Dear Roger: Men are Bad For Muses

Well I am living proof of the write/artists conundrum. It seems that the more I start to get involved with things of the human realm, the less my writing flows. Its really aggravating.I really understand why misanthropy and and antisocial behavior run in artistic types, because when we start getting all interested and involved with real people, and maybe, perhaps...HAVING SEX!!(GOD PLEASE??!!), the artistic muse hauls ass to some other poor soul that has nothing else going on. Considering that I have only just gone on ONE real date, and talked to a few guys, and defiantly NOT had anything even resembling anything CLOSE to sex, YET, or even a kiss. I find it disgustingly unfair that my muse has fled me and if I could hunt him down I would probably kick him a few times in his peach pits just for the hell of it. Yes, my muse is something I actually picture and argue with or rant at and it has a visual representation that morphs and changes depending upon my mood. Hes male though, and just as arrogant and temperamental as any damn male I have ever tried to work on any project with. This probably has deep psychological implications, chalk it up to "daddy" issues or the whole personality quirk that I have that makes me more of an Alpha female that just could never work with a woman anyway, but my muse being a guy has always been a bit of a source of comfort even though he irritates me at times like this.

I tried writing today, but after I got out my pencil and paper and sat for a bit and it just didn't come pouring out, I knew it was time to put the pencil and paper away and just people watch. If it doesn't just come burning out of me like a forest fire tearing up the side of a mountain destroying the empty paper in front of it, then its not worth putting down. Some nights I wake up with ideas in my subconscious, and in the morning when I stagger my bleary way towards the coffee maker in the kitchen, I often stop to scrawl them on the bedside table if I haven't already scribbled them on my arm or the wall. Those ideas, those are the ones that often work. They are the songs that I looked at today and went,"WHOA!, I fucking wrote that?" I looked them over again and I usually edit shit to death, correcting my spelling or my grammar or my handwriting weirdness, but these songs I wrote...they were pretty damn good, but the thing is I wrote them when I was heart broken and thinking I was never going to move forward. I dont know what I am going to do with them. My son might want to record them some day, he kinda likes,"Over-privileged, Dirty,White Boy Blues", and he thinks "Burning With You" is heartbreaking, and not something he COULD sing because he knows the back story. Maybe I will try to sell them, maybe I will just burn them. I dont know. I have books and books of stuff I have written over the years that will never see the light of day because nobody gives a damn. Im working on losing the morose and sad because the funny has been all over the place up here lately.

Talking to a guy that likes Charles Bukowski and Tom Waits as well as the Monkey men? Hell Rog, if that isnt some weird kinda serendipity at work I dont know what the hell is. I will gladly send my muse on vacation for a while. He could use a tan and some meat on his bones and I could use a good attic dusting. Maybe while he is gone I will gain a new outlook on life.