Imagine My Surprise: My Muse Came Back

I’m not a Swiftie, but my daughters are minor-league Swifties, so Vicki and I went with them to see Eras in a large-screen theater with Dolby Atmos sound. Our seats shook for three hours, even during the ballads. My daughter provided closed captioning (this song is about this famous guy, this is the lyric you missed―actually, if I just leaned over, I could her better as she sang along than I could Taylor). The theme of the concert was Swift singing about the different eras of her life.

My songs, to date, have been love songs. I wasn’t sure I’d write any more, so I commissioned No More To Say. Then it happened.

Somewhere during hour two, I felt that familiar tap on the shoulder. I rushed to the lobby to scribble down lyrics and titles. This effort isn’t going to be like my others; these will be intensely personal, not headed for Itunes or Spotify (yes, Paul, you’ll have to listen to them as a podcast), and I think I’ll sing them myself, once my tunesmith is done setting them to music.

I wanted to use the line “You look like my next mistake,” but all three of my women vetoed it on the grounds that it is trademarked by Taylor Swift.

A tiny handful of you would be interested in hearing these new songs; drop me a note if you are in that number and you’ll get a link when the job is done.

I don’t know how long this round will last. My muse has moved into the spare bedroom, but she only brought a toothbrush and a change of clothes. She left her steed at home. She only comes downstairs when I am writing―and, thank heavens, only when I’m awake.

This and That

OOPS! Babbling Beaver (previously mentioned here, this time without a link now that I know its true nature) is an abomination pretending to be a parody site. I apologize for posting the link and promise to do be more careful.

Plugging My Music, Again
Reports are dribbling in that people like the remastered versions of my love songs on the album Paul Sings Paul. Available in several forms (including Itunes and Spotify). Wait until you hear the strings and backup singers.

If You See My Muse
If you see my muse, let her know I miss her. A little. Sometimes. Well, OK, just say “Hi.” Only invite her in if you want her to move in and stay a while.

My Muse Moved Out

My muse moved out in the middle of the night. She left no forwarding address. She lived with me for 18 months: the average length of my pre-Vicki relationships (Vicki and I passed that milestone 42 years ago). Her parting gift to me: Paul Sings Paul (a forthcoming album). I don’t expect to see her again; Vicki says she’ll call if she wants to see me again. I don’t have her number, so I can’t call her.

I won’t miss the 4 a.m. wakeup calls, as she drove me to the keyboard. I will miss the artistic output. People (and entities) come into our lives, sometimes for a season and a reason. I’m not sure why she came, why she left, or whether she’ll be back. But the only constant is change, so I accept her absence.

My parting gift to her is the poem I once wrote about her:

My muse dropped in.
While I slept.
She left this poem.
And then she left.

Her golden horse she rode away.
I think she’ll be back some day
And when she comes for goodness sake.
I hope she’ll come when I’m awake.