The other night in writing group the concept of a Muse came up in group and we sat and discussed the classic muses and the fact that so many of them were dedicated to poetry – oh so much fucking poetry – and I started thinking about not just the flowing gown Muse, but the little things that inspire ideas Muse.
What makes a Muse? What makes us write, what makes us draw or paint or photograph? Are we all just dizzy drunk on glimmery sunlight, or swirly colors, lost inside of the melody, the trip of words on our tongues? What makes a Muse?
I don’t know, I suppose just having something catch the eye, the ear, the heart and knowing you have to spill that out of your head would be some kind of definition…
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
I think my favorite idea of the Muse comes from that thought of the Cult of the Muse being in the center of town, and how eventually they sort of morphed into Museums, and now we all linger about and see how the classic Muses have inspired others and maybe we become inspired and somehow that all circles into more and more and more and more inspiring. I think I would like to go to a Museum called Cult of the Muse, with lot of Fountains and people in very little clothing singing or reciting poetry.
I think I would like that, but a Museum with painting of that is good enough for now I suppose.
At least until I find the next Muse for myself.