Calling all muses
Where was I? Who can remember? Not me. It has been far too long. Far too long, and I fear that it may be too long to rekindle that fire. I have dome back to find the flames of inspiration dead and gone, but perhaps if I poke around through the ashes and half-consumed logs of creativity I may just find the spark of the muse. And If I do, I can begin by bringing her gifts and offerings of the tinder of my mind and the chaff of my experiences, and then I can blow on her just enough to make her hot. If I am lucky she will respond with some intensity and we can begin to rekindle the fire that consumed so many of my collegiate nights. Those nights when I left textbooks and women lying strewn about my dorm room, supine and neglected while I danced with the muse. Oh, and how we danced. She always led, even if she was sometimes subtle and pretended to follow me, I was always surprised when I found myself simply retracing her footsteps or floundering in her wake. What a wake. Tossed and turned and nearly drowned from her exertions, I would resurface in reality and crawl spent up onto the shores of life.
When I would go out to the all-night eateries I would come home with her ramblings etched unto the back of placemats and napkins like the graffiti of my unsettled mind. She plagued me even after I left the venerated halls of academia. She set up residence in my one-room apartment on the edge of Oakland, drawing up stories from the well of my experiences; dating a 40 year old artist, flying kites at midnight to solace the girl whose apartment was robbed that evening, watching the svelte girl in the adjacent building roam about her curtain-less room in the nude, poetry-slam competitions, accordion jams in coffee shops, sex in elevators, and the eleven wedding summer. You were there for them all. You squeezed the essence of every event from my mind and distilled it into stories. You pulled poems from my daydreams and novellas from my naps.
Where has your siren song gone? Where there was song there is silence. Where there were words there is blank paper. Where there was ambition there is apathy. I have visited the ports of call and found them devoid. I have spent too long in the company of stodgy men and perhaps I lack the tools to navigate back to coves of creativity. I miss scaling your peaks of provocative prose, rolling in your fields of wild dreams and sleeping to rhythm of your rhyming waters.
Now I am the lonely mariner trying to triangulate you location without an astrolabe. I am the farmer sowing seeds on the rocky plateau without his plow and ox. I am the child lost in the woods without bread for crumbs.
But I will persist, and I will be reunited with you once more so that I may wallow in you depths and properly bemoan my condition.