I can’t decide if I should write a silly song today, or maybe something rock and roll. (They tend to be mutually exclusive, so I must decide)
I started a song, so far untitled, about Conjoined Twins named Jesus and Satan (Jesus with the Mexican pronunciation). It’s an idea that came to me some years ago, and which I scribbled on some post-it notes. Where it came from before that is a mystery.
I’ve been thinking more about creativity lately. Where do these so-called original ideas come from? The standard answer is they come from other ideas. We regurgitate, combine, misunderstand (I’m famous for that), plagiarize what we’ve heard, seen or read. And sometimes we claim them as original–often unknowingly. Dreams are especially good at scrambling ideas, I find. And then, depending on how we choose to interpret our dreams…those give us new ideas. At what point do they become original? And then, should we really be claiming as our own something smelted in our unconscious? And what is the unconscious? What is the conscious, even? And finally, what are we? (Yes, I studied philosophy in college–though not closely enough, obviously)
Writers and poets (and other artists) talk about a muse, which may sound like mumbo jumbo to some of you. But if a concept is useful, doesn’t that make it relevant? Artists have been talking about their muses for thousands of years. Like god, it is a durable idea. And as easy to disprove, if one is so inclined.
I’ve started thinking in terms of a muse. My muse. It’s always personal: as if I courted her, and now I expect her to be devoted to me alone for the rest of my life. Like marriage. Of course I must devote myself to her as well. I have to bring myself to my desk, to my guitar, and offer her up a prayer of sorts. Something a little less than begging, but more than a bland request. I have to spend the time, show her I am serious. Some artists beckon their muses with drunkenness, philandering, withdrawing from respectable society. My muse does not ask that of me. Only that I set some time aside for her every day (oh, yes, every day) and make an effort to write. I push my pen across the page and wait for her to enliven–to possess–it. And then, when she does–and I am faithful to her ideas–I get to take credit for the product of our joint efforts.
I think she’s starting to come around again. I neglected her too long, and she scared me into thinking she would never return.
And god?
A song a day, ah yes. Sometime around midnight (probably after) you can expect another pound of my flesh. Muse willing.