On Thoughts and...Mreh

I've come to the startling conclusion that, as a writer, what I read will inevitably begin to effect my temperment. This doesn't happen to me usually. At least not in the "bang flash" style. More sneakily does the poison creep up on me until I find that it's quite too late.

For example, I've been lumbering for a few months now through Crime and Punishment. Now, I usually enjoy Dostoevsky buuuuut this book is...well... insufferably boring. That does not mean its not enjoyable; but its just not fun, really.

And dry.
I could start a fire with it.

Is it coincidence then that my poetry has taken a complete nosedive since November? Or that the muse has completely stopped talking to me?

"I cannot work under these conditions Pierre! Bring me fire. Bring me wood...and oats, lots of them. Damn, damn, damn--I must have electricity!"

I'm almost done with reading it though, I swear. Then I'll begin Keats and Wilde again. If they aren't enough to coax the muse out from her blankets I think I will have to shoot her. But I wrote a little bit of verse today...nothing special, and nothing that I wanna show right now. But at least its a start, I hate myself every time I post up Verse Libre. Because I'm very awful at it... and shouldn't subject the rest of the you to hearing what I have to say.

Have another sacrifice? Yes?

Ka-Blewey