The Reluctant Muse

I often speak with Belle about the nature of the creative process. I bemoan my lack of ambition and inspiration. She insists I must create a least one piece of art each day, whether it's good or not. A song or blog post or some other kind of poetry or prose-as long as it gets done. Successful-and prolific- songwriters swear by this process. Even if you realise halfway through it's going to turn out to be a piece of crap-finish it. This is a habit that must become as ingrained as muscle memory. Surely, according to the law of averages, they can't all be bad. The more more prolific you can become, the greater opportunity for those moments of brilliance. Certainly, this idea is not new, in fact, it's so well known that expounding upon it is ridiculous. What is more ridiculous, however, is that I have not embraced this discipline. It is not a practice of daily life. I write about it to remind myself of it's importance-and how dangerous inactivity can be. I fear my inspiration has atrophied. I haven't written a song in over a year-piece of crap or otherwise. I'm embarrassed to admit this publicly, but it's true.
You can't wait for the Muse to reach down and "touch you with divine inspiration". She lives inside us. She is an inherently lazy bitch who must be shaken out of her complacency every now and then. She must be coerced, teased and tricked with rituals and games. She must be fed and exercised with music, art, literature, vibrant conversation. Any kind of stimulation. Unfortunately negative influence also has a profound effect. Heartbreak, conflict, trauma all inspire great art. It's become a cliche. Perhaps that's the cause of my recent dry-spell. I've been avoiding negative emotions-even going so far as to medicate myself against them. Anti-depressants, anti-psychotics. No drugs or alcohol. My brain chemistry has been completely altered since my last real creative period. This must have had a huge impact on my creative impulse. I'm terrified I've lost it altogether.
Belle assures me that I haven't. She insists I'm a "genius". Flattering. Even if I was, that's based on a back catalogue written during years of heartbreak, substances and existential angst.I'm not that person anymore. I fear she was the artist, not I.
Could there be a marketing demographic consisting of people who want to hear songs about joint pain, empty-nest syndrome, menopause and fear of mortality? Belle assures me there is. She says it's called "Adult Alternative". Thank you, CBC.

Epiphany

It's first real week of the year. Twelfth Night has passed, the trees are down and trimmings stowed away for next year. Kids are back to school, and work proceeds more regularly as it did before "Christmas Chaos" took over. Sad as it usually would have been for me, I forewent the decorating and diet this year, for a number of reasons, not least of which was financial.
So it's back to job hunting for me!
Yesterday, I began what will be the first track for a new project-yet to be named. A dear old friend asked me to be his partner in an electronic duo. It's the perfect arrangement-I sing for his project, and he plays bass for mine! Our first session was surprisingly productive, little self-consciousness, good focus, and a great synchronicity of ideas. Tomorrow is a session with B. for my own work. It's great to know I'll have a bass player in the future, but without a drummer, nothing can really move forward. Frustration and worry...

I wasted the better part of last year bemoaning my procrastinate nature and lack of inspiration.I'm amazed that B.has remained, faithfully waiting for me to get my shit together at last, and raise my head from the bedclothes-figuratively AND literally. While many causes of my latest depressive episode were situational-anyone would have mourned the losses I suffered this year-I fell victim to my chemistry yet again. It was mitigated by the medication I've been taking. I can only imagine how bad it would have been had I not been taking it. Oh,so much time wasted trying to rouse enthusiasm and confidence! Each passing day further and further from my goal; defeating my most cherished dream! The more I avoided it, the less I felt it was deserved. The illness plays cruel tricks with your mind. Even as I intellectualised the necessities of work-work that I loved, an hour might pass me seated in a chair, coat on, keys in hand, completely immobile. Eventually I would give up, and crawl back into bed. I stopped calling to cancel altogether. B just knew.
Bless B! Incredibly understanding of my situation, and patient as a saint. I suppose it doesn't hurt that like most artists,he suffers from the same affliction, not as severely as I do, but enough to know how difficult the disease can be.

Back in the studio soon!

Yet this New Year seems to have shifted axis; awoken something long dormant. If Sunday was any indication, inspiration has kicked into gear. I'm anxious about tomorrow-but for the first time in a long time-looking forward to it.
I haven't called to "reschedule" yet, anyway...

Auld Langxiety

Should auld aquaintence be forgot...or at least 2016 as soon as possible.
I had a lot to celebrate, seeing the ass end of this last year. I think we were all  happy to see it go.
And celebrate I did, in my jammies, cuddling up with my kitties and a Walking Dead marathon.
I know I can't be the only one who eschews public drunkenness and anonymous sex in favour of quiet contemplation, or perhaps an intimate gathering of family and closest friends (read:cats.) I would much rather stay home and do housework-literally-in a symbolic act of preparation for the year ahead.I would much rather open a bottle of champagne with a lover on a windswept beach.I would much rather fall asleep in front of the t.v.at 10:30. after dancing a waltz with my mop.I would much rather forgo the whole damn thing altogether...
I must spend hours making-up and dressing in an attempt to achieve some obligatory-and impossible-standard of beauty (dress-code in effect)  I must wait in line in the cold for fourty-five minutes, only to pay an exorbitant sum of money on a cover charge to a simian doorman who grunts "no in-outs" which means I can't leave the bar for cigarette every now and then.It's twenty deep at the bar and I must suffer some 'Gino's' inane diatribes on the closing year punctuated by the occasional "Whooo!" I must duck poorly aimed and potentially lethal high-fives. I must hold an uncomfortably full bladder because I don't wish to endure squeezing through the gauntlet of a washroom hallway, where I may fall prey to every last dateless loser vying for that slovenly midnight kiss.
And people look FORWARD to this?
Yes, a new year. Tabula Rasa. Another chance. An exceptionally terrible year over at last. I can see why people would want to celebrate. I actually WAS tempted to go out and join the happy throng, even just a lone shot of tacky tequila at my local.
I'm leaving so much behind. So much lies ahead.
It seemed only fitting to mark the occasion in some way...
So I wrote this.
Midnight came and went. It came without douchebags, it came without booze, it came without hangovers, vomit stained shoes...maybe New Years isn't something that comes in a bar, maybe New Years is something more private, by far...