The Muse Has a Face: Musing and Musing and the Muse

I’m writing—trying to write a blog post. Trying not to write for the post.

When I started this blog, I told myself not to write for the post. I swore I wouldn’t. Writing for the post and writing for the schedule isn’t what I imagine my work to be. But it’s part of it. It must be done. That’s what I’m telling myself. Arguing. 

It’s an argument for habit more than an argument for art. 

I’m writing because I told myself I would, and it’s the only way to find out what’s in here—to locate the art.

So where is the art? 

I made the time, and I’m sitting here writing. My dog is staring at me, watching, waiting for the art—for the Muse to show up and toss me a thrill. Or maybe he’s watching me chew. I’m chewing old gum—not really. I don’t like gum. But I’m chewing it.

Musing.

Oh, Muse. 

Which reminds me. The Muse has a face. 

Don’t mistake it for yours. 

He knows who he is. We have a history. 

Something I’ve been resisting, something that runs through my head when I’m brushing my teeth or tossing a load of laundry down the stairs—doing normal things—is the Muse. 

The Former Muse, to be exact. There are many Muses, but, for me, only one I care to label. The Muse, the Former Muse, Midnight Bird of Prey—so many monikers. He’s what sticks. Beyond the gum. He’s the sticking point. In a sky full of Unwise Hawks, he’s the space between them. 

It’s tough to blog and exclude him. Habit, I guess. I used to—long ago—write a blog about him. Well, not him, exactly. It was about my experience, and at that time, he was part of it. So I wrote it. Sometimes it was true; sometimes, it was not. I just wrote it and posted it. When I started, I didn’t imagine he might see it. 

But eventually, he found it. He found it, read it, and found a way to run into me. It wasn’t difficult or unusual. He went back to the place we met. I was surprised to see him. Somehow, I thought we wouldn’t see each other again. But there he was.

“I owe you an apology,” he said.

“Why?” I said.

“You’re smarter than I thought,” he said.

It was his preamble to a conversation about free speech and privacy, one that still rotates and twists in my mind as I consider how it, and many other conversations we shared, shaped me. 

No. Yes. Yes and no. 

The Former Muse—the moments that stuck changed over time. I reshaped them while they reshaped me. The clay didn’t expire—I mean … no. No clay metaphors allowed. I don’t like them. But it was like that, something like that.

I’m musing. Just musing. Being willing to drop a dumb metaphor in hopes of finding one smarter. Hopping around. Stewing. Wishing. Still chewing. 

The gum isn’t as old as I thought. The taste is still there. 

Even as I spit it out.