Before I leave my bibliophilic museum for more timely amusements about our political life—and presuming I’ll have lost my current inspiration when I return, some weeks ahead—I want to express fascination with the notion of “the” muse which writers sometimes cite to explain their aspiration.
Standardly, fables of personified creative capability flow from the posited muse into one’s own voice. It’s a Janus-faced venture of speaking in light of earlier listening, as if a “spirit” is channeled.
Here,“you” are more than witness. You are addressed through the voicing in a triadic mediation(2) of enspiration(1) to you(3). The music(1) fills(2) “me,” which is heralded(3).
Yet, one may posture their audience as the muse itself, e.g., writing to Orpheus. Here, one lets another listen in to “my” addressing enspiration—a triadic venture of “you” now witnessing an interplay. [That’s “Pygmalion and Galatea Sculptor Kissing his Statue,” 1890 French Painting by Jean-Léon Gérôme.]
Both ventures may echo each other—or merge, one fused (if not confused) with the other. A present person may be personified as a muse, which is common for creativity, respecting the difference (the other person trusts); and playing with appreciated liminality.
The home page of feminist performance artist Suzy Kellems Dominik has two buttons at the bottom: “Learn more” and “Stay in touch.” Though those are functional, I read them also as autonomous texts, in the spirit of Jenny Holzer: Yes, learning never ends. Yes, stay engaged.
Her site’s “contact” feature includes the request “Tell us more.” I wondered who “us” is. I wrote a dialogue in the message box, also quoting from her short biographical statement (two quotations below within one of my fanciful quote marked responses by me as character with characterization of her):
Mid-2007, I met a man in Peet’s Coffee, Walnut Square (Berkeley), which I’d forgotten these days until this week due to an amazing occurrence I’ll mention later here.
We had our first conversation when I saw him reading a book on Ingmar Bergman. The Dutch man, named Gerrit, called himself Geri, pronounced “Gary,” which I guess ruins my credibility here about my recounting. But there are coincidences in life.
He was an art historian getting more deeply interested in film history, visiting from Amsterdam as a UCB resident scholar. We crossed paths numerous Saturdays because I had the habit of hanging out there before doing my weekly grocery run.
Early 2009, I began to tell him about my relationship to Terese (a very long story) which was frustrating because I wanted to see her not commit to a marriage that she seemed to not really want (which would be felt by her future children, which she also seemed to not want, but her future husband did; so, she was acquiescent—actually, depressive; a bad omen). Since I had enough challenge finding time away from our department for what I loved, I couldn’t accept that a talented woman would reject the appeal of creative independence (especially since she entered college wanting creative independence).
I write things, then forget their there
because I’m drawn toward writing the next
thing. I forget, then happen by, being
amazed!: I did that?
From altitude, the tropography is simply clear,
having a curious prettiness. Who’d surmise
a mode’s emerging tropology intimates a beauty
of tropogeny through awed praise?
Dear Appealing, what’s the singularity
of sourcing so cohering, having no name
for all the centripetality flowering
in itself?
philo-Sophia: A stargazer might think that love beyond all reason is the insatiable curiosity that a black night sky coldly, Silently mirrors.
So, finding archetype mirrored in actual affection is a healthy modulation of enspirited appeal.
Such was evidenced in recent reading of new things by J. A. Gosetti-Ferencei (and some old things I regrettably missed).
Fun!, I had—more than she probably knows, given my burying of affectionate irreverance (premised on authentic engagement) in blog-al woods. But I was disappointed that she’s not really a Heidegger scholar—which is fine: My admiration of her path isn’t dependent on her sense of Heidegger!: She shows bad faith reading, furthered in her recent book on existentialism (which I’ll discuss later). But her own, authentic pathmaking is a continuing pleasure to follow.
