Essays
This Honeymoon with the Muse
by Sara Hickman
I was mentally preparing to take a series of psychological tests that were going to include the famous Rorschach ink blots. I was feeling nervous about how to react to an abstract group of goop when the Queen of Optimism, my mother, declared all I needed to do was give an in-depth analysis of what I thought I was seeing on the cards. She insisted that the more elaborate my responses, the more brilliant I would be deemed by the psychiatric community.
The next morning, taking my mother at her word, I showed up at a tidy, stone office. Feeling full of vim and vigor, I was ready to give my all. As the series of interesting cards unfolded, I was soon giving the doctor extravagant, sweeping interpretations of Russian boys in deep blue velvet coats, their tiny silver buttons gleaming with reflections of mystical landscapes. Occasionally, I would jump off the sofa and take on the form of a jungle cat or a waterfall, complete with sound effects. Of course, there was the obligatory blot representing an O'Keefian-like form of female genitalia and I immediately blurted out, "Vagina!" and nothing further. The doctor's expression never wavered from a sort of vague interest, and since she was writing so diligently in her notebook, I figured I was blowing her mind with my rare form of genius.
It was almost one year after the tests that I ran into this good doctor, and the subject of my tests came up in casual conversation. I laughed out loud when I told her how my mother had tipped me on the appropriate way to handle the Rorschachs until I realized the doctor resembled a gasping fish out of water. "Oh, no!" she cried. "That test's results are defined by the LEAST amount of information given!" I turned bright red. I stammered. But mostly, I felt a secret sense of relief. I had an answer as to why I had flunked that particular test.
Although I later chastised my mother (now known as the Queen of Meddling), I have since had a good chuckle over the incident. You see, to me, music and art are my romantic, life-long versions of the Rorschach tests. They are my daily reminders that to get involved with my creative self means having to constantly take risks, to throw myself into the arms of an unknown lover known to laymen as "the muse." To put it bluntly, sometimes I throw myself in front of the proverbial train because I don't see a messy death, I see a grand scale opera of opportunity bursting forth like a Tiger Lily out of the earth's darkest secrets.
This never ending hope that this time it will all make sense, not only to me but my immediate family, friends, neighbors and anyone else tuning into the soap opera of my latest recording or mural is something I can't shake. I strive for more each time I create. This desire is a dance that tires me out but that I can't wait to wake up to each day. There are no answers that are "right." And, of course, I will never receive an official explanation as to why I am driven to create.
Once, I was trapped alone in an elevator for almost six hours. I danced and twirled and enjoyed every moment by myself, singing to no one but four bare walls, not caring a twig when the doors finally opened to a group of befuddled security guards. Worried I had become delirious from dehydration, they insisted I guzzle several glasses of water until they realized they weren't going to find a reason for my temporary "insanity.".
When someone tells me they're bored, I find myself thinking, "Who has time?!" I find myself praying this person will find an internal love affair over an orange in a green bowl, or notice how leaves fall in no particular order. I love... no... I absolutely relish this opportunity to be here on this incredible planet. My only regret is that I know it will end someday and I won't have finished this honeymoon with the muse. I've only scratched her surface, but I want to land there permanently on the back of her neck with sweet kisses and the promise of a full, ripe tomorrow. And lastly, how sad the arts aren't the beneficiary of more of our monies. How many Midoris and Jasper Johns have fallen by the wayside so that the Mack Browns of the world can make a $2 million salary off a dead pig? Where is the lasting beauty in that?
With every moment of life, we are all confronted with opportunities to create. Each day I can choose to make love or chaos, joy or sorrow, anger... or a path to peace. How I look at the cards I've been dealt isn't as important as how I deal them out to others. For example, for all you know, this entire story has been one big ink blot. So...tell me, what did you see?
Interviewing David Drane, Summer 1992
by Sara Hickman
I can see David through the glass door of his tidy 1950's house. He is sitting out on his back porch, reading under a sweeping ceiling fan; he can't hear my knock. I let myself through the wooden back gate, greeted by a beautiful pond, the gurgling waters cascading with blooming white lilies. Everywhere I look there are potted plants, bursting with greens and yellows and reds, every color imaginable. He is wearing a rust colored shirt, khaki-cream shorts and an Indian beaded belt. He greets me with a warm hello and a smiling, "Why, you look familiar!" (To my knowledge, we have never met.)
He is very at ease discussing his illness, his deepening sadness. He repeatedly mentions how lonely it has been. I have forgotten to bring my tape recorder, but I decide not to interrupt our free flowing discussion. (He is talking like a poet, painting gentle word pictures, and I hate to interrupt poets!) He breaks into his own train of thought, remembering that I had discussed recording his feelings on tape, and he asks me, now, where the tape recorder is? When I admit I have forgotten to bring it due to my excitement in meeting him, he graciously jumps up, retrieves his, and we record over the whiny Fine Young Cannibals (neither one of us like their music, now we have an early bond!)
