The Muse and Me

Morris, the maniacal muse, has been a constant companion of mine ever since that last rock concert I went to in the 70's.  Though the details of that particular concert are rather vague, ok so the details of most of the concerts I attended then are kind of vague, anyway, I distinctly remember Morris first appeared to me after that concert.

We had left the concert and gone back to a friend's house. Having grown bored with staring at the lava lamp, and dizzy from watching the swirling colors on the ball hung from ceiling, I was staring at the Goat's Head Soup album cover on the wall, and grooving down to Purple Haze.   And while Jeff and I debated the true meaning the words, Excuse me while I kiss the sky, I felt something descend upon my shoulder.

But instead of finding a friendly hand, I percieved a 9 inch blue muse perched upon my shoulder.  And in a cynical little voice he said to me, "Hey Blondie! it ever occurr to you he was just wasted and didn't know what the hell he was saying?"

Now I had ingested no strong hallicinatory drugs that day.  And though I may have inhaled a time two that day and evening, I honestly do not believe that can account for the sudden appearance of Morris.  I would think it would take a lot more than a little silly smoke to account for the appearance of a very cynical 9 inch blue muse upon your shoulder.

The fact that he has remained with me ever since proves that he was no drug induced hallucination that disappeared with a a pop and a headache the next morning.  Though Morris himself has been the source of many of my headaches over the years.

His bizarre working habits have cost me many a good night's rest.   I am usually laying there just drifting off to sleep, when suddenly Morris will make another appearance.  My muse is rarely there when I need him during the day, but after midnight, he lets it all hang out.  His voice whispers in my head,  "Come on blondie, I have this great idea for a new column."

"Fine tell it to me in the morning."  I grumpily reply.  Knowing even as I speak the words, it isn't going to happen.

"Oh come on, we can get the first draft done in no time.  Then you can go back to bed."  My maniacal midnight muse silkily assures me.

And though those silicone ear plugs may work great to drown out the sound of my husband's snores, they are useless against that little fiend's seductive voice.  With promises of flowing words and perfect sentences, he lures me from the warmth and comfort of my bed.  Bleary eyed I will make my way into the office where I will turn on the computer and sit , cursing Zeus for saddling me with such a muse, and gazing vacant eyed at the screen, until it finishes booting up.

And with any luck, a column, short story, or perhaps even a novel will be born in the wee hours of the morn.  For it is usually then that Morris really goes to work.   I don't know why I couldn't get a nice normal 9 to 5 muse.  What I got was a maniacal midnight muse with a severely bent sense of humor.

When he does make an appearance at a decent hour, it is usually while I'm watching T.V.    Like today when I was watching a program on The History Channel about people's reactions to the nuclear threat.  They showed where some people were storing their valuables in underground bomb proof shelters.  Suddenly I heard that little voice say, "To hell with the diamonds and money, put me in the damn storage vault."

I bet Hemingway never had to put with crap like that.  Though one has to admit, there is a certain amount of logic and wisdom in that remark.

Or like when the O.J. circus had all three rings going, and the media was blitzing us with O.J. info.  I was channel surfing one day, trying desperately to find some program that didn't have anything about O.J. in it, when I heard that little voice inquire,

"If Christ came back right right now, what percentage of media coverage do you think he could take away from O.J.?"

Some writers get muses that inspire them to pen great masterpieces.  Me?  I get one that makes me ponder the percentage of media coverage Christ would garner if he came back during the O.J. trial.  There is something wrong here.

I have begun to think Zeus may sent me a misfit muse.  Why he should single me out for such a thing I cannot understand.  I don't remember doing anything that bad at any of those concerts.

At other times, I find myself wondering if it was indeed having to put up with muses like Morris, that drove some of our great writers to drugs, drink, and/or insanity.  I can sort of understand how that might could happen.

Also, I have begun to suspect that like so many other things in life, muses aren't what you think they are.  Which is actually sort of logical considering they are at home in the world of both fact, and fiction.

It could be worse though.  At least the little voice inside my head isn't telling me to go out and buy an AK 47 and go to work for the post office.

One more stop to visit some knot head aliens.