She has spent the last two weeks conjuring flashes of eerie tales set in springtide. Every story comes with pretty flowers, sunshine, laughter… and dead things. The stories are daunting, but the tone of her thinking shows her skipping around the plot, humming happily, crunching bone and giggling at flighty ghosts. She is sort of loony—we both know this and are okay with it—but this behavior is way beyond much, even for her.
When her nuttiness shrieked too loud for my mind’s comfort, I tried to figure out why all the dead things kept on popping up, and why she seems to be so immensely gleeful about it. The answer came to me after I replied to a friend’s Tweet: “This wet dirt trembles, shifts and sighs little screams as it births its way towards spring,” I said.
The words took me (and the Muse) to “The Waste Land”:
April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring…
That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
The Muse seems to have stayed longer than I did with T.S. Eliot. Now she’s back… only interested in writing about dead things stirring and breeding… about corpses sprouting out of the dirt… about dancing around in blissful bone bouquets.
She’s weird like that, my Muse. And I’m glad. For her creative lunacy seems to shine on everything it touches… and that hot, silvery, glow leaves us clad in our kind of normal.
Creepy Springby Placker