A countdown post almost entirely unrelated to countdowns of any sort

The spark, huh? THE spark. Gone. Vanished, vamoosed, left in-a-hurry, diaspora-ed, gone.

You, readers, have accused me, via AIM and lack of commenting, of un-interesting-ness. So, I stand here before you, my fellow bloggers, my faithful readers, friends, romans, and countrymen, guilty. I plead no contest to these charges: The spark is gone.

Why? (why, why did you put her to voicemail) How do you lose “the spark?” Where have all the cowboys gone? And for that matter, where has Paula Cole gone? She was famous back in the day. Ok, back to the topic at hand: the missing spark, she must be found.

I can guess what some of you are thinking, “ha. That no-talent, un-published, hack thinks he can just summon his muse? Just conjure her out of thin air? *poof* creativity? No. That is not how this works. That is never how this works. The muse is fickle, and often feisty, she will spurn your advances when you’ve got a ten page paper due at nine a.m., and tease you when you think about writing your great Armenian novel, then lift you up, soaring on her pixie wings to the highest mountains of creative thought only to drop you at the climax of your ascent, to be dashed on the rocks below like a tasty mussel from a sea gull’s beak.”

Well, I would agree with you, mostly. Though my muse doesn’t have pixie wings, she has a jet pack. Imagine Kelly Preston as a Bond girl and you’ll start to get the picture. Also, I don’t think I’ve ever been abandoned by her the night before a ten page paper was due, so I’ve got that going for me. Maybe your muse sucks. Maybe she meant to help you out on that paper but was hungover or high in some alley off-campus after a night of partying with the football team. No, you won’t get any help from that pill-popping pixie when it counts, she’s more interested in sex, drugs, and rock ‘n roll. My muse is classy.

So you know what readers? You can keep your muse. I know mine will be back soon. Maybe after some time off, a week at the baccarat tables in Monte Carlo, a stay in Vienna, a yachting expedition off the coast of Africa maybe, and then she’ll return. Back to her little room in my head. Velvet cushions, a well-stocked bar, a fireplace, in a cozy little space to call home. I’m not worried. She’s bound to be back sometime.

But while we wait, there’s always the countdown: eight days.
-t

recommended download:
Judas Priest, Victim Of Change