October 9, 2010
– My ‘muse’? I hated the concept. I hated her. She would never wear a face. She would never fuck. Me. She would fuck with me plenty though. She refused to inspire me in that direct way that other people who played with words’ ‘muses’ inspired them. It was unfair, just totally unfair, utterly so. She was just a bitch, you know? She had these quirks that she wouldn’t let me get any words when I was on the run, or doing errands, or travelling to do important things. Then she wouldn’t let me get any words if I was sitting still, concentrating. And then she wouldn’t let me have any words if I wasn’t using a specific kind of notebook, and she wouldn’t tell me which kind to use either! I tried the expensive ones – no words. Fancy bound ones, black leather, brown leather, A4, A5, A6, loose sheets, journalist pads, detective notebooks; nothing. Any paper that was lined she refused. Thick paper was too thick, thin paper too thin. Some times she would play cruel games. She would give me words for the first page of a notebook but then refuse any more until I got a new one. Torture! Once, I bought an A4 drawing pad at the Tate Modern. I had forgotten my camera and I had to draw a Henry Moore sculpture. She got pissed off, right pissed off brother, I tell you. She opened the tap and filled the poor pad from beginning to end; she just refused any drawings to be made. What a bitch!
– Calm down A.
– Calm down? You calm down. You know? She wouldn’t let me type my words on a computer either, unless it was in some kind of shitty yellow sticky note program. No spell checking, no nothing.
– A, I don’t know why you’re doing this. I’m giving you words now, aren’t I?
– You truly are a bitch, M. Can’t you at least put on some clothes?