aMUSEment

insomnia

If you looked me up by my symptoms—sleep trouble, bouts of giddiness, ultra physicality, lack of concentration, repetitive girlie lovey-dovey song playing, untamed creativity, diminished appetite, regular use of makeup, soaring interpersonal relations, friendliness in the grocery line, flirtatious winks in my direction from men, women, and children—the book would say, right there, “lovesick.”

Sure, I love. But in love? With whom?

It can’t be myself; I’m not exactly a narcissist. Sure, I am a big, important star in my life, especially when I’m in a mood, but I do far more self-effacement than self-aggrandizement. (I don’t take advantage of others, I have empathy, I’m not haughty or patronizing, etc.)

Though I’d like to think it could be, it probably isn’t my partner of twenty-four years, though he’s certainly a recipient of the perks.

I can’t think of any one person—even Bob Schneider—who makes my heart all aflutter.

mygraine

Since August, I have written about seven poems I’d call keepers, I’ve fiddled with photographic collage, and I’m far ahead of myself on essays and blog entries. My notebooks are filled with art projects in which to indulge, once the stress of Mother Fucking Asshole (MFA) is over. (I’ve already begun gluing things to the styrofoam head I’ve had on the basement mantel for months.) Even the jobs that require something relatively new of me (reporting on software training, comparing pay stubs) get a fresh me, a confident and exuberant me.

With the surge of creativity has come a bit of domestic laziness—laundry and neatness (and gas burner) amnesia—though I’ve always shown a natural inclination toward that. But while I’m not making beds or sweeping floors, I am cooking. The other night, for my grandmother’s chicken divan, I made homemade cream of mushroom soup, instead of using the stuff in the can like my grandmother did. I add wine to the spaghetti sauce and sing as I stir. And, though I don’t want to eat anything, I feel compelled to make it. Last night, after reading Best Food Writing of 2005, I decided I should whip up a vinaigrette of fresh oranges, vanilla bean, and olive oil—just to engage my senses: feel it, smell it, hear it, taste it. I could have said “have sex with it,” and I would’ve been more honest.

The other day, I baked what I believe to be my first loaf of bread (not counting pizza dough). It was a six-strand, braided challah, and I swear to you that it was a religious, spiritual, and sexual experience. Not a single step in the process—from the foamy yeast through the kneading and the baking and the eating—wasn’t organic and orgasmic.

If only I were exaggerating. The fingertips have so many nerve endings that they’re considered, by some, to be erogenous zones. Is that why I’m tap, tap, tapping on the keyboard, pushing my mouse hither and yon, and running my fingers through my hair? Is this why I am seduced by bread?

I’m channeling Aphrodite where I once was Athena.* And for all my ado over lost sleep, I am enjoying the other things I’ve gained (for a change, it isn’t weight).

So, strapping young muse, wherever—whomever, whatever—ye may be, peel me some grapes. I’m not actually going to eat them, but watching could be fun. Oh, never mind. I’ll peel them myself, and you watch.



*According to this Brandi Carlile, Missy Higgins, Ani Difranco, et al.

Six-strand braided challah recipe and video instructions by Tracey.

Makeup by Milani, from CVS.

Pornography by Best Food Writing 2005

According to this useless quiz, I am still Athena.