“The Descent”

No matter how many years had passed, the door was just as I had remembered; it’s chipped wood and slight misshape in the frame. It was old when I was young, which now made it ancient. There was a time when I would swing the door open and march my way through with nothing more than a mere fragment of an idea. At one point that was all I needed to put pen to paper. I always knew that he was down there waiting.

Would he even recognize me as a 25 year old woman? I wondered, especially considering that the last time he saw me was through my thick square glasses that framed my round, youthful face. Would he be mad that I had been away so long? When other things became more important than The Hobby?

I gazed at my handiwork hack-job of a barricade, messy nailing of crooked boards that had been thrown up in a hurry. Once COVID ended, it was time to get serious and devote my time to the things that would move my career forward -- writing was not one.

I didn’t lock him in maliciously, this was no punishment, there was no real thought behind the act at all. Perhaps that was worse?

I tightened my fist around the hammer that I had plucked from the dusty tool drawer as my sweat coated the handle. “I wish to start over,” I whispered, and levered my first nail out of the top plank. Luckily, my lack of talent for building made the disassembling of my barricade rather effortless. However, I do believe I always knew that eventually I would find myself back at the door. I never wished to be shut out, or keep him locked in, forever. With now both planks on the floor, I reached for the gilded handle that still shimmered in the hollow light. The broken seal released a cloud of dust as the rusted hinges creaked to servitude; I could already smell the familiar parchment below.

The steps were just as I remembered, wooden with many happy groans and a steepish spiral that could swirl the thoughts about to bring new ideas. I gripped the black metal railing that almost camouflaged itself to the wall as my foot found one step, then another and then the next. I dipped my toes into the yellow pool that never ceased to bleed from the awaited room, knowing that the melody of my footfalls had already alerted my position. As the room appeared through a doorless entryway, I felt a smile creep onto my face as I surveyed the many dripping candles that scattered golden shelves with a single redwood desk that was practically buried under papers and books of all shapes and sizes. Most were misshapen, but I was certain that they never truly went out. I found that I didn’t have the words to speak, but his attention had been captured regardless.

“Ah, you’ve finally returned,” The Muse punctuated with a swift snap of his current book in hand.

“Yeah, it’s been a while,” I run my finger along the top of a book that was balancing on atall pile by the doorway.

“Not quite so long,” he returned the book to it’s place on one of many shelves, “but long enough, I suppose...” He sat in his chair and opened one of the side drawers,“The play went well I presume?” a box of matches is retrieved from the drawer to his left.

“It did! It went really well,” was all that I was able to muster. There was so much I had wished to say that nothing came to mind.

“Excellent.”

I looked over to see him patting tobacco into an old pipe that he had chewed on for many years.

“It got me writing again!”

“Finally.”

“Yeah, finally...”

He struck a flame.

“I’m going to pursue it this time- writing. I mean, really want to be writer.”

He leaned back in his chair and released the first misty puff.

“Good... very good...”

“Yeah... so I’ll be visiting more often!”

“I’m happy to hear that; I do hate to make house-calls.” he smiled, “Since you barricaded the door, I had to find a window.”

I turned to another stack of books.

“Yeah, sorry about that.”

He put the pipe back in his mouth and began his daily target practice of smokey rings.

We talked for a little while of our sudden reunion, the grand shift within my soul.

“Long awaited,” said he, to which I smiled.

The Muse mentioned how this was the first time that we were truly speaking face to face. Adult to adult. When I would come to his study in my youth, he was never really there. He would allow me to explore the shelves and desk like a forbidden playground. I could make anything I wanted and none of it mattered because it would never be read... well, at least by no one other than my closest friend and family members. I do believe that every now and then he would whisper an idea, or perhaps a good line to add to the current story, but usually it was the mere opportunity to write. Even in my times of idleness with the pen, I never avoided the room. I would creep up to it, perhaps with an idea for a random short story, and, sometimes, I would even open the door. Then the thoughts of, ‘I should be doing something productive! I must move my career!’, would creep in and soon the door would be shut again.

What a sneaky trick to get me to write something that enforced my theatrical career! A play of all things! Tricky indeed.

I couldn’t be more grateful.

Stephen King said that his muse lives in the basement and described the way in which he appears to him. I do find some similarity; I would say that mine dwells in a study that is carved out in the lower levels of my mind. Writing is as ingrained and buried beneath my skin as the core to which all of life is constantly pulled to the earth. He is a patient muse and is quite content to sit at his desk, puffing away on his pipe with a good book, until I come again. He is old, and yet, each wrinkle is frozen, never to deepen or wither. The Muse wears a humble suit that is in decent condition, but has been well worn and well loved. There is an elegant poise to his stature that would lead you to believe that he remains of a certain class. Do not be so fooled; he will go to the depths with you. The Muse will explore the characteristics of Hyde as much as he will Dr. Jekyll. There is no judgment; he admires the bravery. I love my muse. I wish I could introduce you, however I trust that you can see him in your mind’s eye. I hope that you reconnect with your muse if you haven’t in a while... whether they are dwelling in a humble abode beneath the surface, or gazing at all of creation in a penthouse amongst the clouds. It is well worth the journey to visit.

They have not forgotten you.