Talking Muse

OK. Suzanne here. Maybe. Because the thing is. Can a muse talk? And if so, what happens to the song? Does the song need a mute muse to get sung in the first place? Are there possibilities for counterpoint? I'm sure there's loads of great lit crit to read on all that. Maybe I will. In the song, Suzanne just makes you understand what the river's saying. Only Jesus talks in that song. I mean besides the one telling "you" what it's like spending the night with her. I regret referring to her as a bag-lady. That's Wikipedia's fault, but I replicated it. So now it's my bad, too.

Suzanne doesn't talk in the song. But I did just find this 1998 interview. Apparently there were chats. "I felt his presence really being with me." And. "I would always light a candle and serve tea and it would be quiet for several minutes, then we would speak." And. "He became a big star after the song was launched." And, when the interviewer says that it's sad that that made them move apart, Suzanne says, "I agree and I believe it’s material forces at hand that do this to many the greatest of lovers." After that line, at least, she apparently "(laughs)." This one's harder to swallow. If you're superstitious. And if you have limited tolerance for human interest stories. She talks about sculptor Armand Vaillancourt. "We accomplished many things while we were together. Traveling, having fun." You know, "the bohemian life" of the 60's that Suzanne is, in this storyline, pursuing against all odds, idealistic soul that she is, from the car she lives in at Venice Beach. Because she broke her back, she had to give up dancing. Professionally. She still participates in a drum circle every week, though. And according to one of her friends, "Suzanne is one of these rare souls who is actually sincere and cares about life and people and sees the world in terms of beauty." Seems, to CBC news at least, that she bears as little a grudge as is humanly possible. Though I'm sure "les rousseurs amères de l'amour" scorch her gullet every once in a while. Like any one still loving. Meaning, to my slant of mind, anyone still living. It'd be interesting to know more about how she deals with it. Apparently she's writing a memoir. It's a private thing she said she was living with Mr. C. "It was," she says, "kind of strange to have it blossom into this famous song that everyone was singing." Her shelter by the water giving many listening shelter in a song. Strange.

There's always a risk. With these kinds of things. Of taking things personally. It's come up in analysis. I'm still a student of Bersani's. Apparently. Because I keep talking about him. Not obsessively. But he comes up. Like when he says that sex is great. Even though nobody likes it. Until the persons are posed. That's when the war starts. ("Is the Rectum a Grave?") Stretched out on the couch. Found myself dreaming. Fantasizing. Of persons posed alongside arms. Weapons laid down. With mountains and music and hatred and nation and all of the other things you had me reading Allen laying down. Persons siderated, as we should be able to say in English, into earthly stars. Talking muses. Being there with tea and oranges. Or beer and leather. Or carbonara and wine. Or, really, whatever. So long as it's on offer. With consideration.

All of this because it's been working me over. It's not the only thing. My father died during my night. Early early morning phone call. So I. Stateside sooner than expected. But? Will be coming back. Back to the States. As expected. Unless something else unexpected. Comes up between now and then. Strange. Been thinking about this starry explosion. Already as mourning. Here I am with more mourning. But when I get to New York. I said so to my shrink. I know I'll be bien entouré. Meaning. Literally. Well surrounded. Some kind of home.