Empty Headed Human

We didn't feel like going to MOMA today.

My brother and I were in strange moods. Much like the 'knock-around Boys'. I sat and ruminated working on a novel. I'm close to closing my screenplay so I need something to jump to. But my muse has not given me WHAT to write about yet. I am hung out to dry, seeing scenes in my minds eye, but not being able to connect them. Usually, at times like this I go to my brother for ideas. Sometimes he has good ones that spur me on. That's how we wrote our two novels together, The Noise and Hegemony.

The Noise is forever lost, burned when all of my belongings were incinerated after I didn't pay for my storage area for a year. By some miracle, OBSIDIAN saved Hegemony. One day we will get that motherfucker published. But until then, the writing wheel must turn. So there I was, sitting in my cubicle, hoping for that faintest flash of inspiration, because people, I'll tell you, that's what it is, very faint. The rest is all motherfucking work. Sweat until you bleed.

So there I am, at my cubicle, waiting for my muse to hit, or breeze by, whichever way you like to see it. And I BEGIN DOZING OFF. My head starts bobbing like a cork in the fucking water. I can barely concentrate as I stair at my computer screen. This is baffling to me because I've been getting quality sleep, or so I believe. But here this goes. It pisses me off to no end since I take this to mean that it is little more than interference between me and the creative. I go on the counter attack. I start to search for work on the web.

I find this:
"We're looking for talented, passionate, and creative journalists and writers. This is a non-paying opportunity. but it is great way to gain maximum exposure. The ideal person should have excellent communication skills, have solid writing skills, be self motivated and be willing to come up with innovative article ideas."

Well, I call it a job, but it's a way to get exposure, experience, excitement...the three X's. They want an article a week. But now....what to write about????

And there I am RIGHT BACK IN THE SAME QUAN- DARY!! What to write about!! I have nothing to say for a change. I am lost, without a rudder. I am deeply pissed with myself. I'm a writer with nothing to write about. That's tantamount to being a baseball player without a baseball. I'm miserable. I nod off.

It is soon time to leave the library, so I head to the Madison Avenue Starbucks, no doubt wearing a long face, since I cannot see it myself. My brother accompanies me, and we take a table. I don't blog this night but instead IM. While busy holding an online conversation I get a beep. A small, tiny beep in my headsets. I look to the lower right hand side of my monitor screen. I have one email.

Hmmmm, I hate this. I'm always deathly curious when it comes to emails. But I just HAVE to read them.

I get this from my porn editor:

"Been jammed-- will write this weekend."

I guess I haven't been fired after all. This will no doubt return me to two writing assign- ments. Now that I'm nearly a year working for my editor I think I can ask him for some interview assignments, since I got my newfangled recorder. It's time to take the initiative and branch out some. I haven't heard anything further from the conservation mag. Maybe something later. Maybe I'd better take a bite out of this new opportunity.

To think about it, it has the everything that any homeless writer needs. I don't have to show up in an office, I can crank out work at the speed that I write, I can gain needed experience that might lead to a paying gig. I have to lay some groundwork. I have to start off somewhere. And when you're on the bottom, guess where you'll have to start.

Well, at least my poetry has taken off. I've been prolific down that avenue.

I head to the Box, somewhat deflated and dejected. I am suddenly very tired and ready to absorb nearly anything thrown at me. I know I'll run into the bullshit. But when I arrive, there isn't a bullshit party. In fact, there is practically no one in the dorm except Igor and Dante. Igor is overjoyed. "I got a letter from the TC!!" You did, Igor? "Yeah, they are not happy with my attitude and do not want me in their program." Well I'll be damned. Igor found his own way out of the TC trap. But he doesn't have ninety days before they move on him again. BRC will just find another and another until he gets the ultimatum. Leave or be thrown out.

Ninety days before I'm faced with the choice.

I have to find an exit out of here before that.

I'm going to really miss that printer.

Hobobob