That voice in my head, every time I think it's gone, it keeps howling back. It calls me when I'm ailing. When I can't find my way home. Lost in the pines. I calls it the black snake moan. Having recently finished the first book in the Dexter series, Darkly Dreaming Dexter, I've been thinking about the idea of a dark passenger. I've even written something about it before because I can't help muse over the idea that there's something a little bit crazy in me, and then I read a book like that and my little mind goes swirling even further down the rabbit hole.
I spent the better part of two mornings ago so antsy, so restless I couldn't focus on anything. Not reading comics, not watching TV and definitely not writing. I started to wonder what was going on with me. I thought maybe I had lost something necessary (like my mind) and that I'd never get it back, but then my mind strayed back to this dark passenger idea.
For those of you who don't know what this is (and please, finish this post before you freak out and call the police on me), the dark passenger is what Dexter calls the voice inside his head that prompts him to kill. The voice in my head doesn't demand the same things out of me, but there's a little nag sometimes, just a tickle at the back of my brain, that has a few suggestions.
This thought then lead me to another pop culture reference (I'm full of 'em) that seemed to suggest similar things. The movie Black Snack Moan, quoted above, is about a girl with a sickness that a very southern Samuel L. Jackson tries to drive out of her. It's a really powerful film that I can't recommend too much because my mom reads this blog and it has its non-mother appropriate scenes. Back on track though, Mr. Jackson calls this feeling she gets, and the one he gets too, the black snake moan. It's even underscored in the film by the sound of a snake's hiss and rattle. It makes for some very tense imagery.
What all this is leading to, in the most roundabout way possible it seems, is that I'm no different. I don't need to kill and I doubt I'll end up chained to a radiator in a southern shack, but that morning a few days ago, the one that genuinely scared me, suggests that even the best of us aren't above a little voice inside their head.
Artists are just different because we call it our "muse."