Minerva and the Star
It was a question of taste. Mix tapes and unrequited advances to an unscrupulous recording industry. As a whole. A conglomerate of insiders and yes men saying no to each demo she had sent which were framed in the shape of her heart—an organ filled with blood. If only they would take the time to fling them back over the wall of silence she had become so accustomed to, she may find a sense of closure. Maybe.
It was a question of maybe. Maybe it was better to be born lucky than rich as her father had always said. Maybe if she knew the right people and moved in their circles she would be heard above the din of guitar strums on the clicking wheel of fortune. Oh it clicked but if only it would stop upon one contact, one solid listen by the right person and not immediately returned to—what was it called in the writing industry? The slush pile. An endless river of observations and silly dreams trampled underfoot to form the pulp of a fresh yet all too commonly insipid red wine. Desperation. 2016.
It was a question of vintage. The sham of creating it for oneself. Never admitting the folly of being influenced exclusively by the twenty-first century. Blonde permed curls and skater girls would never fit in a world of craft beers. If she could grow a beard, she would.
It was a question of image. And how it stalled in this bedroom.
Stepping out from behind her desk and noting the late hour, she purred as the pine chair scratched along her faux wooden floorboards, ripping the veneer of image (oh she liked that analogy) before walking toward the full length swivel mirror in the room’s corner. Here she was. Reflecting upon her reflection. Again. There were no photographs being sent with the tapes. The plaid shirt and tussled hair were just for herself.
It was a question of sport. The Irish translation for fun was where one could lose all sense of self and ego in the strings of music. Wasn’t that the true origin of her craft? Or had it become something new? A medium through which to be viewed by others? Distorting prism.
It was a question of perspective. She had seen herself through many angles, inverted planes, dysfunctional parallaxes and each of the four dimensions of time and its space. And time had wanted her to step back from the mirror. Music. Where was the guitar? Yes.
It was a question of rhyme. Without reason a lyric may aesthetically please though echo hollow through the channels of its creator. Echo. Hollow. Through the channels of its creator. Still, lyrics must aesthetically please.
It was a question of time. Its passage and the grooves it carved through the mind and skin. The reflection had not been kind to either. A tired brain perceiving its fragile host. Silver bands becoming more frequent. Yes, too frequent to pluck. Spiders within the soul and webs upon the skin. About the mouth. Eyes.
Full of questions. Behind which spun reels of images and a life well lived in a body well lived in. Worn and moulded to fit something new. Bespoke. She giggled the word inside and sank in her seat like feet in old boots. Moulded to what? Music. Maybe. It did sound better now that she had begun plucking the cords. It did.
No question. Encore.
- Michael McGrath