Some people feel naked without their cellphones. They can’t go anywhere without them. Otherwise how would their family and friends and work be able to reach them. It’s awful when you call someone up and get a voice telling them they’re not available. Or even worse, the caller gets dead air. Or dead text.
More folks have been driven insane because of that one thing, dead cellphonitis, than in the entire million years or so of Cro Magnon insanity before. It’s a fact. You don’t believe me. Just check the government statistics. Oh, I forgot, Congress considered the funding for the Department of Cro Magnon Insanity an earmark and it’s out. So you’ll just have to take my word for it.
Some people feel naked without their makeup. And yes, ladies, that includes guys too. Have you seen what Gene Simmons of KISS looks like without makeup. Needless to say he makes Shrek look like Brad Pitt. No, these people can’t go anywhere without their lipstick or eye shadow or mascara.
But me, I feel naked without my lowly pen and pad. I was out and about the other afternoon, and suddenly the Muse, as she is wont to do, drops an idea out of the seventh dimension where all good ideas come from. And what do you know? I had left my pad and pen at home. These days it’s getting harder and harder to remember those juicy little tidbits that might make a good scene or a blog or a story that just needs telling. Unfortunately I had nary a thing to write on and now that brilliant idea has gone kerplop. I know it was brilliant. I just know it because it is the one that I can’t recall.
Which reminds me of the story of Hadley losing Hemingway’s stories on a train when he was living in Paris. Who knows? Maybe it was “A Perfect Day for Bananfish” and J. D. found it when he was off in Europe fighting the Big One for Truth, Justice and the American Way. We do know that the Salinger met the Maestro and was duly impressed.
All I know is that I just can’t place that story that the Muse dropped on my head. I do know it came because the darn thing hurt. It’s somewhere in my pea-brain. I know it is. But who knows. Some guy named Salinger may find it on a train traveling from Geneva to Paris and publish as his own. That is the way of muses, you know.
Has this ever happened to you?