corner where cobwebs as transparent as lies, yet as strong as good intentions, form nets in which to catch stray thoughts.  They seem to drip dewy venom into the carpet for today all my thoughts are poisoned with despair and disgust.

     Crumpling yet another sheet of paper in my impotent fist, I long for him to turn his wayward attention back to me.  But he is a fickle flame who follows his own whims.  I cannot force him to come back inside, to be sober and diligent.  I cannot make him come to me with feminine wiles. It rankles me that I must subjugate myself, lie prone and plead—make myself so utterly vulnerable, so terribly exposed.  But, only then will he deign to return to me bearing the gifts I yearn.  How cruel he can be, yet how generous, too.

     He speaks to me in French and Italian, the languages of my ancestry.  His French is like silk; sibilant and sly.  His Italian is alluring and embracing.  His words are like knowing winks or inside jokes. Sometimes I understand him, sometimes I don’t and must simply trust.  Blind faith.

     I disparage him, it’s true, for I am resentful when he plays the fool and goes off on caprices.  I cannot help but feel abandoned.  I rely on him like a drug.  I crave the rush.  I am so useless on my own, so unproductive and dull.

     He has no qualms about burning the midnight oil.  There is no shame in him when he slips into my bed and whispers in my ear, his voice a caress that stirs me, awakens me.  He comes and goes as he pleases, and I rejoice at his every return as though some small part of me always doubts his reliability and I’ve been fearful of ever having him with me again.

     However, it’s these times when I know he’s near, when he’s abstracted and playing games, that he frustrates me most.  I can feel him like a breeze tickling my mind here and there.  He is like a shower of sparks that cannot quite ignite a fire.  He is sporadic drizzle that fails to saturate the soil.  He is a drop of oil dissipating on the sea, leaving a gloss but no real substance—spread too thin.

     He is gorgeous when he is in full vigor!  His voice resonates. He hits all his marks!  His words flow like sparkling water, seamless!  He radiates in recitation, is relentless.  He has always been that way, always been one to spin a story complete, weave a whole tale start to finish.  His arrogance is astonishing, and he is unabashed!

     I almost worship him, almost adore him.  He is my oldest companion, my truest friend.  So, I should be able to forgive him his lapses, his sojourns, his absences, and disappearances.  He always returns to me.  I cannot believe he is ever with another.  We are a pair, a duo, a partnership.  We are mutually reliant, and always, just so, shall we be.