The lapse of luxury

"It is bitter to have loved and lost than never to laugh it off," Bamuall Subtler

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

Birth rights a rite

Irony is dead. Long live Irony.

Irony died in child birth. It is with a mixture of joy and sadness that we anounce the survival of her child Irony. (Born in the iron lung pictured.)

Irony is also survived by her loving partner Blunt Instrument. May she rust in piece de resistence. Man, overboard.

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Sunday, November 07, 2010

Are we a-mused?

On August 5, 2010 my muse died - succumbed to cancer. We had an intense relationship from the get go. I met her in the line-up to a concert in 1993. We almost instantly thought of each other as "soul mates." Whatever the hell that means. We had long talks - sparring matches about philosophy, writing, music and we didn't always share the same tastes, but the shared underlying passions were there.

Now for the correction: my friend was inhabited by my muse. I loved her. When she died my muse was adrift and inaccessible. And love drifted slippery like a leech. Don't wince. Leeches are a time-honoured necessity in healing, and improve blood flow.

On Sep 25, 2010 my muse re-entered the picture inhabiting a man. This makes refreshing sense because the muse should be erotically charged. Look at the aloof Lady in the poetry of Machaut et al. The idolator must long to connect physically and mentally. But my former muse could not be erotic because she was a woman and I am gay. She could politely sit astride the pedestal; she could pirouette on the phallus but not cause a shiver. Not to say there wasn't a sensual connection - there was - but it was in limbo.

I'm being slippery with words and archetypes here: muse = god = soul = anima = projection. Although I'm atheistic, narcissistic, nihilistic and solipsistic - all those nervous tics - my relationship with the world is full of metaphors and symbolism. I would say everyone's is cloaked in this muck called language. So, given these limitations a muse, say Erato of lyric poetry, could exist as a kind of placebo god. No less effective for simply appearing to be a fellow human being. A muse is somewhere between a god and a counterpart: a soul projected onto the unknowable "other." New and improved? No. It doesn't work that way.

I wrote earlier that my muse re-entered the picture. This is a carefully chosen phrase. My muse is unusually gifted in visual allegory. The clincher. These visions transport me.

Now, the balancing act is to respect the dignity of the human being while permitting him to be a god. And I can be a god to him as well. We can do these things in this universe.

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