“You hear the sound, in this old house, your father’s footsteps creaking down…” – Bill Janovitz

Here’s the problem: I’m in this deep, enthralling, sometimes ecstatic love affair with The OA/The Muse/creative inspiration/myself/whatever. (cf: The Mudpie Dilemma). But pancakes must still be made. Routines adhered to. Paternal obligations met and — come on, Loki, just give me a pass on this one — even, occasionally, exceeded.

Can’t you see I’m driving, indeed.

And that’s not fair to her, The OA, because unlike St. Waits, I’m not at my piano twelve hours a day, steadily working my way towards wherever she may be waiting. I’m at the wheel a mere few hours a week; more at a typing device; more with paper at hand. But still not enough. Like the Raven trapped in its cage, this gets old, and leaves me amongst the unfavored mortals.

(Brief apology for the gendered Muse, as female. Pretty sure there’s the weight of history and myth on that side, and also the current example, in that show. It’s hard for me to imagine a male demigod bringing these ideas, inspirations, moments. But maybe that there is part of the problem. In any case, I hope it doesn’t clang as badly to you as outdated crap like “mankind” or “for the sake of man” does for me. If so, let me know and I’ll workshop it.) [tldr; I actually mean it as a compliment, but a lot of poor language choices often fall under that banner.]

So, anyways, The OA calls, but mostly I have to ignore it, because: it’s another Sunday.

Up early, but not crazy early; a little writing and just as hitting a stride, the rest of the house awakes. Stretch, rush out to finish loading the top shelf of the bisk while Pixel watches her morning shows. Kiln on; good. Make pancakes — mini X’s and O’s. Trim haircut down a little more — soon, I’ll get it down to chemotherapy length, which will feel like, I dunno, something. Chores, bills, chores, chores. Typical Sunday morning around here. Trip to Plavon for lunch, Target, coffee. Sneak in some desperately needed rest while Pixel watches her afternoon shows. Two hours on a Sunday feels evilly excessive, but it could so readily be five or seven. Trying to keep her moving and painting and reading and legoing and all the rest of it, instead. Window A/C out, ’cause the cold is a’comin’. Kiln rousing near a thousand degrees. More chores. Sneaking more rest; catnaps. End of Fall Break, so prep for tomorrow, and the week. Painted toes and fingers; glitter overcoat on top of some sort of stickers? Kids these days. Dinner. Bath. Nearing 1300. Off in a few hours. Music, typing. Looking forward to laying down again.

Here, now. The banalities are sometimes the whole thing. I can look ahead, look behind, daydream, but often it’s just a series of moments, dull, predictable moments, snapping together like listless magnets; not a loud, sharp snap; more like a little click; like the movements of an old, familiar clock.

The OA waits; maybe checks in to see if I’m worthy. I scan my drafts and bits files — good stuff there, maybe, but nothing I can run with right now. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe later tonight. She’s not giving me the goods when I’ve spent the day being diligent and responsible and tame instead of wild and selfish and nuts. Her rewards go to the daring, the risk tolerant, the dreamers.

Maybe I’ll be ready to dream more again at two am. If so, it’ll be hard to sleep through it.

“… The hallway light; my days are nights; we’ll have this song for the rest of our lives.”