When i speak of the Muse, i know i am not the only one who hears her. When i sing her praises, i know i am not the only one who has shuddered at her gift of enlightenment. Borges felt her. He wrestled with her, as Jacob wrestled with the Archangel Gabriel; like i fight to hold on to her mercurial glory.
He knew the tricks she played on the virgin white paper; the questions she hid under the cloak of dark ink; the answers she illuminated with radiant grandeur. Through his work, I feel a kinship through Borges to our beloved Muse.
Together, they sipped coffee with dulce de leche under Cafe Tortoni´s luminous stained glass. In despondency, they wandered the villa miserias, searching the slums for reasons to explain life´s inequities. In silence, they pondered in Palermo´s park of cats. In solitude, they sat among the angels and decadent mausoleums of Recoleta´s cemetery. Together, under the fecund full moon that light Buenos Aires´purple night sky, they tangoed across the River of Silver.
Borges has reached the Muse´s golden kingdom- the paradise for all scribes. I still have many miles still yet to be crossed, many adventures still yet to be undertaken and many words still yet unwritten before the same invitation is extended to me. Until then i wait, and pour over his texts for clues to understand her divine secrets.
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