Amadeus

In the movie "Amadeus," Mozart lay on his deathbed, dictating music to the bitter, bitter end. As much as I love writing, I'm afraid that won't be me. No, I'll probably be propped up by pillows, spending my time reading to distract myself from discomfort, or chit chatting with my family if I have a voice, playing board games or watching movies. I don't subscribe to a muse per se, but under the assumption that I *do* have a muse and that muse is always ready to lend a helping hand when I sit down to write, apparently s/he goes on vacation when I'm sick, and I'm sure s/he will be nowhere to be found around my deathbed. If I were a muse, I wouldn't stick around either. I don't want to see the green sputum, or hear it coming up. I don't want to even glance at a face torn ragged by tissues, or smell the unwashed body of my instrument. Nope, I'd definitely head off to Fiji or something. And rightly so! If I were a muse who made myself available for so many hours at a time, at the drop of a hat, often into the come-morning hours of the night, I wouldn't hesitate to take a few days off while my instrument snurked and gagged and coughed her way through a viral infection.

I must be getting better, though, because s/he keeps poking his/her head into my office while I catch up on blogs. Yay to getting better! Yay return of the muse! Yay world!

And Yay Blogeois! For whatever reason I can't always comment on posts with my current interface, getting some sort of security message when I try, but I can write here--good for you and glad you made it!