“Thar she blows,” said the Lexicon Dragon in a husky voice. She had donned a captain’s cap in the interim and was smoking a foul smelling pipe. She resembled Captain Ahab, which by process of elimination, made me Moby Dick, or rather a large whale. I resented the comparison, but yes, I did indeed blow. Chunks of grey matter flew across the room and landed in jellied chunks on the carpet. The muse had to pick some extraordinarily gross pieces from her hair.
‘Juck,” she exclaimed, “I do believe your grey matter is rather gooey for an intelligent writer such as yourself. It should have more substance, like my upper thigh from which, I am sure, a small adult could swing.”
I paid her no mind, I was having a meltdown. Like an angry two year old, I allowed all the pent up emotions to simply boil over. If I am not mistaken I think I might have stamped my feet and rolled around on the floor for a while. Self pity is a terrible thing to witness especially if you wallow in it like a pig in mud. Eventually I flopped onto the floor, cradling what was left of my exploded head. I was overjoyed to find that my ears were still attached; my irritating, gigantic nose hung around like a lump of clay. I couldn’t get rid of the thing!
I was slapped out of my stupor by an evil odour. I could see it hanging green and sluggish in the middle of the room.
“Did the cat catch one of the Koi again? Who forgot to take it out?” I asked as I glanced around at the characters present. They all shrugged, but were wrinkling their assorted noses in disgust.
“What died?” asked the muse, she was never one to mince words.
“Not me. Not yet anyway.”
“Damn, it’s disgusting!” All the voices were raised in unison and I could feel a headache coming on. Heaven knows why I always had to solve everyone’s problems.
“Don’t put yourself out on our account,” she of the jiggling bottom said.
“Did I tell you to make it part of your very public blog?” she asked and I had to admit that it was due to my own stupidity that the world now knew that I had the dreaded M. I could hear my eggs shrivelling up and calling for help. I did not want any more children, so why on earth was I feeling sad about the approach of the dreaded M?
“It’s the loss of the possibility of having a child,” said the muse, once more in her intelligent Einstein phase. I was starting to feel warm and fuzzy towards her; she understood after all.
“Imagine two more of you running around and driving us all to drink?” she said, rolling her eyes.
“What is wrong with being a little eccentric?” I could feel the heat rising in my neck and settling in my cheeks. Due to the chaotic pole dancing of my hormones, anger came easily, bouts of crying was a close second. She of the bounteous bust took one look at me and bounded (the walls shook and bits of plaster cascaded form the ceiling) to the light switch. With a smirk she turned on the ceiling fan and whistled loudly. A white elephant appeared which duly flapped his large ears at her command. A cool breeze floated across my burning cheeks.
“Have you no sympathy woman?” I asked, “Just wait until you find yourself in this same aging boat.” By this time I was livid, the roots of my hair had turned red and smoke escaped the top of my head. If I was a cartoon character, you would have heard a loud, echoing whistle as I let off steam.
“Everyone, dive for cover!” she shouted. “Her head is about to explode- go to code red immediately! She is about to give new meaning to the phrase waking up with a bang!”
“Once again…NOT FUNNY!”
“Run for your lives!” This was the last thing I heard before a loud explosion filled the room.
“Please keep in mind that I want this to be a serious discussion about a serious disease,” I asked for the umpteenth time. Even while I said it, I knew that the battle had already been lost. The characters in my skull were a comedic bunch and I waited for the penny to drop.
“Well, its’ a twisted story,” the muse was the first to succumb.
“That’s awful,” I sputtered, feeling rather embarrassed.
“Dear, I am sure that these sufferers have a hell of a time dealing with the illness, but I think one should rather focus on the positive. They say that five minutes of laughter a day can extend your life by at least ten years.”
“Be that as it may, I am sure that it is no laughing matter. Have you seen how contorted their bodies become? Uncomfortable in the extreme,” I argued.
“Their bodies can’t be as distorted as your mind, dear?”
“How did we get from Dystonia to the state of my mind?” I asked, knowing that she had something up her very large sleeve as usual.
“Sometimes you twist and contort and stuff us into tiny holes. You have Dystonia of the mind, dear.”
“Only when you disobey or become erratic.” I felt the sudden need to defend myself against the rallying hordes.
“Sometimes I need some space and time to think, and you know that you carry on,” I said glaring at her.
“Me?” she asked innocently.
“Of course, you know that you do.” I could feel myself becoming hot under the collar.
“Oooh, the temperature around here is definitely rising,” she said, fanning her face melodramatically.
“Are you sure you aren’t experiencing early menopause, dear?”
I hated the fact that she could read me like a comic book. Yes, I was a woman of a certain age and the hot flushes were rightfully, dreadfully mine, but was it really necessary for the entire bloody world to know about them?
