At Gate 23

At Gate 23 this morning, I'm wondering about what inspires me.
I'm thinking about my muse.

Because...

I've been trying recently not to analyze the shit out of what went wrong, what the mistakes have been along the way. Instead, I want to analyze, if anything, the moments when I knew I was happy. What is so right about those times?

Epiphany! (I'm having it right now as I type:) I am inspired when I am in the company of stored up inspiration—the inspiration that just oozes out of the person who can say "I got enough of inspiration to last me a while" and not enough time (mostly time) to give form to all the ideas...I pay attention. (The revised version: by being "in the company of" inspiration, I don't necessarily mean the physical company, come to think of it. Just seeing the artwork, listening to the music, reading the words of my muse inspire me plenty; being in the physical company of the inspired is like seeing a manuscript of your favorite novel.)

I am inspired by you, you who is constantly thinking about creativity or just thinking creativity. I am inspired by the words that the mind and the hand commit to, the words chosen out of all the possible combinations and versions, this version, which pounds into the reader, this is the way I will express myself.

I am inspired by you, who do what you need to do in your life and do it at your own pace. No apologies.

I am inspired by you, who belongs to you alone because "habit is a great deadener," and I've always known and I do know that I cannot ever take you for granted.

I am inspired by your touch, in all its forms, undertones, and textures—my muse's unexpected bite inspires me as much as the easy laying on of hands does. Sometimes, it takes me being punched in the gut to figure out what's going on. There is great tenderness in this seemingly violent image, I know. There always has been, even way back when.

I am inspired by your teeth bearing, feisty fierceness that pounds into me, into the world, sometimes unwittingly

love
love
love


I am inspired by being called on my bullshit:

Nothing above is something I didn't know. There was no epiphany. This is just an acknowledgment. Of my muse. Of me. Of love in the creative spaces, which itself requires creativity and persistencepersistencepersistence to exist in the beautiful muck heap of not yet realized, told, lived ideas.