Zeus fluffed up his feathers, smitten in the snuggle of his down. Pond water brushed smooth against his webbed feet. He sighed and lifted his beak to the sky to drink in the sun when, from his beady black eyes, he saw a screeching eagle tearing through the sky, leading with vicious claws as he descended towards Zeus.
“Damn, that is one ferocious eagle,” said Zeus, reconsidering his decision to turn into a swan for the afternoon and also mildly perplexed—what kind of freakish eagle eats swans?
Before he could get his shit together, Zeus found himself in the arms of a pleasantly naked woman who had been bathing at the other end of the pond.
“Get out of here!” She shouted at the eagle, flapping her arms wildly, causing all sorts of cute jiggles.
Score, Zeus thought.
Annoyed at the loss of one mammoth snack, the eagle let out an ugly “cawwww” and swooped past in search of other animals to munch.
The naked woman sighed and put the swan down on the bank. She stood up and the swan-level view of her heaving, pond-wetted chest was powerfull. A small white feather clung to her lower belly.
“What kind of freakish eagle eats swans?” She said, twisting her damp hair into a bun.
Zeus was in love. Or lust. It was all the same to him really. As was yes and no; neither gods nor swans are known for their attentive listening. Rape and seduction, beast and man; Zeus had little patience for making such trivial distinctions.
After, she sat silently crying on the mossy banks of the pond, head in hands, reeking of rutting and covered in slithery green goose poop and steamy feathers.
“What’s your name, anyhow?” Zeus quacked as he re-fluffed his down with his beak.
“Leda.”
“Queen of Sparta?”
She stood, feeling cold animal slime glop down her thighs. A sardonic and singular laugh spat from her lips.
“Yeah. That’s me.”
My muse for this story was this drawing, Leda, by an emerging Scottish artist named Lindsay McKay. I first saw it setting up our Festival booth at the Glasgow Art Fair this Thursday; I was completely and totally arrested by it. Greek mythology aside, the drawing articulated something that I have always felt about mothers and motherhood; that mothering is a brave and tumultuous act of will and love, all too often done in brutally difficult circumstances. In the myth, Leda cleans up and goes home to the bed of her husband. A few months later, she gives birth to two eggs, each egg containing a set of twins. One of the children born of the eggs was Helen of Troy. Leda never knew which children were a product of her afternoon with Zeus and which were mortal children spawned by her husband. But I like to think that regardless, she loved them all the same and carried on with her life with dignity and grace.
Anyhow, I couldn’t stop thinking about the drawing and the drawing made me think about a million different other things; it made me dream frightening, beautiful and vivid dreams. On Saturday, when I worked an event at the Art Fair, I was shocked to see that the drawing had not sold. I couldn’t leave it for a second time. I bought it and for once in my life, I did not feel that biting pinch of guilt that materialistic acquisitions usually cause in me. I bought it smiling, thinking of it in our home for a lifetime and longer.
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What’s your new muse?
