The Muses of Song

I’ve wandered around quite a lot over the years.

No, I no longer have a corporeal body. I haven’t had one in millennia, though the poets still ascribe one to me. And please don’t get me started on those Eros-struck painters and their lascivious paintings! Really, guys, go take a cold bath. A long one. My cousin Boreas will supply you with lots and lots of ice.

Am I a goddess or not? Either I am a concentration of the thoughts of you humans, or I am an ideal made (cough) flesh, or I was born in a human-like way to some other being like me from another being who – this is around the time I roll my eyes and am rather glad I’ve returned to simply essence. It is none of your business how I've been created. What matters, lusty artists and philosophers aside, is what I do.

Can you guess?

The breath of life, essential inspiration, pulled in from one of the doorways between life within and without, channeled through synapse and neuron, firing particular ideas and linking them with chains spun of the most amazing glittery strands of creation like they were straight from the Faerie lands.

From essence I came, and to essence I’ve returned. I like to follow those glittering threads, those whisper-fine wisps of creation, and rest gently on the shoulders of their creators. I encourage them, I enhance them, and by – what is the term? Boosting the signal? I strengthen those threads into powerful rope, spun into thickness like I was Clotho herself, strong enough to catch the heart and keep it.

Eros isn’t too thrilled with me either. He prefers his own piercing type of love, instant and sharp. I prefer the wooing, the romance, the seduction, when done right.

Ah, yes, Gaudio was a favorite of mine. Aptly named. So many love songs! So many seasons of their lives, in music and musical. Of course the lead singer gets the attention, but trust me, all four received my rewards.

Of course I can reside in many places at once. Why neglect the rest of this diverse world, when only some get air time? The King was another special, though I mostly think Terpsichore liked to edge me out, because my word, those hips! Those swivel moves! Swooning girls everywhere! His mother was so proud, but so worried about him. And she was right, fame’s pressure can kill. Look at Orpheus, poor thing.

So many crumple under the pressure of it. I am not thrilled with the internet for that reason, though I am well acquainted with the desire for fame. But crowdsourcing popularity, with likes and overwhelming messages, it’s turning already fragile artistic minds into emotional dumping grounds. All those fans, leaving messages. How do you answer them all? Human minds break, and I can’t stay with all those broken shards in the way. I must leave, at least for a time. Not many can deal with the abandonment. Even fewer recover.

Most just fall away, misusing the substances that gave them the rise, if taken in smaller doses. I grieve their loss, but I cannot help them. Asclepias does what he can, but he can only help when help is wanted. It is difficult.

One I’ve been with for decades, he’s a keeper! Those eyes, and those curls! The sympathy for the show girl trying to make it, and the heartbreak she suffers. Keeping his ideas fresh, and still releasing CDs. The duets one is quite good, as is the one dedicated to fame and life in the biz. But “Mandy,” the song that caught my attention, is still my favorite. And his contemporary, with those glasses and flamboyant outfits! Such excitement in his songs! His middle name, Hercules, is also very appropriate. I do love a high tenor. And all the other voices; Polyhymnia is quite an influence when it comes to harmonies. And boy bands.

Speaking of boy bands, of course he was one of mine. Youngest, but quickly becoming the lead and the foil all at once, and turning his brilliance towards the newly-fledged music video and transforming it into a thing to amaze and delight. Inventing, patenting, new dance moves! I just wish… I have quite the distaste for certain proclivities of my specials. Apollo needs to work on that. I am sick at heart, losing so many to the demons of their own mind.

I’ll bet you can guess my extra-special ones rising the crest now.

That they are friends with each other just makes it sweeter. Both amazing powerhouses of creativity and inspiration and emotion. One from the old country, one from the new. Blonde and ginger, singing about their relationships and the joys and the heartbreaks. They care about their fans more than most, though of course that has limits. Divide a singer by the roar of the crowd, and you barely have anything left of the individual.

I understand if you don’t care for the art my specials produce. There are other muses, of course, and as the centuries progressed and new styles and new instruments emerged, me and my sisters have merged, diverged. There are new Muses, dozens, hundreds, for all the genres. Sciences, too. My cousins and I derive such joy from finding those creative sparks, and it’s even more fun when disparate strands are woven together in the most delightful collaborations.

Convergence.

I am not sure some days, if I am Erato or Melpomene. Or some blend with the others, because we have grown and changed. So have you, humans. Clio laughs at us as we dance, merge and diverge. And converge.

Though I wish Tap-sichore would change her name. I find that silly.

But perhaps I take myself too seriously.

No, I do not follow algorithms. Algorithms are usually about popularity, which is a concept more nebulous than I am. If desire and creativity reside with the same person, it makes for a more comfortable home in which I can reside like a treasured family member. Popularity is more like an unwanted guest, one that does not know when they will be asked to leave. And more often than not, they find out when the new guest comes to take occupancy in their room.

Joy in the creation follows a path only the heart can see. Popularity chases after the adulation of the crowd, and follows the track beaten down by the footprints of thousands, millions, as they wander about.

Why am I speaking on these things?

Follow your joy.

Don’t follow the crowd.

And, who knows? The stronger the threads, the more likely I’ll come to you, and help you increase those threads to cords, to fabric, to a shimmering garment of radiance, by which you can walk in glory.