My mistress – my muse – is strict and fickle.
She pays no mind if I do things by longhand or by the computer. It doesn’t matter to her if it is cursive or print, on a desktop or a laptop. Solitary or company is never an issue to her. As long as I heed the rules of the ritual, she remains my patron.
Always, I must approach cleansed. And I must walk with caution at my feet. I may head to her direction but she may not always be there. She could disappear or just be in hiding.
I enter her temple. Invisible, constant, unmanned, delicate, and bizarre. It is a shrine built by the winds, carried by the sun, and veiled by the moon. She is the muse and the place is hers, a museum. Its windows are on the ceiling. Its solitary door remains on the floor. Without her, the hall is quiet, cold, and dark. But it is not empty. It has never been empty.
Her museum continues to grow every day. She has no regard for the walls for there are none. There are only shelves.
The shelves contain nothing but music of both the living and the dead. The songs could be worded, wordless, worthless, worthy, or wordy. Maybe I should not have said worthless. It could invite her ire.
But that is what all those songs are for: to appease her, to invoke her, and to baffle her. She has many songs because her tastes change. What she likes now may not be the same one in the next second. Sometimes, she likes only one for days on end. To continually be in her good graces, I must remain aware of her shifting or stagnant preferences.
Songs fill her temple. So has silence. But, of all the voices heard there, none of them are hers. She has never spoken—not even to me.