Message To A Muse
I woke up this morning (after bad dreams) and almost started *laughing* about how stereotypically Tired And Emotional I was yesterday. Sense returned this morning like the "hungover morning and a sobering cry" of a That Dog song.
Perplexment and puzzlement, then remembering seemingly random things PBW said to me on Wednesday night, and bursting out laughing at what he must have thought was going on.
As if I don't know that it is *entirely* in mine own head. As if he thought I was actually interested in... I don't know. A "Relationship" with him. Like, where the hell did he get that idea? What would possess me to entertain such an idea?
Hello! I'm a 36 year old woman who runs the MI department of a major finance company. I own mine own house. My hobbie is being songwriter/svengali for an indie girlband. My interests are country walks, architecture and Victorian literature.
You're a *child*. You're a 26 year old unemployed student whose interests appear to be drinking, smoking and chatting up randoms in bars.
Now maybe this sounds like sour grapes or something, but As! Fucking! If! I'm not into toyboys, and I've grown out of drunken one night stands, which is pretty much all you would have to offer me, on that level.
You *look* like my muse. That's all.
Now maybe you don't like to examine your own creativity - some people don't, because they fear that if they examine it too closely, they will lose it. But I guess you can't take the art school out of the girl. I *know* where my art comes from. I believe in that old fashioned Greek idea, that music isn't really something that comes from you, it's something that is almost channeled from somewhere else.
Maybe it's weird, maybe it's strange, but it's like an electric jolt to look out in an audience and see your muse looking back at you. But there they are, the melodies, the pictures, the stories, back again, like mine own universal radio. I know it's nothing to do with you. I know it's just projection. But I *love* this feeling. I don't love *you*. I don't know you. Maybe I don't want to know you.
Or if I do, I just want the same thing I have with your bandmate D - with TISSP! - with my other boy friends, urgent conversations about songwriting and aesthetics, a bit of flirting, leaving saucy/funny messages on one anothers' blogs, but a tacit understanding that it goes no further. Certainly not what you think I want. If you don't want that, if that's too heavy for you, if you just want to make me feel like a weirdo for being the way that I am, well, fuck you. Your loss.
Perplexment and puzzlement, then remembering seemingly random things PBW said to me on Wednesday night, and bursting out laughing at what he must have thought was going on.
As if I don't know that it is *entirely* in mine own head. As if he thought I was actually interested in... I don't know. A "Relationship" with him. Like, where the hell did he get that idea? What would possess me to entertain such an idea?
Hello! I'm a 36 year old woman who runs the MI department of a major finance company. I own mine own house. My hobbie is being songwriter/svengali for an indie girlband. My interests are country walks, architecture and Victorian literature.
You're a *child*. You're a 26 year old unemployed student whose interests appear to be drinking, smoking and chatting up randoms in bars.
Now maybe this sounds like sour grapes or something, but As! Fucking! If! I'm not into toyboys, and I've grown out of drunken one night stands, which is pretty much all you would have to offer me, on that level.
You *look* like my muse. That's all.
Now maybe you don't like to examine your own creativity - some people don't, because they fear that if they examine it too closely, they will lose it. But I guess you can't take the art school out of the girl. I *know* where my art comes from. I believe in that old fashioned Greek idea, that music isn't really something that comes from you, it's something that is almost channeled from somewhere else.
Maybe it's weird, maybe it's strange, but it's like an electric jolt to look out in an audience and see your muse looking back at you. But there they are, the melodies, the pictures, the stories, back again, like mine own universal radio. I know it's nothing to do with you. I know it's just projection. But I *love* this feeling. I don't love *you*. I don't know you. Maybe I don't want to know you.
Or if I do, I just want the same thing I have with your bandmate D - with TISSP! - with my other boy friends, urgent conversations about songwriting and aesthetics, a bit of flirting, leaving saucy/funny messages on one anothers' blogs, but a tacit understanding that it goes no further. Certainly not what you think I want. If you don't want that, if that's too heavy for you, if you just want to make me feel like a weirdo for being the way that I am, well, fuck you. Your loss.
posted by Masonic Boom | 2:11 pm
2 Comments:
*cough*
I reiterate:
NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO
Hush, you!
Unless you're going to post pictures of your pointy-nosed self in a shopping trolley with your hair dyed red. Oh yeah.
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