Dreamgirl (a song)

i saw her on the square

white doves in her hair

she was humming a lullaby

to the ocean in her lap

it’s the stuff that dreams are made of she sang

the stuff that dreams are made of

i saw her on the highway

a tiger on her back

she was selling second-hand prophecies

and offered me a pack

it’s the stuff that dreams are made of she said

it’s the real deal

the stuff that dreams are made of

baby it’s a steal

i saw her in the sky

wearing darkness round her waist

her hands were full of laughter

and a smile rode on her face

she was raining the stuff

that dreams are made of...

i saw her in the desert

a childhood in her fist

she had famine in her eyes

and calamity in her throat

whispering the stuff that dreams are made of

it’s the stuff that dreams are made of

baby it’s a steal

the stuff that dreams are made of she screamed

it’s the real deal

Call her Indigo

She arrives on a rainy afternoon or a Saturday night or as you are pouring wine into only one glass. She places nostalgia on the table, spreading its white linen cloth. She lays out the fine china of insecurity and the silver of longing. Then she arranges a fresh bouquet of hopefulness and the air becomes a sigh of unspoken invitations. You did not ask for her to be there; her silence is disquieting. Still, you let her stay.

She's absolutely striking

The letter traveller

Amazing -
how you can look at her
again and again
and still find something else about her
that moves you.
When you touch her
she leans quietly into your hands.
She promises to be
sincerely and faithfully yours
with the warmest regards
and best wishes.
Then she folds herself away
firmly, but with care.
Long after you've let her go
you have a lingering impression
that she was trying to tell you
something between the lines...
She sends you pictures
in postage stamps.
And you know you'll always be
Dear to her.

The alter-ego

The alter-ego lives in a small, cosy cottage up in the mountains. She gets up early and drinks strong, bitter coffee and stretches her arms up and out, as if hugging the mountains and the morning sky. A part of what she wears is always bright red: today it is a satin ribbon in her hair; yesterday it was lipstick and last week it was all in the way she looked at the world. Tomorrow it might be her toenails, but that's another matter. The alter-ego always lives in the present. And she didn't need a psychologist to show her how or existential philosophy to explain it. She manages to be and to be fully present quite naturally. The alter-ego is never bored. There's always something that excites or enthuses her and her face lights up and she goes for it. The alter-ego knows how to take action. You would never find her standing around, twirling her hair and looking a little lost. The alter-ego is always now or never. She doesn't look back, not over her shoulder or into the past - she gets neither anxious nor nostalgic. She dances to any kind of music and she is beautiful and funny and full of grace as she does this. The alter-ego has a way of showing you a different side of yourself. People tend to like and admire her - of course, she does not let this go to her head. She has a balanced sense of self-worth. She does not fret or sulk; instead she grows still, like a lake. Sometimes she wonders what it might be like to be other than who she is; to be a surprising contradiction to herself; to be shadowed by a perfect, attractive opposite. But these thoughts rarely (that is, almost always never) occur to her. For she is right there, in the moment, with bright red accessories, on top of the world - complete and aglow.

She's simply too beautiful for words

!



*


...

Monologue of the muse at midday

It is not easy to be a muse at midday. The ones at dawn or dusk are fortunate: all they have to do is point (oh light oh colours oh songbirds). And midnight’s a piece of cake, what with all the fairytale associations, the chiming of the clock ominous all of a sudden, spectres of magic...oooo! Even an amateur can conjure some artistic concoction. But here I am, at 12:00 – half of my target population are drowsily thinking of lunch; the rest are barely waking up (particularly those from the latin regions, or more likely, those inspired by the lucky muses of the small hours). What do I have to work with? The sun’s smack in the middle of the sky. No subtlety, no nuance, no innuendo: only noon. And I have to make do with the mundane: moist coffeepowder in the filter of the coffee machine; miscellaneous city noises; the legs of an anonymous waitress; e-mail (give me strength!); traffic...although I have to say, some of my best work involved transport-based chance encounters {sigh}. Yes, it is a challenge, and in that sense can be quite rewarding...in the end. And sure, no-one can write me off as just-a-pretty-face: it takes a certain level of ingenuity and grace to do what I do. It’s just {slightly imploring, somewhat pissed-off} sometimes I wish it was a little less hard.