#7: before midsummer

Some invest daydreams in their infatuations. But I invested my words.

In truth, it never occurred to me that I had been taken by my Muse. She was most certainly beautiful, but it was always more of an appreciation of this than anything else. I'm not sure why that was. She had this surreality about her that prohibited any sort of normal behavior.

After I clasped her smooth knees—her blue eyes, softly lacking in emotion—I knew that things were different. A beautiful woman now loved my words, and thus, I began putting my hopes and dreams into lyrics.

Several days after I stood in her courtyard, I sat in the audience of the local amphitheatre, chatting with the Philosopher and some fellow students on the upcoming play. There was the buzzing of anticipation, and I sat closer to the edge of the bench when they brought out the torches to light the stage—the night had slowly settled around us.

There was applause as the actors emerged from the pit. I remember thinking it strange how the fires lent this wispy appearance to their togas, always seeming ready to be borne aloft on the gentle air currents that eased through the theatre's great bowl.

"Good evening, fellow Ithacans. Here, on this night, three months before the Midsummer, we collect here under the stars to celebrate our city, our harvest, and our absent king."

We all murmured in appreciation at this. Our lord had set off to foreign shores of battle when I was just a babe.

"We give you this play in commemoration of those great heroes who were lost, when our ancestors came to settle this land to bring forth our great city. It is a story about a man who wished to be king, and in striving to do so, would thus slay the rightful monarch. He would bring murder and death to his own family to keep his frivolous hold on that which his petty ego desired—but in the end, hubris would destroy him."

Even as the Philosopher remarked on the cheerlessness of tragedies, eyes in the crowd shifted to the top box that held the frowning politicians.

"We bring you the story of Richard III."

But then, over the din of hands clapping together, there was a woman's voice: "May I sit next to him?"; Jessica had solicited the man beside me for his seat. After much grunting on his part, he moved to the row behind us.

"Hello, Eurymachus."

Instantly, I could smell the incense perfumes, smoked into her robes.

—Eurymachus, March 01, 2003