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Waiting for my Muse
Sleeping was an effort. Humidity draped
my skin like wet clothing as if I had
spent the night in a steamy rain forest.
Gradually, I rolled off the ledge of
consciousness into a sound sleep, waking
just as dawn was casting its first glimmers
and my clock-radio switched on to
a favorite classical music station.
Half awake, I plod to the kitchen
to microwave a cup of water for instant
coffee, a morning stimulant to start
the day with a double side effect: to
activate my bowel and my brain
though the former is often first to
respond. Still in my underwear, I feel
a veil of moisture forming on my skin.
Today’s forecast: another muggy August
day in the high nineties. A cool shower
follows to invigorate my body but
it’s short lived.
Coffee in hand, I sit in my cushioned
swivel chair, staring out the screened window
of my bedroom/study waiting for
the computer to boot up and my muse
to show up and plant an idea in my
empty head.
After an hour and more coffee I am
still waiting and verging on sleep, so I
decide to go it alone – as I have so
many times before, and bravely.
My muse, apparently, is somewhere else
this morning dispensing her inspiration
and time on a more worthy recipient.
I don’t fault her for that; after all,
I’m used to her absence and my reliance
on my scanty mental resources, though
my years now seem to be always running
ahead of me faster than my age.
Inspiration, I’ve discovered, is not
the only stimulant to creativity.
Coffee has often rescued me from many
a morning’s doldrums, so too wine, but on
this last be wary: it’s effect as a kick-start
to a sluggish imagination can easily
numb one’s reliance on a negligent muse.
Copyright ©
Maurice Rigoler
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