The Muse

Originally I wanted to write something about the death of my imagination, and as if to accentuate the point, my mind went completely blank. It was my plan to outline the processes in which I have slowly bludgeoned to death my muse with comfortable and unchallenging stories hewn from cheap movies and video games to the point were I am incapable of producing a single scenario that doesn’t owe it’s germination from an earlier work. Now, I am more than familiar with the argument that there is nothing new under the sun, and that even Shakespear used established theatrical traditions of his time. That may be, but I am not even ripping off Shakespear’s sources. I would be proud of myself if I was drawing from his primary reference material. He was doing a redux Pyramus and Thisbe, I tried writing a screen play once and fourteen pages into it I realized I was basically updating Small Wonder.

Believe me I wanted to regale you with witticisms of how my muse has taken her leave of me, but all I can think about right now is a conversation I had with my friend in which we tried to remember the words to the theme song for Jem and our favorite Mr. T “I pity the foo” dot dot dot moments. By the way, our current leader is the episode in which B.A. Barracus said “I pity the fool who goes out tryin' a' take over da world, then runs home cryin' to his momma!” That is just needlessly awesome.

But that thought processes tells me that my imagination isn’t dead. If I measure my individuality by what I take from commonly experienced thing then the fact that I had way to close to an encyclopedic knowledge of A-Team quotes and M*A*S*H* episodes tells me that my personal muse is alive, well, and focused with laser like intensity on the trivialities of life. I remember growing up how teachers would marvel at the fact that I could remember every Shel Silverstien poem that I came across, yet whatever lesson plan they put before me couldn’t maintain residence in my head. I reasoned with them that there was only so much room for stuff in my noggin and to be honest, Atari was there first. They instead handed down the ruling that I was not applying myself, which was true, but the real reason that stuff didn’t stick is still true today. Specifically, I cannot shut off my brain enough to refocus on the things that do not captivate my imagination, no matter how important they are.

Recently I was sat on the receiving end of a very important looking desk talking to an insurance agent regarding the level of coverage I should carry on my home and all I could think of is you fool! I am not the person you should be talking to about this. You should be speaking to someone much more centered and gown up. Someone who knows where all there bills are at any given time and when they are due, and to whom they should be paid, and in whatever form of payment they take. No no no, I have been sitting her looking at your mouth move and thinking about the fact that It’s Wednesday and that the new comics come out today. Then this very nice lady asks me if I understood everything we had just discussed and I am immediately ten years old again and sat in front of my Special Education instructor telling the exact same lie “Yes ma’am.”

This phenomenon even explains why I am so horrible with names. Unless your name is cool, like a badass Native American sobriquet such as “He of the Wolverine Fury” or “Laughing Vagina”, I probably wont remember it. That doesn’t mean I don’t like you, only that your name isn’t nearly as interesting to me than trivial details about you yourself. That is how I identify to people my head - the odd little facts about that person that rolls into the totality of your socialization with that person. In fact I wish that’s how I could legitimately identify people in conversation.

Someone who isn’t me: “Zach, who are you what are you doing tonight?”

Me: “Oh, I’m hanging out with Lesbian, Abandonment Issues, and Naughty Tattoo. It’s dollar draft night at Pastimes.”

Yet, there are times someone can say something, something very random and my mind takes it and fucking runs. One time somebody off handedly mentioned that since Brad Pitt was considered for a gubernatorial race in Louisiana, that maybe Matthew McConaughey should run for governor of Texas. At this my brain immediately chased a set of scenarios that included McConaughey going mad with power and consolidating his authority into a centralized fascist dictatorship that is juxtapose to his outwardly friendly and nonviolent Point Break surfer attitude. Then Texas succeeds from the union, and seeks propping from rogue states in the Middle and Far East. Then after showing outward signs of friendship to their neighbors, McConaughey launches an unprecedented nuclear strike against Baton Rouge and a series of naked landgrabs towards Kansas. Before you know it Brad Pitt needs to learn the sacred art of Texas fighting at the hands of Willie Nelson in a Remo Williams montage that ends with Mathew McConaughey and Brad Pitt fighting it out Highlander style during a lighting storm while the Alamo burns down around them.

When I say that sometimes my thoughts scare me, people instinctively think that I am clinically depressed and it’s a cry for help and in these cases I’m not sure the truth would make them feel any better. Moments like these though tell me my imagination does still work. “Reassured” isn’t the right word, but it’s the one that comes to mind.