Original comments from July 2008 restored on June 12th 2026. I think they’re more important than the post itself
I hold the art of writing in too high regard to dare call myself writer. I think I shall change my Profile: occupation Gentleman. Writing, like any pastime fit for this kind of person and the female equivalent, is an arena of infinite striving, especially when, as in my case, its only object is to express what cannot be said. I’m obliged to content myself with harvesting a little from the infinite ocean of what can be said; but to do it in a manner worthy of Nature, the only deity I acknowledge.
For I maintain that every creature recognises its kinship to Nature, whether consciously or not; whereby Nature is our Mirror and is made One through its manifest kinship with ourselves—as in the sense “we are one family, because all these are related to me, and I to them”.
These musings are inspired by the thought “The Muse is a jealous mistress”, which arrived in my head yesterday out of the blue.
I may not be a writer, in any professional sense, but it’s my constant wish to surrender to the creative Muse, renouncing all other gods, for she is an aspect of Nature in its role as patron of Creation.
Nature is conservative: its laws are broken at our peril. We are creatures of DNA, and DNA holds the accumulation of Nature’s wisdom along with its mistakes.
In this Northern hemisphere, it is Spring, but I cannot begin to describe its beauty, only respond to the urgency of its summons to my soul.
I have said “The Muse is a jealous mistress”: the assertion must be supported with further words, or discarded as mere fancy. I feel her punishing me for ignoring her call. Sometimes I consider myself attentive enough but the favours she shows me remain scant. Must I dedicate myself entirely to her service?
I have scribbled but my endeavours have yielded fiaschi (plural of fiasco, flask). It is said that when Venetian glassblowers messed up a delicate piece, they would turn it into a common wine-flask, whose shape was of little importance. So I shall garner them, and this morning in the hours before dawn, she my Muse whispers “Failure’s no shame”.
Sometimes I give up the words and make things out of plywood
In desperation I have been exhausting myself in a less demanding medium than words: plywood. It started when I found in a second-hand shop a handsome bookshelf, just when I had been asking the Universe to provide one. (Yes, Cosmic Ordering works for me, but I prefer to obey the existing Cosmic Order rather than to disturb its tranquillity with my concupiscence.) I installed it in the shelf on my side of the bed, but it wanted a mate, according to my mate. So like Geppetto making a son Pinocchio for his barren wife, I built one (a shelf, not a son) from plywood. They looked good together, but there was plywood left over, so I built them a connecting bridge whose canopy-edge has a motif echoing the same curves. I’ll show you the snapshot when the camera batteries have charged.
Now, my Muse, shall we go tripping again, along Spring’s burgeoning paths, fashioning garlands of words, as of yore? Soon, soon.
15 thoughts on “The Muse is a Jealous Mistress”
Kathleen
A voice does speak. So clear, so sharp, so true, I felt a pain in my chest as I read and reread. Kathleen
serenity
I find much to feel in your words as I always have, much to feel in your comments section as well. Much to relate to as well. For me, I am practicing “letting go”, letting go of my masks and need to direct, and when it comes to writing, surrendering to that voice and feeling okay with what it wants to say. It is less about writing right now and more about life I think, and as I dip my toe back in the water I find it like a practice, to be submitted to the will of “it”, rather than the will of me. In the past I have found the late night to be more conducive to my surrender, and I have returned to writing during the late hours again. Timing is everything, and happening on this particular post and comments this particular night has felt nothing like coincidence to me. Thank you for your kind words offered to me.
Charles Bergeman
Day to Day, Hour upon Hour, I experience things that I want to share with someone. Anyone. Often this is not possible.
The words, or images I can conjure up to express what I have experienced fail me.The accumulation of my life experiences that provide a perspective that is unique to me, only add difficulty to the task.Lately, I have started to think more about generations of experience.
Within my family, our ancestors, and so on. I spent a considerable amount of time recently speaking with my Mother about our family tree, looking at old photos and so on.
