My Tease of a Muse and Shri Devi

I hate this period of time. In my writing that is. I'm at that point in my writing wherein something major has happened. It was big, awesome and beautiful. Now I'm stumped concerning how to get to the next major event. It's so annoying and it's the reason why I've been drawing, playing games and listening to music rather than writing. (Alright, I listen to music in an attempt to fuel the writing but still...)

My muse, as previously stated in poetical form, is a tease. She keeps me up late, pleading for her to give me that smidgen of information I need in order to progress, when I should be in bed resting up for pilates. She drives me crazy. She is why I wrote that poem about poetry reading hipsters. She is the reason I accidentally wrote poetry about this sculpture I was looking at today. No really, it was an accident.

I was writing about this beautiful bronze statue of the Hindu goddess Shri Devi for art class. I started writing a about her posture, her figure and her expression. Next thing I know, it is randomly poetic. "Scantily clad goddess/ Clinging clothe etched into her thighs" rot like that. Although the statue was beautiful. She was the picture of fertility (with breasts swollen with milk and her hip popped to the side as though she were holding a child) and also sexuality (said breasts covered at the nipple by a small band, an open and inviting stance and a seductive expression on her face). Seriously, this little statue was amazing. But was it worth my muse possibly exerting all of her energy? NO! At least not as far as I'm concerned.

Anyway, enough about her. I should be off to bed since it is well after 5am. Just to drive my point about my muse home, this is a normal bedtime for me. BLUGH!

The Result of Poets

A poetry reading in someone's side yard
Oh this will be a treat
It's literally a patch of grass
Surrounded by a white picket fence and
Lit by tiki torches and a porch light
I walk through the squeaky gate
(I feel they purposefully don't oil it
Because they ironically enjoy the squeak)
I find myself lost in a sea of flannel
And thick rimmed glasses
The girls all wear
The same sort of things
Full length skirts catch on their "vintage"
High heeled boots
And they wear their pleather jackets with pride,
Flipping about their jaggedly cut hair
Which has been styled to look like they don't care
No doubt with enough hairspray
To leave a carbon footprint greater than
Any industry about which they rant
While the women are similar
The men are exactly the same
Cardboard cutouts of the same manboy
Prance around the little yard
Sporting the same porn star mustache
Skinny legged jeans, leaving little to the imagination
And little to be desired
I could look past the fashion, but oh,
To hear them talk
Causes me physical pain
Such general statements are tossed about:
"Oh don't get me started on the economy"
"Fucking Bush man!"
"Yeah, it's so environmentally sound"
Then they swig on cheap beer and wine
And act like the silence where there should be an explanation
Is meaningful
Pretension so thick
You could cut it with a knife
Though perhaps a razor blade would be more apropos
When the poetry actually begins
I sink into the little lawn chair,
As it sinks into the over watered lawn,
Perhaps it feels the same despair
The hostess approaches the mic
Only moderately drunk
And speaks into it as if she is
A DJ on NPR
She speaks with her lips to the mic
Like she's giving it a sloppy kiss
And keeps her voice low and soft
She brings up the first poet and
My hope is renewed
Her work flows like a constant rushing stream
And her imagery draws me into
This person she's describing and I find
I almost love him too
Her poems are lovely
But end too soon
The hostess, a bit more drunk than before,
Announces the next poet like she
Is the love of her life
Then my hope is squashed by a girl
Who thinks that her phrasing
Is elegant with a comical twist
She thinks a wry smile and throaty laughter
Make up for her lack of original thought
So continues the progression
Of plainly petrifying poets who
Pronounce pedestrian pieces
And pretend they are perplexing and profound
And the hostess, god love her,stumbles toward the mic
Poet after poet
Drink after drink
And so this waste of a night
Filled me with a frightful urge
To write

SOMEONE PULLED THE UNDERWIRE OUT OF MY BRA (metaphorically speaking.)

You know, I spent many years writing my book and then a couple of years trying to get it published. All the while everyone I knew kept saying "Let me know when it's published. I'd love to read it!" Now I know they were liars. Oh everyone wants to be so supportive when you're trying to make something happen, but when you make it happen all the support fades away. It's like the opposite of any story about people getting rich or famous.

"No one believed in me and then I made my first album and suddenly I was surrounded by people saying that they knew I could do it."

How did I get the crap end of this deal? It's like somebody pulled the underwire out of my bra and now the girls are freefalling. (Which would be very uncomfortable considering.)

You know I never wanted to have my book do well, to be quite honest. I just wanted to be able to share it with my family and friends. I wanted people who knew me to take a good look at it and go "Wow, Ariana is seriously self-impressed!" Or maybe they'd look at it and understand me a little. But instead my book is doing just as well as I am. People feign interest and don't bother to look beneath the surface. It's more than a little frustrating.

ON THE OTHER HAND, I've found out what people are really cool and actually supportive. My great aunt bought four copies! My great grandmother (who is actually my step great grandmother so I wasn't sure if she'd even care) has a copy and is dying to read it because "I watched her grow up. Of course I want to see how she's done." My cousin David bought the book but was repaid for his support by having FedEx LOSE IT. Then of course there are Marcy, Jaime and Shaina who aren't related to me or anything and bought copies basically just to be supportive. These are my favorite people.

Of course I understand the people who can't afford to buy my book. My one friend who is having issues finding a job and a place to live keeps apologising because she hasn't bought my book yet. "I promise I'll buy it as soon as I can! I can't wait to read it!!!"

Honestly....I'd prefer it if she could afford to live. I'll give her the damn book if she wants to read it. It's just annoying to have all this support I once had completely withdrawn from me. People who encouraged me to publish myself if agents wouldn't do it. At this rate I will never be able to repay the loan my grandparents gave me. And I feel bad complaining about it. I feel like it makes me seem like a selfish brat but I can't help but feel this way.

Bluh.