Some people know the origins of the Muse, the four epic Greek Muses in classic Greek Lit and Legend. Usually, it’s an ethereal thing. They don’t REALLY exist. They’re a culmination of our subconscious bringing us inspiration. Some artists, writers, et cetera, have had the rare gift of actual people being muses: husbands, wives, lovers. I’ve had two. Nearly complete strangers, though. Nothing and no one I could touch, really. I’ll preserve here some details of my private life. So, I’m kind of in between the two, I guess. I have this manic kind of Orpheus Hypothesis/Theory in my mind of my Muses… trust me, you wouldn’t get it, it’s very hard to explain, kind of delusional, and just plain weird. If it works out like I think it might, I’ll let you know.
Basically, I’ve had my Calliope, the muse of Poetry. He started my first novel… with a huge, huge dose of poetic and romantic pain. He was the first and last man to break my heart. We’re still friends, but a long time ago, he wanted to marry me. It’s bluddy complicated and ancient history because now he’s just an arrogant prick I know and love very, very much. My revenge (authors can be so petty), I had a huge argument with him about racism. I deleted him, deleted his phone number, everything, and took the dedication to him out of the book. He’s very bitter about that. Muahahaha. Honestly, though, I wish I had the foresight, no, the memory of how forgiving I am with people and left it in there. It’s dedicated to my second muse, ^ this guy, and it should have been dedicated to Anthony too, we were both just having a tantrum. I’ve known him for almost twenty years now, I should know better than to just write him off. Anyway, digression, and… go.
Now, the second muse of Orpheus comes to me… he is my Euterpe, the Muse of Music. Passenger. Michael David Rosenberg. It’s funny because he goes by his moniker and became instantly someone who affected my soul. When I learned his full name, I was like, well… that’s kind of… not extraordinary. Not as flairy as the last one… Anthony Esposito. He even signs his autograph with a little star over the “i.” He’s a rock star. How’d you guess? Anyway, back to Euterpe. In the same vein of my life, Euterpe is a musician too and I wonder if this will be a pattern.
I met him in person last year, after two years of waiting and repartee between us. He was sort of connected to me like I was to him. I entertain him. He likes my writing. Hopefully loves it by the end of the year. It was awkward and terrifying. I was originally going to L.A. to see him. Then I backed out because I couldn’t stop the panic. He’s a surreal, magical being to me (as he is to many others, we tend to tease him about his “silly little pointy ears” and his “hobbitses feets” ‘WE LOVES THEM’ and on and on). I have about 576754848475543 nicknames for him and he has a couple for me. Anyway, he asked me three times for a copy of my novel. So I must give it to him. There is no choice.
In eleven days I will be in L.A. to hand him this thing he helped me deliver, this child, this book UNTIL HER DARKNESS GOES. Writing for me is like a pregnancy. Note; I fucking hated my pregnancies. They were horrid and I’d never do it again. I love my kids, but having your uterus tell you it’s going to fall out, just nope. NOPE. Anyway. Eleven days. My anxiety is ramping up now. It’s hit me. I’m going to see him again. I actually am practicing looking at photographs so I might have the ovaries to look him in the eye this time. I’m very, very, painfully shy and reserved in person. Very awkward, socially weird, seriously quiet. I don’t want anyone to look at me. Ever. Inferiority complex, I guess, but I’ve always been this way, since childhood.
Meeting him again is causing severe, nauseating panic. He brought me in the venue privately last time and sang one of my sacred songs to just me. It was a moment I should have been able to look him in the face for. It was rude not to. Now I’m giving him something. My novel. This baby. My guts are in knots constantly and I’m putting off getting packed and ready because as long as I do that, it’s not real. As much as I want it to be real. It will be real, and I can’t deal. Kali help me. Will update later with the after affects and what happened… and if I even get to see him at all personally. He’s a bit popular these days.
So, back from the city of Lost Assholes. We had quite a time. Every time I doubt myself, I’m pleasantly surprised. I never doubt him. But first…. if you’ve ever been to the emergency room in Los Angeles, I’m fucking sorry! I’m so sorry! What a nightmare. Short answer: I have a genetic kidney disease that is quickly killing me… and I ended up getting admitted to the hospital WHILST I WAS ON VACAY. SO NOT FAIR. Rebekah (my worthy partner in this venture) tried to convince me to stay, but ended up helping me do a proper AMA Escape from Hospital Ward because the doctors were taking forevah to get me sorted. So, when we showed up to the Wiltern and went backstage… I was fucking BOMBED. I was totally bombed on dilaudid. If you’ve never had it, then you’ll never know. A pharmacist once told me it’s basically legal heroin. I managed to act like a human being and chat a bit and Mike jokingly offered whisky (Laphroaig, because there is no other whisky, thankyouverymuch), and I jokingly (or not) accepted… I probably would have, and that would have been a bad idea.
Moral of the story is that, my delusional Orpheus theory might just pan out because (this is so weird) both of my muses said the exact. same. thing. when they got the book. “Sick.” (Is this good? I think it’s good.) Short story, we went front row, blew him a kiss good bye and went to the ocean in Santa Monica… which almost swept us away and the water was cold, but being by the ocean always fills me with joy and lifts me up. Rebekah took a trek up to the mountains and I stayed in bed sick. And then we came home. So worth it. Everything was so worth it. It pains me that I can’t do it again next year. If he even comes to the states this tour. Whine. Bleat. Moan. I love that man. My Faustus, Sir Mikesalot, Sike, Hobbitses, et. cetera… What a fuggin guy, you know?
That “Faustus, I think you call me?” has been my text alert for three years. Pathetic.