Ivory

I'm a sucker for myths. Let me throw that out there. The myth of Pygmalion is one I particularly like. The story: Pygmalion was a sculptor and carved a woman out of ivory. His sculpture was so beautiful that he found himself disinterested in all things human. He lost interest in prostitutes (artists and hookers, it's like peanut butter and jelly) and prayed to Aphrodite that his love might come to life. The goddess took pity on Pygmalion and brought the ivory to life. They had a son together, named Paphos. I'm writing a play and I think I'm in love with half of my characters. Am I in love because its something higher than flesh and blood? Because I can control what is being said and thought? Or because anything created in art functions as a labor of love? I can't be sure. Pygmalion sculpted his lady love and was ruined for real women. Lars had his blow up doll and denounced the pouty-lipped secretary dying for his attention. It doesn't make any sense, it makes complete sense. In the absence of a perfect real-life object, one has to look to something higher. There has to be a focal point in the sky. True, Pygmalion had a goddess watching over him, ready to grant his burning wish. I'm probably not as lucky. But hey. You never know.