Because it’s one of those days months, and jazz makes me think I’m not really here at all, like maybe I’m somewhere else, smoking cigarettes and listening to beat poetry at 1 a.m., or slopping my way through rain puddles to some brownstone where M is waiting with a smile, probably having just escaped their own demons…
or something.
One of the things I hate the most is not being able to write when I want.
I get most of my inspiration from music. I guess it’s my muse. And it’s rare for me to go a day without listening to music. (I suppose people at work people probably get concerned when I’m not wearing my headphones.) So when I’m writing, editing or proofing something for the magazine and suddenly I hear a song that makes me want to write my stories, I start to feel like a gremlin is trying to tear out my insides. Like that scene in Total Recall where Kuato busts through George’s stomach. Yeah. Like that.
Free the words!! Free the words!!!
Maybe that’s what is really going on when my stomach’s growling. It’s Kuato telling me to write. Because if I don’t, he’s going to bust out and demand I free Mars. I should probably force M to watch Total Recall so they can be prepared for the day I must save the world from bad space dudes bent on taking over my mind…’cause they want my stories. Dangerous.
I require theme music.
Yeah, I seriously daydream about these things.
Is it weird that sometimes when I’m at work and I’m stressed and I have a shit load of stuff to do I just want to scream “It’s raaaaaw!!!” in the face of the next person who asks me to do something?
Yeah? It’s weird?
These fake horns are rahhhhhwww!
M and I took the day off to go golfing. Mostly because M really needed a day off and, well, I never take days off. (That’s called dedication! …Or guilt. I haven’t decided which one.)
We’re pretty interesting golfers. And it’s not because we don’t like playing with strangers or hate being rushed. Nahhhh, it’s probably because we’re not very good. But! Watching the two of us play golf is a fantastic way for pros to get their jollies. Although, M is way better at golf than I. It’s pathetic, really. Not because M’s better, but because a golfcourse runs through my grandparents’ backyard and growing up, I had plenty of opportunity to play…Although I did catch a whole lot of nightcrawlers on that golfcourse. That’s gotta count for something.
M looks a lot like this playing golf:
Jerk.
Evidently M even got a birdie, though I did not see it. Suspicious? I think so. (It was actually a pretty epic shot.)
And me? Well, I look a lot more like this playing golf:
Those aren’t tears of joy, you know.
I didn’t do all that bad, though. I did rather well the last few holes. My putting is exceptional. And by exceptional, I mean I could kick any eight year old’s ass at a mini-golf birthday extravangza.
And then I inadvertantly Tebow’d picking up my ball. I think it was a sign. I’m not sure what kind of sign. Maybe that I should try a different sport? Or maybe that if Tim Tebow can defy the odds, so can I? Or maybe it’s just that I should tie my shoelaces because I tend to trip over them.
Oh, really? Here’s five cents. Now do something awesome.
J.C.D. KERWIN 