A few weeks ago, an enchanted night left me with an enchanting woman in my bed who stole my attention and became a muse, morphing into that transparent ethereal object which is most elusive to those of the artistic persuasion. To tell you the truth, she was the first person to stir my soul since my Colombian ex (a fire brand, she filled all my needs and twisted my person so). It came at the perfect time; I was not proud. I needed someone to inflate me and we ran around town, hand in hand like children trying to find some dark corner to play forbidden games. We played til the morning light. Then she left and went back home to Chicago.
Round about the same time, I hired a photographer. From the moment I perused her portfolio, I knew she was perfect. She had the eye for detail and, and most importantly, an appreciation for visual juxtaposition. Her photos provoked me.
Then a few days later, an e-mail came and she unfolded a story like no other. It seemed horrible, distressing, I sympathized. I'd been through that, I had my heart thrown to the side. This bit of information also put me on edge a little though I was afraid that my photographer would just disappear; a dream that, once again, came so close and then vanished like a morning fog, destroyed by intrepid rays.
Then, a week or so passed and she came in for a little interview. As soon as she walked through the door I was struck by that uncanny feeling of closeness. This feeling, is on eof the great mysteries to me. Parallels, coincidences, memories, all intersect and play tricks on your mind. In the time it took for her to walk from the door to in front of my desk, she had already become my friend Mapy (my first real sister, friend, foil, lover that could never be), Lina (my ex, dark, confident, proud, viciously alive, my first drink of fire), Eileen (my aunt, Irish, jolly, acerbic, stubborn, a strong woman who I always revered for just that). This combination of loves which strode toward me, sat down and I knew at once that this girl was going to be something. Something to me.
At this same time, the week after I encountered a new muse, my friend from Hungary came back from his cross country tour. That weekend, I was to take him to Chicago to fly back to hungary and so naturally, we stayed with this girl who had stirred me.
The first hours went by slowly, we drank beer, trying to cloud the line of decorum. Then, as we strolled through Blues Fest, childish fingers began to play with childish hands. He kissed, again and again, and the Windy city turned into another romantic locale. Metropolises do that to me. I become intoxicated; high off the fumes. We rolled in her bed, made coffee in the mornings, made love in the afternoons and made dinner at night. We'd wake up at noon and lay in bed til 3, go on the porch and read til 5. Go out to dinner and the to a museum. We strolled the city pretending as if we had known each other forever, dated for years and were slated to get married on the morrow.
Then one morning (round about 3 in the afternoon) I find myself with a backpack on my back, turning the 19th century door handle of the 5th floor apartment, turning to my right, kissing her deeply. Smiling. Damn did she have a smile, one that split her face in half with its breadth and cut the world in half with its levity. I pulled the door open, looked back and walked down the stairs.
3 days in 2 days later, I found myself slouched over a rust orange bar, taking pictures of that something's fingernails. My mind was gone, burnt out. My body lay lucidly still. It felt as if whenever I didn't move, I would wave, like a flag floating gently on a breeze or a styrofoam cup bobbing up and down in a still current.
We slept together that night. I remember feeling ashamed for being so dead that night and for the next few days, every time I saw her I felt like I had to apologize for something but she never needed it as I came to find out...I like that.
This girl is something; I just don't know what yet.
See, then there's moments like this, when her presence is missed, where I feel a distinct jealousy of whomever is stealing her presence from me. It drives me crazy. I hate the concept of jealousy, based on the idea of ownership (or even worse, based on some sort of mirror of reflection which constitutes my own being?!), it can lead to no useful action, no matter the tragic beauty.
I am inconstant. My attentions are always divided. She was right when she said I gave my love away too early...once, I poured my attention on one and no other...no need to, but that's in the past, far away now. I just hope it is a cup that can be refilled again.
So back to this something; she's an artist, and there, I can identify with her. She is not a muse to me...although she has inspired this parlay into the realm of words. So wait, she's now a muse and an artist to me, that could be a deadly combination.
Something is kind, she has a benevolent grace about her which confuses even me. Must be the Catholicism in her.
