Of Muses and Madness

I believe it was Spinoza, a 17th century philosopher, who told the story of a rock that was picked up and thrown some distance. While this rock was in mid flight it miraculously gained consciousness and looking down at the ground as it sped along said to itself , "Amazing! I can fly!"

I'm reminded of this because it's much the way I feel about writing. It's instinctual and I don't really have a plan or a goal when I sit down and start typing. If I'm lucky there's a line in my head that I put forward and from that the rest flows. Sometimes though I can write for hours and then feel I have to throw it all away. I'm writing this piece because I'm in a self referential mood tonight and this time of year does provoke the change agent in all of us.

Last year I started posting these thoughts and feelings of mine to really only one person. The rest of you are just innocent bystanders. There was someone out there who I wanted to get to know me, see what I had inside. I wanted to share my insights, fears, hopes, dreams, the whole gamut with her. Someone who had become in a fashion, my muse. We could never communicate effectively, she and I, in the real world, our languaging was always overtaken by the walls we created when we got near each other.

I hadn't written in years and it was her light that spurred me on, though in honesty, I don't believe she would have volunteered for the role of muse. She has strong internal conflicts to deal with and my presence was like water on a hot skillet, dancing her emotions in random directions with a sound that demanded attention. In turn, she managed to cut me in many ways. Some muses are gentle sprites, bent over shoulder, whispering into the artist's ear, mine preferred the harshness of promise and denial.

You ask at this point - couldn't you have found a better muse? Well, let's go back to that rock. I'd been emotionally asleep for many years. Right or wrong she woke me up and briefly I was flying - I had wings and the moon was my goal. Sure I could could have wished for the fairy tale but sometimes it's not about the princess being rescued by a knight riding in on a white charger. It's just two people, both sorely flawed and scared at the prospect of someone truly coming to know them. Both deeply fearing the loss of control in a relationship and being disoriented by the incandescence that love sears you with.

I'm able to write this now though because I've found my voice again on the written page and in opening up I've realized that it's not healthy to have a muse that twists your soul. There are more graceful ways to move through life. Perhaps I'll discover another muse or more likely strike out on my own. I enjoy these exercises in rumination and will certainly continue. Thank you for your kind support. I do get a bit wistful thinking that my words, my heart, might have touched her, opened a crack in some wall inside that was erected long ago, but she's never read these stories and probably never will.