Divine inspiration can happen on a moments notice. It does not adhere to linear time. One second your mind is contemplating the oblivion of sleep and the next you find yourself basking in the cold light of the moon as the muse stands beside you, patient at first, waiting for you to notice her and then that’s when she gives you a push, it is a niggling thought, a mere hint of suggestion and then suddenly, almost without any warning at all you find yourself within that realm of creative passage. Your perception of time becomes lost, your world changes within the blink of an eye and you now see clearly, the path that lies before you.
When walking down the street, seeing people cross my path, my mind creates mini-stories about them. That one will meet the man of her dreams only to find out he’s her fourth cousin twice removed on her father’s side, indeed a long lost relative due to the war of 1812, and now that they’ve found each other and have been welcomed into the homes of each other’s families, if truth be known it is essentially back into the family, no one is willing to let him go, so their related? Isn’t everybody? And the details of the connections are lost once again. Another one finds solace in S&M by anonymous ads placed in the Backroom section of the Advocate, she even has a fake apartment rented just of those occasions. By day she’s the typical-looking sorority girl, tight pants, big boots, fake-fur-lined-hooded jacket, with a face as sweet as can be and diminutive to everyone she meets, many think of her as almost child-like in appearance and demeanor. By night, she’s the one in control and any deviation from that is not tolerated. Another one gets outrageously drunk at any and all parties, sometime roving from one to the next until she can get into bed with someone, anyone, multiples, whatever. Precautions, protections are all secondary. And the oddity of this is that she never gets into trouble. she doesn’t get any strange venereal disease and remains childless. After she graduates from college, with a business degree, she finds a job and when out on a Friday night, after she comes out of the bar alone, she is raped. She does get pregnant then and I can’t decide if she has an abortion, or if she decides to have a baby born by rape. I also can’t decide if she knew the guy, or if she gets a disease as well, or maybe instead of getting pregnant she gets a disease?
Usually my stories are about women. The men’s stories tend to be simpler: That one driving the “I-have-a-small-penis-but-every-chick-wants-to-fuck-me” bright red sports car with the gigantic spoiler on the back, wearing his baseball cap on sideways and backwards, dark sunglasses on eventhough there’s no sun to be seen, with his radio blasting some rap song that is so outrageously loud all you can tell is that it has a beat you could dance to, you know the guy I'm talking about. The guy dies in a horrible car crash after going to a frat party on his birthday. That one nails anything with great legs, another one flirts outrageously with any girl, but secretly wants to be with a guy. I don’t know if this guy actually has sex, but definitely the flirting, and more than a few hot and heavy make-out sessions in public. That one likes “showers” from women before he can reach climax, but he adamantly refuses to reciprocate the action, and has refused any further contact with those women who want equal treatment. Another one will only have sex in his car.
These aren’t great stories, perhaps a few could be embellished and made into a truer picture, but there is no drive towards elaborating, these are just random thoughts that pass through my mind as I walk down the street, or sit in a café, or wait for my laundry to dry. It’s only recently that I realized this is not an erroneous act, or a psychological disorder. This is what a writer does. This is the way a writer’s mind works. Everything is put into words, words become phrases, phrases become poetry or prose, and if those phrases become large enough they then become a story, all running through my mind until I finally put pen to paper and let it all pour out onto a blank page, filling it up like so much spilled blood and once it’s all out, when my mind is satisfied with the havoc I’ve created across the page, only then can I rest and my body collapses from lack of food and sleep awaits me until the muse awakens me once again.
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