Member since:
May 9, 2006

My Muse

December 13, 2006 12:45 PM EST

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What makes an artist create or better still what makes an artist create gloriously?

I was good scholar at school but I came alive when it was that part of our English classes when we were asked to write essays. Sometimes when I was in one of my whimsical moods I would write some quite outlandish stuff. That would often cause my teacher to call me to her desk and ask me where did I get my latest strange idea. What bizarre books am I reading? She would ask, peering at me with curiosity over her horn rimmed glasses.

I could never adequately explain that those frolics of fantasy were from somewhere inside of me. A place that I didn’t really know. Over the years, I happened that I often had to be away from home and my friends for longish periods and so, due my loneliness, I suppose, developed an effusive style of letter writing. You see, I wanted each letter to be complete summary of all my news and emotions. So over the years I learned how to write and how to express emotions. I did not do it very well, I’m afraid. I more often than not wrote about those emotions and not about my emotions. You might have said that I never took ownership of the feelings that I was experiencing. In fact, I was writing about personal things in an impersonal way.

One day my life changed. I became what I really am. I became aware of something inside me. A slumbering thing. It happened on the morning I arrived at a Radio studio where we were to be interviewed. Three or four of us had been invited to a chat show to talk about some local newsworthy event. 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...but I did not notice that. I saw only her eyes and heard only her voice.

I was told later that I had actually answered all her questions adequately and that I had made acceptable comments. I was relieved to hear that.

Two days later, I impulsively sent her an email which included one of my most outlandish verses. I still don’t know today why I did so but I did not ever regret it.

"If we should ever kiss, a gong would chime somewhere. Music would echo in a shrine and our souls would rejoice."

You can often send a message to someone and find that it doesn't strike a chord. The recipient does not feel the warmth embodied in the words. However, it is remotely possible to send a message to someone exactly during a minute window period, perhaps just a day, during which she happens to be ready to respond to your thoughts. At that moment, she may be especially appreciative of your words. And so it happened that at the moment of deep personal despair, the radio hostess received my note and was struck by its unexpected message of love.

We began to meet as two people who each needed the 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. The social mores of her group left no room for me to be seen with her. In fact, the only place, where we could safely meet, was behind a barn, at the end of her father's estate. And so it became our habit for us to meet there at least four times a week.

The one hour from eight to nine, was the period that dominated our lives for a few months. We both knew that we would only have our togetherness from that first balmy autumn night to the middle of the following summer. Then she would marry someone who had been chosen for her 20 years earlier. We never thought of that last night-to-be. Not for even a minute.

We spoke about everything that came to our minds. From our strangest experiences to the deepest emotions that we had ever experienced. I had seen more of the world than had she. When I told her of my adventures, her eyes would sparkle and sometimes she would cry out in disbelief or laugh merrily.

Slowly something was beginning to happen to our relationship. She began to be deeply interested in my previously buried thoughts. . . and I in hers. When I could only succeed in expressing 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 knew what they were doing. She would hold me until the words that I dared not say before, came from my lips in torrents.

When I had expressed feelings, fears and joys in words that she found to be inspirational, she would rise and look at the stars far above us. Then she would tell my story to them in her own words in a way 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 spoke to the stars.
"Always, my dearest writer of love. Let others write of constraints, sordidness, hopelessness and conflicts...but that’s not for you, my love. Soar in the air. See what others don't see. See hope where others see doom. Dare to show love, my sweetest."
Then she came to sit close to me and whispered to me.
"Why do I say these things to the stars, my loved one. I'll 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."

Before the first rays of the sun had appeared, she walked away. I did not see her go away. I think that was because of 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 and leisurely drank a cup of coffee and then left. Later, when I went to the desk to pay, the cashier handed me a note. Outside on the pavement, I opened the folded paper.

I read these words." Dearest. I read every book that you write. Again and again."

I began to run 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. ‘ You live in my heart at all times.' "