Anyone who had kept company with artists knows they are an eccentric lot of people as a rule, and the more talent found in a human being the further away from shore they seem to be swimming. I went thirty-two years without writing and my first computer set me sailing well past the first set of sandbars at the beach. I just wish all the artists I once knew were around to see it. I knew a dizzying selection of paint artists at one point in my life and it was like living in an opium den. They were all very young and very passionate about their work and I wonder what would have happened if I could have just realized how lucky I was to be in that sort of atmosphere thick with the smell of paint, sweat, and hormones. There was something incredibly erotic in seeing a twenty -year old woman kneeling on the floor, her face inches from her painting, cheeks flecked with paint long dried from the wee hours of the morning and the sun revealing her half naked body, her mind and sold and spirit immersed to the point she did not see me, did not notice I was there at all, but I think if I had stripped down and offered to take her right there on the floor she would have acquiesced gladly.
The connection between creation and sexual release is an odd thing, really. All of my Muses have been female, and nearly all of them have wound up in bed with me. Creativity is foreplay for physical passion and sex supercharges the creative.
The first artist I dated had an electrical current running through her soul that amped her up to the point of spontaneous combustion. Yet she feared her sexuality and denied her creativity. I hadn’t made the connection between the two in my own life at that time and it seemed to me that her clock for desire and her yearning to paint coincided well past the point of coincident. She wanted a normal life with a house and a husband and two kids, three cats, and a church to go to so that she might apologize to the universe for being who she was.
She was lying on a towel near a pool and there beside her was a friend of hers who desperately wanted to be an artist but had not discovered her talent or medium. Clearly, it was no oil paint but she splashed around in it like someone looking at a mirror under a mud puddle. She could almost see who she was but briefly and unclearly was the vision. She also carried the twin burden of being an only child and being very pretty. Slightly vain, and easily distracted by suitors, whom she was never pleased with for very long, she was uninspiring outside the superficial. What she wanted out of life I could never tell, but then again, I never looked more than twice to see it.
The real artist lay basking in the sun and she smiled at me as I sat close enough to smell the heat coming off her body. Often she resisted the idea of the two of us being more than friends who slept together after drinking enough, but her body called out to me and there was no hiding the fact that there was a connection and she had to accept her own desires as brutally animalistic or the makes of true love, or something in between. I left early in the conversation, flirted with her friend long enough to make her jealous and I knew she would paint that day, and sweat over it, and then after two beers call me to see if I was home, and she would show up after a shower and fumble with her excuses for being there.
She was twenty-one and I was twenty-five, but she was much more mature and seasoned. Often I wonder what would have happened if I had thrown caution to the wind and worshipped her as I wanted to so desperately, or if she had encouraged me to. I wonder if there was ever anything but oil paint and alcohol and lust. At the same time if even after decades of space between us if I’m still wondering if there was more, certainly, it would seem, there was.
I know where she is, that her son is now older than she was when we met, and she has gone through three husbands, and she lives in a small town that is close to everything she always hated about life being lived by people in such places. She surrendered to the idea of normalcy, that the creative is a hobby, not a calling or spiritual tattoo, and I hope that in this, somehow, she has found peace, for there is nothing else to be had in that life.
There was a time when she was there with me, and we were still basking in the warmth and rays of our own sun. It was a liquid thing, bright, smooth, yet with crashing waves and utter darkness at times. There was no room in this white hot star for anyone but ourselves and the blindness by which we traveled was eased by sense of touch only. There were no words for who we were or what we felt or how it was going to be for we both knew that nothing could possibly be so incredibly, wickedly, terribly, wonderfully warm and burn forever. The last time I saw her we both watched the fire snuffed out completely and forever without any attempt to rescue ourselves from the world of darkness that would forever descend.
There is something in having a Muse. It’s a form of marriage unlimited and unfettered and undefined by law or by human beings. It’s a union deeper than the soul or the spirit and it will last longer than any human life which it serves, which is does not, really.
The Creative is the only Universe. And it is only there we truly feel.