Inspirations

“Don’t you think some inspirations are stronger than others?” Percy said from the breakfast table.

I didn’t say anything. I looked at Sal. He was about to step out the backdoor for a smoke in his bathrobe. He stopped and said only, “Elaborate.”

Percy furrowed his brow, “some inspirations have—you know, like they’re more meaningful.”

“Are you talking about girls?” Sal asked.

“No,” Percy’s eyes came open and he laughed, then furrowed again, “Well I mean yes, but that’s not the inspiration. Well, in a way it is, but I mean that doesn’t really count as an inspiration.”

Percy had been calling everything an inspiration the past two days since his Husserl book arrived.

“Sure it does,” Sal said, “arguably the biggest inspiration. Right Corin?” he laughed a cruel little laugh and pulled out his lighter and inched further out the door.

Percy looked at me expectantly.

“Sure. Women are the only inspiration,” I didn’t let him see my smile, “If I‘m understanding inspiration correctly.”

Percy nodded, “Well maybe, I mean, I can see how that’s true,” he furrowed his brow and looked at his book, “but isn’t there also art?”

“Elaborate,” Sal stopped inching out the door.

“Like, you know, poetry and music.”

“What of it?” I asked.

“Well don’t you think those are inspirations?”

“Sure, those could probably be inspirations too,” I said.

Percy looked like he’d caught me and his eyes lit up and a smile was in his voice, “Well! Then which is stronger?”

“Women or poetry?”

“Yes.”

“What do you think?”

“Well,” Percy furrowed his brow, “Shouldn’t poetry be?”

“I don’t know,” Sal said.

“Sorry, I mean, poetry should be,” Percy said.

“What is your poetry about?” I said.

“I would say, the articulation of an inspiration of the,” he thought, “the human soul. Like Rilke.”

“The inspiration of the soul?” I said, “then from what I’ve read it must be the one for women.”

“Sometimes.”

“As if,” Sal said, “I’ve read them, they’re all about women.”

“Well, on the surface.”

Sal was oscillating between inside and outside and stepped back in a bit more, “What about the inspiration of getting a job. Is there an inspiration for that?”

“The what? Well that’s probably the most shallow inspiration—not to do with the soul.”

“Well if you get a job you can take a girl on a date and if you take a girl out then you’ll have some new inspiration for your poetry.”

Percy laughed, “I think I agree,” then he looked at his book, “but isn’t that shallow to want things for the purpose of other things?”

“Fuck if I know,” Sal raised his eyebrows, “that seems reasonable to me,” then he went out and told us to figure it out.

“You like women, Corin. And you write things. Which is stronger—I mean which inspiration is stronger for you?”

“I guess it depends on the day.” I also had no fucking clue.

“Hm, I can agree with that,” he tapped his book, “but shouldn’t our inspirations that are true always be consistently stronger?”

“Percy, you need to go outside and meet a girl already.”

He looked upset by that and didn’t ask me anything else about inspirations till lunch time.