Lacking a Tribe, finding a Muse
By: Teri Bayus
Tags: Artist, Writing

Lacking a Tribe, finding a Muse

I’m sorry extremely off center. Death is at my door. Life is the hinges and handles that hold me in place. Dreams are static, attainable and real. Life is fucking good, but still I feel less than. Missing. Invisible.

I’m thinking this is old programming sent by my subconscious to test my resolve. To see if that mountain summit is the apex I desire or an illusion set up to make existing not so brutal.

I live outside the norm. I never have conformed to anyone’s standards. But my kind heart and willingness to serve others make those not on the fringe regard me with a southern euphuism, “She touched, but bless her heart.” I find people willing to humor themselves with my presence.

I don’t follow their rules, worship the dogmas or play their scenes. I’ve studied and know the games, but never ante in. They watch me like a sun flair- not understanding, squinting at the light. Trying to smell the sun.

I lack a tribe.

My domestic partner treats me as a petulant child. Someone to parade at dinner parties for antidotes.

The ones I gave birth to or brought into my family exist in the norms. The automaton shadows. They whisper behind my back while rolling eyes.

My friends want only the strong or comic me. They really aren’t friends. More acquaintances that have some common themes and hobbies.

I’m never able to just be. I’m lonely and shouldn’t be because I’m funny, passionate and loyal. I’m fucking awesome.

The few I’ve found that are simpatico to my existence — live in shadows too. Like me they yearn for more, but settled, and that life guides them. We reach out and connect every now and then. It’s a symphony of beauty and love, but all so temporary.

For now I’m living happily ever after every now and then. But I want my tribe. I thirst for a split apart to curl up by the fire at night. Somewhere I can just be me. My soul screams for its authentic self. I’m alone. I’m searching.

I read your words and resonate with the honesty. I think a great many people have a sense of unfulfilled potential but most cannot articulate it honestly to themselves let alone share it and await the echo of response.

I’m sorry if the delay made you feel uneasy. It’s a logistical thing rather than a desire to appear aloof.

I’m in awe. I’m listening to Pink Floyd and reading your words- equally inspiring. Both a work of unusual art. Expositioning art from a deep feeling. No rules. The authentic self reaching out. Witnessed by an audience enthralled and wanting of more. But knowing the magic happens in the crevices of life. And appreciating it more because the knowledge of how hard existence is, art seldom wins. You are a work of art my friend. In form and prose.

All that you touch, all that you see, all that you feel, all you create, all you destroy, and all that is life. Feel it. Revel and know you have a witness.

Tonight as I wind down with a glass of strong red wine, my thoughts drift to him. The one ever present in my mind, but never in the same zip code. He is my muse, sexual inspiration, friend, sounding board. It’s a new and wonderful pact carved out of the souls hidden desires.

It’s a gentle and nurturing coupling based on words and honesty. The most necessary of human needs being sexual and to be desired.

While the prose and live conversations are mostly debase and animalistic in its intent- the raw honesty is a crumb my hungry soul has never been tossed.

I revel in the fact that my pontifications don’t fall on deaf or evil ears. He is always kind. It’s the greatest gift I’ve been offered. One I will honor and reflect on always with a light twinge in my heart and twinkled eyes.

Neither of us seek to change our treehouse or the inhabitants therein, it’s just about being heard. And the freedom to say and do anything. All is accepted, nothing judged. Like breathing, this sustains and fills me.

Recognized Passion.

“Last night’s sunset was an angel weeping. Holding out a bloody sword.

No matter how I squint I cannot

Make out what it’s pointing toward.”

Take me to the beach- barefoot and toes in the sand. Im happy with the ocean, needing no fancy ornaments or gadgets to distract my creativity, just the ocean spray and the endless waves. Lay with me on cool grass, fingers entwined, and watch the stars blaze a path of glory across an inky midnight sky.

Writing circus prose today.

The book is getting traction. It’s so visceral to write I can smell elephant dung.

Accessing memories.

Releasing demons.

Infecting minds.

Purging soul.

I Can hear the lions roar and my hand hurts from blisters. Then that utter loneliness of being on the road to long. It’s a good tale that must be told. People are going to buy it thinking its a fun romp- where it’s mostly heart retching.

Still needs to be told.

I know I’m uniquely one of a very few that ran off and joined the circus.

Teri’s Culinary Erotic Book, “Consumed” is available at http://www.amazon.com/Consumed-Teri-Bayus-ebook/dp/B016DW85PA.

“The Greatest of Ease” will be released in 2017