Muse

Writing.
Its thinking slowly and deliberately, a discipline lost on the subconscious which overwhelms with a constant torrent of sensory representations.
Then you need something to focus on to control and channel your thoughts...something that inspires you to eke out coherence from the chaos of your thoughts.
Something...or someone to anchor yourself on.
A muse.

My muse, as I long ago confessed was not real.
It was a composite person...partly made of imaginary attributes that as a writer I thought a Muse should possess and some attributes from people whom I knew.(or I imagined I knew)

My Muse appreciated what I wrote.
She craved it.
Our symbiosis was was pure.
It was religious.

Then I got married.
Love of a real woman is a powerful thing.
Too powerful, too expanding...too demanding.

My muse was no longer an imaginary construct.
She is now flesh and blood.
She is gravity.
She is everything...and more.

She is everything...and less.

She makes me want to break into a song.
She makes me want to hug and nuzzle.
She makes me want to flex my muscles taut.

But she is not the muse that made me write.






This is not an excuse, but an exposé.

Slow and deliberate,
sifting through the mind.

I wonder how Mark Twain did it.

Why do I come here anymore?

Why do I come here anymore?

I'm in a relationship.

I have Facebook.

I have Reddit.

I have friends.

I have friends?

Had?

I'm an eternal doubter.

I don't think I was ever a good friend to anyone in my life.

I wouldn't know where to begin.

I never got the manual or the quick start guide,or for that matter, for life itself.

My wife has caught me with tears brimming.

Looking at her.

I find her beauty too much to take in.

Even as an abstract concept, she is pure sensory overload.

She understands.

She comforts me by making a funny face.

By making beauty a momentary concept. 

By replacing it with something silly.Childish.

Its a secret only we both share.

So.

Why do I come here anymore?

 

Perhaps to pose questions to myself.

And perhaps to shed enough to lighten my existence.

Heaven always turns into hell

http://www.cabinetmagazine.org/issues/42/wiles.php

Snowflake

If a song written by a songwriter, produced by a team of producers, performed by a bunch of artists and marketed by an even larger group of corporate entities and promoters can describe perfectly who you are or how you feel, do you ever wonder how unique you really are?

Einstein the E.T

"I do receive much criticism from the outside world...but this does not really touch me because I feel that these people do not live in the same world as I do"
-Albert Einstein

Haiku

Your amnesia
Is my deja vu,
We are meant to be.

I try to
salvage my mind symphony,
Few notes remain.

White xmas

Oh what I would give ,
to be a caucasian for a day!

Giddy Up

I was returning from high school one day and a runaway horse with a bridle on sped past a group

of us into a farmer's yard looking for a drink of water. The horse was perspiring heavily. And the farmer didn't recognize it so we cornered it. 

I hopped on the horse's back.Since it had a bridle on, I took hold of the tick rein and said, "Giddy-up." Headed for the highway. I knew the horse would turn in the right direction. I didn't know what the right direction was. And the horse trotted and galloped along.

Now and then he would forget he was on the highway and start into a field. So I would pull on him a bit and call his attention to the fact the highway was where he was SUPPOSED to be. And finally, about four miles from where I had boarded him, he turned into a farm yard and the farmer said, "So THAT'S how that

critter came back. Where did you find him?" 

I said,"About four miles from here." 

"How did you know you should come HERE?" 

I said, "I didn't know. The HORSE knew. All I did was keep his attention on the road."

        The universe and its unpredictibility is sufficiently capricious to ensure that life is forever punctuated by pitfalls, stumbling blocks, and brick walls, but for the most part people have the practical and existential coping skills they need in order to somehow deal with those exigencies.

What I mean to say is...

Relax!

The Horse knows.

Who are you?

As writers we mean 

and don't

at the same time, 

the things that we write.

Why do I consider myself a writer?

Because it is in my writings that I articulate bulk of my thoughts.

Every other form of expression is repessed in some way or the other.

You are 'how' you articulate.

Exit:Stage Left

She is pretty, but not beautiful.Like the girl next door.

Never great at first impressions, she grows cuter when you think about her.

Her voice is a bit too manly,her expressions awkward.

She doesn't get all your jokes.

She has ugly feet that are two sizes too big for her, and forever hidden from the world,because she knows it.

She has a lot of male friends, and you don't know where they all stand.

She likes to put you down in front of her friends.

She is too skinny at times,but keeps complaining that she can't lose weight.

When you're with her, the only things you can notice about her are her imprefections.

She laughs like a donkey brays.

This is what you keep telling yourself.

Never great at first impressions, she grows cuter when you think about her.

She grows on you.

When you're away from her, the only things you remember are the things that make you smile.

That make you sad that you smiled.

She is pretty, but not beautiful.You have met hundreds that were more beautiful.

Also funnier, smarter.

It hurts.

She grows cuter when you think about her.

She reminds you of the girl in the movie who was so wrong that she ended up being Ms.Right.

A cliche is a security blanket.

She reminds you of the girl that felt like destiny.

She reminds you of a long lost friend that you never had, but should've ended up falling for.

She reminds you of the girl next door that instead of being Ms.Right, just made like a tree.

And Left.