The Advantages Of Being FORCED Into Wakefulness

As you already know, yesterday was all about Time.  This trend picked last night to fully blossom with a true blast from the past. The Perseid Meteorites?  I was prepared for those.  But this? Not a chance.
On my way to an evening of Music, Dancing in My Chair, and Jaegermeister (Did I spell THAT correctly?) with friends, just as we had finished dinner, I received a notification that there was a comment in response to something I had written on amazon.com — yep, we’re talking about the same time-frame, I just posted about, a few minutes ago!
Damn.
If that’s not synchronicity, I don’t know what is!
I looked at the comment, bewildered by its significance.  It was very brief, and answered a question I had posed at the end of my piece, about stylistic issues. So then, I began climbing yet another set of steps into the past, as I read my review backwards.
 
We had already begun walking to the Katafygio, my favorite hang-out here, since the guy who owns it is both a musician and deejays the music there, and has a fantastic sound system …
 
So, the place is not more than 200 meters away, and while I am walking, my eyes are stooped over this review I wrote, and I’m mumbling, out loud, while Vangelis and Susan are a few steps ahead of me and are tracking me.
 

Damn.
Totally, forgot I had written this.  TOTALLY.
It’s not bad.  I should add it to my writing samples, wherever they are.  (Definitely in a cloud, but not the same as the clouds Big Brother currently commands and oversees.  It’s my cloud, alone. But ever since I fired my Muse in early 2015, I have a really hard time tracking its orbit and location. It’s a complicated mathematical equation …)

 
So here it is!
(Thanks to an unassuming stranger who stopped by, and who had snatched it from the cloud, brought back to me, and placed it in my lap. Many thanks, GS!)
 
https://www.amazon.com/review/RTPMRKVB4HTCJ/ref=cm_cr_rev_detup_redir?_encoding=UTF8&asin=0813512778&cdForum=Fx2C3ZWRV3IWPJT&cdPage=1&cdThread=Tx2KC78QFPB9GKA&newContentID=Mx1I35J8K15U8DI&newContentNum=4&store=books#Mx1JXQW7OSW7ZOY

Letter To My Muse

If you knew anything about my muse, you would understand why I would never attempt to contact my muse through an ode, for example.  And, because of the nature of our association, I go no farther than drafting epistles to my muse—  Just to be on the safe side of its whims and desires—

So let me begin by telling you a few things about my muse…

Unlike what most people perceive as a muse, something near divine inspiration, my muse possesses no such qualities whatsoever.  My muse has its own character, tastes and inclinations.  Idiosyncrasies, you might say.  My muse, for example, is extremely methodical and highly analytical, and always declines my invitations to go where I am going.  Not only that—  But my muse seems to derive pleasure from occasionally slapping my face.  And while my tolerance for psychic pain is truly monumental, I cannot bear the slightest suggestion of physical pain.  Physical pain is to me akin to what I imagine as the sensation of Death.  And I have no room for that in my life!

Indeed, I do not—

And then my muse also imagines itself as something of a poet itself, rather than a source of divine inspiration, as it should be.  And although circumspect in what falls from its lips—and concise—the effect is almost always one of vast bewilderment on my part…

What the fuck!  Where did that come from?

Such was my response one day when my muse decided to actually speak to me.

While dallying about The Pastures of Imagination and thoroughly enjoying my visit there, I was abruptly plucked and deposited back on planet Earth, when my muse said to me:

“You are a terrorist!”

“Me? A Terrorist!!!”

Surely my muse was joking. But as I looked into its eyes I couldn’t tell for sure.  I thought I detected a glimmer of playfulness there, but right behind that, was, well, a mysterious place, and I had no way of detecting its real intentions.  And ever since then, I find myself frequently referring to the jarring intrusion of that day, which has since forced me into a chronic state of introspection, filled with endless questions and uncertainty.  And I can’t say I have solved the mystery satisfactorily— Not yet, at least.  Nor, perhaps, will I ever.  But it sure woke me up.  And ever since then, whenever anyone asks me about my muse, I say, without hesitation—

“Muse, you say?  Muse?” … I say.  “Ah, yes— My muse.  Nothing specific, really.  But I do think the idea overrated.  And the value of a muse…  At best… Is…  Highly negotiable.”