Muses, you temptation wielding sorry bunch of Sirens.
Posted: Wed Jun 20, 2007 1:07 am
In Greek mythology there are nine muses listed. They cover; epic song, history, lyric song, comedy, tragedy, dance, erotic poetry, sacred song, and astronomy. I won’t list their names if you are interested just Google them. One of the first stories I wrote was about a Muse; it is also my favorite story. When ever I go test out some new website that claims to be a place for writers to share stories, receive feedback, and get exposure; I always post that story first. It may very well always be my favorite. It reminds me of all the Jolenes I’ve stumbled across, White Russians, patience, and letting go of things that burn too fast. That last part is a rough one, it is like taking a dull knife and cutting your own belly open, and then after you do that you reach inside and pull out your guts; inch by curse filled inch. Then when the whole nasty mess of it is laying in front of you on the dirty city sidewalk; you smoke a cigarette, pick it all back up and rearrange it. Wait a minute you ain’t done yet. Once it is all back inside, you have to go find a rusty needle and some twine, and then stitch your belly back up again. If you are lucky someone close by might have some iodine to give you; otherwise it just festers and itches. You seeing a picture yet; I’m wearing the metaphors out. You work through it, and you roll on. You might shed half a tear, and play a song you inspired them to sing to you, but you roll on. The wound will cleanse itself with or without medical attention.
You look around and you find yourself suddenly in the dark, it ain’t as dark as where you just walked out of, but you still can’t see a damned thing. You listen for a sound or a word spoken in a whispered voice. You smell the thick air hoping to catch a familiar scent; you taste the air praying for something familiar. Only thing left to do is feel your way back to the light. You carefully reach out to each side of you, don’t over extend it would be a damn shame if you lost your balance and fell on your ass. There on the left is a wall, moss covered, a little rough, and damp. The right wall is drier, and smooth; not a crack in it. It has been worn flat by the thoughts of a million people looking for the easiest and fastest way out of this melancholy pit. Your belly is on fire, but you decide to head left, the moss is cool, and it is a nice contrast to that pain in your guts. You tell yourself you have to remember to slow walk it, forget the running for a moment, and just walk slow.
Slow down, think. Take a minute to catch your breath and love a sentence fragment. Your eyes are starting to adjust to the darkness, and now it is more a sepia tone instead of just the black part of black and white. The place is bigger than you imagined, but it is sectioned off; room after room all with open doorways, and cut into the stone. You cautiously peer into some of those rooms, you press yourself against the wall, and very quietly inch your way around the edge until one eye is looking inside the room. You see someone inside and you move away quickly, oops there goes a stitch. There are far more rooms than stitches. You decide that the whole “rearranging your innards thing is over rated and don’t feel like messing with it again. You decide to just walk around till you figure the way out, with as little extra curricular activity as possible. Maybe you should have just gone the other way; you figure you can just remember where this place is and come back another day to visit.
You grow tired, wore out, and a little sleepy. Dare you lie down and rest for a minute, or is it like hypothermia, and deadly to fall asleep in here. You look around and make sure there aren’t any shape changing, hairy, long toothed monsters around and let the sleep come to you; you sleep the sleep of the restless. You dream about a moment in the future when you are asked a question; you are asked two, but the first is forgotten due to the importance of the second. “I don’t understand Jolene. There is that cloud that keeps you in the shade and at the same time keeps so many in the dark. You have written an idea that makes perfect sense to the most important reader of them all, but leaves the majority of those faithful folks lost. You promise to explain it the best you can, and even though the answers are there to be found; you need to write out a map and put an X on it. You say Jolene is one particular person, everyone, and nobody. You tell them to read the lyrics to the song by the buxom blonde, not by Ray. You tell them to read those lyrics and then apply them to the one, everyone, and no one. That is the best you can do. The whole White Russian thing, it wasn’t poison, it was another metaphor. Symbolism. You tell them that you can not drink one, no matter how much you like them; with out thinking of a situation where it really was a poison. The dream passes by and you wake yourself out of your slumber. You feel like the cloud is bigger.
You wonder what it is like to have someone who understands every word you write, if not the ones you say. They don’t need context, details, or explanations, they are those three things come to life. You wonder what it is like to have that, and not be able to look at them, not be able to touch them, or smell them, taste them, hear them; oops there goes another stitch. Slow down.
You can’t block out thoughts of them, you ain’t done yet.
