Waiting for my Muse

Sleeping was an effort. Humidity draped my skin like wet clothing as if I had spent the night in a steamy rain forest. Gradually, I rolled off the ledge of consciousness into a sound sleep, waking just as dawn was casting its first glimmers and my clock-radio switched on to a favorite classical music station. Half awake, I plod to the kitchen to microwave a cup of water for instant coffee, a morning stimulant to start the day with a double side effect: to activate my bowel and my brain though the former is often first to respond. Still in my underwear, I feel a veil of moisture forming on my skin. Today’s forecast: another muggy August day in the high nineties. A cool shower follows to invigorate my body but it’s short lived. Coffee in hand, I sit in my cushioned swivel chair, staring out the screened window of my bedroom/study waiting for the computer to boot up and my muse to show up and plant an idea in my empty head. After an hour and more coffee I am still waiting and verging on sleep, so I decide to go it alone – as I have so many times before, and bravely. My muse, apparently, is somewhere else this morning dispensing her inspiration and time on a more worthy recipient. I don’t fault her for that; after all, I’m used to her absence and my reliance on my scanty mental resources, though my years now seem to be always running ahead of me faster than my age. Inspiration, I’ve discovered, is not the only stimulant to creativity. Coffee has often rescued me from many a morning’s doldrums, so too wine, but on this last be wary: it’s effect as a kick-start to a sluggish imagination can easily numb one’s reliance on a negligent muse.