I slipped into the role quite comfortably. Some people are of the opinion (read the muse) that I am a drama queen, but I am merely capable of playing different roles superbly. Perhaps my imagination is just a tad overly dramatic and visually inclined, but what on earth is wrong with that?
“Hnnnhhhh….help me,” I groaned. I had my arms outstretched in front of me and my feet were dragging on the floor. I allowed my head to slump onto my shoulders and groaned convincingly. The Lexicon Dragon peered around the wall of her cave.
“What kind of language is hnnnhhh? It does not compute and I cannot find it in any of the dictionaries I have consulted.”
“Zzzzooommmbie ssssppeeeaaakkk,” I said, slurring the words.
“Are you quite allright?” she asked solicitously.
“Nooooo,” I answered, “I am decomposing and have the distinct urge to eat your brain, scooping it from your skull with a soup ladle.”
The Lexicon Dragon’s eyes went wide as she scurried back to her library, speed dialling the muse. The lady in question appeared within seconds, her hair covered in a zebra striped shower cap, her body wrapped in a voluminous bright orange towel. The ensemble almost turned me into a real zombie.
“Hhhnnnhhhh, a fatty brain,” I groaned as I lurched towards her. I fashioned my fingers into claws and grinned at her manically.
“Smell my decomposing flesh and quake in your boots, woman,” I added.
“As if,” she snorted. I felt quite disheartened at her blasé attitude towards my superb drama skills.
“Cotard’s Syndrome?” she asked and my bubble burst. She knew way too much, damn the woman. I kept forgetting that she could not be fooled- she was part of me after all.
“Health nut now, too? Along with being a tree hugger and pet lover and stroker and all around mad cap?” she asked.
“Well, you could do with at least some form of exercise, you know.” I was adamant that 2015 should be the year in which I lost weight and wrote the next best seller.
“Wishful thinking, dear. Those hips ain’t goin nowhere,” she said, drawling like a true Texan.
“And the amount of chocolate you eat would put a confectionary out of business.”
“Well, I’ve seen your stash and lady, it ain’t pretty.” I was not the only one going down, she would join me in free fall if it was the last thing I ever did.
“Emergency sugar. Pre-diabetic, remember.”
“An excuse for everything as usual. Just go for a walk now and then will you.”
“Dear, when I walk the rest of me jiggles enough to raise the continent’s heart rate. I am an exercise machine.” She demonstrated and I saw flocks of birds plummet to earth in shock. It registered 8,9 on the Richter scale.
“I am serious, pay attention. Better health equals better creativity levels. Think about it!” I was adamant and refused to be sidetracked by her jiggling thighs.
“Well, yes dear, write more. I dare say we will be able to afford luxury cruises.”
“You know authors are not in it for the money, but for the love of the written word.”
“Words cannot be eaten, dear, no matter how much you butter them.”
The root of all health is in the brain. The trunk of it is in emotion. The branches and leaves are the body. The flower of health blooms when all parts work together. ~Kurdish Saying
For more information on the side effects of the drug Xarelto, read this link.
The fragility of life lies in the gossamer wings of a white butterfly.
“Prepare yourself I am going to wax philosophical,” I warned the muse.
“Wax on, wax off,” she answered rolling her eyes which were sporting false eyelashes and yellow and blue eye shadow. She looked as if someone had punched her in the face repeatedly. It was best to ignore her when she was in such a mood as this, because pretty soon, I would be the one who wanted to punch her.
“I was standing in a grass field at nine this morning. In the blink of an eye I was surrounded by thousands of tiny white butterflies. One landed fleetingly on my arm before taking off for parts unknown. I had the overwhelming feeling of being truly blessed.”
“Shall I play the theme song to Titanic now or are you through?” she asked, glaring at me.
“Their life span is so short that their beauty should be appreciated. It reminded me of how short my time on earth truly is and how I needed to transform myself and allow my soul to metamorphose, to grow, become translucent and fragile as their wings,” I continued, wilfully ignoring the hundred yard stare.
“Channelling Plato are we?”
“You did not experience it,” I reminded her, “simply because you refused to embrace Nature. I went outside and got more than I bargained for.”
“Mmmm hmmmm, it’s dangerous out there. Have you seen the size of those cows? That would be more than I bargained for. Actually trees are more,” she said shivering dramatically.
“We are going to a game farm for two weeks. I know you heard exactly what I said. This is just more of your divaliscious antics,” I said indignantly.
“I am just not cut out for the farming life. What do you think I will do there? I am a city girl, used to the comforts of modern living. What the hell were you thinking?” She paced furiously, wearing a hole in the carpet. I could see tiny wisps of smoke coming from her Christian Louboutins.
“It’s an adventure, a time to create, away from the hustle and bustle. I could write the next Man Booker prize winning novel.”
