Wednesday, September 3, 2008

Secondhand Muses

So, you meet her. She fascinates you. You must draw/paint/photograph/write a song/story/poem about her. she allows you too, and this moves you, inspires you. The work is magnificent. You are further drawn to her. Time goes on, be it quickly or slowly, and through the cracks in her pedestal, you begin to see that she is human. Mundane humanity is so much less inspiring than the ethereal, and you must move on to other inspiration. What becomes of the muse?
Is she discovered by onther seeker of inspiration? Does her magic fade a little more each time, or is the well bottomless?

What does it mean to be a muse?
Is she the untouchable objet des art? A sort of madonna archetype?
On a pedestal, for certain.
What then happens when she becomes tactile... human?
Will you think less of her then, grow bored of her, or even resent her?
Resent her for her imperfections: a slip, a trip, a sin.
Resent her aspirations: that she would dare struggle and pursue and risk and fail even.
Resent her for walking on two feet, that touch the dirty ground, same as yours.

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