Sunday, August 16, 2009

Day 227 (French Vanilla)

Spend time every day listening to what your muse is trying to tell you - Saint Bartholomew

I have a muse.

I do. She's always by my side, when she wants to be, when she doesn't want to be, and vice versa.

The definition of muse goes something like this:
the source of an artist's inspiration; a force or person, usually a woman, that inspires a creative artist.

I look and talk to my muse every day. Have been for about 3 months now. Oh, but don't get me wrong. She's been my muse for a decade plus. Whenever I need to get through something, or I get a nasty case of writer's block, talking to her usually clears things up, and I keep moving.

Only once have I ever asked her to directly help me with my writer's block, however. And that one time, she helped inadvertently; she thought I was going one way and I went somewhere different.

I told her today that she was my muse; that I had been drawing inspiration from her strength. I got some news this morning, and while I'm keeping my cards close to my chest, it's some good news. Great news, actually. I shared it with her and her only (initially; I've told my mother since then) and she was very happy for me.

Of course, being MY muse, her initial reaction was a curt "Yeah, right". I smiled at that one, I know how she is.

We have a strange arrangement. Ever since we were kids, we've always been at war with each other, yet it was always that mutual respect and love that we have for each other that keeps us together. One minute we're happy and laughing and enjoying each others company; the next, we're silently mad, arguing, or giving dirty looks.

We're alike in a lot of ways, her and me. In high school, people used to wonder what kind of day would we be having with one another; one day it would be peaceful, the next, a train wreck. But that's what makes us US. I wouldn't change my muse for world; she's the third most valuable person I have in my life, outside of my son and my mom.

Some days, I wonder if she truly knows how I feel about her. I love her; I always have, and I know I always will, long after my body has decayed and turned into ashes. It is our joys, our arguments, or disagreements, our laughter, our happiness, our memories that fuels our love. We argue because I'm a sarcastic asshole who wants nothing more than to get my point across no matter how wrong I am; she's pretty much the same way. Well, she's not an asshole about it, but she can be a bit bi-... well, she's not a b-... yeah, so... no, I'm not calling her that. That'll be another argument. Um.... ok. Moving on.

She has been the source of some of my most memorable joys and the source of some of my most memorable pain. She is what I write about, every day, every time I open the notebook. When I am describing a female in my stories, there is some part of that fictional character that isn't fictional at all, it's her. When I am writing a poem about love, it is my love and respect for her that makes it possible. When I am upset and need to vent about how a female has treated me, it is our arguments that give me the strength to write. When I look towards a better tomorrow, it is her I want to share it with for I know that she is always going to be there.

No need on you trying to guess who she is, my dear readers; I'm quite selfish with this one. It would be like trying to figure out what makes French Vanilla Ice Cream french. No nickname, no crafty hint, nothing will ever make me give away the identity of my muse, unless of course, my muse inspires me to do so. No, I am hers, and she is mine, and together we will either rule our castle benevolently, or destroy it in fashion. Could I imagine a life with her? Sure I could. But I know I could never imagine a life without her. I don't even want to try.

P.S. I know that's the same picture I used for Day 212 (Vanilla). I'm tricky like that.

Now playing: Mayer Hawthorne - A Strange Arrangement
via FoxyTunes

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