about nayan.org
this website is the work of a fictional character
who masquerades as an artist, musician, and writer, and
enjoys referring to himself in the third person.
send a comment
© 2006
nayan enterprises
|
|
the muse
|
once again i find myself at the bar overlooking the street, and solicited for conversation by the eternal inebriate who insists he's an artist. surprisingly, he seems on the verge of sobriety, and i cannot resist the temptation to settle a matter of some intrigue:
- "so why is it that you merely 'imagine', and not actually _do_ something?"
- "even if procreation no longer requires man and woman," he replies, "creativity still demands an artist and his muse."
- "what happened to your muse?" i pry, telling myself it's only to preëmpt further platitudes.
- "i asked my muse where she was."
- "and?"
- "she reassured me that she's 'not dead or married yet'."
i laugh. - "she's very coy, your muse."
- "yes. but after being amused, i realized," this he adds with a sly grin, "i should be a little offended."
- "why is that?"
- "well, does she not understand that i'm an artist? that to me neither physical constraints nor social conventions apply? that her very essence is ultimately a function of...my desire?"
now, anyone who knows me knows that i'm a simple minded fellow, and all of these convolutions are quite beyond my comprehension. but my blank stare appears to have no effect, as he continues:
"of course she understands. why else should she refuse to see me? she flaunts her existential presence only to remind me of her essential absence."
and finally, with a rueful smile, he ends, "she's very cruel, my muse."
almost on instinct, i slide over my dry sapphire martini (chilled, with olives, still untouched), and indicate to the bartender for another.
- "try this," i tell the self-proclaimed artist, wondering whether some people make better sense drunk.
|
| |
|