Mood: Indigo

Melancholia Jones, my oldest friend and first love, had come to visit for the Duration. She arrived at the garden gate unannounced and laden with baggage. The cab driver grumbled as he unloaded the boot cursing after dropping a carton of phonograph records on the footpath and beat a quick retreat. “I'll be back,” he threatened menacingly. I gathered up Mel's belongings and brought them into the house placing them in the guest room; and leaving her to arrange her things I quietly withdrew.
Walking into the kitchen I began to prepare tea. I carefully selected a particularly thin piece of sole from among the mismatched pairs of boots and trainers on the pantry shelf. The leather on the lonesome boot had become so thin as to be almost transparent; perfect for soup. As the sole simmered I wandered out to the garden and topped some greens from among the veg, grabbed the rock that serves as a doorstop and returned to the kitchen. Washing the greens I began to whistle, something I was unaware I was doing until Mel reappeared and reminded me that while she was staying in the house there'll be no whistling, humming, or other harmonic displays of contentment. She added that the drumming of fingers or any type of percussion was to be avoided. I love Mel for her no nonsense approach to all things domestic. I dropped the stone into the pot, placed the greens in cheesecloth and tied a string about the sachet. The flavourful greens would be reused again and again in the coming weeks. I made a note to myself to prepare Wish sandwiches for our stone/sole picnic.
Mel watched as I busied myself about the kitchen. She is not one for conversation; something I find simultaneously endearing and annoying. Unlike me, Mel prefers the sound of silence. I am a chatterbox while she prefers to listen patiently offering only the occasional non-verbal affirmation. A Rogerian, Mel is in her element when my conversation fills the awkward silences formed between rekindled lovers.
Mel's collection of Marcel Marceau recordings is the envy of many collectors of obscure mime memorabilia. I asked her to spin his Greatest Hits album from 1966 on the turntable reminding her that the first time we had made love to the record was the first time we had climaxed together. I imagined her smiling at the memory as she buried her head into my right shoulder and we danced, soaking up the ambiance. The polished hardwood floors in the living room unencumbered by furniture that had long since been used as fuel reflected our promenade. As we moved about the room I was reminded that Mel's reoccurring unannounced and impromptu visits are always welcome. The more things change the more they remain the same.
On my way to a meeting the other afternoon I passed a matched pair of Haflinger ponies in harness and drawing a black Escalade. The Amish driver, not more than 18, stared straight ahead. I was tempted to stop him and buy some heroin but thought better of it. Amish heroin is too often stepped-on with sawdust gleaned from barn raising's. Forty-seven years ago an unknown Jewish kid from Hibbing, Minnesota penned, “The Times They Are A-Changin'”. These days he hawks the New Testament at tent revivals dressed like Bob Wills. On tele the other morning I watched as the president of the United States visiting Buckingham Palace give the Queen a high five. The English, for all their tolerance in all things social and political, continue to bemoan America's inability to identify irony. Separated by a common language the void remains unbreeched.
As Mel and I floated across the floor I could feel my anxiety begin to deepen. When the record ended we broke apart; I bowed to her, she curtsied in return. Leading Mel into the kitchen I reached beneath the sink and drew out a bottle of red I had been saving for a special occasion. This particular vintage was from a local vineyard near Wrath, high above Seneca Lake on Route 414. The fruit is crushed under the bare feet of angry Mennonite women who are forbidden by Church Elders from visiting the Women's Hall of Fame in nearby Seneca Falls. Unscrewing the top and filling the glasses I then opened the 'fridge and reached for the cheese plate. Mel enjoys cheese with my whine and I was eager to please her. The cheese was a New Yawk Sharp, processed and aged in Vermont and made from Yanquee cow's juice milked in New Hampshire. Because the Northeast dairy cooperative is headquartered in the City the manufacturers are allowed to label it as “New Yawk Sharp”. New Yawk Extra Sharp is difficult to get these days because the BHT injected into the cows flattens their affect to such an extent they have become dull and listless.
“You're trying too hard,” Mel whispered.
“How's that?” I stared, incredulous to her suggestion.
“You needn't seduce me,“ She said lustfully. “I am always behind you whether you are aware of me or not. I will never leave you.” A lover's promise: Never intended to be kept but spoken with the sincerity of an incumbent senator campaigning for re-election.
“I need to suffer,” I protested. “Without suffering there is no Art. Van Gogh, Sylvia Plath, Virginia Woolf all led lives of desperation and pain.”
“They were mad, Bill.” Mel countered. “Rumi reminds us that all Art is the Beloveds attempt to reflect the image of man through man. You aren't mad. Your suffering is situational and a product of forces outside your control. What you can control are your perceptions if you have the will to use...”
“Why are you here, Mel?” I interrupted. Demanding to know and perhaps being a li'l too aggressive. Knowing full well this defense mechanism was inappropriate to the situation.
“Bill.” She sat smiling from across the table and sipping the 5% acetic acid solution I had poured for us. “I'm here because you summoned me. I'm here because until you give it over you won't...”
“Mel, as a Muse you must know that without you I can't continue,” I blathered.
Mel stood and lit the candle on the table. Turning slowly, she crossed the tiled floor and stood next to where I sat. Reaching out and brushing the hair from my forehead she leaned forward and kissed my eyes. First the left and then the right lid with a touch so lite I wondered if her rich, full lips had made contact. She motioned for me to prepare to allow her to sit on my lap and I obliged. Resting lightly on my thighs she laid her head on my chest. Our breathing in sync we sat there comforted in knowing that the bond we share is timeless. I gathered her into my arms and carried her to my bed.
The morning sun shining through the window warmed my face and I awoke. I reached over to cheque for Mel but she wasn't there. I lay there and listened to hear her in the bathroom but heard nothing. She had gone as suddenly as she had arrived. I arose from the bed and walked to the turntable. I put on the Greatest Hits record she had left behind. I stood there in the silence and planned my day.