Some say you're never too old to play the piano.
There are some, however, who say you can't teach an old dog new tricks.
So, what is it really, then?
Sunday, May 20, 2007
She is just napping
Years ago I thought my muse has left me for good. She slipped away quietly, while I was out in the big world occupied with those so-called matters of consequence. When I became fully aware of her disappearance (which began when I lost my pink poetry notebook), a new kind of depression enfolded me. Before she left, when I was depressed, sadness just flowed through my fingers and released the pain into inked or painted messages. Now, it's as if the painful black ink has dried up in my veins, disabling my digits and numbing my brain. Artistic gout, that's what it is.
I tried searching for her--in solitude, in disorder, among the crowd, among the shadows, in between sips of alcohol (she seemed to have reappeared, but only for a moment brief enough for me to compose something intelligible), only to find myself still empty and at a loss for words. I even tried going back to where I felt and embraced her overwhelming presence--through the little cracks of my colorful college days--but no trace of her.
After nursing a fever and staying mostly in bed for 24 hours, reading Og Mandino's The Greatest Miracle in the World, a thought suddenly came to mind.
Maybe, she is just sleeping.
Could it be true? Could she be here all the time, just slumbering, without me knowing it? Being narcoleptic myself, I haven't thought of that. But asleep for years? That's some sleeping sickness you got there, muse.
Maybe it is true. It is perhaps why inspiration sometimes comes to me, like some odd pixie dust lifting me up to the air in one happy or sad thought, and then suddenly drops me back to the hard earth. I can almost picture her in a scene where she is on the verge of wakefulness and then, realizing there's no hurry waking up, goes right back to slumber.
Perhaps it's the fever that's causing me to think deliriously. Perhaps it's some other form of depression. Perhaps it's God's Memorandum starting to work its way through my soul--count your blessings (I have a muse, just a sleeping one); proclaim your rarity (I have a muse, just a sleeping one. Yay.); go another mile (I will try to go on, with or without her); and use wisely the power of choice (I will try to go on, with or without her--as if I have a choice).
Whatever it is, one thing is for sure. I have not given up looking.
If you're listening, my dear muse, this is your wake-up call.
I tried searching for her--in solitude, in disorder, among the crowd, among the shadows, in between sips of alcohol (she seemed to have reappeared, but only for a moment brief enough for me to compose something intelligible), only to find myself still empty and at a loss for words. I even tried going back to where I felt and embraced her overwhelming presence--through the little cracks of my colorful college days--but no trace of her.
After nursing a fever and staying mostly in bed for 24 hours, reading Og Mandino's The Greatest Miracle in the World, a thought suddenly came to mind.
Maybe, she is just sleeping.
Could it be true? Could she be here all the time, just slumbering, without me knowing it? Being narcoleptic myself, I haven't thought of that. But asleep for years? That's some sleeping sickness you got there, muse.
Maybe it is true. It is perhaps why inspiration sometimes comes to me, like some odd pixie dust lifting me up to the air in one happy or sad thought, and then suddenly drops me back to the hard earth. I can almost picture her in a scene where she is on the verge of wakefulness and then, realizing there's no hurry waking up, goes right back to slumber.
Perhaps it's the fever that's causing me to think deliriously. Perhaps it's some other form of depression. Perhaps it's God's Memorandum starting to work its way through my soul--count your blessings (I have a muse, just a sleeping one); proclaim your rarity (I have a muse, just a sleeping one. Yay.); go another mile (I will try to go on, with or without her); and use wisely the power of choice (I will try to go on, with or without her--as if I have a choice).
Whatever it is, one thing is for sure. I have not given up looking.
If you're listening, my dear muse, this is your wake-up call.
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