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Fall 2004 - Volume 27, Number 1
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The Muse
Sit down at the computer; in a coffee bar; at a restaurant; in the park. Relax on the beach; in a lounge chair; on a couch. Fingers hang over the keyboard; sit poised over a notebook; grip a pencil, a pen. Wait. Fingers move over the keys; cause the pen to scribble across the page; press so hard the lead breaks. Delete; crumple; erase. Wait. Pace the room; kick the sand; watch the ceiling; count the tiles. Stare and stare and stare and stare. At the waves breaking on the shore; at the fat man who just spilled coffee on himself; at the two lovers playing footsie under the table; at the birds lying in formation, giant V's each written by a new hand; at your face reflected in the 20 inch LCD screen; at incompetence; at failure; at uselessness. Scribble again; no one will see it - first drafts can be shitty. Not this shitty. There is no plot; no character; no development; no idea; no point; no purpose; no paper. Delete; crumple; erase. Grab a glass of water, soda, beer, wine, gin, vodka, moonshine, absinthe. Whatever. Find the computer; the paper; the pen behind the couch, where it lays after its battle with the fingers; the pencil stuck in the ceiling, just like in high school. Write. Scribble. Type anything, everything. Words; sentences; paragraphs; letters. Nothing. Grab a cigarette; a joint; acid; mushrooms; ecstasy; cocaine; heroin. Anything. Look in the general direction of the paper. Pound in the general vicinity of the keyboard. Scribble; type; write; scribe; copy. Anything. Nothing. Fall asleep on the couch; on the beach; in the park; in a lounge chair; in a restaurant; on a table, until someone kicks you off and out into the night. Walk; drive; run; canter; gallop; tromp. Stumble. She's out there somewhere, and tomorrow is another day.
-By Adam Waks
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