Tuesday, September 30, 2008
In graduate school, there was a young man, beautiful and smart and blonde, that I longed for. Desired. Craved. Coveted.
And for many reasons, chiefly, that he was beautiful, smart, and blonde, I never pursued him. Ever. I may have spoken to him twice throughout my three years in the program. I'm sure if he had but known the awful poetry and erotica so complementary that it bordered on fanfic, he would have smiled at me -- if only to persuade me to stop.
I have a long, awful history of longing for things. Love. Lust. Jewelry. Redheads. Men with deep voices. Men with bad reputations. Shoes that will certainly hobble me within an hour.
Certainly there is more to this than bad judgement? For all the bad things that can come of all these -- heartbreak, debt, heartbreak... I can't say that wanting is such a bad thing. Want inspires. Lust drives. What is fiction -- especially erotic fiction -- but the expression of desire?
Call me selfish if you like, but do not call me satisfied.
between School, reading 2 books (The Book of the Courtesans and The Judas Testament), trying to battle insomnia, and taking up running (Couch to 5k, I love/hate you!), I've been horrible at keeping up with my muse, much less this blog.
Which is wrong-headed, and I should know better -- there's nothing better for inspriration than to write.
Poetry (including one of my favorites by Matthew Arnold) has been seeing me to sleep lately, which my muse (unnamed) seems to enjoy. And running, for whatever reason, seems to help with the determination bit.
So this is me, vowing to write more. And hoping my muse will show up, even unawares. I'll leave with the aforementioned poem by Arnold: