Muse Hymn Box
A spirited,Vespa riding Muse
My muse finally arrives late at night, making one hell of a racket and riding a red Vespa. She roars into my bedroom just as my eyes are closing and says 'What are you doing in here? Come on, we've got work to do.' 'Leave me alone,' I say, snuggling under the covers, 'in fact, go away.'
'Well,' she says huffily, taking off her helmet
and fluffing up her hair with her manicured fingers, 'That's nice. I thought
you wanted to be a writer.'
I notice she's yawning and filing her nails - a bad sign. 'Look,' I say,' I thought you were meant to whisper divine thoughts into my shell-like ear, not charge into my sacred space on that turbo-charged thing like a Ferrari driver. I mean...you're not even wearing a floaty gown. What's a Muse doing in a leather miniskirt and thigh-high boots, for heaven's sake?'
'Ah, I'm sick of those shapeless maternity dresses everyone insists on us wearing,' she says, inspecting her crimson-lacquered nails for chips, ' and besides, they had a one-off sale of Italian fashion on at Leichhardt. Since I'm in this part of the world....well, the parking is easier than it is in Milan, believe it or not. You know how it is.'
I can't help but sympathise. I know how it
is with parking these days. It's a nightmare.
I fling the covers over my head.
Two days later, I begin to type. Anything
to break the boredom. Words, meaningless words, plopping on to the screen.
Where is she, that mean Muse of mine? Why is she so unforgiving?
'Where have you been? I needed you,'
I do. I love it. I have to have one.
I hop on to the back of the Vespa and we zoom down to Leichhardt for a
coffee and some serious shopping. My head is bursting with new material
and my fingers are itching to get it all down on paper.
Heather Blakey asserts the right to be identified as the author of this work