The Artist as a Questionably-Young Woman

You know how sometimes, everything falls into place without effort, without conscious thought? You just do it. Easy peasy. Like an Olympic-caliber rhythmic gymnast, twirling and swirling that ribbon-on-a-stick in a gold-medal-worthy performance, relying on adrenaline, muscle memory, and three Tic Tacs chased by Crystal Light. I had a moment like that yesterday. Several moments, to be exact. Almost an hour.

There was tale I wanted to share, though not here, because I DO try to separate parts of my working life from my internet life. The thoughts flowed like milk out of a carton carried by a helpful butterfingered toddler. I grabbed my little notebook to capture my thoughts before they vaporized like a dream an hour after awakening. That's what I have to do if I'm not at my basement lair keyboard when the muse comes calling. Yesterday, Musie caught me on the toilet. Oh, stop your grimacing! Stop gouging your eyes and screaming, "TMI! TMI!" I was not on the business end of the toilet. I was sitting on the lid. With a cushiony towel further softening the surface for my ample buttocks. Fully-clothed, buttocks, I might add.

Sometimes, I go into the master bathroom to grab a moment of peace from making other people's sandwiches, or acting as an earpiece for other people's boasts of bargains bartered for at auction. It's a peaceful room, all forest green tile and patterned wallpaper, roomy, with a big triangle tub and walk-in closet. With the exception of that short interlude of mice in the exhaust fan/light, and telltale blood smears after their dispatch...it's a relaxing retreat. Yesterday, I was there to coat my tresses with the shellac of youth. We're going to a major event to honor Genius for being named to the Missouri Scholars 100, and I don't want people to think that Grant Woods used me as the model for American Gothic.

Yes, I was in the zone. On fire. Like Johnny, rosining up his bow, telling The Devil down in Georgia that he's the best that's ever been. Similes rained from my brain to the pen like dollar bills from the hand of a fan onto the head of a Saturday night stripper. If only there was somewhere I could submit this masterpiece, I thought. It would surely win a contest, or be published, and bring me fame. But I'd better keep it secret, because if I'm famous, the person who was the inspiration might read it, and I'll be up spit creek in hot water without a paddle. And might hurt some feelings. Yes, it's best to let it languish in obscurity, even though it is SO good that the great literary masters would weep with joy upon reading it, and possibly want to plagiarize me, if it were not for that unfortunate dead thing they've got going on.

I read over that new classic this morning, on my supersecret blog. It is total crap. The universe has assigned a certain symmetry to my toilet masterpiece.