I felt like the makings of a restraining order: pure, angry expression mixed with unbridled sadness— but I couldn’t bring myself to send an additional email entitled “You look like a big elf and about that testicle…”
It would have violated my sense of self (and artistry) to send a false representation of my observations— he doesn’t look like an elf— and the testicle is gone with the relationship. I wanted my independent research on the circulatory system to benefit me, not his next lover. As well, I didn’t know what was in the woven pouch attached to his belt, but it might have been a knife and after he yelled at my dog, I was too afraid to ask. Yes. He YELLED at my dog.
I mention this newly failed new relationship because for seven years, I’ve been an artist without a Muse. Although I’m told it isn’t true, I enjoy believing that all the cells of the human body regenerate each and every seven years. Never mind my age or the math or the facts about tooth enamel— I’m a romantic. He was my Muse and I was a newly rebooted artist moments away from painting an expressive portrait of My New Muse (in bed with my dog) when he characterized me as The Dude in a woman’s body— which could have been construed as a compliment has he not also said that I’m smarter than I pretend to be and that he wouldn’t pick on me if I weren’t so talented…
He said words I had heard before— words that had already destroyed me, amounted to great loss, and send me through years of therapies. For words like his, I had been through a great struggle. But now that I was a rebooted artist who had spent seven years regenerating and learning what it means to be truly empowered, his words were no longer welcome in my life, or my art.
So I broke up with him. Immediately, I remembered all of the good and all of the hope, including our plans to attend my daughter’s wedding. I called a friend to say: OUCH. I already miss his sparkly eyes and large hands and his thoughts (even though some of them seem to be manipulative and misguided). Side note: I do not smoke pot. My friend gently assured me that the sparkle in my Muse’s eye was but a side effect of marijuana and that I was the same as I had ever been— a woman who obsessed with large hands and is perfectly capable of being her own Muse.
I am My Own Muse.
My dog is enough.
Welcome to my blog…
Photo: "My Dog," acrylic on canvas, 84x72 inches, by Rachel Kice, 2019