"Art happens--no hovel is safe from it . . ." --James A. M. Whistler

"Hail Muse!"

You don't hear that ditty trotted out much any more. They hail taxicabs every minute, but a Muse? Once every Haley's Comet, if that often. Of course, I'm not counting, but the last time I remember being hailed was by dear, old Byron:

"Hail Muse, etc."

It was brusque and irreverent, but it counted. Did I say counted? Byron, by the way, was not bad looking for a pudgy fellow. In fact, he wasdivine--languorous and luscious--but that's another story. . .

Nowadays, when I inspire, I have to venture out, but I never have to travel far. They are queued up everywhere, the everyday desperadoes, like cars in rush traffic. They shuffle along in airline terminals, they fidget in offices, they doze over television programs, and twitch anxiously under their down comforters: the bored, the satiate, the numbed, the fatigued, the doped, the frustrated, the angry lives. All of them are in need of a zap.

That's what I give to them, a zap, to revive their dreams, their deeper selves, their shakti. Then, art happens. Not just poetry and painting, but art, the living of the deep self. I zap bank auditors and they stretch out stiff limbs on ballet bars. I zap diesel mechanics and before you can say "Peterbilt," they've quit their jobs and joined the rodeo circuit. I zap seamstresses, who take up archery and, zzzwwwmm, like fair Diana, fall mighty bucks with their compound bows.

Yes, art happens and look out world! As old Whistler said, nobody is safe from it. The old gaffers will be dating the old ladies in the County Home, and maybe they'll elope. When art erupts, it's a force majeure, a big whammy. It usually hits more than one. Like an epidemic, the epiphanies spread, with cold fevers and hot chills. Then, for once in their lives, they really know they're alive.

Not long ago, in the fall of ninety-seven, I happened to inspire nine of them, almost simultaneously, in Knoxville, Tennessee. There was the librarian, Ipcia, who was inspired to clown around. And then there was the showgirl Zoe and the civil engineer Patrick, who dreamed strange dreams and saw visions. And how about Big Ernieand Hank and Jeb and J.D., who were all moved to write lyrics, some dry and some very wet? Then there was Savvy, who escaped from the zoo to run with the wolves, and Jarrod, once a baseball player, who dreamed of bricks and steak and grilled onions. Yes, art happens, even in Knoxville, Tennessee.

Then, in the fall of ninety-eight in the city of Seattle, it happened again. This time there were twelve. There was Genev, the one with large green eyes; Lucy, the writer of greeting cards; Stan, the pharmacy man; and Napolean--that name sounds familiar. And then there was Richard, the history teacher; Phoebe, better known as Cat; Claude, the victim of an unfortunate accident; True, a rebel, naturally; and Raine, a witch of sorts. Let's see who was next? There was Sedrick, the one with a long scar; Don, the one on a long quest; and Mary Lou, the one in love with Neil Diamond. Yes, art happens, even with Neil Diamond on the CD player.

In the fall of ninety-nine, in grand old Savannah, the inspirations struck like a crime wave or a millenial fever. Here is the inspiration blotter: Jess, Anli, Stone, Nat, Zeke, Hayden, Tempest, Rot, Bojangles, Fred, Elektra, Ray, Lizzy, Rico, John, Pat, Chelsea, Jake, Adam, and Emmy.

Florida Keys: 2000

In the spring of 2000, they hit Florida for spring break, all the way down to the Keys. It was something between a religious revival and a vampire hunt: Doctor Van Helsing, Pete, Coco, Nina, Jean Luc "Mahi-Mahi" Croissant, Eve Lamos, Adam, Sara Michelle Cornell, Lolita Gloriana Smith, Al, Raven Concord, Seth Dupriest, Keilee Uhns, Arial Harrison.