So, I have a potential muse – just close to home and professionally inappropriate – which is OK, it’s only a muse – a pleasant idea, a creative spark, if you like.
This maybe-muse has no idea that it makes me think of places I’ve never even been – that I see crumbly, sun-warmed Provencal earth in its eyes, that I hear rapid-fire bullets of Provencal French when it’s stumbling over it’s too-many words – the muse doesn’t know what I know – that it’s speaking English, but it’s genetically hard-wired to speak something else.
The must doesn’t know that it’s formed to design hot-air balloons, hunt wild boar, to try out all kinds of death-defying sports while using expansive air-shaped words like ‘magnificent’, ‘insupportable’ and ‘amuse’.
The muse doesn’t know that it’s supposed to live on home-grown produce, wine and sunlight for 11 months of every year, and then on Evian and only 3 small meals for the whole of October.
The muse doesn’t know – but I know.