Geoffrey Tennant (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
visitation) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
dear_mun2014-09-01 04:09 pm
visitation) wrote in dear_mun2014-09-01 04:09 pm
Entry tags:
canon is slings & arrows
Perhaps this is it. The undiscovered country. Death, or purgatory, or something worse. Confined by an unworthy mind and bent into uncreative fucking servility. No, this is Hell, isn't it? I thought I was living it before, but this... This, really...
I mean look at it. Look at you. "Mundane". It says it all, doesn't it? As if mundanity is something to aspire to, although I suppose the intended implication is some unattainable quality in myself in contrast to your own dull failings. Don't feel bad, most people are idiots, you simply can't compete. So you grant in me a poetic superiority; something to be coveted, captured, enslaved. You are mundanity, and I am the "Muse", like Shakespeare's tenth muse, I suppose; his secret lover. [ Geoffrey tilts his hand first one way and then the other. ] But make of that what you will. You're certainly no bard.
Ah, you get that? You like it? Flatterer. Muse, yes. Inspiration, spirit--ah, spirit. We know all about those, don't we? And speaking of brandy... What? How can it be "too early"? It can be any time of day you wish, can't it, so why not thrust the sun of your limited imagination up past the yardarm and do us all a big favor? After all, what should I do but tend upon the hours and times of your desire? Yes, a drink. I'd like a damn drink. I think I've earned one. You should have one too, it might help with this-- [ More hand waving, his brows creased. ] --this...whatever this is. It's unbearable. You're making me ramble. I sound like a crazy person.
[ A pause, and he scratches at his ear, rubs his hand through his already bed-messed crazy-hair. ]
Okay, a crazier person. You're still doing it. Stop it right now.
I mean look at it. Look at you. "Mundane". It says it all, doesn't it? As if mundanity is something to aspire to, although I suppose the intended implication is some unattainable quality in myself in contrast to your own dull failings. Don't feel bad, most people are idiots, you simply can't compete. So you grant in me a poetic superiority; something to be coveted, captured, enslaved. You are mundanity, and I am the "Muse", like Shakespeare's tenth muse, I suppose; his secret lover. [ Geoffrey tilts his hand first one way and then the other. ] But make of that what you will. You're certainly no bard.
Ah, you get that? You like it? Flatterer. Muse, yes. Inspiration, spirit--ah, spirit. We know all about those, don't we? And speaking of brandy... What? How can it be "too early"? It can be any time of day you wish, can't it, so why not thrust the sun of your limited imagination up past the yardarm and do us all a big favor? After all, what should I do but tend upon the hours and times of your desire? Yes, a drink. I'd like a damn drink. I think I've earned one. You should have one too, it might help with this-- [ More hand waving, his brows creased. ] --this...whatever this is. It's unbearable. You're making me ramble. I sound like a crazy person.
[ A pause, and he scratches at his ear, rubs his hand through his already bed-messed crazy-hair. ]
Okay, a crazier person. You're still doing it. Stop it right now.