Inspiration, in prose.

I could break this up into verses, lines, quatrains, tercets, but...I'd rather not. I write in blocks, large things that Gutenberg and Adlus Manutius might have appreciated had they survived the centuries (perhaps they have) of plague, war, famine, plague, and more war before the wars to end all wars that rocked this century and raised the body count to levels that I pray to the angel of history we never meet again, before coming into this modern era of ours. Of yours, of mine. My left hand is falling half-asleep. Which will make typing interesting. I do so love a challenge. At least I'm not writing this out by hand--though one of these days, just to give you an idea of my writing style, I might just post a photograph or two of my handwriting, a cross between runes, Early Medieval Irish, and Carolingian minuscule. For now, though, make due with the words that blossom on the page before me like those little flowers whose names I always forget. Trillium, I think it is. I have ridiculously fond memories (they should not be that fond, but I do not pick what my mind attaches itself to from my distant past) associated with that plant and walks in the Warren Woods when I would have been...eight, maybe nine, ten, and all the countless strolls (once a week) in those woods or the nearby dunes of the same name, some with an Estonian woman, her (now divorced) husband, and their kid in addition to the usual troop of the four parent academic family that somehow raised Rachel(Artist and Fairy (because fairies can turn into dolphins), Mike (PhD, Computer Science/Math Genius), Gena (world-saver extraordinaire and my sister), and myself (perpetually introduced in high school as "Gena's brother" and sometimes, "Thane of Quizbowl"). I learned something recently, well, was reminded of, I suppose I learned it four years ago and just misplaced it somewhere in the archive of my mind. There was a rumor at my high school that I carried a gun around in my greatcoat--not just any gun, mind you, but a flintlock or something equally old and antiquated yet still deadly. In reality, I carried only a slightly pointed piece of flint for protection, something that still rests on my bedside table (one of those tables, anyway), though I don't think I would have noticed if the school administration searched my locker for any such 'contraband' as I was rumored to possess. I hate guns...well, firing ones. I have an obsession with getting an old rifle stock and transforming it into a Last of the Mohicans style warclub. What can I say other than that I have weird obsessions, but you probably knew that already. At least, I hope some of you did.
I find myself writing poetry about the strangest of things. Well, perhaps not the strangest, but...things of a nature other than I'd expect to find myself writing on. Anthropology, history, sex, gods, demons, and my favorite contemporary artist, Steven Archer. I think I have five of his paintings in my room, all propped up on different shelves and half of them (only half?) with quotes or themes relating to my pale interpretation of Sufism, Zen, and other such things...the other two pieces were commissioned after quotes I sent in, and are both of a sort of futurist monastic bent. I like them, perhaps immoderately. Of course, I'm socially awkward to a horrific degree when it comes to actually meeting such luminaries of the biopunk and goth world, and if I remember to smile (the last time I saw Ego Likeness in concert, I was on a massive cocktail of antibiotics that had me hallucinating and being very allergic to the sun, amongst other side effects in an attempt to cure a case of chronic prostatitis, which still dogs me, and I imagine there was a bit of a dazed look in my eyes, dazed, crazed, something) I consider that a victory in the Victory at Sea sense of the word. I hold fucking ticker tape parades. As...where the hell was I? I scrolled up and started writing about something else, and what started as a brief prelude ended up slightly longer than expected. Poetry, yes, poetry. I write during class, just scribble words next to one another on page after page, my left hand, the one with the stigmata on the back, soaked in red ink like blood. Speaking of stigmata, it is the Feast of St. Francis today, so...go be nice to an animal, give away everything you have, and live like a respectable person should. I'm always a fan of religious organizations which say "Less is More" and then mean it. One of these days, I hope to work up the nerve to try that sort of detachment for myself. Well, it isn't something you can try much as it is something you must live and breathe--at least that is what I've learned from all my research into the subject and discussions with folks who have lived as monastics for a time. My father, actually, is one such Jesuit-refugee, though I part of him never really left the seminary of Shadowbrook, Lennox, Mass. Shadowbrook is now a Kripalu yoga retreat and Reiki center--Duke, my mother's older brother, heads up there once or twice a year for retreats and to escape the general hectic nature of his life. I've never asked if such things actually work, but I imagine that they do, and...hope they work for my lover and I, as we will probably be embarking on a short venture in the Providence Zen Center this coming summer. Especially if she decides to go to Brown for her graduate work in Art History. Poetry, poetry, poetry. Right. I think people in my various classes are starting to notice that I'm just scribbling away like a madman. I usually take notes, too, though, so the verse just kind of flows from my brain when it does, and my notebooks are a strange mixture of notes (written in verse) and poems--written either in prose form or verse depending on the way my mind is working at a particular moment. My fingers tend to lock around the pen, reminding me of the year I spent in seclusion from the very act of writing things by hand aside from personal correspondence, reminding me how very out of practice my body is, my mind is, everything about me is, to this new academic pursuit in a field (I was a medievalist, I was going to be a fucking great medievalist, tweed jacket, elbow patches, muttonchops and all...now...somehow, because it is what is necessary, required, I am getting an M.A. in English from a community college whose threshold I swore I would never cross.) that is almost entirely alien to me, discussing things that I really have no cause to be discussing. Still, I hope they'll give me a degree in a year's time and send me on my way, traveling to wherever my lover is getting her very own shiny Master's degree. And then? Doctorates for both of us. Tweed jackets, a greyhound, a mattress, minimalist furnishings and overflowing bookshelves. Most of all, us.
And now...I'd say I'm going to turn in, but that would be a lie, as my lover is still next to me, writing away furiously on Yeats. Goodnight to all, though, all the same.
With luck, I might be able to write more on this general theme (inspiration, historic muses, etc) tomorrow.