Clarence the cross-eyed muse likes to thwap his tail at me. If he were more of a humanoid muse he might tap his foot impatiently, or drum his fingertips on the kitchen counter, but as it is--in his vague felinity--the message conveyed by the tail comes across unmistakably.
It’s time to edit, prods Clarence...and I do. Bit by tiny bit.
In the AARP Bulletin, an article profiles several folks who returned to the work force in their 50’s and up, finding jobs--in every case--in retail. I could do that. I could do the Barnes & Noble bookselling thing, if not the Trader Joe’s food-peddling thing. Sometimes I think I should do it now. Not spending current income flow could possibly do more to reduce potential impingement upon future security than tacking on supplemental income later.
But it’s not a serious option, and Clarence knows that perfectly well, even if my hesitancy to wrestle with creativity goads me into supposing that not-working is the irresponsible move. Ha. Like leaving Jeff home by himself while I hang out in the stacks at B&N would be responsible? Not. Not that I don’t need to pull myself back into the land of the living at least a little farther...I think I do...but I cannot abandon my charge to do so. Hence, I am home, lots...and also hence, Clarence is right. I have no good excuse not to scrape what creative energy I can muster into helping him keep his job. And earn Muse Stamps. Which he can spend at the Muse Stamp Redemption Center on a big refrigerator-sized scratching post to leave his claw sheddings in.
So, here we are, Clarence and I, trying to get this crazy kite of a story aloft, whether or not the wind is blowing.
This does not mean that I will never be semi-gainfully employed, but conditions for now leave me with absolutely no excuse to not keep at the fear-inspiring dream. I should probably befriend failure...same as I’ve befriended anxiety...then we just won’t have to worry about that anymore, and Clarence and I can get down to work.
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