I wish inspiration could be injected
intravenously, without delay. That
I could wrap a rubber band around
my arm and pull it tight with my
teeth. Then give myself several swi-
ft slaps with my middle and index
fingers to the inside crook of my arm
to pop the vein. Then without look-
ing, (because I am afraid of needles)
slowly insert the thin metal spear in
my skin and puncture the vein. Draw
back a bit of blood and watch it mix
with my concoction. Then voila: ins-
tant inspiration.
If only I could buy words by the bot-
tle, so I could guzzle them down by
the quart. And they could mix and
swirl, swash and stir, with all my
other bodily fluids. They could seep
into my veins, via my stomach lining,
and warm my body with a toxic glow.
The words would blur my vision, mu-
ddy my senses, and stumble my step.
Then, after I consume more words th-
an I can handle, I would projectile vo-
mit and spew the words all over the
page. Then the next morning I could
rearrange the words into something
remotely coherent.
But there is no such luck.
Instead I have to go toe-to-toe with
each word, each syllable, with the
utmost precision and vigilance.
And let me tell you, these word “St-
ing like a butterfly and float like a
bee”. I give a left jab, a right hook,
a shot to the kidneys, but it does
no good. Most of the time I am on
my heels; forced to be on the defense
But of course I take a hit, or twenty-
two. Until I am punch drunk,
and everything is brilliant to me.