It’s hard to imagine or explain the intrinsic affect a muse has on your internal world. It becomes a mass of confusion – exposed- and at the same time subsumed by a mantle of desire and resistance.
It’s agonal and Lazarus coming together.
The breath is excoriated by unannounced whimpers of assent, how to describe this whimper or expelling of tiny gasps, it’s like breathing in and out his spirit, the sound of a crampon digging into the snow.
It never materialises just vaporises throughout the body leaving a simulacra on the inner shell, curling slowly around the organs and resting on the libido, it’s a killing sensation of rapture.
The rapture when the breath peaks is pleasure beyond thought.
And the muse is not even there. If he was it would be death by breath.
Then you let it go.
Unless the muse is a willing and participatory ingredient in the mix-you will lose control-so absolutely overpowering is this fervid entanglement- it will create actions the antithesis of what is considered the norm.
The muse-artist togetherness puts the psyche into a creative, sexually releasing energy putting demands on both of them-the key is resisting.
Resistance the hindrance to the flow of charge.
Hence creativity. It’s hard.
Why does everything pleasurable involve resistance.
Why does compliance bring out ‘Fake Plastic Trees'(radiohead).
How and why did the muse enter the infundibular holy grail of this shit holding temple?
The day dawns with scent of must and rain,
Of opened soil, dark trees, dry bedroom air.
Under the fading lamp, half dressed – my brain
Idling on some compulsive fantasy-
I towel my shaven jaw and stop, and stare,
Riveted by a dark exhausted eye,
A dry downturning mouth.
It seems again that it is time to learn,
To which, for the time being, I return.
In this untiring, crumbling place of growth
Now plainly in the mirror of my soul
I read that I have looked my last on youth
And little more; for they are not made whole
That reach the age of Christ.
Below my window the awakening trees,
Hacked clean for better bearing, stand defaced
Suffering their brute necessities,
And how should the flesh not quail that span for span
Is mutilated more? In slow distaste
I fold my towel with what grace I can,
Not young and not renewable, but man.
TYPHOEUS (Typhon) was a monstrous storm-giant who laid siege to heaven but was defeated by Zeus and imprisoned in the pit ofTartaros. He was the source of devastating storms which issued forth from that dark nether-realm. Later poets describe him as a volcano-giant, trapped beneath the weight of Mount Aitna (Etna) in Sicily. In this guise he was identified with the giant Enkelados (Enceladus).
Typhoeus was a winged giant, said to be so huge that his head brushed the stars. He was man-shaped from the waist up with two coiled serpents in place of legs. He had a hundred serpent-heads for fingers, a filthy, matted beard, pointed ears, and eyes flashing fire.
According to some he had two hundred hands consisting of fifty serpent-headed fingers on each hands and a hundred heads proper–one was human, the other ninety-nine bestial (of bulls, boars, serpents, lions and leopards). As a volcano-demon Typhoeus hurled red-hot rocks at heaven and fire boiled forth from his mouth.
THE MOUSAI (Muses) were the goddesses of music, song and dance, and the source of inspiration to poets. They were also goddesses of knowledge, who remembered all things that had come to pass. Later the Mousai were assigned specific artistic spheres: Kalliope (Calliope), epic poetry; Kleio (Clio), history; Ourania (Urania), astronomy; Thaleia (Thalia), comedy; Melpomene, tragedy; Polymnia (Polyhymnia), religious hymns; Erato, erotic poetry; Euterpe, lyric poetry; and Terpsikhore (Terpsichore), choral song and dance.