The Silence of the Muse

Too long friends, far too long. All of the posts below this one came to me in a sheer flash of thoughts colliding headlong into one another willy-nilly fashion. A veritable mish-mash of seemingly unrelated tidbits called into a strangely coherent whole were coaxed to another another inside my head as the muse sung the siren song of utterly worthless creativity. A shrill tune that only a few of us will ever find the beauty in, but to us it is the melody of misguided and completely misunderstood genius.

The reason for my long hiatus from Blogger's hallowed halls of angsty internet literature has been a breakdown in the very process described above. It was never a mechanism I could engage at will. Most know this as well as I; you cannot force creativity...but can come close whilst on the toilet when there is not a pen or pad to be found, or with copious amounts of ethanol wreaking havoc upon your better sensibilities one can achieve that enlightened status...only to lose it come morning. Well I have waited patiently for my muse to resume her song, both on the toilet and off, but she seems to have left another wretch abandoned. In desperation I even attempted an alcohol induced entreaty this Saturday past, but even in Columbus, the pantheon of Ohio creativity, amongst 98% of the gay population of that fabled town weary from PRIDE parading my single source of amusing inspiration was more contented by silence.

I can only assume this is thus because Sam has gone too long. The silence his absence creates is deafening. The roar fills the ears of my mind until even my sad and wholly unworthy attempts at satire are washed out. My choice is clear. Sam must come home or I must find a new horse to back, or more in tradition with my luck a battered and lame Shetland pony. Since Sam's facebook photos show a slew of arms length digi-photos, his shining pearly whites somehow improving Italy's magnificent vistas in the background, I assume the tale is all but yet to be told. He will not return and instead reduce a new continent to squabbling over who will ride his coattails and catch the afterglow of his limelight. I am left to trade Black Beauty for Mr. Ed's lesser known brother; Mr. Slinks the mighty lobotomized steed.

Perhaps I'll just adopt my current roommate Heather. A fine music educator who may yet cheer me with a plethora of ridiculously redundant jingles of famous composers of old. Sam may have Italy, but damnit I'll know how the Teletubbies would describe William Tell.

...I'll be the gay one.