How many of us are fortunate enough
to look our muse in the eye?
To have them look back?
To see the depth in their eyes,
feel the inspiration even in their most fleeting glimpse?
How many can say they have ever completely felt that almost divine presence sitting right next to them even if just internally?
It’s something we all strive for.
There’s no way of telling how many of us have ever actually met them.
We might think we have, and that very well might be the case, but I believe often our muse retreats somewhere that deep within us that not even the most exquisite of love sonnets will bring them out to see the light of day.
That’s just where they feel most comfortable, where they can do their best work.
That’s where and how they become a part of you.
And out of those lucky enough to actually meet that person / soul / entity who embodies the spirit of the Muse …
how many of them have been blessed with a choice between two?And how many of us have been that blind that we let them walk away long before we took our first substantial steps with them at our side?
We’re also meant to be there for them if it’s gonna work at all.
I encountered a young lady a while ago, young lady I can reasonably conclude is somewhere in her early twenties.
Obviously intelligent, incredibly well spoken, amazingly insightful …
and, yes now that I think further of it,
most assuredly in the outlying regions of the sinkhole, being drawn into the central realm only to be sucked into the vortex at thirty a little too quickly for her own comfort.
From all outward appearances and behaviors, she takes herself way too seriously. It approaches reverence.
That supposition would make for a safe bet.
The operative phrase necessary to fully contemplate the depth of those gifts graciously given to her – to qualify if not able to quantify them – would be “in her early twenties”.
In saying that, I don’t mean to denigrate nor to mock her or anyone suffering that rambunctious rite of passage.
The human brain is just not capable of grasping certain concepts or process sundry precepts until the age of twenty-five. The brain is just not fully developed until then, and at one point or another during that growth period it is unavoidable that one will eventually step in a pile of dog shit.
Far be it from me to insinuate that it was anything less than a common occurrence within my experiences,
and I pity the fool who in their pomposity either forgets or denies it within theirs.
And I pray for the child who can’t accept that inevitability and their concurrent fallibility.
Who am I to judge if they’re still scraping the shit off their boots?
Everybody steps in it once in a while.
I can’t, however, recall ever having seen a dog step in its own shit while people seem to do exactly that all the time.
J. K. R. Nash IV
I would never trust a mechanic who drove a leased car.
If he’s buying a new car, should problems arise, it would serve his best interests to attend to them. Some would necessitate that attention be immediate, while others might be borne of a more cautionary consideration.
If the mechanic owned the car, or were actually in the process of purchasing it, he would be into the car for the long haul, as opposed to someone who is leasing it and would be perfectly content if their shitbucket of a long-term rental didn’t catch fire within the twenty-four months / 24,000 miles they are legally bound to keep it.
As someone who actually owns a car I genuinely intend on running into the ground, I want my mechanic to understand things from my perspective.
I would not choose to have my mouth poked and prodded by someone who claims never to have had a cavity.
I would also not feel entirely confident seeing an ophthalmologist who didn’t sport at the very least a pair of bi-focals.
Nor would I feel as if I were in good hands with a urologist who had never personally and intimately been bathed in the enlightenment found only in the rectal catharsis offered by a prostate exam.
In keeping with the spirit of the aforesaid,
I would actually be far more comforted if my therapist was known to be susceptible to periodic, random excursions into the Dark Kingdom of Cerebral Guano.
Providing, of course, they don’t maintain dual citizenship.
J. K. R. Nash IV
“It wasn’t on purpose.”
“I didn’t mean it.”
“I couldn’t help it.”
“It was a mistake.”
Young children cannot comprehend
(and many adults care not to)
that no matter how sincere or honest
or heartfelt those expressions might be
they do not, can not and will not
in and of themselves
put Humpty together again.
None of them are apologies.
They’re not even acknowledgments of any wrong-doing.
If nothing else, one still needs to
– at the very least –
attempt to pick up the pieces,
unquestionably a more effective effort when it is a joint effort.
J. K. R. Nash IV