Lose or muse?

For several weeks now, I've been contemplating this movie that I picked up at the library. It's called "Venus" and I'm sure that whatever you're imagining is probably pretty close to accurate. The premise of the film is that Morris, an old (so old that his dentures barely fit in his sunken head anymore) actor becomes infatuated with his friend's grandniece who's about 19 years old, if a day. Of course, Morris calls her Venus.

It's trouble from the start. She is naturally repulsed by him, especially his rather forward advances...hell, I was repulsed at some of his little stunts and his graphic (albeit honest) language. It was difficult to reconcile the poetry that was coming out of his mouth when you were pretty sure he smelled like piss and death.

And she's 19 for Chrissake's.

Now that I've got my obligatory indignation out of the way; i.e. the predictable response, I feel that I need to defend Morris, or at least nod my head in acknowledgment of his motives.

The dude was near death. He found something that inspired him, and like any human beings who has seen the chronic underbelly of life, who wouldn't cling to the drugged effect of a muse?! Who cares if she's a 19-year-old country girl or a vintage Aston Martin?

Inspiration, sadly, can be a rare phenomenon. In fact, the older I get the further the distance between my "muses." I take them as they come, I don't question it, and I let go when it is time.

By the way, he never slept with her.