Monday, February 15, 2016
to a muse
Why there were tropes as Muses descends from why there’s personification at all: tree limbs moving, toys responding, friends imagined, gods, and angels.
Originally a muse is a way to be: in a muse, a play of mind, a reverie. Being drawn into rumination, being given in to presencing, objectifies itself into the presence of it all, which is at once a self-differentiation as the sway of swaying, play of playing: wind, inspiration apart from self-swaying, enspiriting itself. The presence emblemizes the play, appealing as a part of one apart from one, “there” marked as the appeal in itself, possibly promising a return of its potential or reincarnation of playing in terms of its terms or tangibles: psychic mirrors of one’s own potential for more musing. Wondering becomes personal wonder engaging one: a muse in “me.”
Artful calling imagines perfectibility—say, immortal love of enhancing humanity. Longing to be It becomes resolve to make It, yet as if It makes the art.
And the venture is horizonal: The Appeal opens more horizon.
The longing venture is generative.
In woods again, that imagined violin entrancing birds to listen says
“there are no perfect things.”
Yet, romanticism is harmless. What’s life without imaginative inspiration?
What if you hadn’t happened for me?
Worse than some great book I found never having been.
What is greatly “there” (somewhere) to be found that’s beyond me?
I wouldn’t know what I’ve missed, of course.
Yet, there’s time!
Nescience may be bliss to prattlers, but it’s scary to me. I have insatiable curiosity. I’ve never experienced enough, no matter how much I’ve felt or learned or thought.
Life is full of luck and the lack of it. But
that’s the condition of us all, of course.
We’re finite beings, in any event.
Life is life.
The so-called “artist” makes the best of what s/he has
to work with.
He is as she is. There is no final art.
The final point on the great hike is death, which is no destination.
Pretense of a final art is boring.
And you’re here (while I choose verbosity because it provokes you, though not designing to have your voice play into me).
I’ll do what I can, thanks to others’ influence, thanks also to my own aspiration, persistence, and appreciations, letting others and things become me richly.
I love being!
Thank you.
