gozzterLeave a Comment on Oh for a Muse of fire

Oh for a Muse of fire

It’s sometimes difficult to be a writer -even an amateur, seldom-read one like me. So much depends upon a dependable stream of inspiration which opens like a flower as you sit down to write; so much depends on the Muse…

I wait for it to enlarge an idea I may have had: an idea that grows and often changes as the writing continues. And yet it’s not quite as simple as that: I often have no choice; there is no catalogue index, not even a glossary to peruse. And there is often a different Muse (if one at all) who greets me in the morning when I rise to write.

Sometimes she is unhappy with me and so I go and have my morning shower before she’ll even whisper. At other times I barely have time to drink my coffee or make my breakfast. Those are the times I long for: the times when she is calling me to the keyboard. The times when she seems to write for me; the times when she seems to control my fingers…

So, does a Muse exist, or is it merely a stirring of the thoughts tumbling about in my head: the subconscious ones, the unformed and as yet unorganized ideas that swim like seals just beneath the surface? Are they, then, truly mine, or thoughts I’ve skimmed from other sources; ideas not yet contextualized and chosen like uncoloured pieces of a jigsaw puzzle without the accompanying picture from which to draw? Are they Word Sudokus? I wonder…

But still, how can a confused bundle of thoughts inside my head and from which I draw some meaning -some words– differ from what I have gleaned from Noam Chomsky’s idea that language consists of a deep structure and a surface structure? I have probably misunderstood him, but I remember an example he uses: ‘Colourless green ideas sleep furiously,’ has the correct surface structure necessary in a sentence, but has no discernible meaning. Maybe my Muse sorts all that stuff out… I’ve never really understood Chomsky anyway.

And yet I have often questioned the source inside my brain; do we usually think in words, or in vague concepts not yet translated into words? Sort of like money before it buys something. Perhaps I am unusual, but I seldom think in words -or at least in useable sentences- until I need to explain something.

Retreating even further into the cave, where do ideas come from? Are they just proto-concepts: sudden flashes of light in there? Promised wages for a task not yet defined? Lego pieces not yet assembled? So many puzzles for my Muse to play with; it’s no wonder I need all the help I can get when I sit down to write.

But the questions surface again: am I an entity, or a construct? I mean if I can’t assemble the pieces in a way that non-I’s can understand or use, then am I just a bag of marbles that only rattles without added help? That’s a bit harsh, I realize, but maybe we (I?) weren’t meant to creep too far into the cave without a guide; without a reason…

I don’t think my friends understand; I don’t anyway… Our conversations are often stilted attempts to communicate ideas which haven’t yet solidified in my mind.

                                                    *

“What are you thinking, G? You’re acting as if you’ve forgotten I’m even here.”

She was right: for a moment I had, I suppose. Janine was treating me to lunch in one of her favourite restaurants downtown; it was busy and the server hadn’t even made it to our table to take our orders. And me? I was lost in my thoughts as I often am in busy, crowded spots; I am uncomfortable in places decorated mainly with noise and waving arms.

She stared at me and waited a moment for me to answer; when I didn’t, she shook her head and sighed. “Going for lunch with you is like sitting with my dog… But at least he wags his tail when I look at him…”

I shrugged and apologized after glancing around the busy little room that no doubt prided itself on its faux boutiquety. (Where did that word come from…?) “Sometimes there’s just a jumble of unformed ideas bumping around in here,” I said pointing at my head.

“Ideas about…?” she asked, obviously puzzled.

I shrugged. “Sometimes I don’t know; some of them haven’t formed themselves into words yet -just…” I groped for words to explain the non-words rattling around in my head. “It’s just busy in there,” I said and smiled. “They’re just organizing themselves -putting on their proper clothes, I guess.”

Janine smiled the way she does when humouring somebody and their vagaries. I’ve seen her do it before, when some drunk friend accosts her at a party. But I’d never tried to explain my own idiosyncrasies to her; I think she just accepts me as unusual: clever, perhaps, but in a peculiar way.

This time, she only reacted to me with a sigh. “I sometimes get lost in my head as well…” she said hesitantly, but I could tell she was having trouble describing it in words -just like me, I suppose. “I’ve never tried to analyse it before, though.” She paused for a moment. “I don’t think in sentences, and any words jostling for position at the head of the line seem to stay jumbled and tumbling around in there until… well, until they organize themselves, I guess.”

I stared at her for a moment. Nobody else had ever admitted to me about having to mix and match the components in their heads before -certainly not Janine at any rate. Then I smiled at her: she knew what I was going through. “We were made for each other Jan…”

She twinkled her eyes as she sorted through whatever was tumbling about in her head. I read it as a signal that words were forming, out of sight and still out of her conscious control. Then, as if a door had opened in a classroom in there: “Why do you think I stick with you, G? It’s for your insight… certainly not your fluency…”

Maybe Janine is more like me than I thought, but I haven’t quite lined up the proper words yet to tell her…

, , , ,

Leave a comment

search previous next tag category expand menu location phone mail time cart zoom edit close