Muse In A Can
Or something like that...
Part: One | Two | Three | Four
I hate being a muse. Oh, I’m sure, you’ve heard this story before. The disenchanted muse who is sick of her job. Sure, fine, don’t bother to listen to me. It’s not like anybody listens to that bum I’m assigned to either.
Assigned. I act like I had no choice in the matter. Muses choose their subjects you know, and he looked promising in college. He was bright, the girls liked him, and he wrote poetry about the “ethereal yearnings of heartstrings” and the stuff that his creative writing teachers just ate up with adoration.
I was bored. I was hanging out in the creative writing department at this famous university, you know the one with all the brown brick buildings and snotty men and women who know they’re better than the rest of the world because they’re paying a ton of money for their degree so they obviously know their shit? Not sure which one I’m talking about? That’s because they’re all the same. I was about to get my status as a muse revoked; my last two assignments had killed themselves. One hung herself from a really scenic bridge she’d been painting for two years (it was a beautiful series of impressionist works. It worked for Monet, just not for Sally…). The other decided that in order to truly capture the pain of the human condition he had to become homeless. So he left all his money and belongings on the side of the road except what he could fit in a duffel bag and set out east towards New York City. He scribbled his stories on napkins and paper he dug up from the trash. A few people noticed him, but since he was getting somewhere from the homeless thing, he refused to take a publishing deal.
Needless to say, he wasn’t listening to me. Oh no, it wasn’t my idea. I tried to tell him that he was an idiot, but he was so full of himself and his talent that he wasn’t noticing me anymore. He starved to death trying to write an introspective piece about how Jesus’ fasting in the desert being a symbol to all mankind that they should only eat lentil soup.
Or something like that.
So this guy now, Paul. I was desperate. I’d been told by the Great Muse Council that I had one more shot before they demoted me to working with the Sandman because I obviously was good at boring people to death. They’re such kind people there in the Council, all those great Muses from days gone by. So what if they inspired Plato, Da Vinci, AND Desi Arnez, I think those people just had natural talent and their muses got lucky when they picked their subjects.
Not me, no. I had to go with Paul. Paul, whose romantic poetry can’t even be sold to greeting cards. Paul whose beautiful sonnets only make it to those poetry magazines that accept everything they receive. Paul who works in a cat food factory to make ends meet while trying to compose lyrics in his head and attempting to keep them from straying into the beauty of the aluminum as it flashes in the light while being stocked with limp dead fish parts.
Part: One | Two | Three | Four
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