Treetop Level

Perched on the treetops is where I ought to be. Watching an ecosystem in action, one that is almost invisible unless you're there. Blooming oaks, wasps, hawks, crows, butterflies... Farmer ants and cow aphids. At least in these woods. Jungles have different residents at that level, including orchids and bromeliads. I've been there. I live there in my mind, often taking wing and climbing to a higher view of life, seeing the antlike humans in their set patterns of living.

Life without a muse for my writing...hmmph...a set pattern of my own. I become self-destructive in my writing when I don't have an inspiration to take me above this leaf-strewn floor underneath the tree canopy, picking up literary sticks and beating myself over the head [evidence: the last few blog entries of mine].

How do I find a muse? Better yet, how does a muse find me? And at this point in my life, does it matter anymore? The chance of my feeling my self-importance breathe life into a relationship with a muse who wants nothing more than to see herself in my writing... well, I just don't know.

Life with a muse is sometimes amusing. But an enriched life with one gives both of you the sense that you could create a whole new universe together with just the barest whisper.

In the other times when I had no muse, I reached out to the literary and cinematic worlds to provide input, reading books galore and watching movies. I attended art shows and talked to avant-garde artists. I became season ticket holders of various football/motorracing arenas. But, and this is the point in my life I've always feared reaching, there is not much left to discover from those worlds. The human universe is limited, or I should say that my desire to know more about human experience is limited.

Limited. I say that word in my thoughts and in this blog and feel like someone has punched me in the gut. Like finding the joke website, "the end of the Internet," and not knowing it's a joke because new websites are popping up by the dozens all the time.

Has anyone ever pulled into or out of your driveway and run over items placed in your yard? Yesterday, a vehicle ran over a driveway light and a "backyard nature preserve" sign in my yard and then quickly drove away. I wonder if I should turn over video evidence of this to police or just pass it on to my former gang members and let them do what they wish with it. I discussed it with one of my "organized" colleagues and he suggested we find out the business the vehicle owner either owns or works for and have a little fun showing the video to that business' customers, asking them if they'd want to do business with small-minded idiots who as adults are still virtually spinning donuts in people's yards and taking off. If the driver turns out to be a teenager, then my colleague had other less savory suggestions to prevent such occurrences in the future. I don't know. I haven't looked up the license plate yet. It's one of those things that for now I enjoy the possibility of taking action and if it continues to happen, then let my gang buddies do whatever they want and let me have plausible deniability.

I'm not a vengeful person. However, some friends of mine like to let me throw them a bone every now and then so they can toss it around in an empty lot or under a bridge overpass. I've tried to keep them away from my current set of customers but they think my customers are easy targets and want a few for themselves. Maybe a bad driveway visitor will satisfy them, instead?

I haven't figured out how much my colleagues are involved with the Mexican cartels, which, from Internet stories, leads me to believe the cartels are family-oriented. My "family" has no blood ties. Their idea of fun is not on the level of tossing live hand grenades into a pub, at least as long as they stay away from the cartels, I guess. [And you wonder why I refuse to have children - makes me less susceptible to ransom artists!]

Reminds me of the phrase, "football is a controlled fight." The same could be said about other sports, I guess. Sporting events are entertaining to the fans, but to the players/fighters an uncontrolled fight is more satisfying.

At what level do I conduct business? I suppose we all see obvious macroeconomic conditions but do we see the eddies and swirls in the flow of business where deep waters hide a few fat fish no one has caught yet?

I like to fish. Or rather, I like to sit on the edge of a body of water, dangle a fishing pole with a line hanging into the water and drink beer. I've gutted my share of fish. Nothing like filleting your own meal. It's an art that all fathers should teach their sons at the earliest age possible. I still remember sitting and watching little hearts beating on the counter that my father had cut out for me to see. You don't need to take biology in high school to understand dissection. It can be done at any age.

But back to business. Some folks are M&A aficionados. Some are hatchet men. In both cases, they like to dissect organizations and see what makes them tick. Even in this economy, I see a few fat fish right now and wonder if I still have the desire to gut and fillet them.

Bottom line, I need a muse. I don't care about myself. I've grown tired of propping myself up with these words, overusing commas as support beams, building the ugliest word bridge (verbiage) over troubled waters I've seen.

Otherwise, I'm not a man. Without a muse, I'm a machine. That's no fun.

I hoped that teaching students/customers would help me find a new muse, but the organization's policies on business conduct I've chosen to respect and will find a muse elsewhere. Too bad. The women in my classes (as well as the faculty/staff), and I mean every single one of them, are fine examples of the female form, both in mind and in body. Every one of their life stories is unique. The insights they've gained from their lives, that they've shared either in writing they've submitted or through class discussions, tells me I could spend a muse's lifetime with any one of them and learn a lot, if all they wanted from me was my writing, of course. ;^)

Who am I kidding? I guess I'll never have another muse. I'm tired of writing about other people's lives. If I'm going to be breathing for another 14,987 days, then I want to live a life of my own worth writing about and stop writing about the past.

For instance, every time I drive to the office, I notice that it's practically surrounded by rooms for rent by the day (La Quinta Inn and Hampton Inn). I once said that I would have no extramarital affairs as a barrier against bringing diseases into my marriage. There are ways of being careful and still have fun, though. The stories I could write about having clandestine meetings just before going to work...ahh, now there's a jazz tune worth singing! I sung that melody before I got married. Can I sing one like it again? Life is short so have fun. Otherwise, if I'm not having fun, what's there to write about later on?

Just remember, I don't keep secrets. I just don't write about boring subjects. If you want me to keep a secret, make sure it's boring, like the rituals I learned from an organization that wanted me to join them as a youth with their archaic symbols (DeMolay), or the fraternity that wanted me to join when I was at UT (Delta Tau Delta), with similar rituals and symbols. I didn't keep their secrets - they just faded from my thoughts. I was instantly so bored with their rituals that I quit attending their meetings and quickly forgot about their secrets. It's the same with business for me. The companies I've worked for (or work for) have their little trade secrets that we're supposed to not talk about. No problem. Boring! Next, please...