Romancing the Muse

I am your stone of necessity,
calling up spirits from rain puddles—
your Magus of words

Some writers have a muse; and some, like me, are tormented by her.

I was musing about my lot while staring out the windows feeling lost as a cat in the rain.

It was a wet fall evening and I had a fire lit, but everything was brooding—my mood, the leafless park, and the Toronto skyline, now reduced to a jumble of yellow window squares in the mist.

Harry Baldwin had given me an overly large loft in the wedge-shaped Gooderham building, affectionately known as the Flatiron. It was a beautiful edifice, and built a decade before its counterpart in New York and perfect for a writer.

I was enchanted with the ambiance of its Victorian charm—the building boasted an original Otis elevator, fireplaces, wood paneling, and in my loft, an iron spiral staircase to the bedroom with a huge walk-in wall safe I used as a closet.

I should have been in heaven tucked away in my Dickensian dream, but was as miserable as a tenant of Hades, and equally gloomy about my prospects.

You see, I had fallen in love with my Muse—a figment of my own imagination, or so I told myself, and she was driving me quietly insane..

“Why don’t you write about me, Paul?”

Margaux was lounging on the plush red love seat, dressed elegantly in a black nightgown.

Most women relaxing on a wet fall night would be in pyjamas and comfy slippers—but not Margaux Astor—that was definitely not her style.

“You’re asking me to blur a line, Dearheart, and I am definitely not going there.”

“Oh why not, for heaven’s sakes? I certainly have more depth and glamor than the women you write about.”

“Perhaps, but they’re fictional—you help me make them up.”

She sat up on the love seat, alert as a kitten. “But that’s just it—I do help you make them up, Darling—but, where does that leave me?”

“Right here, high and dry,” I smiled, making a sweeping gesture to encompass our surroundings.

“Don’t be trite, Paul—it’s not becoming for a man of your talents.”

“Face it, Margaux,” I countered, “you must be a ghost—probably a deceased descendent of ‘the landlords of New York’—an esteemed lineage, but definitely fallible.”

Margaux’s eyes flashed, “I am not a ghost, Paul Bennett, and I resent that imputation.”

“It’s hardly a crime, to be a deceased human,” I chuckled.

“I’m a goddess of the arts,” she sniffed haughtily, and if I am a part of anyone’s family, then name me what I am—the daughter of Zeus—certainly not the offspring of a mere mortal.”

I sighed and sat down in the green velvet armchair opposite her. “Okay, Love—I’ll grant you your goddess stature, but you have to admit, our relationship is a trifle rarefied.”

She tossed her head and stared out the window. She was still simmering. When Margaux was passionate, stars danced in her eyes—but when furious, she’d throw off sparks.

Right now her lovely eyes were emitting numberless white sparkles.

“If I’m so ethereal, than why did you commission my portrait?” She pointed to the canvas above the fireplace.

My heart sunk. Unerringly, she always found the weak point—my area of maximum vulnerability. And truth be told, I was hopelessly in love with her.

“Jean Dubois was able to paint me and fall in love with as well,” she reasoned, “and I wasn’t too ‘rarefied’ for him.”

Touché.

So what was left to say? At least in the myth, Pygmalion fell in love with a statue of his own creation—Me? I had to fall in love with my Muse.

She had me cornered and I availed of my only escape. I got up and put on my coat.

“Where are you going?” she asked. “It’s only nine o’clock. We usually work until midnight.”

“I need a change of scene, Love. You can brood for me while I’m gone.”

Her jaw dropped in disbelief.

I entered the elevator cage and slammed the doors shut. She was still talking—I could see her mouth moving, but thankfully the century-old machinery drowned her out.

© 2017, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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