I went out to a bar that opened recently in this town. I fought my way through to the bar. Two women languishing there looked at me. Don't look at me I thought. Got to have my brain properly anesthetized before I can deal with having this many people around. They were not so happy with the most likely crazy person standing there waiting for a beer and saying nothing. After I got my beer, I stepped back from the bar and had a look around while guarding my beer from all the crowd of people who were seemingly determined to run into it and pour it down the front of me. Band doing greasy renditions of 80's tunes, check. People milling about endlessly, check. Everyone in some state of somewhat desperate display, check. This is a meat market. I would have thought the town was too small for this sort of thing. Everyone here must know everyone else's business - how could you go out and pick up someone without it being universal knowledge to everyone at Sunday School? Somehow, whenever I stand in an empty spot in these places, this becomes the spot everyone absolutely must, absolutely must walk through, even if it is a corner leading nowhere. I migrated here and there and eventually ended up behind the two women once again. A fellow walked up to them in full conviction of his excellence. This was not looking so convincing to me, but no trace of doubt was troubling him. He spoke to them for some time, but inevitably was found to be unworthy and sent away, no trace of a dent on his own inherent excellence to be seen. Afterwords it was of course necessary to discuss the exact nature and details of his unworthiness, a conversation that I was perhaps fortunately too far away to hear over the band. The guardians of the gates of paradise, as they seemingly style themselves in these places, are very particular. They are evidently seeking some very particular magic incantation which must delivered in exactly the right form. I see no chance that I will ever guess the words, and if I do, I shall surely pause a little too long, or not quite long enough, or stutter ever so slightly.

Lyrics:

In the gaze of an unknown
person on the street I see
a blind slow thing
has marked my scent
If I am quiet
it may yet pass me by
It does not quite yet know
just who it seeks

Chorus:
Progress of illusions
oh solid dreaming
you make the world
we wander through
this is all there is
this is everything
I thought I saw you
I saw only dreams
I saw only mist

The figure is alone
on the road
its landscape
It will approach you
as you walk towards it
It is faceless
as are you
as are you

People all made of destinations
wander to and fro
wander to and fro
We are revealed and consumed
turned out from underneath
our leaves and stones
For small translucent grubs
the light is not easy
shining through us like
tissue paper
The light is not easy

Coming to terms with my particular muse has been an arduous journey. I believe in the romantic notion of a muse, for it is certainly not me who produces any of the things I create, at least those with any merit, and it is she as well with certainty. I have certainly been a great disappointment to her, for my fingers are too clumsy to play the melodies she generously bestows upon me, and she is very impatient, never repeating anything if not caught the first time. She has little interest or time for words, though I insist on lyrics, she grants them sparingly, and only in fragments.

I should be getting to my accounting homework, but for some reason it is not calling to me. Strangely, I am always running into my accounting teacher in the restroom - this is somewhat scary to me. I observed that there must be a special rack at the optometrist's for accountants while we spoke about why it had ever occurred to me to take the class. See, have a look at these... For instance this pair will most excellently enhance your standing in your chosen profession.
A girl in class asked for my notes. She has a long list of girlfriends who appear, languish in the hall waiting for her to notice, and then evaporate, though, unlike the barista girl, she does appear to understand the concept of friend. One of them in particular was working for me, more than I was even thinking. In imagination, her orgasms were all soft, without sharp edges to be found in them at all. I would like to ask whether she had found this to be so, but somehow it didn't seem to be a conversation starter. Her current girlfriend appeared while she was copying notes. This one is not to be moved in the slightest by any flattery of male attention. She was slightly put out that attention of her friend did not immediately turn to her.
The first moment when I began to suspect the barista was similarly inclined was when I saw her together with a girl who was so utterly furious at the world, that I have decided to think of her as "The Avenging Lioness." I had the impression this girl utterly hated men, and that she had perfectly good reason to do so. Further confirmation came when I read the barista's blog - public at the time - which contained an excellent poem. So good I felt compelled to say that I wished I could write as well. This encouraged her to investigate her privacy settings of course, small surprise. Though I wish one day for a bit less twitchiness from the female species, I will evidently be waiting for a long while for this fine day.

The girl making my latte very determinedly forgot me this morning. I could stand there for as long as I pleased, my existence was not to be admitted to under any circumstances. I cannot exactly name my offense, being male is always an excellent start to an endless list. Eventually one of the other baristas took pity on me. Now, I thought, I know you will only be even meaner to me if I let you get away with this - but I had no particular line to skip across the coffee machine at her. I am not well supplied with lines, never have one available when needed. I wonder, I thought in her direction, do you know that feeling? You are rolling along down the road, apparently making excellent progress, and suddenly, clank, and a hubcap is rolling down the road. This can't be good... Wonder if the whole vehicle will come unglued? Do you people ever have such moments, I thought in her direction. I should perhaps say this, but I know from excellent experience that this sort of thing will only confuse. Communication with the female species must always be perfect and exactly as expected, or one is doomed. There is of course the option of tying a bad tie around one's forehead and assuming one's most determined superhero expression - this can work as well.