The dreaming writer and his muse enter the garden, leaving their fig leaves at the gate. Now alone and denuded of all manner of covering, they are happier beyond belief, for there are no longer the obstacles of shame and separation, nor the judgments of others. There is only the writer with his imagined muse, dwelling and playing within God’s heavenly garden, where every tangible need is provided for.
The writer and his muse are like children again, climbing trees and splashing around in the cool ponds of inspiration; creating games where there are only winners, and singing songs of praise for the divine gardener and his heavenly garden. The renewed purity of spirit between them inspires many hundreds of stories and poems, sometimes written within a day’s time, depicting the ecstatic heights of love and beauty in all its glory. Each and every volume to be archived within God’s eternal library of divine literature.
Over time, if there is such a thing here, the writer and his muse become so unified and whole, that they begin to resemble each other in appearance and disposition; any and all differences being transformed into similarities. They become one and the same, devoid of all estrangement; merged in flesh, thought, and spirit. When the writer looks for his muse, he sees a reflection of himself; when the muse looks for the writer, she sees a reflection of herself. Having lost the awareness of separation, they’ve become like “one” being, and the divine gardener gives “them” the choice of naming their union either Adam or Eve.
Adam is a good name, they think to themselves, but the shadow of sadness has once again befallen them, for something is missing. The writer can no longer see, hear, or identify his muse, not as anything tangible to the senses; and the muse can no longer play hide and seek with the writer, for he is too close to be lost, found, teased, or tempted. The two have become one identity, a solitary existence in the divine garden, where the other is felt, but no longer perceived.
And after more time passes, if such a thing is possible, there is only the writer, as he can no longer imagine the existence of his muse, not as a woman or in any perceivable form. Solitary living and the passage of time have separated his memory of the real from the magic of imagination. She’s become a darkened silhouette without detail, other than the distinctive tone of her voice, audible as only a slight accent to his speech, and readable as nothing more than the soft, undulating slants of his poetic prose.
“What has caused this situation?” the writer thinks to himself. “I have nobody to inspire me, no playmate to frolic with in the beautiful garden, nobody to listen to my musings or nurture them, nobody to reunite with. How do I reconnect with something invisible, living inside myself? Can I reunite with a lung or a kidney? Now there is only me, this garden, and everything inside of it that is unlike me and my muse, whom I can no longer see or remember. This garden fills me with despair. I am whole but alone! Somebody talk to me! Where are you my muse? God are you there?”
The writer attempts to displace his sadness, writing poems and stories about the people from his past, including father, mother, sisters, brothers, sons, daughters, friends, and former lovers. Yet, his imagination is limited to the fragments of old memories, recycled over and over into stories that closely resemble one another. There is nobody here to infuse new life into his imagination, nothing other than the sights, sounds, and sensations of the garden…a beautiful place, but without a female companion to attach his muse – the source of his inspiration. Just as a tree does not give the appearance of a woman – having too many arms, standing too tall, and being too hard – the shapes of clouds do not persist long enough to imagine the sweet softness and gentle curves of a goddess in the flesh.
And so his inspiration evaporates into nothingness, along with the fleeting faces in the clouds. He can no longer write, as there is nobody to write to, nobody to desire or inspire him. And so the writer sits down under a tree, and like a Rip Van Winkle, slumbers there without waking, only occasionally opening an eye to validate his continued predicament.
However, one day, a peddler selling his wares appears at the far edge of the garden. He sports a long, gray beard and wears shabby, Hasidic style attire; a throwback to the shtetl lifestyle of the old country. The writer awakens to this sight and is joyous! Finally, another human being in the garden! Not a woman to latch his muse onto, but companionship nonetheless.
The conversation
Writer: (yelling across the garden) Hey you, Mr. Peddler!
The peddler slowly moves towards the writer, huffing and puffing, pushing a cart with creaking wheels, engraved with the signage, “FRUIT FOR SALE!”
Peddler: Oy vey, stop hollering, I’m coming! This cart weighs a ton!
Writer: (hand over mouth) Sorry, just excited to see another person. It has been a while.
Peddler: You are new here, boychik. Haven’t seen you before. Are you alone or with companion? A lover maybe? A friend with benefits? (chuckling)
The writer is silent, pondering how to explain having a muse to this old man, who looks like he stepped out of another century.
Peddler: (raising his hands) Nu? You gonna talk or what?
Writer: (clearing throat) It is just me and my muse. We are a twosome occupying one body. She’s retreated back inside of me, so you can’t see her at the moment.
Peddler: Ah, some trouble in paradise, even with a muse. Such a common story in these parts. (pulling at his beard) Want to talk about it? Nobody is buying my fruit or other dreck today, so I’ve got some time for kibbitz.
Writer: (looking down at the ground) Thought I could reunite with my muse in this beautiful place, away from all the distractions and frustrations of the world. You know, use the peace and quiet here to dig deep down inside myself, find my inspiration again, get rid of this writer’s block.
Peddler: (inquisitive look) Oh I see…were you trying to become another Henry David Thoreau on Walden pond? (he scans the entire garden with his eyes, nodding affirmatively)
By the way, I like the biblical theme of your dream. Very creative!
Writer: Thanks, peddler! Yeah, dreamed it up as beautiful as possible. Better than Walden Pond, but Thoreau made it work there, on a pond where he could still hear the sounds of the surrounding town. He didn’t need to travel far to be with his muse. Nature was his muse.
Peddler: Your garden would’ve been perfect for Henry, not for you though. Your muse isn’t nature. This beautiful, dreamy place makes a great setting, but doesn’t pull your strings or make your heart throb, not enough to write with passion and wild abandon.
