It might be clear to the reader not so inclined to the extra-ordinary that all might not have been precisely as it struck me then. Well, you are right. Indeed. We often, as humans, or what-have-you, find ourselves overwhelmed magically by one thing or another; we become hypnotized by the sounds and lights; we, immersed in experience, later find our reason has been dissolved by phantoms, by our own self-generated illusions. This is precisely one of those times, when, lost in Newton's world - a mundane and finite labyrinth - we subconsciously yearn for some form of emancipation into another realm where we might fly. "Oh, fly a little child!...Fly!" But fly too high and the unforgiving light of Reason melts our puny wax wings - or, informs us, in a round about way, that a toaster is not an acceptable form of transportation. And so we plunge back to the big ugly sphere where one plus one equals two: the empirical world of induction.
Certainly, there was a point when something simply clicked. A Revelation, you might say. The drapes of illusion were yanked rather viciously from my eyes, and I saw, as if for the first time. I suppose we all must have moments of folly. Sometimes these are moments that are swift and enlightening and if we are lucky, no one sees - like when your dress shirt is tucked into your underpants and the elastic wanders up to your sternum. But sometimes these moments are episodes that are followed by the necessity of medication, or sometimes, simply, a gentle tap to the nape of the neck with a large frozen turkey.
My revelation was swift. It came at a crossroads - in the kitchen, between the garage and the refrigerator. When I was hit, the impact was earth-shattering. I tried to remain calm, tried to keep my crumbling universe concealed, but I exposed myself, really, that very moment before the open refrigerator when I inserted the car key into the coleslaw and tried to start up the meat drawer. That I wasn't in possession of a valid crisper doesn't seem, after sober consideration, to warrant a sixty thousand-yen traffic ticket. Can one really double-park a collection of poultry? I suppose I should thank the Japanese police officer for pulling me out of such an obvious state of denial. (That said, I'll never wave to pedestrians from a moving vehicle with such unconditional love...)
But, my revelation! My revelation that The Muse was not The Muse, was certainly devastating! I think more so because what I believed to be one of the "nine deities of Greek and Roman mythology which presides over the branches of learning and the arts" was it seems in fact, my Ukrainian aunt, Aunt Oogie, who appears was transmitting psychic messages while sleeping before her new thirty-six inch television. And naturally, she denies any involvement. Why my aunt aunt? Sigmund Freud would have had a field day. Yes, the ceaseless references to ten-pin bowling could have tipped me off. Yes, that the Golden Girls might not be the prime motivating force of The Muse simply did not occur to me. But there is a silver lining. I now know, after some meticulous research that sponge cake is not included in the vernacular of any known Greek deity.
We all have 20/20 vision when we look back at our blunders. But before we truly learn our lessons there is often great beauty to our visions. It seems all things Beautiful are illuminated poorly, and in the shadows we hide our longing. I guess, if you're Mr. Freud, that's probably where you'd hide your mother.