My muse is not doing well. I want to say that he’s freaking out, but I don’t know that for sure. He is a consummate liar and can be a very hard read. But it is exactly his lying (or what I believe to be lies), that makes me think he’s freaking out. The lies are becoming extreme, as is his poverty stricken lifestyle. His anger is mounting, his pride is wearing thin—my muse is freaking out.
He writes intense (he prefers the word passionate), anti-muslim essays. I read one and have never read another, but he is an ex-pat living in Belgium and has plenty of support from the locals. They are long historical accounts of the muslim nation, followed by the muse’s belief that muslims cannot assimilate into a western culture, with a flag-waving finish about the muslim world-domination agenda. While I in no way support his position, I have encouraged him to submit these essays to magazines, newspapers, to send them to his enemies and not just his allies—I mean, what’s the point of writing and sending these pieces to those who think exactly as he does? He balks and actually becomes combative every time—conservative publications are too weak, socialist periodicals won’t allow such rantings, underground rags are for hoodlums, blah, blah, blah. But, in a phone conversation regarding his work, as his defensive position was mounting and becoming more aggressive, he said that his letters were recently printed in both the London and Nairobi Times. What?
“You’re published? Why didn’t you tell me? That’s wonderful. I’m so glad for you, that’s a very big deal.” More questions, vague answers.
“Uh, uh….no, it’s not such a big deal. I don’t know…”
He was lying … as sure as I’m typing this post.
He has no money, no cell phone, no computer. He has no job and claims he cannot seek work under the terms of his visa. He lives on a barge ( a charter business he ran as a success 7 years ago) with his teenage son, and has shut off the water to save money. I think they still have electricity. They do not cook on board, the space is filthy, I don’t know where or how they bathe. He is waiting for a backer to open a new business—the barge turned boutique hotel—in Belgium. Right. Did I mention he lives in Belgium? Good luck finding someone who wants to back a Belgium hotel. If he has a business plan to offer a backer, he’s never shared it with me, despite my asking, and how in God’s name do you create a business plan without a computer? He claims to own valuable antiques, housed somewhere in France, but is unwilling to sell them and is saving them for his son’s future—the same son that will be running the yet to be realized boutique hotel, the same son that is now living in squalor on a barge with his father, in Belgium. I don’t believe for one minute he owns these antiques, and if he does, I am shocked by what it is he seems to value, appalled by his decision to not save the sinking ship, amazed he doesn’t see that his son’s future is now.
My muse is waiting for his centenarian mother to die, he has told me so, waiting for a meager inheritance to save him and his son. I don’t know his mother and I am somewhat ashamed in saying this, but I’m waiting for her to die as well—waiting to see what he will do next. I love my muse, for reasons I have yet to figure out or for reasons I’m not yet willing to express. He is inspiration, he’s a romantic, he’s a mess. His health is shaky, he’s an alcoholic, he’s a muslim mugging waiting to happen. But he is also fodder for my writing, a character extraordinaire, and I expect the next chapter to be as crazy as the one before.
photo credit: pintrest