Let me tell you about my muse.
I’ve never actually meet her, I’ve seen her heel disappearing into the fog, or glimpsed her skirt swishing around a corner. She has kissed my fingers, but never held my hand.
I’ve seen where she’s been in an old couple dancing in the middle of Iowa, he with grey hair, and a pot belly, and shiny boots, and her with grey hair and a beautiful dress, dancing with all the intrigue and passion of their first date, or in teenagers flirting in a Missouri truck stop at 2 AM. I’ve seen her in the eyes of a nine year old girl who just finished a course on how to study, and she is no longer afraid of her teacher, as she knows what to ask. Or in the relief of someone who has just realized and made known some long held, known or forgotten secret, large or small. Or a marriage saved. Presents piled high on the shelf at the back window of cars on the interstate at Christmas time. An infant’s trust or the laugh of a four year old.
My muse lives in the nature of a real communication, not so much the words, but the heart of it, what makes the words make sense. That is home, where there are flowers on the mantel, and the beer is cold.
She has this interesting combination of infinite patience and a hair trigger.
She wants me to play like the tune is new, I am not sure where it goes, and can’t wait to find out; even if I wrote it years ago. She wants it alive now.
Kind of like a married couples’ kiss should be: a fascinating thing.