A Momentary Muse

December 5, 2011 § 2 Comments

She: You’ve been struggling, haven’t you? So uncharacteristically silent, you’ve become.

He: Yes.

She: The words have been there, though. Beyond your reach, maybe? Too many to speak, perhaps?

He:  Yes.

She: The ideas have all been vacated, by noise? Dialogues, all turned into crowds?

He: Yes.

She: So serious, you’ve become. We hardly recognize you,  you know. No wonder all your other Muses have left you.

He: Have they?

She: These movements of yours, they’re meant mostly for bowels. And indignation, it’s for a righteousness you long ago lost. You’re not young anymore.

He: I’m not old either.

She: But can you keep up with those who can hardly keep up with themselves? Listen, they’re already out of breath.

He: Are they? I’m not . . .

She: Oh, and the tides are rising anyway.

He: But you . . .

She: The sky is falling anyhow. We’re out of time.

Francesca Woodman, Untitled

§ 2 Responses to A Momentary Muse

  • tom clark says:

    She’s right about that (“We’re out of time”).

    What she never knew will never hurt her.

    About twenty years ago, in my mid-fifties, I lamented, to an old man, that I felt old.

    Hmrmph, he muttered. (He was Dutch… had been a pianist, a doctor).

    “Still a baby!”

  • Brad Johnson says:

    Yes. One will not for quite some time actually hear me say that of myself. I actually find it deeply irritating when people my age & younger (I’m not yet even 40, but inching closer), describe themselves as such. It always sounds to me, coming from them, like too-ready concession, a resignation kept on file.

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