His frankness concerning his illness and life brings me to tears. (Afterwards, as I am leaving, he asks if I have allergies. He thought the tears were a result of my nose; he is completely unaware as to how much he has moved me.)
We talk about the abuse in his family. When he was growing up, his "father" (a step-father) had whipped his legs so hard they would turn black and blue. He was reprimanded for crossing his legs, and never allowed to relax at dinner: the rule was to sit up straight with out touching the chair back. Ears, hair, hands all had to be washed for dinner. His sense of humor is delicate, Southern, proper. He laughs as he describes how other kids were "eating sticky-buns on the sofa while we kids were still having to dress for dinner." (He told me he didn't receive a car for graduation like the other kids...he received his first car at twenty-two.)
He pauses to sip some water. I am amazed at how blue his eyes are today.
I suppose they must always be this blue, but the sun seems to be shimmering from inside. He realizes I am looking at his face, and apologizes for his thinness. I smile and tell him I was admiring the color of his eyes. A change sweeps across his face, as if he is not sure how to respond; he changes the subject to his father.
His daddy recently died of cancer. David went to visit him in the hospital, and talking about this is cathartic, it is upsetting for him. He tells me how he introduced his father to frozen grapes, feeding them to him one at a time. He tells his father he is having a horrible time dealing with the idea of dying. David relays to me that he would rather stay here and lead a simple life in his garden, reading slow books, then be introduced to "all the glory that is waiting for me in heaven."
He asks me, "Do I sound like an old man?" I smile and ask him to please continue, he is doing fine. I suddenly feel awkward, asking this quiet man to open up his heart to a complete stranger, to talk about the process of death. I ask if we should stop, but he shakes his head, continues on.
David tells me he asked his father if he was afraid of dying? His father's words are drawn out to me sweetly, carefully, as if David is afraid he might drop them: "No, son. I look to death for release of pain and to go to my creator, but I am going to go through a great loss of all my loved ones." David says they both broke down and cried, holding hands for the first time in his life. David cries to his father he is ashamed and sorry to have such a terrible disease. His daddy tells him he is proud of him, that David has had a successful life. Then he asks David if he had ever considered being celibate? And David shoots back to his daddy, "Have you ever thought of being celibate!?" (I'm laughing along with David, wondering if my parents ever thought about it.)
David tells me he wished he could have crawled into the hospital bed and suffered his father's illness for him. He had grown to love and understand his father. Before he died, David said his father asked him for a hug. Then his daddy went to sleep. Although I can see the pain on David's face, he says he is content because he'd shared that final moment with his father.
David has dreams. He has had one dream three times now. In the dream his father is calling to David to wake up, his father's arms outstretched, and a tiny tear of light is rolling down his cheek. David says it is his father's way of telling him everything is, and will be, all right. David also believes he is psychic. He shares the fact he has informed his mother that when he passes away he will send her a sign. Perhaps a lotus will open, or his mother will catch the biggest trout ever, he says.
During our conversation, David sometimes forgets what he is talking about. He tells me he has gone from 165 pounds to 128. He takes me inside to the pristine kitchen to show me flowers he's picked from his garden. They are for our mutual friend Cyndy's birthday---he's arranged hot pink, yellow and white mums. He's worrying that they look silly and pathetic, but I reassure him Cyndy will love them, bright and sassy like her.
The last thing we discuss before I leave is the issue of finding a mate. David really wants a boyfriend to cuddle with, someone to talk and watch movies with, and someone besides his black cat, Box. It's incredibly painful to want someone to hold you, and not know where or how to find that someone, he says. He believes there is a person out there, but he doesn't know how to contact him. He has tried parties, clubs, even ads in newspapers. He's sick of being alone more than he is sick of being sick. I am feeling at a great loss; I can think of nothing to say. I decide my silence is the best response to such a heartfelt plea. I hug him goodbye. Beneath his clothes I feel a frail body, a wisp wrapped around a soul. As I type this, I can smell his cologne on my clothes. Knowing I will wash this shirt, eventually, and the smell of him will be gone, I breathe deeply.
Note: This conversation was written down and added into a hand made book I created. The book accompanied a jacket covered with hand painted portraits of people living with AIDs. David was one of those people.
An unexpected friendship grew between David and me over the last year and a half. There was an absence of noise that I grew to love and cherish.
David brought a greater sense of understanding to my life; he taught me not to be afraid to be afraid. After slipping into a coma, David passed away December 31, 1993.
