I would like to write something profound here but nothing has come. I wait sometimes for the inspiration to hit and it does – often unexpectedly…other times I try to manufacture inspiration through my most common muse – music. That can work often enough but sometimes the well runs dry and you just pray that it is refilled with something and soon.

 

One of my favorite poets, Charles Bukowski (WARNING: He’s a foul-mouthed beat poet but in my estimation as honest as they come for all the times he calls himself a liar) once didn’t write for more than 10 years…now that’s writer’s block. I may listen to the iPod while I write and see what happens but honestly there’s nothing there right now…like if I could climb into the well and go to the very bottom the sides would be dry and dusty as though there had never been any water.

 

As I write this in the living room Matt is on his fifth hour on the couch messing around with his guitar and practicing. He’s been through blues scales and Aerosmith, AC/DC and the Rolling Stones, etc. His emerging passion for the guitar sometimes overwhelms me. It absorbs him and he absorbs it. I can already tell he will be a much better musician then I am a writer. Don’t confuse this as some form of false modesty on my part…I know I am a good writer…he is simply going to be a better musician…his love for his art is deeper and will probably own him in a way I never let mine.

 

There it is – water is filling the well now; I can feel it and this time my muse was Matt. Cool.