"It's about to be one of those nights."
"Maybe, and maybe not." she responds, giving me one of her inexplicable looks and turns herself into a yellow-headed agamid lizard. I roll my eyes in despair - where does she pull these bloody mutations out of, anyway? She, for her part, refuses to be outdone and responds with her own eye-roll - except that now, her eyes - all six of them - are a rapidly-alternating sequence of billiard balls. Apparently, much in the manner of that one immortal Lord of Time, she, too is already here. She, however, has already exhausted the appeal of that idea and proceeds to morph into a begonia houseplant. Ah well, at least she it wasn't a Burmese sea urchin.
"Ooh, good idea! Thanks for reminding me," she says and turns herself into one - with a green-and-purple party hat with the words "We Rule the Night" printed on in large friendly letters atop its head, if only for diversity's sake.
For some reason, I was blessed with a rather odd muse. I'm certain that I'm not the only person who feels that way towards their muse - in fact, I'm pretty sure that anyone who possesses some form of creative inclination within them finds their muse odd - or, at the very least, capricious. The one who picked me as her partner in creative life, anyway, is a tireless flirt - she appears out of no where, her already-abstract body (even moreso ever since she picked up the habit of shapeshifting) clad in various ideas and concepts, winks - and suddenly evaporates as I attempt to capture one of these ideas - or at least a hair/feather/scale/other small fragile fragment from the tip of its tail - and put it on paper. To be honest, she isn't always like this - there are times where she spends much time with me without all those mixed messages. I think that instead of sodding off for prolonged periods of time and then coming back all of a sudden as if nothing happened (as some muses I've heard of are wont to do!), mine lapses into all this pseudo-coquettish flirtatiousness to remind me that even on days where her schedule and mine do not match, she is always with me.
... Which is quite nice of her, but great gods of plastic, it can be frustrating to epic levels - especially in periods like this recent one, where I have a great need to be productive in some way and she, for her part, refuses to cooperate - at least, not without a good fight. Our game of tag, anyway, continues. Actually, perhaps "tag" is not the most accurate definition - it's more of a hide-and-seek, maybe, or some hyper-dimensional form of chess where two players attempt to trap each other within an esoteric set of maneuvers and counter-maneuvers - when both really want to accomplish the same goal but refuse to let the other player one-up them. Contemplating the implications of this game, she transforms herself into a jellyfish, flings herself into a black hole, transforms into a cork and collapses into her own navel. Good Job, Einstein. Do you know how long it takes to get yourself out of one of these things?
My muse raises an eyebrow in response, as if none of this has ever happened (and perhaps none of it did, actually). She wonders since when is her name Einstein. I wonder the same thing. She shrugs, mutters "Ah, well" and turns herself into a sandwich toaster. As I try to remind myself where the hell she pulled THAT ludicrous reference out of, she spreads her 'wings' and flutters off like a butterfly - except she is still a sandwich toaster and the whole affair makes about as much sense as a cat's bark. She giggles, transforms herself into a cybernetic nymph and absconds in little leaps to greener pastures. Or more metallic, perhaps, who knows what manner of glades do cybernetic nymphs frolic in, whether these glades are nestled in forests of trees or antennae or perhaps both. Cybernetic nymphs are really not my field of expertise and she knows it - But it probably seemed like a good idea at the time to her.
I look at the cluster of unrelated words that she just made me write and wonder what in the name of all things grasshopper-like am I doing here at this sort of late-night hour, when I really should be catching as many hours of sleep as I can in preparation for the mass of shopping, preparations and cooking that is about to land on me in the next two days for an upcoming holiday dinner. Somewhere at the edge of my awareness, I feel tiredness waving a gentle silver tendril, like a siren (of the mythological sort, not the flashing, wailing sort) luring her victims to crash. Crashing sounds nice now, especially the nice kind of crashing into a world of pillows, blankets and dreams. Alas, aforementioned tiredness refuses to muster enough strength to drag me into sleep mode - or at least, all its efforts to do so fail faced with this energetically-charged state I am currently in. I have no idea why I'm in this state, but I am.
"Too many ideas." she says, wrapping her arms around me "It had to come out somehow."
"When don't I have too many ideas." I reply, leaning back into her embrace, resting my head on her shoulder "It's all your fault, you know?"
"I admit to the facts, but not to the guilt." she smiles, a gentle fluttering touch of lights and sounds from a different world.
"You're impossible, just for the record." I smile back "But I love you just the way you are."
She says nothing - but she doesn't need to. After all, she is merely an anthropomorphic personification of the creative side of my brain. But I think - at least for now - that the feeling is mutual.
