Tormenting the Muse
Diabetes is the diagnosis several hours after midnight and right before my stomach begs a snack. Pinpricks and curling toes met by no pain or bruise kept me awake lasting long into sunrise. No matter how many blankets I don or sips of lemonade I take the prick, pinches, and grazes drive me mad with confusion. I know not where they came from and more so why they will not leave. The month was riddled with my midnight menace, but last night was a gift from no other than grace. Irony would have me write a poem to speak the pain and assuage my aggravated state of mind. Neither insulin nor antihistamine's can heal like a poem heals. Curled in a ball facing the wall I know writing would be a turning point for healing. I knew I needed to write, but despite pushing up on my legs to sit up, I fell to my left side motionless. As soon as the notion to write fell aside, words erupted from the well of darkness in my hands.
“It's not that you were born, I was not going to say that, she spoke so close to the window the reverberation landed in the bed. Then I realized the muse disappeared.
In my mind's eye, I saw the muse buckle over and fall to the floor. I assumed he was distracted from my elation to take time with that woman's discussion. Jealous, I thought my inspiration lost to evil words of a conversation long past. She had taken my mojo for sure – almost like some voodoo spell that made opposites so much so the same, that no blessing could tell the difference between whom spirit's hands were earned and who tried to fool grace. I was sure of nothing but loss until the visage of spirit did not leave for some time. He continued undulating on the floor grabbing his sides across his stomach. I was positive he found the poison in the ink was not from my pen.
From his pain I understood with such clarity I was shocked to where I stood. She called out the muse against me saying that she could do better than anything I write. She told the muse of pricks and pinches being nothing other than the debasement of slap and tickle. Her blatancy formed the audible floor in the middle of the neighborhood and the muses ears set to burning. Flames proceeded to consume him in the moments before landing before me in my mind. In that moment I knew that if you try to intercept and take someone's charge by the muse, you better be prepared. Tormenting the muse out of a jealousy and desperation will not save you from a blank page even when your reserves are in excess supply. Stealing the creative rites that come with abridging sleep is a matter for a witch and a neurologist. One is a classic thief. The other will delude you enough that you forget anything happened.
I remember the years my page stayed blank even after hours of distractions reading and observing. Strange I never looked in the mirror, but I did trip over into my own mind. Fantasy and play, the Gods ruled the day to teach me how to find my sources with which to write and paint. I call it building a well and the point is to maintain its depth. So you can understand muse, in whatever shape it comes, is vital to me and my well. Honoring ancient traditions are all that gets me through some works. Playing to the call of ancestors and their Gods makes for warm mornings in the studio as well as peaceful nights.
For you I say make peace with your muses and messengers. Honor other systems of generating ideas as well. For the day the black arrives and you can not think, you'll be more than prepared to work with removing the perceptual and physical barriers.
As ever, stay hungry and curious.
Happy late Winter Solstice to everyone and warm blessings for Christmas and the New Year!
Elsewise:
https://owlcation.com/humanities/The-Muses-The-Nine-Muses-Goddesses-of-Greek-Mythology
https://www.courant.com/entertainment/hc-famousmuses-pg-photogallery.html
https://writingcooperative.com/what-is-inspiration-bea326a516ea