I have been quiet of late. Be assured that the silence does not denote inactivity or a lack of things to talk about. I have hit a bit of smooth marble that is giving me time to reflect; much like smooth marble is want to do. I can gaze upon my own rock-veined features and wonder at the path ahead and plan for these changes I have been longing a time to plan, for their own sake. A time that is in the very near future for all of us. The “I’ll do it when…” time that was always out of reach or one step away. The “when” time. The “if” time. Now, I am in the “after I” time. The “when I” era. An era where excuses have no place to sit and rest their ever-tired feet, a place where reservations have no right to take the window seat. A place where only The Sculptor is permitted. The Sculptor, with his chisel and hammer and marble medium, is at last given free reign to hammer away the imperfections of a cold and voiceless stone and give shape to The Creation within. And now that the first blow has been struck againts the impartial slab, The Sculptor stops, hands and mind have fallen silent.

Now, in this gifted place, The Sculptor does not know what to do with his tools. The Sculptor has never truley been alone before without reservations and excuses to distract him; at peace at last to work on his blank piece of marble for the first time and now The Muse falls silent. The Sculptor has been forsaken, until memory, half-created, chimes in to mock him,

“You had all these bright and romantic ideas of what I’d say at a time like this.” jibed The Muse. “Why are you surprised I haven’t said anything? You already know everything I could possibly tell you”

That’s the Cosmic Joke (one of many, I think). The Muse isn’t at all real in the sense of it being this entity or object wholly separate from ourselves.

Where are the buxom babes in flowing vestments? Where are the unicorns and satyrs and angelic advisors?

Where is the romance in a Muse that does not stir the very soul? How can a Muse that looks like me inspire anything?

How can it NOT?

We are our own Muse when we envision our aspirations. What more riveting Creation to behold than the perfection of the self as manifested by you?

What greater and crueler trick than to be blind to yourself?