"Maybe, and maybe not." she responds, giving me one of her inexplicable looks and turns herself into a yellow-headed agamid lizard. I roll my eyes in despair - where does she pull these bloody mutations out of, anyway? She, for her part, refuses to be outdone and responds with her own eye-roll - except that now, her eyes - all six of them - are a rapidly-alternating sequence of billiard balls. Apparently, much in the manner of that one immortal Lord of Time, she, too is already here. She, however, has already exhausted the appeal of that idea and proceeds to morph into a begonia houseplant. Ah well, at least she it wasn't a Burmese sea urchin.
"Ooh, good idea! Thanks for reminding me," she says and turns herself into one - with a green-and-purple party hat with the words "We Rule the Night" printed on in large friendly letters atop its head, if only for diversity's sake.
For some reason, I was blessed with a rather odd muse. I'm certain that I'm not the only person who feels that way towards their muse - in fact, I'm pretty sure that anyone who possesses some form of creative inclination within them finds their muse odd - or, at the very least, capricious. The one who picked me as her partner in creative life, anyway, is a tireless flirt - she appears out of no where, her already-abstract body (even moreso ever since she picked up the habit of shapeshifting) clad in various ideas and concepts, winks - and suddenly evaporates as I attempt to capture one of these ideas - or at least a hair/feather/scale/other small fragile fragment from the tip of its tail - and put it on paper. To be honest, she isn't always like this - there are times where she spends much time with me without all those mixed messages. I think that instead of sodding off for prolonged periods of time and then coming back all of a sudden as if nothing happened (as some muses I've heard of are wont to do!), mine lapses into all this pseudo-coquettish flirtatiousness to remind me that even on days where her schedule and mine do not match, she is always with me.
... Which is quite nice of her, but great gods of plastic, it can be frustrating to epic levels - especially in periods like this recent one, where I have a great need to be productive in some way and she, for her part, refuses to cooperate - at least, not without a good fight. Our game of tag, anyway, continues. Actually, perhaps "tag" is not the most accurate definition - it's more of a hide-and-seek, maybe, or some hyper-dimensional form of chess where two players attempt to trap each other within an esoteric set of maneuvers and counter-maneuvers - when both really want to accomplish the same goal but refuse to let the other player one-up them. Contemplating the implications of this game, she transforms herself into a jellyfish, flings herself into a black hole, transforms into a cork and collapses into her own navel. Good Job, Einstein. Do you know how long it takes to get yourself out of one of these things?
My muse raises an eyebrow in response, as if none of this has ever happened (and perhaps none of it did, actually). She wonders since when is her name Einstein. I wonder the same thing. She shrugs, mutters "Ah, well" and turns herself into a sandwich toaster. As I try to remind myself where the hell she pulled THAT ludicrous reference out of, she spreads her 'wings' and flutters off like a butterfly - except she is still a sandwich toaster and the whole affair makes about as much sense as a cat's bark. She giggles, transforms herself into a cybernetic nymph and absconds in little leaps to greener pastures. Or more metallic, perhaps, who knows what manner of glades do cybernetic nymphs frolic in, whether these glades are nestled in forests of trees or antennae or perhaps both. Cybernetic nymphs are really not my field of expertise and she knows it - But it probably seemed like a good idea at the time to her.
I look at the cluster of unrelated words that she just made me write and wonder what in the name of all things grasshopper-like am I doing here at this sort of late-night hour, when I really should be catching as many hours of sleep as I can in preparation for the mass of shopping, preparations and cooking that is about to land on me in the next two days for an upcoming holiday dinner. Somewhere at the edge of my awareness, I feel tiredness waving a gentle silver tendril, like a siren (of the mythological sort, not the flashing, wailing sort) luring her victims to crash. Crashing sounds nice now, especially the nice kind of crashing into a world of pillows, blankets and dreams. Alas, aforementioned tiredness refuses to muster enough strength to drag me into sleep mode - or at least, all its efforts to do so fail faced with this energetically-charged state I am currently in. I have no idea why I'm in this state, but I am.
"Too many ideas." she says, wrapping her arms around me "It had to come out somehow."
"When don't I have too many ideas." I reply, leaning back into her embrace, resting my head on her shoulder "It's all your fault, you know?"
"I admit to the facts, but not to the guilt." she smiles, a gentle fluttering touch of lights and sounds from a different world.
"You're impossible, just for the record." I smile back "But I love you just the way you are."
She says nothing - but she doesn't need to. After all, she is merely an anthropomorphic personification of the creative side of my brain. But I think - at least for now - that the feeling is mutual.
