Monday, April 28, 2008

lord of the book

I would like to take this time to muse on my muse. Not too much. Just enough to better illustrate him to all you faithful readers. my lord Think of my lord of the book as his public name. This is the name he gets teased with. The one that just came to me along with him. Like a joke.

I made him up and yet he teaches me. He shows me the way. Enough so I can quit worrying about it (I wonder if I could have a lord of the laundry). In private though what do I call him?--lets face it I still call him lord. Is that part of the sex appeal? I can't help but imagine running into him at the 400 Bar. The old 400 Bar. I only ever went, except when it was full of people because it was some show or other. But he would be there. I wouldn't know yet that he was my lord. He would be sitting head down, not speaking to anyone. I wouldn't even think that was weird. It's a room packed with people and he's taking up a whole booth to himself, sitting side ways at it, not even facing the table and people are pressed against him. Turning their backs to him. He's got flyaway dark hair, not too long but very bushy. He's pale. Unhealthy looking. Big dark rimmed glasses. And a scowl. He's staring at the floor, at his shoes, ratty vans that are pushed out in front of him, taking up way more space than he deserves in this crowded joint and he looks up. Straight at me. Straight into me and he sees that deep well that only god can see. That windy place that is full of space and lightning like something straight out of What the Bleep? when it illustrates neural impulses crossing great chasms of synapse. Even I only have a small inkling that this opening within me exists and somehow, this sullen emaciated boy can see into the depths of it and he nods as if he knows what is there. And that is it. He will give me no more. He just nods at whatever is there. Is it approval? Is it exactly as he had expected? What? We are waiting for Bob Mould to play. The place is too loud to speak and this muse next to me wears a worn undershirt and I could push him over and beat up in one minute. And I kind of want to. My skin tingles and I am excited by this emptiness inside me. I want to plumb it. Right now I wish I had a pen. I look around the bar. This is not the place.

I think his name is George, but he says to me, one eye narrowed, "You know what to call me." And before I can lean toward him, to speak into his ear, he has disappeared, I am left feeling close to the surface. I can feel the waist band of my jeans and the inseam, every breath moves the fabric of my shirt across my skin. My breath comes deep and touches my core and I will pray to him so that I may feel this way again.

As always (now I think I wrote too much),
Tina

P.S. So does that clear things up? Not for me. I seem to not be able to help myself.