2007-09-19: Who is your muse?
by Emily
A windswept lady with black hair, carrying a birch r0d and a whip. That was how I saw Vincent's muse while he was writing Kill Puppies for Satan. He's been very productive lately, but has looked much more relaxed. I bet his muse has a different mien.
My muse loves to drive. The liminal space between home and work is guilt free time that encourages my mind to drift into thinking mechanics or of crazy new situation generating tricks. I can see my muse with racing goggles and flyaway scarf. The car covering the miles seems to signal progress on my part.
Her latest trick is to wake me in the morning thinking thoughts of games and other schemes. For a full week, every day I'd get up and have to scrabble for the notebook by the head of my bed. Trying to get down what I'd been thinking as the sweet light of morning woke me.
I suspect my muse is using space carved out of my subconscious by a practice I've tried to keep since Spring: (almost) each morning I pull a Tarot card, and jot down what I think it might mean. Those receptive creative juices seem to have found a ready reception by my spirit of gaming inspiration. I can see her now, like the Queen of Pentacles I pulled this morning. Surrounded by lush growth, holding a star in her lap.
How about you?
2007-09-20 18:41:14 Emily
from shreyas' entry:
So he rose, and pulled her to his chest, and hand-in-hand they danced. Out the sickroom, into the hall, through the garden gate; the sun rose. Into the woods and across the hills; the moon set. To the River. Blackbird Lantern hesitated; his face burned as Feneng whispered, ???I trust you.???
beautiful...
2007-09-20 18:37:49 shreyas
2007-09-23 01:41:36 John Harper
My muse has a knife. I threw an apple to her some time ago, and she peeled it in one long strip. Then she sliced its flesh bit by bit, taking her time. She has been chewing the pieces thoughtfully, giving me a look, juice running down her chin.
The apple is almost gone! I'm getting worried about what happens next.
2007-09-24 12:44:58 Meguey
Currently, my muse is a little child, maybe 5 years old, with tangled pale wispy hair and a grin, dressed in an amazing shirt/dress/robe that is covered with thousands of fluttering strips of cloth, strands of beads, and lengths of yarn and sequins. My muses arms and legs are bare, but it wears wonderful rust-colored felted wool boots.
2007-09-24 12:44:58 Meguey
Currently, my muse is a little child, maybe 5 years old, with tangled pale wispy hair and a grin, dressed in an amazing shirt/dress/robe that is covered with thousands of fluttering strips of cloth, strands of beads, and lengths of yarn and sequins. My muses arms and legs are bare, but it wears wonderful rust-colored felted wool boots.
2007-09-25 20:13:17 Chris Moore
My muse is the wind. Inspiration = to breathe in = aha!= in spirit. I hope the wind blows my way again, soon.
2007-09-26 19:40:11 Ben Lehman
My muse is a girl named Rain, who was my fantasy crush when I was 14, excepting the times when it's just myself as a 14 year old.
yrs—
—Ben
2007-09-26 21:19:47 Julia
My muse is a guy. My husband bore a passing resemblance to him when we first met. As I got to know him, I realized, thankfully, that they're vastly different.
My muse wears plaid shirts and khaki or corduroy shorts. He's disheveled, scruffy, and blond. He's always in shorts. We usually meet on a ledge or the edge of something, and our meetings have an inspirational mix of discomfort, comfort, and tension. He often has a story about a time where he feared for my/his life, or felt alive because he/I was doing something dangerous, or about a time where he really could hear himself. He is of the opinion that I hear myself in the quiet just fine, and need to hear myself in the danger.
He tends to stand over me when I write about difficult, uncomfortable things. He and the devil who sits on my shoulder read my journal and mark my spelling errors. He made me go to GenCon. When I'm doing something safe, he says I don't need him, and he takes off in a huff.
When we were in Puerto Rico this summer, he coaxed me out into the water, each day a little further. He pushed me to swim out to ride the waves I really shouldn't have, given the fact I'm not a good swimmer. Each time I rode in on the surf, or came up from being pulled under by crashing waves, I'd see him standing on the beach, punching the air with fists of encouragement. When it was time to go he whispered, "You could have drowned out there", and we laughed.
2007-10-04 20:03:07 Vincent
Emily! Do you remember when I wrote this?
1-21-04
On the day that I make peace with religion, I take my muse by the hair and drown her in the mill pond.
Just a thought.
At the time I didn't know I'd get a new one.
2007-10-05 19:37:42 Emily
I do remember, Vincent. :)
You're just lucky, I guess, yes?
2007-10-07 22:19:15 Dave Cleaver
My muse lives in the shower. I've been trying to coax her out to help me elsewhere. Sometimes she rides with me to work, but that's as far as she will go.
2007-10-09 16:56:57 Emily
Your muse is shy, Dave? Showers seem to be popular places for them, though. I wonder what it is about them.
2007-10-10 23:20:31 misuba
My muse lives at my desk at work and obviously has been trying to get me fired for years.