Saturday, July 23, 2005

A - Mused Hostage

Not really sure what to write but I am showing up and waiting for that thing called my muse to poke her head out of nowhere and encourage me. Well, I've clicked on this page so many times and since she is a no show I think I'll post a little essay I wrote about her a few years ago. Enjoy!

I do my best writing while sitting on the toilet.

My muse holds me hostage there regularly. Her eyes sparkle at the phrase 'night time incontinence' because my aging bladder gives her a great opportunity to dominate the conversation.

She thinks bouncing ideas off my bladder is fun. It's her version of an alarm clock, trampoline style. Once I am awake, she scoots her luminescent being out from under the sheets and flits, fairy style, between my feet as she accompanies me to the bathroom. Up on the vanity she springs and then dances over to the edge to wait. After I sit down, she starts whispering in my ear. Knowing I gave up doing Kegel exercises years ago, she has no fear that I will abandon her midstream.

"Oh it's you again," I say groggily. At the sound of my voice she happily goes into overdrive; her words flowing like verbal diarrhea. At least we're in the right room.

I haven't always been this civil to her. I used to snarl, "What the hell do you want?" or "Don't you know what time it is?" The force of my words would blow her over backwards before she disappeared like a genie down the drain. I got tired of tripping over my pyjama bottoms as I raced after her, pleading with her to come back. Once, after I had mistaken her for a burglar I muttered lamely, "Here, take my purse and have a nice vacation." She was gone for a long, long time.

After having several nightmares in which my muse took up residence with a famous author I decided being held captive wasn't so bad after all. I just couldn't shake feeling like she was peering around the corner of the latest best sellers' list taunting me with "This could've been you."

This doesn't mean I am always willing to be woken up at all hours of the night. Sometimes after I've snuggled back down in bed she taps me on the shoulder and lets me know there's more. "Wait until morning," I tell her, pulling the covers over my head and going back to sleep. After several daytime appointments when she was a no show, I figured I would either have to accept her company when offered or suffer the consequences.

There are nights though when she has my full atttention by the time I am ready to leave the bathroom. It doesn't matter what time it is or how tired I am, I want to know the rest of the story. When this happnes my pen feels like a moving piece of an Ouija board with the words flowing one letter at a time. Those nights are magical. They make my wish for my muse to come down with laryngitis or the need to take sleeping pills vanish and I thank my aging bladder and laugh.

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