Creative Blue Balls: The Misadventures of The Over-Eager Artist
I have a great morning…
Breakfast of grapenuts and an orange maybe.
Or maybe I even grab some pancakes and coffee with a friend at a coffeeshop in Asbury Park.
I breathe fresh air, I speak about the future, I discuss Battlestar Galactica and Kierkegaard with equal fervor and come home with coffee on my tastebuds…ready to create.
I glide down the steps to the basement. To the studio. To my office.
But I was late to the office.
I was indulgent.
I’m headstrong and pushy and artistically horny.
I didn’t prepare myself for this…I just assume that my muse will be in the mood. I mean she always is isn’t she?
I’m an ARTIST after all with a capital A!
and a CRAFTSMAN to boot! ready to craft a song out of that loosy goosy muse.
But the muse is not amused.
I begin at the guitar. I try to gently massage the muse into giving me inspiration. Lilting her into giving me a song.
But she is not so easily seduced.
She laughs at me and calls me a wannabe Dylan. A Bukowskian hack. A Barry Mani-LOW…she emphasizes the low
(the mention of the Cabana Boy’s name was enough already)
I sing out…surely I can control the very chords that are contained in my body, once the muse sees my creative arousal she must surely relent…but alas!
The coffee which fueled my energetic studio jaunt now clings to my throat and chokes it of any feeling. I croak out some lyrics which sound much less impressive out loud than in my head and now I’m beginning to question what was unquestionable genius at breakfast.
Soren and Edward James Olmos begin to look miles away…
artistic giants in comparison to my pitiful contributions to the artistic world.
Finally I turn to the drums in frustration, as so many weak men before me I am prepared to do the unthinkable for instant gratification…
please I’m running out of time…just a quick one…I should be able to finish a 2 minute song at least…what about a 30 SECOND TEASER, A COVER SONG
I’ve begged and failed
I’ve grasped at the breasts too aggressively, kissed the neck disingenuously, she smelt my selfish fervor on my coffee stained breath and seen my pretention in my eyes.
She’s gone. the muse is gone and I’m left alone in the cold basement with nothing to show for it other than an empty garageband file and caloused fingers.
I’ve never experienced sexual blue balls. In fact I’ve questioned their very existence in the past. Yet this one thing I know…
Creative Blue Balls Are Real…and Painful
So be romantic, be caring, be creative for compassion…because a muse is not to be messed with. and for those who attempt to force her hand…
She will never come.