Missing a Muse
Ever listen to country to get in the mood to write?
It's funny, for a writer I do very little writing, and a whole lotta settin' the mood.
I'll get out my chocolate or red wine,
I'll turn on the music selection of the night, in this case CMT, for a visual stimulant to distract me as well,
and I'll put my hair up in a bun at the top of my head, and think about other things I could be doing instead of writing.
And finally, I end up wondering what it is I'm so afraid of writing.
When I do sit down to write.
I think I should turn off this shit, this country. It's really awful. It may be fun to let your hair down to in a country club surrounded by cutie hicks with big hats and big cocks,
but here it just doesn't make sense.
You can't take country out of context.
Nor the writer out of the zone. So therefore, the problem remains:
finding the zone.
Let me tell you, i'm not in it. As much as I would like to be.
I don't much feel like a writer,
I spent an hour tonight watching the end of Beautiful Mind, somewhat absent-mindedly, as I tested my hand at the magnetic poetry on the refrigerator.
And I can tell you, what's on there now, maybe a few half sentences and phrases, are more interesting to me than this journal entry I'm writing here.
Artists have a really sucky life.
How I'd like to be a happy as an accountant, banker, lawyer, god knows I'd hate to be a doctor, but think of the stability in death!
The stability in fixing, or not fixing, other people's lives. Doing them up right with the subscriptioin of a pill so that they can go on and figure out what the hell it is they're going to do with their time. Will they subscribe pills? Out of a burst of inspiration that some well-off, stable, sane doctor worked magic for half an hour--after you waited in the waiting room for two-hundred and thirteen minutes.
Inspiration is so fickle. It excaped this man, whoever he is, singing with Dolly Parton. Oh funny, that was Brad Paisley apparently. He looks very young. Oh, the young and the accomplished, singing love songs with fake-breasted women three times their age. Fine, twice. Pizza,
God, Domino's commercials. I'm jealous of Pepperonis all around the world right now. To be a pepperoni is such a beautiful privilege. To be appreciated world wide for your constancy, your ever-satisfying spice, your ease at pleasing. I would eat you purely of jealousy now, but on second thought for hunger too. I think I shall make tortilla soup, because I have that. And it comes in a can and is easy.
Ah for life to be easy. It's so less satisfying. Tortilla soup will be fine for tonight, but tomorrow, I want pizza.
So long farewell, and inspire someone tomorrow, trusting that they probably need it.
It's funny, for a writer I do very little writing, and a whole lotta settin' the mood.
I'll get out my chocolate or red wine,
I'll turn on the music selection of the night, in this case CMT, for a visual stimulant to distract me as well,
and I'll put my hair up in a bun at the top of my head, and think about other things I could be doing instead of writing.
And finally, I end up wondering what it is I'm so afraid of writing.
When I do sit down to write.
I think I should turn off this shit, this country. It's really awful. It may be fun to let your hair down to in a country club surrounded by cutie hicks with big hats and big cocks,
but here it just doesn't make sense.
You can't take country out of context.
Nor the writer out of the zone. So therefore, the problem remains:
finding the zone.
Let me tell you, i'm not in it. As much as I would like to be.
I don't much feel like a writer,
I spent an hour tonight watching the end of Beautiful Mind, somewhat absent-mindedly, as I tested my hand at the magnetic poetry on the refrigerator.
And I can tell you, what's on there now, maybe a few half sentences and phrases, are more interesting to me than this journal entry I'm writing here.
Artists have a really sucky life.
How I'd like to be a happy as an accountant, banker, lawyer, god knows I'd hate to be a doctor, but think of the stability in death!
The stability in fixing, or not fixing, other people's lives. Doing them up right with the subscriptioin of a pill so that they can go on and figure out what the hell it is they're going to do with their time. Will they subscribe pills? Out of a burst of inspiration that some well-off, stable, sane doctor worked magic for half an hour--after you waited in the waiting room for two-hundred and thirteen minutes.
Inspiration is so fickle. It excaped this man, whoever he is, singing with Dolly Parton. Oh funny, that was Brad Paisley apparently. He looks very young. Oh, the young and the accomplished, singing love songs with fake-breasted women three times their age. Fine, twice. Pizza,
God, Domino's commercials. I'm jealous of Pepperonis all around the world right now. To be a pepperoni is such a beautiful privilege. To be appreciated world wide for your constancy, your ever-satisfying spice, your ease at pleasing. I would eat you purely of jealousy now, but on second thought for hunger too. I think I shall make tortilla soup, because I have that. And it comes in a can and is easy.
Ah for life to be easy. It's so less satisfying. Tortilla soup will be fine for tonight, but tomorrow, I want pizza.
So long farewell, and inspire someone tomorrow, trusting that they probably need it.