Muse and me.

 Muse and me.

My muse has always been of a type rather than a specific. To see one’s muse with clarity would be to chase it away. I know. I’ve lost a few. I do however know her voice, holding conversations in my mind, exploring ideas, subtly encouraging me to “just do it”. Sometimes too subtle. But, if she simply told me what to do, I’d stubbornly fuck it up like a child when told to tidy his room.

“You’ve stubbornly fucked up a lot of things”.

Ignore her. That’s simply not true. It’s just the kind of stuff she’ll come out with to get me started. I don’t want to argue with her right now. Good things can come of arguments, but they can also be so tiring when carried out in the arena of one’s own mind.

She wandered in this afternoon, sometime after the point when I discovered I’d once again bought the wrong tub of “wall filler”, one not suited to the current house renovations. I can’t seem to get on with the job. I think maybe it’s the disruptions to the house that have both unsettled me and stirred the ghosts.

“Tell about the ghosts”.

Well, it’s nothing much, but as I transform each room, I can’t help but recall what they looked like in previous times, and the things which happened herein. There are a lot of memories attached to each corner.

Her silence becomes tangible. Maybe that’s why I question the worth of my ideas more these days. This month in particular I've been far less confident. Ignore her. I shall write what I set out to write.

“That’ll be a first”.

Harsh. I always write what I set out to write. It’s just that I don’t always keep it. That’s my dilemma: Desiring to shout out loud, but impeded by an equally strong urge to hide beneath the duvet. Anyway, this post was originally intended simply to be a summary of July. But what to say?

July was
Too much wine, too much rain.
Detached, distant and deleted.
Or did I already say that about June?
Deleted.

“Deleted?”

Almost deleted. July is always disappointing after the promises of June. It never lives up to the advance hype bestowed upon it by the fanciful machinations of my mind. Apart from a few notably enjoyable distractions, the calendar above me reads like a series of appointments to be kept rather than a life to be lived.

“Like going to the dentist?”

Exactly. And that’s on the 15th to be precise.

“Admit it, you’ve missed me”.

Well, it’s been a while. My fault entirely. Stay.

“How can I not? I am always here”.


All text copyright ian gordon craig.