“In your dreams, dear. Your writing will be interspersed with cows lowing, zebras yipping and the feathery flamboyance of ostriches. Last time I checked, that was not something the average reader would be interested in. Do you see this awesomeness going to waste amidst the grassy slopes and mountains of the Free State?” She was gesturing at her voluptuousness of which I had had more than an eyeful. I wondered how she could not see what we all so clearly saw when she looked in the mirror. Perhaps she had one of those magical mirrors which proclaimed her the most beautiful in the land. Sadly, I do not have the confidence our delectable muse has.
“You should not go near a game farm, but rather straight to the bloody funny farm. Strait jackets are in your future, I predict,” she sneered.
“IT WILL BE FUN!” I insisted.
“We’ll see about that, won’t we?” Her perfectly manicured eyebrows lifted to incredible heights.
“We’ll definitely see,” I said, not about to be undone.
Novel writing was taking its toll and I had a headache that would stop an elephant in its tracks. I knew that somewhere, in a hidden, convoluted part of my brain an angry troll had taken up residence. He had an enormous hammer which he was now using to take out his frustration on the world. Yes, he was ugly as sin. He cracked mirrors and exploded smooth pond surfaces, shiny objects scuttled away from him and hid in dark corners. His body was covered in an assortment of hair which, even he, was hard pressed to provide an origin for. He looked mangy and unkempt. He never smiled and had serious anger and control issues, which was understandable, I suppose. I had as yet not called in a psychiatrist.
Fugly (this was not his given name, but a nickname that had attached itself to him once his trollness became apparent) had not started his life in this manner. He was once, before he decided to run and take up residence in my head, a magician’s apprentice; a handsome boy with blue eyes and a mane of dark, curly hair. The magician, Sir Bunny Bane, was a perverted soul. He preferred to entice hats out of bunnies instead of the other way around. Fugly, who was then known as Rodney could not stand the singing piles that would pop out as soon as the top hats had made their appearance. They were false and only knew one song: “Ouch, ouch, ouch par de dum, ouch, ouch, ouch, par de dum, we all stand together dum, dum…”
“What on earth are you doing, dear?” asked the Muse. I was caught doing a jiggly one-footed dance while at the same time trying to get the darn pantyhose to fit over my bootyliscious butt.
“Putting on pantyhose should be an Olympic sport,” I groaned.
“One size fits all, my arse,” I said as I groped for the waistband and tried to hop into them.
“Since you brought it up, your derriere is on the large side, dear.”
“Thank you, Captain bloody Obvious,” I said, remembering to breathe in between spurts of frantic action. I looked insane; like a stalker without a purpose, a fly without a sticky mess. I bent my knees and hauled the hose up. No one wanted wrinkly knees!
No matter how hard one tried, at the end of a two hour lapse, the pantyhose would start sagging and pooling around your ankles like an attentive cat. Moreover the crutch would sink innocently to your thighs, looking up at you like an underfed orphan. There is never a middle ground for these things as they sag, twist or are so tight around your crutch area that you feel like an overstuffed sofa or a volcano ready to blow. Who invented these torture devices and who says we have to wear them? Oh, the vanity of the female race- we need bronzed, silky legs sticking out under our skirts. Pantyhose were my go to item when it’s chilly, I have forgotten to shave (read lazy as all heck) or I need to look grand.
I turned 40 and the first thing out the door was; you guessed it, my pantyhose! Bring on the knee highs, ankle socks or knee socks and I couldn’t care less about my super white, veiny calves- wear your sunglasses if the glare offends you. And if I haven’t shaved, avert your eyes; there is nothing to see here! Besides which I am waiting for the wool price to rise by which time I am sure I could get a few coins for my unwanted hair, failing that I could always knit a scarf out of them!
“You have done it, dear. I must say that I certainly had my doubts about you,” said my zaftige Muse, rescuer extraordinaire.
“It has been a wonderful journey, hasn’t it?” I said and knew that I would miss the hectic schedule. We were still in Rabab’s house, waiting for Rageddy Andy to lead us homewards through the dark tunnels of Almost Neverland. As there are no crows here, she was spreading bread crumbs as she went; a yeasty trail for us to follow. The Muse was still naked and I knew I would have to wash my eyes out with soap. I longed to see my shabby study and hug Sir Laughalot and lose myself in a few words of another novel.
And here we are full circle, the journey has come to an end- an A-Z adventure filled with the weird, the wonderful and the decidedly crazy. I do hope you enjoyed the blogs as much as I have. I loved putting laughter in everyone’s lives and a smile to pack in your suitcase.
I am overjoyed to say that a book about the zaftige Muse is in the offing. She has approved the cover and has dictated quite a few stories for your enjoyment, none of which have been seen on the blog. I do hope you help her out in her endeavours as they are always hillarious and slightly insane.
A heartfelt thanks to everyone who has followed me during April, I hope the journey was worth it.
Love and hugs- a scatterbrained author!