Dress Sizes

Dear Lover~

I read an article tonight in the Arts and Entertainment section on the Wall Street Journal’s website. The article was about the loss of artist’s—poets and all others—muses. The writer mentioned Zelda, Gala, Yoko, Gonne, Georgia, and Suzanne (Fitzgerald, Dali, Lennon, Yeats, Stieglitz, and Balanchine’s respectively). There were other famous muses that I remember reading about over the years, it also mentioned others that I had no knowledge of, my incomplete education, I assumed.

The journalist only mentioned male writers, and their female muses! Appalling reporting I thought, what about us women, and our muses. I have to think all women artists have their own muses, but I couldn’t think of any except for Lillian’s Dash. According to the WSJ writer, the muse-world has thinned out, and while the male artist might still have a muse, the infamous relationship between the muse and the artist is no longer. My heart ached for the romance of the past.
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Disconnected.

There are days when my well of words runs low.  Will I lose the feeling to write, live, and write again and again?

My head is a ghost town, its cranial passageways have a fine layer of dust covering the ground, and my feet leave imprints. The tumbleweeds bounce off the walls leaving a trail of smudge marks on contact.  This is a lonely feeling for a writer, it’s when we are the most vulnerable, the most at risk, the most lost.  Our word pictures can’t connect.  It’s not dot-to-dot. It doesn’t work like that…

My words are suspended in their singular state inside the tumbleweed trying to connect, to form a sentence. 
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