My Muse

Wait. I never said that is a true story. Is it a complete fabrication? No, I can't say that. Is it mainly true? Can we talk about that...Over a cup of coffee?
So what am I trying to say? It's this. Fall in love with your muse and your life will begin to soar.

What makes an artist create or better still, what makes an artist create gloriously?
I was often away from home and developed an effusive style of letter writing. I suppose that I wanted to express emotions like an impressionist artist does. I did not do it very well, I'm afraid. I too often wrote about "those" emotions and not about "my" emotions. I suppose that in those days I never really took ownership of the feelings that I was experiencing. You could say that I was writing about personal things in an impersonal way.

One day my life changed and I became what I really am. At least, I became aware of something slumbering inside of me. It began at a Radio studio, where some of us were being interviewed. We had been invited to a chat show to talk about some event or other. The hostess was not a first-glance beauty. Her face was roundish rather than classical. Her lips were a little too thin to be sensual and her body was wiry rather than full. Yet, somehow, I found her to be a distraction. I began noticing her eyes and being The interview went well and I was told later that I had given reasonable answers and made acceptable comments. I was relieved to hear that.

Two days later, I impulsively sent the hostess an email which included a line or two of outlandish verse. I still don't know why I sent it but I have never regretted doing so.
"If we should ever kiss, a gong would chime somewhere, music would echo in a shrine and our souls would rejoice."
You know that one can send a message to someone and find that it doesn't strike a chord. It can happen that the recipient does not, at that moment, need your words. However, it is also possible to send a message to someone at precisely the right moment. Perhaps on a day during when the recipient just happens to be ready to respond to your thoughts and be appreciative of your words. And so it was. At a moment of personal despair, the radio hostess received my note and was moved by its unexpected message.

We began to meet and discovered that we were two people who happened to needed each other. There was, however, a reason why we could not be seen together. In the Italian version of our story, she would have been a Montegu and I a Capulet. It was a religious thing. The social mores of her group prevented me from mentioning her name or, god forbid, being seen with her. In fact, the only place where we could safely meet was behind a barn, at the far end of her father's estate. We began to meet there four times a week.

Our one hour together, from eight to nine, was the period that dominated our lives for a few months. We both knew that we would have our togetherness only until the middle of the following summer, when she was due to marry someone, who had been chosen for he, 20 years earlier. But we never thought of that last night-to-be. Not for a moment.

We spoke about everything that came to our minds. From strange experiences to the deepest emotions that we had ever experienced. I had seen more of the world and when I told her of my adventures, her eyes would sparkle and at times she would cry out in disbelief or burst out laughing.
Something special began to develop. We discovered that we both had buried thought that needed to told to someone special. There was another thing. Whenever I expressed myself in a shallow way, she would grip my hands tightly and look deeply into my eyes. Sometimes it was so dark that I couldn't see her eyes but I nevertheless felt their messages. She would hold my hands until the words that I had not dared to say before, at last poured from my lips.

Whenever I happened to express feelings, fears and joys in words that she found to be inspirational, she would rise to her feet and look at the stars, far above us. She would tell my story to them in her own words and in ways that would sweep us both away to a land where poets lived and musicians played. As she did this, she never looked at me. She addressed her words only to the stars.

On our last night together, she again stood up and said this to the stars.
"Always, my dearest writer, let others tell of constraints, sordidness, despair, hopelessness and conflicts...but not you, my love. Soar up into the air. See what others don't see. See hope where others see doom. Dare to show love and joy, my sweetest."
Then she came to sit close to me for the last time and whispered.
"Do you know why I say these things to the stars, my beloved? Let me tell you now. I want my words to reach all those stars and then echo back to you. All through your life, I want those echoes to reach you. When you are alone or in a crowd but especially when you are writing."
Then before the first rays of the sun appeared, she walked away. I did not see her go away. There was a mist in my eyes.

About 3 years later, as I was sitting in a coffee bar, a lady with a scarf, high collar jacket, a beret and dark glasses walked in. I noticed that she sat in a corner, not looking to the left nor to the right while she sipped her coffee and then left. When I went to the desk to pay, the cashier handed me a note. I opened the folded paper and read.
"Dearest, I want you to know this. I read every book that you write. Again and again."
I felt a magical shock pass through me and I began to dash down the street jumping over obstacles and running through pools of water. When I came to an open field, I looked up at the sky and shouted.
"All you stars out there. Echo this message to her over and over again. Tell her that she lives in my heart, at all times. Tell her that everything that I ever write is for her. "