The Ego of the Artist

Generally, every artist thinks he is the greatest artist in the world. But even the best artists, when at their lowest points, would make the claim that they aren't really even artists at all, but just imposters. The reality is, it is just when the artist feels that he is an imposter that he is most susceptible to his muse. It is almost as if the muse comes to the artist not only for the sake of his art, but also to lift his ego such that life becomes bearable again. The ego and the muse, like impassioned lovers, are in a constant push-pull relationship that results in the birth of art, and the decay of the artist.

The Value of Love

I let the longing fill me
That my tears might be set free.
The rose wakens from its shadowy sleep
And out from the veil of time,
You arrive, naked, at my bedside.
Torn from my ungraspable dreams, I waken
Into a world that has no refuge
Except within your embrace.
And as the rose opens to the sun
So my soul opens beneath your smiling face.
As the sun gives the gift of life to the Earth,
So your kiss gives me life
And all I am worth.

Excerpt from Novel

        He found James in the piano room, playing. He was playing beautifully—soulfully, even—very unlike how he would have imagined a drummer would play. It was a somber and sweet tune, vaguely familiar. James looked up at David as he played and nodded. David sat down in a comfortable arm chair in the corner and listened to him play. He let himself forget what had happened with Lucy and sank into the music. It brought lurid memories to the surface of his mind. All of the girls and women he had ever loved appeared before him—their figures seemed to dance in a ring of fire in front of him. Some of them glared at him coldly, others had tears in their eyes and looked at him longingly. All of them danced through the fire that was his own soulful desire. And it was Lucy who played the most prominent role. Her eyes were so dark, so full of mystery, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t gage what was going on behind them. There were other memories, too—vague memories of his parents when he was young. Their faces were so fresh and expressive, and full of vitality. They looked upon him with tenderness and awe. It was as if he was a newborn child again, and everything was vibrant and new, and the world seemed boundless and so did the possibilities of life. Colors bounded off one another in an ecstatic, rapturous dance. It was all in the music—the memories, the colors, the impassioned feelings that culminated in euphoria. David listened, but he had the sense that it wasn’t really him listening at all. Whatever “he” was had gone, and the collective soul of existence had taken its place. James finished playing, and, in a moment of pensiveness, stared at the keys, as if completely bewildered and amazed by what had just occurred.

Excerpt from Novel

 Later, while he was at a group, David was called out to meet with Lucy’s social worker. They went into a small meeting room, and David sat across from the social worker. She was a plump, attractive woman in her mid-thirties, with long black hair tied up in the back and big, dark eyes that looked out kindly and childlike beneath her curled eyelashes. She was dressed in black jeans and a black button-down shirt that was unbuttoned just enough to show some of her ample cleavage. She sat in a large leather desk chair, and David sat in an old vinyl armchair. She smiled at him with a serious, if not congenial air, and leaned forward in her chair with her hands folded in her lap. Her lips were painted bright red, and her face was pale and her cheeks were full. “I’d like to talk to you about Lucy,” she said in a low voice. David’s heart seemed to shoot up through his throat. “She told me that you have been a good friend to her. But, she has made it clear to me that she only wants to be friends, and nothing more. I think it’s best that you keep a distance from her, and not pursue her anymore.”

David was crushed. He felt anger rising up in himself, and he wanted to tell the social worker that it had been Lucy who had instigated things, and that it was her boyfriend who was manipulating her and making her upset. But he did not say these things. Instead, he let the pain sink into the depths of his heart. Tears formed in his eyes, but he wouldn’t let them fall. He swallowed his pride.

“I understand,” he said. “I won’t bother her anymore.”

The social worker smiled. “Thank you,” she said. “But please don’t take this the wrong way. She wants to be your friend. But that’s the limit.”

“Yes,” said David. “Fine. I can be her friend.” He said it but he didn’t mean it. Inwardly, he was already scathing Lucy. He wanted revenge, even if he knew that it wasn’t her fault that all of this had happened. It was her boyfriend. 

“I’m glad you accept this,” said the social worker. “Patients aren’t really allowed to have romantic attachments in the hospital anyway. I’m sure you know that.”

“I do,” said David.

“Well, again, thank you. You can go back to your group now.”

David got up and left the room, but he didn’t go back to the group. Instead, he turned down the hallway that led to his room. On the way, he thought he could hear the sound of sobbing coming from Lucy’s room. He stopped to listen. It was a gentle sobbing. The kind of sobbing that comes when one is trying to muffle the sound for fear of being overheard. When he heard this sound, he thought to himself that Lucy hadn’t really meant what she had told the social worker, that she must really love him after all. Hope filled him once again, even as tears filled his eyes from the sound of Lucy crying. He went into his room, fell to his knees beside his bed, and began to pray. “Lord,” he said. “I can’t give up on her. I know she really cares for me, and I won’t let her be the victim of an abuser. But what can I do?” Then he heard a voice, like an echo, in the back of his mind. It said: “Write her a letter.”

The Lone Cricket's Song

I listen long and listen low

for the sound of the cricket outside my window.

It sounds like three tiny stars

falling on water--softly, softly.

What a gentle, sweet, and subtle song!

What could be a more perfect way

to slip off to sleep at the end of day

than to listen to this lone cricket's song

that keeps the slow and steady pace of slumber

through the night until the break of dawn?