The Muse Doesn’t Watch MSNBC

I just found this essay in an old memoir manuscript that never saw the light of day. I wrote it during the 2008 global financial crisis.

Pakistani rock music as a muse. (Stock image from Unsplash.)

My Muse seemed to be on vacation.  Or taking a nap.  She certainly wasn't there with me while I was trying not to think about the dinner that needed to be made in a half hour for four children, who then needed to eat it and be driven to a different house so that I could go to my theater workshop.

So where was this Muse?  Where did she reside? Did she even have a home? Or did she flit from place to place inhabiting artists the world over?

Somehow I pictured this to be true.  I thought that if we opened ourselves up to the Muse, we allowed her to do her magic and then we created visionary work.  Or at least editable work. And if we blocked the Muse from working her stuff, we didn’t get the juice and then no one else could either.  She stayed there, working on the unwilling recipient until an inkling sank in, and then she could move on.

The faster she could dance the inspiration in, the faster she could move to the next artist.  So it seemed our duty to our fellow artists, then, to be open and willing to receive at all times.

I was listening to Pakistani rock music in the hopes of dislodging any walls mistakenly erected, preventing Musey from getting in.  You know, like a surprise tactic.

Paul was freaking about the economy. It looked fairly grim that year, if you observed it in financial snapshots. For instance, Anna (Paul’s 65-year-old, newly-retired mother) lost $16,000 in stocks in one day.  Gulp.  That was enough to stop the boat.

Both Paul and Anna were attached to MSNBC.  It was on all the time, a terrifying, and conversely, annoying reminder that we were not in control of our lives.  Let alone our finances.

I, however, was not watching the TV.  I wasn't listening to the news.  I wasn't looking. I didn't know if I was being naïve, or positive. I think I was just waiting.

I reminded Paul that we had been mentally preparing for this eventuality for years. I emphasized the word mentally, as opposed to physically, because we hadn’t been able to build a respectable savings, we hadn’t stopped buying books by the truckload, we hadn’t stopped eating out, we hadn’t stopped going to counseling or buying organic food.  We hadn’t stopped living beyond our means.

But we talked about it.

We made elaborate budgets and didn't keep them, we dreamt of buying another rental property, selling off the two houses we already owned and paying off the mortgage of the new rental, and then living in it mortgage-free. We’d even planned for a day when Paul would leave his job and the dying industry he’d been in for thirteen years and become my personal assistant.  Really.  That was actually one of his dream jobs.  And, dude, I was all over that.

He thought he wanted to be Mr. Mom.

“Honey, did you forget you have your writer’s group tomorrow night?  You have something written, right?  No?  Why don’t you just take off?  I’ve got the kids.  I’ll get their bath ready and put them to bed – you go to Brewed Awakening, get a nice latte and write.”

That would've totally been my dream job for him, too.

So the downward spiral of the economy was really a blessing.  It brought us closer to our dream life. Yes! Paul could've gotten laid off.  How’s that for looking at the bright side?

And I guess Miss Muse did drop by for a bit after all.

But maybe it was just the Pakastani music.