Musings on a muse.
Still waiting for a muse. I know I've written on this subject before, and maybe right now the lack of muse is my muse. I'm not amused. Literally. I hope someone out there is mentally throwing a rock at me for that.
I'm having floods of ideas, all the time I am lacking the drive or energy or initiative to actually pull pen and get to scribbling. Hoping that resuming my journal will help to reinstate the need to press ink onto paper. Maybe I could stop writing like a bad narrator from some cheesy British movie. If it doesn't read like that to you, that's too bad. In my head I can hear the nasal droning of someone named Ethel or Randall.
Enough on motive or inducement.
Trying to entice my mind to engage on any one of these subjects and flow forth in frenetic stream, but it seems the only topic I can focus on is my lack of topic. Must need more coffee, or booze. I haven't worked yet so it needs must be coffee. Before I go to brew a memory.
In grade school, around fourth grade, my father kept an olive oil can full of change in his bedroom closet. I used to sneak into his room before school and steal dimes (because they had less weight to notice than quarters). My mother would be downstairs getting breakfast in order and my father already off at work, I would tiptoe into his room listening for my mothers footsteps or the noise of one of my siblings. I had done it quite a few times and had a system down, I would dump change into a towel, digging into the can with my finger to keep the coins from clogging the hole. I would take the towel back to my room and sort out dimes then sneak back and put the rest of the change back. One morning however my father must have called in sick, he watched me go through my whole sneak and then as I was set to leave the room sat up in bed. The detail needs to end here. It wasn't horrible or undeserved, but it was the first time I can recall my father smiling at me during interrogation and punishment.
Mixed signals from a crazy old man.
I'm having floods of ideas, all the time I am lacking the drive or energy or initiative to actually pull pen and get to scribbling. Hoping that resuming my journal will help to reinstate the need to press ink onto paper. Maybe I could stop writing like a bad narrator from some cheesy British movie. If it doesn't read like that to you, that's too bad. In my head I can hear the nasal droning of someone named Ethel or Randall.
Enough on motive or inducement.
Trying to entice my mind to engage on any one of these subjects and flow forth in frenetic stream, but it seems the only topic I can focus on is my lack of topic. Must need more coffee, or booze. I haven't worked yet so it needs must be coffee. Before I go to brew a memory.
In grade school, around fourth grade, my father kept an olive oil can full of change in his bedroom closet. I used to sneak into his room before school and steal dimes (because they had less weight to notice than quarters). My mother would be downstairs getting breakfast in order and my father already off at work, I would tiptoe into his room listening for my mothers footsteps or the noise of one of my siblings. I had done it quite a few times and had a system down, I would dump change into a towel, digging into the can with my finger to keep the coins from clogging the hole. I would take the towel back to my room and sort out dimes then sneak back and put the rest of the change back. One morning however my father must have called in sick, he watched me go through my whole sneak and then as I was set to leave the room sat up in bed. The detail needs to end here. It wasn't horrible or undeserved, but it was the first time I can recall my father smiling at me during interrogation and punishment.
Mixed signals from a crazy old man.
posted by Goodkingalan at 5:14 PM
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