Met up with Blatchford Sarnemington for a cup of coffee.The conversation went like this:
Mitch: Jeez, Blatchford, you look like hell. You remind me of something Bugs Bunny said on a Disney children’s record circa 1948: "What’s the matter, tortoise? Got rigor mortis?" What’s eating you, man? You used to be a good looking guy. Now you look like a hobgoblin or something.
Blatchford Sarnemington: I’m depressed. You know that line from Ashbery: "the plant realizes it will never be a tree"? That’s how I feel. I’m beginning to doubt that I’ll ever write a great poem and it’s plunging me into despair.
Mitch: Well, it’s interesting you should mention that. Do you know Pete Smigelski?
Blatchford Sarnemington: Of course I know him. He and I were partners in the industrial vacuum cleaner business for twenty-five years.
Mitch: Cool. So guess what? I just spoke with Pete Smigelski and he’s writing poems like a man on fire. But not long ago he was in the same condition you’re in now, maybe even worse. He was doing Eeyore, man, walking around all day like a donkey. Then he realized what his problem was: he didn’t have a muse. So he ran some ads on the Internet and he got this total fox to muse for him. Now he’s a writing machine. Good stuff too. He’s hitting ’em with the bases loaded, as Hemingway used to say.
Blatchford Sarnemington: A muse, eh? Well, that might work for Pete Smigelski but it wouldn’t help in my case. As Eliot put it, "I do not think they will sing for me."
Mitch: Or as Eeyore put it, "Hee haw, hee haw." Listen, Blatchford, if you want to make dysfunctional choices in your life go right ahead and wear the damn bottoms of your trousers rolled. Be a wuss if that’s what satisfies your needs. On the other hand, maybe what worked for Pete Smigelski could work for you. As Ashbery wrote, "When you’ve got nothing left to lose, get yourself a muse."
Blatchford Sarnemington: That’s Ashbery?
Mitch: Yes. Milton Ashbery.
Blatchford Sarnemington: (after a long pause) Well, I’ll think about it.
Mitch: Okay, bro. A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single shlep.
(to be continued)