My Muse Harland

BY DAN BURT

My muse Harland is in rehab. I knew it was only a matter of time, especially after his drunken plummet down the stairs last week. I heard the tumbling behind me, clunk, clunk, clunk, clunk, etc. (clunk). Whirling around in my desk chair, I saw Harland cascading downward like a panicked kayaker, flailing his paddle arms, trying to stop the inevitable plunge over a flood-engorged waterfall. He hit the wall hard at the bottom of the stairs, expelling with a loud grunt what little air he had in his lungs.

There he lay in a crumpled heap of white chiffon. His platinum blond wig balanced like a sleeping arctic fox halfway up the stairs. Despite the horrendous fall, Harland leaped to his feet, retrieving the wig and screwing it on his head a bit crookedly. I guess drunk muses are resilient that way. The neighbors heard nothing. The crashing falls of my muse Harland are silent to non-writers.

"Harland, are you OK?" I said, getting up from my chair.

"I'm fine," Harland said in a low, deep, somewhat slurry voice. "I mean, I'm fine," he now said, raising his voice 14 octaves to sound like an inebriated, cross-dressing muse trying to sound like a peppy starlet on the first day of her inaugural porno shoot. He brushed off his dress, then pulled the top of the strapless gown up over his hirsute pectorals. "Don’t wait up," he said, stumbling to the door. "Harlow's getting her party on."

Harland liked to refer to himself as Harlow when he was all dolled up. He had been dolling up quite a bit lately. But even when he was around to inspire my writing, I was apprehensive about the ideas he suggested.

"Get your guitar, boots, and hat, I feel a country song coming on: 'Don’t Dog-Ear My Love After You Bookmark My Heart.'"

"Write a children's Christmas book titled 'Yule Scream' featuring Little 'Stabby' Sweetleaf as a serial killing elf."

"Ahoy! How about an epic seafaring tale about the intrepid ship Moon Shark navigating rough seas to deliver barrels of Old Spice."

"Ever thought of writing a western set on the moon? Would it still be considered a western? Maybe lunar lit...with horses."

"The story needs more conflict. Try adding some drunks with chainsaws."

"Who would suspect the murderer to be an evil pulsating shower head?"

"You should write your own personal theme song."

"What if you wrote a story about waking up with hooves? Probably not so astonishing if the character in question were a pony."

"There's not enough stories about Victorian chimney sweeps."

"You could totally write the shit out of a book about geriatric dating."

A word of explanation: Harland advised me to do this after he found several shawls around my apartment, left there by some of my octogenarian dates. I was inspired to gather the shawls and mail them back to the nursing home. Ultimately, he was wrong, though. After I spent months writing Dating Eighties Ladies, the book sucked. Maybe he meant I could totally write a shit book about geriatric dating, in which case, his stoned, drunk ass was correct.

I became concerned for Harland's mental health as the crazy talk continued, crazy talk approaching levels of articulation only found among hobos suffering from lead poisoning.

"We should start an all-dulcimer garage band."

"The pleasant weather reminds me of the cool, fall nights I spent alone at your place trying on your girlfriend's underwear."

"I'm putting up a scarecrow because I think someone's trying to steal my ideas."

"I'm just saying, if these walls could talk, they would speak Portuguese and you wouldn't understand a goddamn thing."

"I'm not sure, but I think James Joyce also got his start writing subtitles for foreign, gay porno films."

"You know what would be dangerous and yummy? Volcano eruptions on a marshmallow archipelago...and taco bombs."

"There's something creepy about your coat rack."

When not paranoid and high from his "idea" bong, Harland attempted to motivate me with his own unique "encouragement."

"At least you still have your night-shift job at the pickled egg factory."

"When the reviewer said it was 'like someone had vomited on the page,' he wasn't being mean so much as he was trying sincerely to be accurate."

"So you've been rejected. So what! Remember when Punch editors rejected Henry Miller's hilarious 'Strep Cock' for their anthology? Me neither."

"Write that book, baby! If there's one thing this world needs right now it's more wild-eyed, quixotic dreamers."

Eventually, Harland's presence became practically non-existent; just a brief appearance and he was gone like a teenager with a car.

"Just received my invitation to the muse reunion. I've got to lose 20 pounds. If you need me, I'll be at the gym."

"Hey, you're the one with the deadline. I'm going on spring break."

"Dude, you don't fucking need me. Writing prompts are all around you. Like over there -- where could an armadillo possibly be going on a miniature Segway?" (For the record, I saw nothing).

"I'm sub-contracting muse duties to Bohdanko 'Bob' Drazkovic. You may need a translator."

Bob is my full-time muse now. Though there is somewhat of a language barrier, we communicate well telepathically. He seems to have a direct connection to my subconscious, consistently sending me ideas, albeit in a somewhat thick, but mostly understandable Eastern European accent.

Bob, his muse friends, and I conducted an intervention one morning when Harland came home bedraggled, drunk, and smelling of his own disgorgement, much like a former, peppy starlet arriving home after filming her 173th and 174th porno features in one night -- Cirque du Gangbang and Slam Her Time.

The intervention proceeded relatively smoothly with no protest from Harland because he had passed out cold when he walked through the door. Bob and the other muses transported him to the Muse Rehab Center in Muscatine, Iowa.

I packed Harland's things, had his evening gowns drycleaned and sent to him -- or rather, Bob took care of it. Bob's turned out to be extremely dependable and helpful since becoming my muse. In fact, it was Bob's idea to write this piece about Harland.