to scream so blind
sight not seen
oh touch this heart
feel breath so deeper still
the smell of laughter
and judgement’s stench
n 1: in ancient Greek mythology any of 9 daughters of Zeus and Mnemosyne; protector of an art or science
2: the source of an artist’s inspiration; “Euterpe was his muse”
v 1: reflect deeply on a subject; “I mulled over the events of the afternoon”; “philosophers have speculated on the question of God for thousands of years”; “The scientist must stop to observe and start to excogitate” [syn: chew over, think over, meditate, onder, excogitate, contemplate, muse, reflect, mull, mull over, ruminate, speculate]
As a [potential] muse, he IS a man full of comedic timing and clever responses. When we are together in those rare moments that our wildly diverse work schedules allow, there is laughter. Lots of it. He provides me with weeks, months, even years of inspiration for my blog fodder. But is he my muse? Shouldn’t a muse be… what’s the word I’m searching for… deep?
On the occasional rare day that I try to engage him in a multi-faceted, stimulating conversation on the role of the American government in our daily lives, he smiles and asks if I can pick up some “marshmallow circus peanuts” at the supermarket next time I go. In my infinite quest for understanding history or nature, I’ll put one of the educational channels on and Daryl will want to change it to “Survivor” or a “Golden Girls” rerun. Shouldn’t my muse give me reason to “reflect?”
We’ll be having an in-depth conversation about my sense of personal identity and just when I’ve been lulled into a sense of security and I think he GETS me, I realize that he’s been quoting lines from the TV show Modern Family or Will and Grace. Is this muse material?
As I sit here on the sofa typing about my quandary, I realize that I’ve been watching the cat play with the twist tie on the floor from last night’s vegetable medley bag for 15 minutes. I think perhaps it’s the cat who will be my muse.
I was reading online sports news about how José Conseco sent his twin brother, Ozzie, to fight in his place at a “celebrity” boxing match and almost got away with it. Apparently, José felt that the promoter was backing out of the promised payment and figured why give them the real deal when a “pretty close” substitute was in the wings.
I wonder how the conversation between the brothers may have gone…
José: “Hey Ozzie, think you could look like you hit 462 home runs while getting the shit beat out of you for a celebrity boxing match tonight?”
Ozzie: “Well, shucks José, I dunno. Will I have to drive into any DUI checkpoints along the way?”
José: “Hmmmm, I don’t know about that Ozzie, but maybe I’ll show you where I let Madonna touch my balls.”
Ozzie: “Okay. Deal.”
Boys will be boys, and as the Miami Herald reported:
“We discovered the Canseco who showed up was Ozzie when he took off his shirt and didn’t have José’s tattoos on the biceps that appear in our advertising,” a Celebrity Boxing representative told El Nuevo Herald.
José Canseco did not respond to telephone calls.
In my opinion, perhaps God in his infinite wisdom thought, “these guys have such stunning looks and amazing athletic talent already, let’s split a full brain between ‘em.” Poof! It’s done! Just like that!
I have always been wary of typing ANYthing without a proper dosage of caffeine, so I’d normally begin this rant with a disclaimer, but frankly I’m too sleepy…
Apparently, my iphone settings are such that it will search the area that I am currently in, for a network with which to connect to for (I guess) better internet service. First of all, I’m quite satisfied with my “standard” I think they call it “GS” service. It’s not like I’m downloading “Tom’s Dick is Hairy” from PornHub while chatting with my Mom about her latest driving at night excursion at the same time, so WHY would I NEED such superior service anyway right?
That being said – a “list” of available professionally AND personally named networks will pop up on my phone’s screen every time I activate it. If I happen to be in Panera Bread Cafe for lunch, I’ll see the name “Panera One,” or “Panera Network” listed. No big deal, however, one day last week I was at a strip mall in Delaware County and I got a list of options that included “CindyBitch,” “69_4me,” and “JDNCoke” all within the same networking radius.
PEOPLE: Do you not realize that these network names are public? Granted, one cannot access these privately owned networks because they are usually password protected (God only knows what the passwords are!), but is it really necessary that I blush every time I turn on my phone?
Maybe I’m just jealous because as I was having mine set up last year by a cute little Italian gentleman from my cable company, he smiled at me with teeth whiter than a bottle of bleach and an eye that had a built in wink while he asked what name I would like for OUR network I managed to blurt “just call it [Williams] please.”
So if you come in the door and I greet you, you better damn sight smile and say hello. You want a discount on that futon? Smile. You want a GOOD discount on a microfiber sofa you best hold out your hand for a handshake. Looking for a rock bottom offer on a leather sectional? I suggest you get on your knees while I turn around and you kiss my ass. There! Now I feel MUCH better.
For the record, if you come into my store and I greet you and you hold up your hand as if to say leave me alone or if you treat me like something you scraped off the bottom of your shoe… well let me put it this way… you’re getting nothin’ from me. I don’t need my commission that desperately to be some sort of furniture “waiter” at your every beck and call.
So come in, sit down and relax in the land of your environment. I’ll even get your snot-nosed kids a couple of helium balloons and hope they pop in the car on the way home.
Ed (your “friendly” furniture salesman)
I seemed to have temporarily run low on steam at writing a daily blog. To the minority of readers, this is a travesty heartbreak slight inconvenience, to the rest… a blessing. To me, it’s a deep breath before a continuous breeze of evolution.
I’ll call it writer’s lull, for now – a sailor’s doldrum. It’s certainly not that I’ve lost interest, but I believe I’m at a point of transition.
Posting daily was the equivalent of a creative burst for me, from behind a dam of apathy and laziness. It was a very enjoyable “session” of personal (read: FREE) therapy (and continues to be).
At this point, I will be drinking in the water of creativity around me, instead of just flushing it (and hopefully, I will learn how to discover MUCH better analogies along the way).
I will be reading, scouring and researching to learn more. Books, blogs, and even the fine print on the back of my credit card statements are not safe from my roving eyes and thirsty soul.
In the meantime, please feel free to shoot me emails on questions that you have on my personal life (NOTHING is off-limits), on blogging in general, things that drive you insane, or throw out a tasty writer’s prompt to see if I’ll bite.
Thanks for watching ME grow (hmmm…GREAT name for a porno!), and I look forward to continued expression.
For the six years that I’ve known the man, he continues to spill his seed EVERYwhere. It’s a big waste of seed I tell you! He LOVES his seed, but I can’t continue to see it spewed all over the cocktail the table (see photo above), or the kitchen counter, not to mention I sucked it up with the vacuum cleaner one day last week.
What’s a partner to do? I came home last night while he was still at work and there was a big bowl of spent seed on our leather sectional. I sat down in the dim light and the seed went all over me. It was disgusting.
How do I address this situation with him? Should I leave a box of tissues for him to use for the clean up? Perhaps I provide a stack of towels with which to wipe up after the spill? Or maybe the old standby sock would suffice? Suggestions are always welcome.
I’m running out of ideas.