The moon is waxing crescent tonight, a lazy C is the sky. Waxing means it's growing, which is good — now is the time to create, to be fertile of mind and body. When mere men tried to depict the goddess Venus, they often wreathed her in the crescent moon.
Creativity. Fertility. A mood to grow with the moon. I love the imagery. The reality escapes me. I type. I do not write; the muse's voice is silent. What I'm doing is akin to Springfield's love of all-you-can-eat buffets — quantity over quality. Instead of a well-seared tuna steak it's mounds of cashew chicken, smothered in brown gravy and topped with nuts.
I'm a better cook than this.
Tonight I had dinner with Moloney. She's a good egg, despite the way she fled when the shag carpeting attacked me one night at the old Casa de RED. We talked about typing and writing, and the way I feel hobbled at not being able to find the right words anymore. She did what any good friend does at these moments: she listened. Such a relief. The quiet did not seem so overwhelming.
The silence of the muse: a fact of life now, and probably forever. I say I can deal with it, and I can, if only because that is the choice I must embrace. We all make such choices at critical turns in our lives. We accept. We deal.
Above me the moon grows. It waxes. Inside me the moon wanes, and like the muse I fall silent.