Our muse enters half-reluctantly into a single life, at the bursting height of a summer that she imagines cools. Yes, summers all cool, but not this one, just yet. The leaves are still a sharp green. Only later will their colour dull and darken, as they weigh under a season's age.
My pack are off for now -- Agatha riding the 4:10 from Paddington, Dwarf at a pirate festival, Siren luring hapless sailors to her rocky ledge, perhaps not unadjacent to them noisy pirates. Apostle is apparently getting another transfusion, and I imagine Conch rolling gently in the surf at the edge of some white sandy beach. The Independent Observer polishes his spyglass and his mutable persona. Me? I'm a lone coyote for the moment. But, I hasten to add after yesterday, not lonely at all. I'm happy in my many pursuits, and there's much happening. And hey. I'm agile enough if it falls to me, soon enough, to turn out this blog's lights when it's time to leave. Meantime, we're still open here.
Muse's beginning-poem sounds melancholic. And she blames her chill on a season that barely wanes, when anyone can see it comes from an interior place. Hell, it's only just the last day of July! There's still all of August, and if my baying at Moon has anything to do with it, September and a goodly bite of October, too. Indian summer is my time, for obvious reasons, and it could be hers as well -- at the risk of repeating myself, if she lets it.
Already she ponders finding another lover. It would be better for her if she takes time alone to consider the fit of her own skin, and learns to love that, rather than leaping into some ill-starred, too-soon, 'affair-of-something-that-is-not-the-heart'. That would be like try to heal a third-degree sunburn under one of those tanning lamps upstairs from the new Bridgehead.
Her poem -- her life -- is a roughish diamond yet, but with the makings of something fine. She needs to live with it, polish it awhile, before that will happen.
And I note that Dwarf's dislike of this Opportunistic Abhoria character is well-placed. He's bad news. His over-enthusiastic, ingratiating, transparent snuffling and grovelling about the place, especially now, bespeaks a clumsy predator weaselling in for a chomp. Us metaphysical coyotes are connoisseurs of all sorts of predation -- it's a fine wine -- but this guy is an ill-aged plonk with a bad finish. He smells rotten.
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