I was struck by the richness of our history and the impact that so many in my family had on the people around them.On the other hand, my Daughter is 16. She is going through a very selfish phase. Her complete lack of interest, or concern for her immediate family, much less her ancestors, is very disconcerting to me.Of course, I know this will change in time. However, it pains me to see her disrespect us, and her family in so blatant a fashion.
The urge to communicate with my Daughter, to explain some of these larger concepts to her is very strong. And yet, she is unreceptive right now. I must be patient and wait for the right moment. I can only hope that I will not forget, and that I can manage to find a way to express these thoughts in a way she will comprehend and appreciate.I’m not sure this is directly applicable to your post, but it is what I was thinking when I read it.
V (Siegfried)
Always say less than necessary. Law 4. To impress.
Davo
Vincent, writing – to me – is a curious exercise. Am, by nature and nurture, laconic. Have recently been trying to convince a female friend of mine to write, put her thoughts in print .. but only because i think that the way she thinks, writes; is peculiar, unique, and therefore valuable – to me.We had a long conversation about it last weekend, but had to tell her to take no notice of me .. since i have the tendency to say very little .. or if I do, try to make one sentence do the work of a paragraph. Have to admit that I frequently fail, in that exercise.
Vincent
Kathleen, I am rather disturbed to be blamed for a pain in your chest!! But I hope it means your were moved to find some significance of your own in the reading of the piece. I’ll write privately!
Vincent
Serenity, we have things in common, then. I find myself temperamentally quite unwilling to sit writing these days, & don’t do much reading either. Physical action is the big draw, & the solving of physical problems! & my writing is often confined to the hours between 4 & 6 am while the sun rises over the hill. I’m so glad you returned to blogging & commenting.
Vincent
Charles, I have great sympathy with you and your daughter. It sounds most typical. Growing up and making the transition from child to adult is extraordinarily difficult. It seems to require the phase you describe, at least in our two countries. I have seen it different in Malaysia. And I think it was different too in earlier decades, when young men and women would be apprenticed or at boarding-school or fully earning their living; and there was no such word as teenager.Childhood seems to be extending ever longer, with persons not taking on adult responsibilities sometimes till 30 or later. But then, they can expect a longer life …
Vincent
Siegfried, true. Thanks
Vincent
Davo, you make few words do the work of many and though you remain a mystery to me, so does everyone else! Language is great, we each can express ourselves in our own way.
ghetufool
you definitely have the gift of words and i respect your adventurous spirit. but why disturb the other innocent lives? what’s the business to make available the path trodden by other creatures to the stupid human race? Try to hide them with as more weeds as you can. You never know—people might follow the path trodden by you and kill a rabbit just for fun.
ghetufool
that was about the physical aspect of it. now coming to the abstract — are you trying to be a philosopher?
Vincent
I thought the trails were human at first. As for trying to be a philosopher, yes. I am trying. Like many other things, it requires a great deal of practice, and I’m stumbling around ready to make a fool of myself.
ghetufool
ha ha. salute to your effort!
Jim
Considering, Vincent, that normally I, as us all, think that what I thought and said stem from the physical and depend on it, am I not made weak?Considering, as I do, that my power as a human being, first and foremost enabling, is to think and say and do and encompass the realities of physical life and the inhabitants of it at each and every level, am I not all powerful?
Should I think, as I am wont, to do what I do from one side or another, am I not empowered thereby?
Do I have real power over the physical only because the physical exists within my encompassing intellect and congruent actions and behaviour, and if I do encompass nature with my words and their essence, (forget God), am I not responsible?
If I turn myself outside-in, do I not oppress myself if I am not in harmony with my true nature?Who is my enemy, am I not my own worst enemy?
The future, in my estimation, precedes the past, and therefore, each of us is truly ahead of our time, and again, therefore, each of us makes our present.
What is it in that that is most significant and can deliver us unto heaven or hell?
Just some thoughts from reading about. Maybe I will say more later, lol, maybe I will. Here is hoping you, Vincent, will!