So, who is this muse of yours? What does she, he, or it look like? You said “she,” nu?
Writer: I daydreamed my muse into a woman; imagined her and I in this garden together. No distractions from worldly problems or other men vying for her attention. I conjured her from scraps of old memories of women I’ve known and not known. Tall and dark, with eyes that tease with possibilities, that shine with the foresight and hindsight of a goddess. The kind of eyes that a man can get lost within, never finding his way out, never wanting to find his way out. Eyes that stare back at him, looking inside him, pulling him out into tangible existence.
Peddler: (nodding his head side to side) Oy vey! How does a young man get his earthly needs met from a daydream? Can you see it? Touch it? Shtup with it? What kind of inspiration does an illusion give you?
Writer: (shrugging shoulders) I know, it doesn’t work. She retreated back inside of me. And this made my writer’s block even worse. There’s nobody really here. Nobody to play with. Nobody to challenge me. No stimulation, other than memories, but those lose their fizz after a while.
Peddler: Well, don’t feel like too much of a shmuck. The biblical Adam and Eve got bored to tears too. They had it easy. Nothing to do but play in the garden, all their needs taken care of, never wanting for a thing, not even realizing the “other” existed as a separate entity. Blissful ignorance for a time, or maybe the earliest example of narcissism, where they were blind to each other’s autonomy, thinking that the garden and their mate existed for them alone, to quench their personal thirsts for whatever. But, they got bored having it all, just like you getting bored with your fantasy of having it all, or having her all to yourself, doing whatever you want with her. You naughty boychik! (looking stern with folded arms and then giggling)
Writer: I know I know! I can’t have my cake and eat it too.
Peddler: (licking his lips) Yum, do you have any cake around here? Chocolate cake, maybe? No? Hmm, too bad, because that is when the real fun begins, drooling over a “REAL” piece of cake, hoping it has your name on it, but never getting close enough to take a bite. That is what keeps you hungry, drives you crazy with desire, and triggers your most creative efforts. An effective cure for writer’s block too, but only if that slice of cake is out there in the world, not inside your mind only. (patting himself on the forehead)
Writer: I devoured my own cake – my muse – but in imagination only, since she is not real here. Exploited her willingness to do anything and be anything for me, which is not very fulfilling after a while. A real woman is not so accommodating. Nothing in life is for that matter.
Peddler: Oy! How about swallowing a big bubble of hot air; bloating yourself with a lot of nothing! Same thing, eh?
Writer: (frowning, shaking head side to side) Yep. And now I’m so starved for the REAL that I’ve lost my awareness of being hungry. A kind of numbness. The cause of writer’s block, maybe?
Peddler: Boychik, If I’d asked Adam and Eve to imagine that piece of fruit, they would have laughed at my dumb ass, thinking I was a meshuganer serpent. Temptation, the spark of life, is a tangible thing. You need to see it, hear it, smell it, and feel it…if you can get close enough. You need a real something or someone to pull your muse into existence, or she will remain dormant, a faceless potentiality inside of you.
Writer: And this is where you enter the picture again, huh? You are always lurking out there, waiting to stir up some trouble for us lazy, blissful folks who daydream too much! Probably why I dreamed you into this dream, giving myself a way out. (smirking)
Peddler: Mazel Tov! You get it! Now, let me properly introduce myself, kind sir. I am the peddler – aka serpent – at your service, ready to separate you from your muse, so you can go chasing after her in the real world, like a chicken with his head cut off! (laughing heartily)
Writer: Very funny, Mr. Peddler. So, how do I get back in touch with my muse? How do I rid myself of this writer’s block? Do I take a bite of one of those red delicious apples in your cart? How many doses are required? What is the cost? Is it covered by insurance? (grinning)
Peddler: (wagging his finger) The apples are props for your daydream, not my doing. You are very creative, I give you that! Imagine that, turning me – the serpent – into a Yiddish speaking street peddler selling red delicious apples! HA HA HA!
Writer: Made you in the image of my Yiddish speaking grandpa. A serpent was a bit too slimy for me, and I figured the fruit was still important. Didn’t want to completely buck biblical tradition. You know, the original sin thing. (wink)
Peddler: More like original escape. Adam and Eve were so bored that they played the temptation game, teasing themselves apart and back into the open; wanting to know one another as individuals in opposition; setting the stage for their great reunion. The parting and reunion is the push and pull of life! The key to passion, art, writing, music, romance, and life itself! Not something you can get in fantasyland, where everything comes true with no effort or obstacles.
Writer: What now? I take a bite of an apple?
Peddler: The intention behind the bite is what counts, not the bite itself. So boychik, scarf down an apple, exit this daydream, and go back into your world of frustrations and imperfections. That is where you will find your other half shining through the face of something or someone. Could be a mountain waiting to be climbed, a child waiting to be adopted, a war waiting to be fought, a lover waiting to be seduced and brought home, or whatever else calls out your muse, your inner Eve.
Writer: Where is she now, my muse?
Peddler: Your muse is lurking and biding her time within you, waiting for the right thing, person, or situation to draw herself back into the real world of substance and form. And there – your other half or muse – will attach to something or someone, once again becoming the object of your most cherished desire. And as always, you will pursue this desire like a madman, desperate to close the gap between you and her, or him or it; your attempted return to the garden, where you become whole again, and maybe a bit wiser this time around. Reunion! (gesturing two thumbs up)
Writer: (scratching his head) Only to break apart and exit again?
Peddler: Yes! It is the divine drama! The perpetual cycle of exit and return, of separation and reunion! The meaning of life itself!
L’chaim!
© 2020 David M. Rubin. All rights reserved.
Notes from David 