sycophant of sorts
detain your muse used to taking up all the brainspace, or just give it a hug
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(it).
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(It) occupies a large part of my mental real-estate.
When I go in there, it’s like I’m in some holy place. A temple. It’s like there’s something that controls me whenever I am doing (it), not me controlling (it). I’m more conduit than pump. The muse is really the one in command. Oz behind the curtain. Creator of hot dog meat. (It) creates the natural spring projecting from the center of some massive biosphere, to where I back my RV, unwind a plastic yard hose, and syphon the pure waters through my brain down to my fingers onto paper or screen, or from my hands through sticks onto worn plastic heads and dull brass discs.
There’s a spirit that was created because of this thing, like those people with their star and the circle and candles, or a friendship bonded by a handshake with cuts from an open incision, (it’s) conjured from another place, a heaven or hell or outerspace, from some place and some time other than here and now.
That thing sits on my shoulders wherever I go, no matter what I do. It’s a part of me. I can’t shake (it).
There was a time, who knows why, I felt that I needed to get rid of (it). It’s not a normal feeling to try to burn a passion. To kill one of my dear old darlings. Something you are good at -better than par- and most of the time provided you enjoyment, nourishment for your soul. Nobody ever told me to sit at my (____), I just sat there and played. Playing while living. And for some reason while I felt I needed to burn it like a witch at the stake. I accused it of being something otherworldy, dark and invasive. (It) needed to die, so we can make room for something else.
And of course, it was because I didn’t understand (it).
The spirit, muse, or whatever.. the feeling.. (it) won’t let go. It was there the whole time, watching from afar, sitting on a rock wall kicking (it’s) feet, licking a cone of ice cream. Every time I try to do something else, or spend time concentrating on another project, (it) lures me back in.
Remember the Odyssey, when Ulysses is sailing around the Mediterranean, then the Sirens, beautiful-ass chicks hanging out on a tiny island of skeletons and rocks, are calling for him to sail in their direction? Telling them that they’ll do all sorts of wild shit to them with their irresistible voices. Ulysses he knew he wouldn’t be able to help himself and just steer the bitch right into those rocks, but he wanted to hear their song, so he advised his mates to place wax in their ears and tie him up to the mast so he wouldn’t steer them to certain death.
That’s me, only not tied up and out of wax. I can’t help myself but think of (it). While I am there doing the thing, I don’t feel tension. Time passes by so fast, I’m being carried on by something.
Sometimes I think about (it) like it’s a living thing. Like it’s a dog or an animal for which I am responsible, and because I don’t go over there to give it water or food, it’s dying. So when I choose not to go there I am killing (it), and it is destroying me.
I’m destroying me, I mean.
At least that’s what it feels like.
I can’t deny that it has changed my life. It’s a part of my genetic makeup. I guess if you were able to take apart my mind and everything that occupied and shaped it into being, spliced together the matter onto a roll of film and projected onto a gray wall, (it) would make up a large percentage of what you would find.
We all have an (it). It’s both creation and destruction. A volcano under the waterline, creating an archipelago, eventually.
See to (it).
You have that creative streak that needs to be constantly entertained. When you wrote about creation and destruction, I immediately thought of every obsession I have ever had and you captured them perfectly. Great write up.
Ahhh. Great read. You captured exactly what it feels like when you try to put something you enjoy doing away. Awesome