Jared J. H. CatapanoI miss having a muse...
May 21st 2008 05:12
During the lead up towards the end of my 20's, I have noticed that one thing has been lacking from my life for the last few years; having a muse.
Having a muse is a beautiful thing, they fill you with the utmost joy as well as the utmost sadness. Thinking of them relieves stress, makes you feel warm inside and fuels your passions, good or bad.
Sounds the same as a 'crush' doesn't it, but having a muse is something different.
In the Trubadour tradition (circa 12th Century), love was something to be committed to from a distance, letting your imagination soar with possibilities, hopes, dreams, all the while the object of your affection was held at arms length (or longer), as not to destroy the pillar you have placed them upon.
Instead of jumping on the hottest example of woman-hood, hoping they'll 'take what you have to give them'.
Or you could go back to ancient Greece, where the 9 Muses were water nymphs that inspired those who heard them sing or saw them at play. Of course if you got too close they might inspire something terrible, as it wasn't thier job to determine what came out of you, but rather that it just came out.
Such is the nature of muses.
A muse sets you on fire, makes your mind swim with words, pours heavenly energy into your body. You could go for a run, completly tire yourself out, but thinking of your muse you're topped up again. Sure, your body may feel tired, but your mind is still alive, still burning with thoughts.
Motivation as a concept almost dissapates. You stop worrying about motivation when you have a muse because you are filled with it. The outpouring becomes unstoppable. You may fill up notebooks with bad poetry, crazy story ideas, thoughts and dreams that may sound like complete gibberish or worse, sociopathic, but at least you're EXPRESSING yourself.
All the while your muse goes about thier lives, flitting into yours every once in a while to give your soul a kick in the butt and get you out of your rutts.
Such is the nature of muses.
They come and go, but you miss them from the moment they step out the door, their last smile's searing into your mind.
I had a major muse during my early 20's, she knows who she is and we are still great friends, but in terms of her being my muse, well, I gave her up when I moved countries. Still something I kind of regret doing, but hey, I wouldn't be here, writing this if I had stayed.
She was great. Completly unlike me, which is probably why she intreguid so. But did she light a fire in me. Woah.
I have BOOKS filled with words that came out of me when I thought of her. Just having her close filled my mind to capacity, and I let it out.
We never descended into a relationship, never kissed with our tongues. I never let the concrete come into my flowing mind, as much as parts of me would YELL at me to do so. Partly from fear, partly from the fact that I didn't want to take her off the pedestal. She was perfect, as long as I kept her perfect.
She is still in my life, but I must admit, she no longer stokes the fire as once she did. Over the years she and I have become the best of friends, and I am more than happy with just that.
Better than if she dissappeared completly from my life.
I had another muse a few years ago, which then turned into some kind of pseudo-relationship which then fell apart. She was a good muse for a time, but man, did she screw my mind. She became real, TOO real, and my illusions were shattered.
Such is the nature of reality.
I have had a couple of muse-like stirrings since then, but nothing worthy of making me pick up my pen and spew my feelings out on paper. Or shaking me out of my habits, out of my rutts. They aren't powerful enough, or maybe I'm not making them powerful enough.
As a consequence, all my feelings are still inside, so I kind of feel sorry for my next muse. She is in danger of drowning.
Or I could just be smoking too much pot...
Such is the nature of muses...
Having a muse is a beautiful thing, they fill you with the utmost joy as well as the utmost sadness. Thinking of them relieves stress, makes you feel warm inside and fuels your passions, good or bad.
Sounds the same as a 'crush' doesn't it, but having a muse is something different.
In the Trubadour tradition (circa 12th Century), love was something to be committed to from a distance, letting your imagination soar with possibilities, hopes, dreams, all the while the object of your affection was held at arms length (or longer), as not to destroy the pillar you have placed them upon.
Or you could go back to ancient Greece, where the 9 Muses were water nymphs that inspired those who heard them sing or saw them at play. Of course if you got too close they might inspire something terrible, as it wasn't thier job to determine what came out of you, but rather that it just came out.
Such is the nature of muses.
A muse sets you on fire, makes your mind swim with words, pours heavenly energy into your body. You could go for a run, completly tire yourself out, but thinking of your muse you're topped up again. Sure, your body may feel tired, but your mind is still alive, still burning with thoughts.
Motivation as a concept almost dissapates. You stop worrying about motivation when you have a muse because you are filled with it. The outpouring becomes unstoppable. You may fill up notebooks with bad poetry, crazy story ideas, thoughts and dreams that may sound like complete gibberish or worse, sociopathic, but at least you're EXPRESSING yourself.
Such is the nature of muses.
They come and go, but you miss them from the moment they step out the door, their last smile's searing into your mind.
I had a major muse during my early 20's, she knows who she is and we are still great friends, but in terms of her being my muse, well, I gave her up when I moved countries. Still something I kind of regret doing, but hey, I wouldn't be here, writing this if I had stayed.
She was great. Completly unlike me, which is probably why she intreguid so. But did she light a fire in me. Woah.
I have BOOKS filled with words that came out of me when I thought of her. Just having her close filled my mind to capacity, and I let it out.
We never descended into a relationship, never kissed with our tongues. I never let the concrete come into my flowing mind, as much as parts of me would YELL at me to do so. Partly from fear, partly from the fact that I didn't want to take her off the pedestal. She was perfect, as long as I kept her perfect.
She is still in my life, but I must admit, she no longer stokes the fire as once she did. Over the years she and I have become the best of friends, and I am more than happy with just that.
Better than if she dissappeared completly from my life.
I had another muse a few years ago, which then turned into some kind of pseudo-relationship which then fell apart. She was a good muse for a time, but man, did she screw my mind. She became real, TOO real, and my illusions were shattered.
Such is the nature of reality.
I have had a couple of muse-like stirrings since then, but nothing worthy of making me pick up my pen and spew my feelings out on paper. Or shaking me out of my habits, out of my rutts. They aren't powerful enough, or maybe I'm not making them powerful enough.
As a consequence, all my feelings are still inside, so I kind of feel sorry for my next muse. She is in danger of drowning.
Or I could just be smoking too much pot...
Such is the nature of muses...
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Comment by Anonymous
ps - which 'parts of you' were you talking about? ha