Chapter 40: Peter gets his mojo back
Ok, I had a few worried emails after my last submission. My mother said "Don't nap. Napping is for old people." My friend Gaspar telephoned - and absolutely no one telephones these days - and said "After your last email, everyone is saying that you're not doing so well". My ex, Max, said "You need therapy. Still."
Well, I'm happy to report that I got my mojo back. My 10 day slump and dalliance with writers' block is over. I stick my thumb on my nose, wiggle my fingers and say "nyah, nyah, nyah". The slump de-slumped, the muse came back, and all is well in the world. For those who care how my writing is going, how I forced that bitch muse to come back to me when she was fleeing as fast as her mythical little legs could carry her, check out my other blog How I Gave Birth to a Novel (link on right). I just updated it, after a weekend intensive writers' workshop.
Not much is happening in my life, aside from writing. But I have been having some weird dreams. The other day I had a wet dream, that I was having sex with my best friend Ruth. On its own, this is disturbing enough. We're both gay, and have known each other twenty years or more, and I have never really been attracted to women, and I've only had a couple of wet dreams in my life. But the most disquieting, most unnerving, most shocking thing of all is that in my dream Ruth had an absolutely ENORMOUS GIGANTIC pubic bush, with crinkly ash-grey hairs at least 5-6 inches long, and even worse still I found this quite exciting. (In my dream, of course; in reality it's..., well, I don't really know how to describe how it makes me feel. I lack vocabulary for this emotion. Perhaps there is a word in German.)
Of course, I immediately sent an emergency email to Ruth, asking her to please, for the love of God, confirm that she does trim her pubic bush, and that my dream wasn't some kind of psychic divination of an awful secret truth.
Subsequently, a friend of mine, who's done quite a lot of study dream analysis, asked me some very pointed questions about the dream, and then pronounced authoritatively "It means you miss your mother." Strange to say, but as soon as I heard his deconstruction of the dream, I recognized the clarion ring of truth. That is what the dream means.
What else? Who watched Eurovision? Wonderful entertainment, although clearly from a comedic rather than musical point of view. It's as though the organizers held an anti-talent contest. The girl from France, well, my ear still hurts from her song. And the woman from Ukraine looked like a peculiarly horrid mix between Pia Zadora and JonBenet Ramsey, the three year old beauty queen child, who was found murdered in her parents' basement. I've put some little photos at the side to help you. (No, the Ramsey parents were never convicted of her murder; they moved to Atlanta. You can look it up on Wikipedia.) As for Eurovision, no nation with a population of less than five million people should ever put up a musical act for this over-the-hill contest. It just makes watchers think that there is something, well, slightly insane about Lithuanians, or Maltese.
Today is so cold and grey that my fingers froze on the handlebars of my bicycle, and I had to stop at Max Brenner, a shop which specializes in hot chocolate drinks. I asked for an Italian Milk Chocolate drink, and was given a pot of melted chocolate. I feel like Augustus Gloop, from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, after he fell into the chocolate river and was sucked up by the pipe. It's four hours later, and I still feel more than a little nauseous. Bye for now. Love ya all.
Oh, one more thing: Would someone please post a comment on my blog? Pretty Please?
Well, I'm happy to report that I got my mojo back. My 10 day slump and dalliance with writers' block is over. I stick my thumb on my nose, wiggle my fingers and say "nyah, nyah, nyah". The slump de-slumped, the muse came back, and all is well in the world. For those who care how my writing is going, how I forced that bitch muse to come back to me when she was fleeing as fast as her mythical little legs could carry her, check out my other blog How I Gave Birth to a Novel (link on right). I just updated it, after a weekend intensive writers' workshop.
Not much is happening in my life, aside from writing. But I have been having some weird dreams. The other day I had a wet dream, that I was having sex with my best friend Ruth. On its own, this is disturbing enough. We're both gay, and have known each other twenty years or more, and I have never really been attracted to women, and I've only had a couple of wet dreams in my life. But the most disquieting, most unnerving, most shocking thing of all is that in my dream Ruth had an absolutely ENORMOUS GIGANTIC pubic bush, with crinkly ash-grey hairs at least 5-6 inches long, and even worse still I found this quite exciting. (In my dream, of course; in reality it's..., well, I don't really know how to describe how it makes me feel. I lack vocabulary for this emotion. Perhaps there is a word in German.)
Of course, I immediately sent an emergency email to Ruth, asking her to please, for the love of God, confirm that she does trim her pubic bush, and that my dream wasn't some kind of psychic divination of an awful secret truth.
Subsequently, a friend of mine, who's done quite a lot of study dream analysis, asked me some very pointed questions about the dream, and then pronounced authoritatively "It means you miss your mother." Strange to say, but as soon as I heard his deconstruction of the dream, I recognized the clarion ring of truth. That is what the dream means.
What else? Who watched Eurovision? Wonderful entertainment, although clearly from a comedic rather than musical point of view. It's as though the organizers held an anti-talent contest. The girl from France, well, my ear still hurts from her song. And the woman from Ukraine looked like a peculiarly horrid mix between Pia Zadora and JonBenet Ramsey, the three year old beauty queen child, who was found murdered in her parents' basement. I've put some little photos at the side to help you. (No, the Ramsey parents were never convicted of her murder; they moved to Atlanta. You can look it up on Wikipedia.) As for Eurovision, no nation with a population of less than five million people should ever put up a musical act for this over-the-hill contest. It just makes watchers think that there is something, well, slightly insane about Lithuanians, or Maltese.Today is so cold and grey that my fingers froze on the handlebars of my bicycle, and I had to stop at Max Brenner, a shop which specializes in hot chocolate drinks. I asked for an Italian Milk Chocolate drink, and was given a pot of melted chocolate. I feel like Augustus Gloop, from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, after he fell into the chocolate river and was sucked up by the pipe. It's four hours later, and I still feel more than a little nauseous. Bye for now. Love ya all.
Oh, one more thing: Would someone please post a comment on my blog? Pretty Please?
posted by Peter at 10:53 PM
2 Comments:
Thanks Jack-with-a-twist. But who are you, exactly? Hard to tell from that delightful body hidden behind the locker, and I know one Jack, but he lives in London...
Peter... I looked at Andrew Sullivan's blog today (yeah that Andrew) and saw someone had posted a photo from his/her window in Sydney. So I immediately came here to your blog to check on you..
I still have wet dreams at my age and I usually wake up not remembering who I dreamed about (OK too much info) but yours takes the cake. I wonder what your friend Ruth had to say about it
When/Where are going on your summer tour? Will we cross paths at some point?
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