You wonder what happened to the Muse of self reflection, the Muse of story telling, the Muse of you. The list needs to be updated, and expanded. Don’t forget about the Muse of rambling train wrecks. You wonder just how much you will go through, how much you will do to keep that Muse around. It drives you insane before you go to sleep, and it brings the sanity back when you wake. Between the good night and the good morning something happens; every single day something happens. You play songs like Gravity, and Chains and Things before you go to sleep; then when you wake in the morning you play songs like It’s Your Thang, and Just to be Close to You. You ain’t ever going to stop smoking like this; count your blessings that you aren’t swallowing vicodin drowned in Johnny Walker. Muses, you temptation wielding sorry bunch of Sirens, give me my god damned rhyme back.
You look around and you find yourself suddenly in the dark, it ain’t as dark as where you just walked out of, but you still can’t see a damned thing. You listen for a sound or a word spoken in a whispered voice. You smell the thick air hoping to catch a familiar scent; you taste the air praying for something familiar. Only thing left to do is feel your way back to the light. You carefully reach out to each side of you, don’t over extend it would be a damn shame if you lost your balance and fell on your ass. There on the left is a wall, moss covered, a little rough, and damp. The right wall is drier, and smooth; not a crack in it. It has been worn flat by the thoughts of a million people looking for the easiest and fastest way out of this melancholy pit. Your belly is on fire, but you decide to head left, the moss is cool, and it is a nice contrast to that pain in your guts. You tell yourself you have to remember to slow walk it, forget the running for a moment, and just walk slow.
Slow down, think. Take a minute to catch your breath and love a sentence fragment. Your eyes are starting to adjust to the darkness, and now it is more a sepia tone instead of just the black part of black and white. The place is bigger than you imagined, but it is sectioned off; room after room all with open doorways, and cut into the stone. You cautiously peer into some of those rooms, you press yourself against the wall, and very quietly inch your way around the edge until one eye is looking inside the room. You see someone inside and you move away quickly, oops there goes a stitch. There are far more rooms than stitches. You decide that the whole “rearranging your innards thing is over rated and don’t feel like messing with it again. You decide to just walk around till you figure the way out, with as little extra curricular activity as possible. Maybe you should have just gone the other way; you figure you can just remember where this place is and come back another day to visit.
You grow tired, wore out, and a little sleepy. Dare you lie down and rest for a minute, or is it like hypothermia, and deadly to fall asleep in here. You look around and make sure there aren’t any shape changing, hairy, long toothed monsters around and let the sleep come to you; you sleep the sleep of the restless. You dream about a moment in the future when you are asked a question; you are asked two, but the first is forgotten due to the importance of the second. “I don’t understand Jolene. There is that cloud that keeps you in the shade and at the same time keeps so many in the dark. You have written an idea that makes perfect sense to the most important reader of them all, but leaves the majority of those faithful folks lost. You promise to explain it the best you can, and even though the answers are there to be found; you need to write out a map and put an X on it. You say Jolene is one particular person, everyone, and nobody. You tell them to read the lyrics to the song by the buxom blonde, not by Ray. You tell them to read those lyrics and then apply them to the one, everyone, and no one. That is the best you can do. The whole White Russian thing, it wasn’t poison, it was another metaphor. Symbolism. You tell them that you can not drink one, no matter how much you like them; with out thinking of a situation where it really was a poison. The dream passes by and you wake yourself out of your slumber. You feel like the cloud is bigger.
You wonder what it is like to have someone who understands every word you write, if not the ones you say. They don’t need context, details, or explanations, they are those three things come to life. You wonder what it is like to have that, and not be able to look at them, not be able to touch them, or smell them, taste them, hear them; oops there goes another stitch. Slow down.
You can’t block out thoughts of them, you ain’t done yet.
You wonder what happened to the Muse of self reflection, the Muse of story telling, the Muse of you. The list needs to be updated, and expanded. Don’t forget about the Muse of rambling train wrecks. You wonder just how much you will go through, how much you will do to keep that Muse around. It drives you insane before you go to sleep, and it brings the sanity back when you wake. Between the good night and the good morning something happens; every single day something happens. You play songs like Gravity, and Chains and Things before you go to sleep; then when you wake in the morning you play songs like It’s Your Thang, and Just to be Close to You. You ain’t ever going to stop smoking like this; count your blessings that you aren’t swallowing vicodin drowned in Johnny Walker. Muses, you temptation wielding sorry bunch of Sirens, give me my god damned rhyme back.