Muse

So, I was walking to work this morning in the freezing freaking cold (It's not even May Melbourne. Why don't you just calm the frack down!) and I had an idea for a play. This is not great news. In fact, it's not even good news. Because that is what I need more of. Ideas for plays. Yes. Who actually needs plays when you can just come up with ideas for plays? Because plays, compared to ideas for plays, are awful, awful things. You should see the face I'm pulling right now just thinking about plays. It's not a pretty sight. I hear children screaming and they’re aren't even any children around me. Plays are nothing but the messy aftermath of beautiful, pink, pristine ideas that seep gloriousness from every pore. Ideas for plays sparkle and stand out from the crowd. They whisper genius to you and you believe them. Plays, on the other hand, are black, stinking messes of things that whimper in the corner, refusing to show their ugly bruised faces to the world. They are like those girls that keep going back to the boys that hit them. And they smell. Plays smell like prawn shells left in the bin on hot days. Rancid seafood. That is the smell of plays. Tell me I'm wrong people. Tell me I'm wrong. So the idea for the play was exciting, but not as exciting as this. I got the idea for the play at the exact same spot I got the idea for New Light Shine. SHUT. UP. You know what this means right? Yes, Virginia, there is a muse. And it's an ugly-ass brown sculpture that makes no discernible sense as a piece of art and probably cost the GDP of a not-so-small African nature to commission. But it's mine and forevermore it's going to be the well from which I dip from. Seriously, I'm filling out petitions and contacting badly named government agencies so we can get this thing rubber-stamped as a national treasure. After that, I want guards protecting it around the clock from the uncreative riff-raff (read: lawyers) who put their stinking bodies all over it as they wile away their 10 minute lunch breaks talking about incomprehensible things like stock portfolios. And truffle oil. Also, please do not be alarmed if you happen to walk past the corner of Burke and William Street in Melbourne and you see a playwright hugging an ugly-ass brown sculpture and pleading with it to give her the ideas. No. Just keep walking …