Writhing

You'll find me 40 leagues under the sea, keeping Moby (Dick) company until they call my name at the counter, to tell me I'm worth a damn, or at least worth his time.

"He" is not a romantic interest - I've plenty of those (well, two and my imaginary beau, Brad Pitt as Mr. Smith) as it is.

He is the Muse. He doesn't wear a white sheet, or carry a bow and arrow, or go around barefoot: in my mind, he likes leather jackets and slurs like James Dean. He has been avoiding me for some time now (two years in February 2006). Since he up and left me that hot afternoon, our sheets twisted and reeking of sweat, my pen's dried up. Most of my pages are full of useless scribbles, or else completely blank. I've tried finding him in people, male and female; in things, ordinary, shiny, surreal; in places, foreign (oh, please take me There) and Here; in songs, Aguilera, Boz, Beth, and Bach. Sometimes I think I've found him, in a sad, beautiful friend, or when I hear a song that just won't let me go (Josh Rouse, 1972), but then it passes. It's not him. It's never him. He is silent. He is cruel. He doesn't love me anymore. Maybe he never did.

I try to write something Real but all I read afterwards is fluff, empty and benign. Can I write? Am I any good? I don't know. I shouldn't care, but I do. I really, really do.

While writing countless articles (in three years, will anyone remember what I've written in these glossies?), I keep thinking I should take up dentistry. At least I'll be giving people a good reason to smile. They'll stop hurting because I've pulled their rotting molars out. Children will grow up into more confident adults because I'd have straightened their teeth with braces. Men will get the women of their dreams, after I've successfully cured their halitosis. If not a dentist, then a mamasan in a high-class brothel. I'd preside over Love and all its intricacies. I'd be the mistress of pleasure, dividing Happiness according to who needs it the most.

I'll need to leave to get Him back. He could be waiting for me on a train bound for London, or a coach in Intramuros, or a lawyer's office 400 miles from here. I'll be ready.