I liked him more the second I saw him hop in the driver’s seat of that beat up old ’65 Dodge Dart, and when he drove it with his lanky right hand draping over the steering wheel like someone who truly didn’t give a fuck about much. I almost couldn’t resist the appeal I had to him, and his heightened and obviously increasing sense of comfort made it remarkable to me how close I figured I would come to loving this thing without actually commencing the complication and succumbing to how marvelous he looked at that very moment. He knew so much of my duties to him; his personal little therapy service that came to him at every chance in hopes to ease his anxieties for life and turn him into a semi-normal person. But in my ever-evolving quest in life to find what interested me, his twisted companionship helped me in strange ways that made me crazier and happier while he became more at ease with being a regular human. I sensed I had two muses, him and his creation, and their power over me was intense; just what I’d been looking for.
He took me on a trip through time, back to the very year his four-wheeled machine wasn’t littered with dead leaves, cigarette butts, and spilled change everywhere, and it still smelled of new car and whatever pride its driver, his grandfather, had when he sat behind that very wheel. “Around the block” we went, which entailed cruising through golden hills of seemingly dead grass that resembled my own home except for its variation in color and incline all around me. Music beamed from his sorry excuse for a stereo system in a manner that seemed exactly like him, and although we could not go far, we went so far enough into history that I found an element that did not exist in the present day, even when I was with him. I chain smoked and stuck my arm out the window to feel the prehistoric breeze slide through my fingers and beat against my bare skin, perfectly content with every tiny little aspect of this supposed mind-clearing route around the block. The backhoe on back roads roaring her happiness for another set of moments; new back roads that had not yet been explored down to every blade of dying grass and every feeling of happiness and sadness that usually came with such scenery I knew so well.
1965 was when I was meant to love that man, and when he was meant to be my savior, and fix my brain into a well-oiled machine that wouldn’t burn up after a ten block cruise down the road. Around the curves of the thinly paved road and through the scenery of melting trees and distorted music that sang of overly ideal situations and lifestyles, we flew through space and time until we were something unique and desirable and completely unaware of our happiness and everything that made us humanly aware of our heads.
Now I must be cautious, because to say I love this man would only send him flying back under the covers into a tiny cocoon where he would stay until he no longer feared the sight of womens’ hearts within one thousand miles of him. But it is not a love to fear, and more so a love to accept no matter who this man is or what this man fears, personally and universally for every man that wanders through life, be he legend or hermit. It is the love of a muse that I speak of; the thanks I scream every minute I see him silently to myself because his every step inspires me to be things I have never been and think things I have never thought. It is the love of a muse that made a trip back in time so valuable and momentous that it started in nothing but a ride around the block, and ended in an affair that would make even the driver of a brand new ’65 Dodge Dart feel a little pinch of envy. For the muse is the only being I could ever truly love anyway.
( Collapse )