kanji

21 February, 2003
A-Muse-Ing

Damn.

Just blow off my journal one day, and it makes it painfully possible to do it twice.

While trying to mentally crack the whip, and attempt to squeeze the words out, I stole a glance across this command post, from whence most of this comes.

A clusterfuck... the one room in the house that is the designated shit magnet. I haven't seen the surface of my drawing table for so long, i'm gonna have to call in acrhaeologists to chart the artifacts. The Muse needs to pay me a visit, pronto (Maggie knows this feeling). Only, she demands suffering and complete concentration... she's a real teaser. Wants my soul, that one.

The one who provides the soundtrack of life, though... she's all over me like white on rice. Always touching, constantly in view, bitch-slapping her rivals.

Yesterday was a writeoff... twelve hours on my ass, making the magazines (Surfing Chef displaying the dark side of the bipolar swing); another three travelling. Past snowbanks five feet high, like a continuing chain of eastern Matterhorn, only tinted a foul amber. Pity, most of these ephemeral mountains will be looking more and more diseased as they imperceptably diminish... like Satan's dessert tray.

Five hours of sleep later, the second muse demanded intimate attention: "pass program guides around for the Marathon, dump down some rare Rock Steady cassettes onto CD for tomorrow's two-hour showcase. Lover."

That's when the third inspiration, the one who ignites the loins and grabs you by the collar to steal away, the one that likes expensive presents... decided it was time for a public display.

One channel to approach the doorstep, up the drive that's more like a manure pit, I had to do some fancy footwork to free the wagon for service. Loaded up for the trip to pollinate the area with handouts, that's when she decided to pull the plug... right in the middle of the lane. Like getting slapped in a restaurant. Starter motor grinding away, just catching, convulsing arythmically, refusing to cooperate. A sick fuel pump diagnosed, and back to sleep it went. Bitch.

Commandeering Miss Jane's SAAB, mission accomplished. The word, out... on a whirlwind tour of F'bg.

Once back, I began round two of Bloody Well, We Must Dig. Furrowing another channel to set the Miata free, down a long slushy slope. The show must go on, tomorrow, and Miss Jane's making for her daughter's house for the day and evening... no transportation is not an option.

Once that mountain is climbed (until the next, on Monday), I'll be craving more fleshy stimulation.

That won't get this room cleaned, though.

.


hit me with your rhythm stick




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