Please Don't Stare At My Necker Cubes

Do not marry an artist. Marry a doctor who thinks your creative aspirations are cute and charming but irrelevent to the machinations of daily life.

We compete for creative space, Dave and I. This morning, I said "I think I'll go write for half an hour." I wanted to be alone in the bedroom. I wanted my head all to myself, I wanted quiet. Sure, he said. But then he decided it was an opportune time for him to finish this song he's been working on. He's in the pushing stage of labour on this one, and the guitar is yelping and cawing and fucking beating itself against my ears like the fist of a bully.

And I shouldn't complain. Because he's good, he's really good about letting me have space. He never says, "Do you have to do that now?" or "Why don't you finish the dishes first?" or "Suck my dick, bitch, I'm agonna punchya inna face agin if ya keeps up wif-ese gall-darsh craaaaazy ideas!"


It's just that every single time I sit down to write, he pulls out the guitar.


Guitars are loud. Songs, belted out from the core of one's being, they're loud too.


Yesterday he took Ava out to the hardware store for over an hour~ I could have written then. Instead I fell asleep with the cat on my face.

He writes with his guitar in-hand, he doesn't understand the need for quietness, in fact I'm sure he would be astonished to find that I am bothered by him playing while I write in the other room. Which is why I will direct him, innocently, to this blog. Because I'm passive-aggressive that way.