Muse and Wine

There was a bit of irony about Monday.  Sitting in a bar with a couple of friends discussing how one needed a muse.  Two wines later, a Facebook post went out – the friend sent it out into the world.

In life, I’ve found muses occupy the space in your waking life that you rarely allow yourself to be.  Between schedules, stress, here and there, the notion of a ‘muse’ is lost within the blur of day-to-day.  There’s a pulsation in life that you can be swept up in;  a vibration a little softer than a whisper that becomes louder than the world.  You can’t control those whispers of prose, but you’ll want to create poetry.  You’ve met your muse.

There’s a deeper level of discovery that comes along with a muse, which makes you want to display the collection of beauty for all to see while withholding the source of inspiration.  Not a secret, but a refusal to sell your soul.  The art is for the world, the muse for you.  A penetration to the soul, the purest form of creation, that any good muse retracts from you.  However, the motivation yours; a study in humanity.

Some find muses in people around them, in quick glances of strangers, old friends, imaginary friends, topics, famous people, inside themselves, or nature. Others are discovered by their muses – previously dormant,  waiting to be heard, poking and prodding until you see what you’ve never seen before at the end of  your glass of wine.

 

 

 

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Webcomic #11

The Perforated Edges of Misery

Remember when we only had perforated-edged paper for printers? I do.  The sound that thing made as it etched line-by-line the often light and amateruish print was something, wasn’t it?  As slow as it was, there was something comforting about the time it took to print; it allowed you to marinate in the content. 

I blog.  I Twitter.  I Facebook.  I email.  I read.  I even write manuscripts, digitally.  From my fingers to your eyes, cutting out the machine of print. Drafting and soundboaring gained, but the lingering of it all was lost.  In my day-to-day browsing of information, a lot is messaged about reading becoming a nostalgic school of thought. I’m more worried about the perforated edges of my own writing and once the holes in it leave, how much of my own world will forget to marinate in what it all means.

In Misery (Stephen King), the main character, who happens to be a famous writer named Paul Sheldon, has his rituals upon completion of a novel.  Beside him as he writes on his Royal typewriter (I have the same one, nostaglic me) is a stack of papers with indented print covering the pages  With the last punch of the key, he rips the paper from the cylinder and stacks it in completion.  Success deserves reward, after all writing a book is even more difficult than getting rid of the muffin top – nearly impossible for most.  For Paul Sheldon, it’s not just the Dom Perignon and cigarette.  No, it’s about the ritual of it all – a glass of champagne for the celebration and the match to light the cigarette as a treat (much like a cigarette after sex) for all the hard work.  Since he quit smoking, it also serves as his guilty pleasure – a celebration in itself.  Without ruining the story for those of you that didn’t read it or see the movie, go do so now so that you know how important this ritual ended up being in the outcome….especially the smallest of it all – the match.  The point is that all of the above elements of success symbolize much more than a completed manuscript to placed into a ratty leather bag, – which also holds equal sentiment.   

It’s this very aesthetic of the writer that is art.  The  aesthetic – the essence of the work – is the sauce with which the content marinates. 

I may upgrade printers, but I’ll always hold on to the perforated edges of my writing. 

Writing is wasted on the young.

Plenty of things are going on even if I fail to update my blog.  A co-worker and I were in the elevator and our entire seven-floor ride consisted of connections through social networks.  I knew he DJ’ed through another co-worker’s blog and we poked fun at an update of his that ‘I liked’ before he mentioned reading that (and I’m paraphrasing) people have a hard time blogging in more than 140 characters nowadays.  Wow!  Truth be told, he is absolutely correct, and I fall victim to this. 

I was thinking, just this morning before I ran into him, that I’m not really sure I remember what my penmanship looked like.  Naturally, I wrote out a list and it occurred to me that saying about ‘use it or lose it’ is so true; my penmanship had somehow morphed into some sort of shorthand.  I’ve made it my New Year’s resolution to write a letter once a month so that at the end of the year (and potentially the end of a handwritten era) I could remember how I used to communicate with people.  How exciting.  It’s kind of like learning to write all over again and this time for the novelty of it and not because I have to.  I suppose it’s the same mind set, but of course on a smaller scale, of going back to college in your thirties; harder work but man it feels like you’re actually accomplishing something this time around rather than goofing off. 

That whole adage of ‘youth is wasted on the young’ really stands true except truly, writing is wasted on the young.  I no longer write without outlines and it’s becoming increasingly hard to hear myself think with popular music (yeah, strange I used to just write from stream of consciousness to Jeff Buckley and consider it genius–of course I was probably also writing stoned) playing in the background like I used to. 

You know, it’s all about going back to the basics but this time with more experience and knowledge that you got from doing it all wrong in the first place.  Radiohead – The Bends, come to me so I can write Chapter 4 in Book #2.   Don’t worry, tomorrow is Madonna’s Celebration album (Imma let myself finish but Madonna’s got 36 mo’fo hits on this thing) and that typically puts me in a conquer-the-world mood to write my query letters for book 1.

Alright, time is short and I ain’t that young.

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