Muse In A Can
Or something like that...
Part: One | Two | Three | Four
Okay, that’s my fault. That factory is the most boring place I’ve ever been. But part of my contract is that I have to be with him during the times he’d be most inspired. Monotonous labor is one of those times traditionally. George over there by the label machine? His muse is working overtime coming up with some screenplay, and it’s actually really interesting. Tina, his muse, let’s me sit in on her talks with him sometimes, lets me watch the little projections she’s made for his brain so he can see the scenes he’s working on.
Last time I brought popcorn. It’s a heck of a lot more interesting than watching that machine squirt dead tuna into a can. It’s a good thing I don’t have a delicate stomach, or I would have walked out a long time ago.
Who am I kidding? I can’t walk out. They won’t let me; they said Paul was my last chance. I had to at least do something good with him before they gave up on me entirely. When I put in my application to be his muse, they gave me a nice big speech, telling me that I had better pick just the right man, my job was in danger. All the standard stuff really.
Well, I got so mad thinking that they thought Paul wasn’t going to make it that I decided I was going to “show them” and make him the most famed poet since Maya Angelou!
But Paul just isn’t really into all that. Paul doesn’t want to be famous; Paul wants to fall in love.
How sappy. I wish I had been the one to put that idea in his head; it’s at least something I’d get some vague respect for. Whoever his muse was when he was a teenage was good at their job, because this inspiration is so far ingrained into his head that there is absolutely no dislodging it no matter how hard I try. I wish I could get that darn meddler’s paperwork so I could see how they managed to make Paul so hell-bent on finding “the one” that he wouldn’t even try very hard to self-publish.
You know the saddest part? I can’t even get him to go out of the house on weekends. He goes to the factory, he goes to this diner down the street and writes and sips black coffee and waits for her to just show up. I can’t even get him to notice the waitress at the diner (even though I think she’s married) because he’s just so positive it’ll be all sunshine and flowers and fireworks and soft focus when She appears that he’ll just instantly know She is The One.
You know how many times I’ve told him it doesn’t work like that? Okay, only once that I know he heard me. But I’ve been trying. His head is just so thick that I don’t get through unless I’m speaking his language, as in giving him images of that whole love at first sight junk. I’m tired of inspiring the same old thing over and over again, but I’ve got quotas to fill. I’ve got to turn in one inspired work every few weeks or they’ll can me.
And I’ve seen enough things being canned to know that it’s not pretty. It is in fact rather squishy and gross.
Part: One | Two | Three | Four
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