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2002-04-24 - 12:02 a.m. I've been wondering lately what that subtle cackle is I hear on the stiffening breeze while I wander, weak and weary, searching for something to do. I've been wondering lately why there's a subtle glint of green in the shadowy reflection of my own meandering form as I walk past oversized windows. I've been wondering lately why I feel the light crackling ivory pressure of decaying teeth on the flesh of my upper ear whenever I hear music that inspires my feet to dance. I've been wondering lately why I feel the feathery brush of tiny gnarled fingers grasping my collar whenever I start to stride towards new experiences. Somewhere in the ruined city of my own skull, amidst crumbling old towers fallen to raven-ruins, clawing at a purple sky of storms, far off amidst the Mountains of Ego and beyond the Cave of Id, I found a stained and cracking parchment which bore the answer in letters of gloomy blood. That damnable 10th Muse. Clio I know well. She and I have shared many a long night and her cool hand has soothed my brow as I pored over the works of ages past. She may be a demanding lover, but she is by God a satisfying one. I've had more than my share of fun with that delightful tart, Thalia, although I still refuse to take that final step and serve up my manhood on a platter for her, although she promises she'll put it in a place of honor on her bedroom bureau. Terpischore doesn't visit often, but we certainly have wild fun when she comes by. Wild, chair-breaking, carpet-tearing, dwarf-hurling, drink-tossing, squid-waltzing fun. Erato and I go way back. You could say, with all intended irony fully strapped on and secured, that she's my first love. I've shared long nights with Urania, seen God with Polyhymnia, shed tears and shared bruises with Melpomene, made beautiful music with Euterpe and gone adventuring with Calliope. Those fair ladies I would drink to any day. Right now even. If I could find the strength. That damnable 10th Muse. Absentia. The Muse of Void. Don't look so surprised. You've dealt with her before. She's the crone who sees to it that the clearest course before you is the Way of Doing Nothing. She makes every equation into an empty set. She takes the string out of the yo-yo and turns the world down to a dull static roar. Everyone has things to do, da? Even I, the World's Foremost Slacktologist, have my share of ticks to put on the to-do list when I get up in the bright and early afternoon. It's Absentia who makes that list into a work of epic tragedy. Screw you, Mick Jagger. Like SHEOL time is on my side. It's Absentia who takes the motion out of poetry and puts the fear of Father Time in your eyes. She's the Muse of Paralysis. With Absentia on your side, all you can do is boggle at all the things you have to do while she props your eyelids open with the Toothpicks of Dull Shock. Then she prods you into the fetal position with the Pointy Stick of Helplessness and hogties you with the Nylon Cord of Futility. Other Muses might dance in their rapturous circle whenever another work of art or beauty is brought into the world. Absentia dances her hag's jig of spite whenever an overburdened underappreciated artist, frustrated because he can't pay the rent on his hip loft and his bisexual girlfriend has left him for an Amway saleswoman, sells his paints, bites his last brush in half, and gets a full-time job at the Sizzler. I can see her now. She's twisted up like a little walnut-brown Yoda, without any of the Frank Oz charm. Her arms are long and wrap around her bony knees while her tapered, grasping fingers claw at the dirt between her clutching toes. Her skin is dark and papery, ashy and pale in places, and her hair is brittle grey, tinged with bilious yellow. She's the Monkey on Your Back. Her back is hunched and hideous, and the hunch wobbles and mumbles to itself and makes strange crashing noises and emits dark lights and occasionally bursts into Rogers and Hammerstein showtunes. She's the Hag of Junk. Her eyes are huge and predatory, a dull green burning with envy, aching to take in pure nothingness. Her nose is long and curved and shadows her angry slash of a mouth, forever twisted halfway between a cruel snarl and a sharp sneer. She's the Raven of Nevermore. Absentia has been riding my back for some time now, I've realized. I've had so much to do that I've simply, quietly, given up and decided not to do any of it. No more of THAT bloody rot. Clio has lent me the Sword of Richard Coeur de Leon from her trunk. It's time to get medieval. Melpomene has promised me the use of her shining blackthorn club for a single night. I'm going to make that hag's life a tragedy. It just got personal, honey. No one rides the Wheel without first buying a ticket. This is where you get off. Terpischore has lent me her Glittering Red Tap Shoes of Ass-Kicking. Let's dance. - Wheel of Vengeance "It's on like neckbone." 
 
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