How many Muses are there? Nine, you say? Well, if you only count Calliope and her sisters. Very nice girls, my granddaughters. But they weren't the first Muses. There were others. Melete, Mneme, and Aoede were before them and even they weren't the first. I was. You never hear of me anymore. But I was there from almost the beginning.
You might call me Fabulari or Diigima. There's another name, but that can be told later. I was there when the first gathering of humans happened. At least when they became bored. The kills had happened earlier in the day and everyone had gathered around the fire for the first night. The hunters reenacted the kills for the ones who stayed behind, in crude pantomimes. One even showed the start of a sense of humor by exaggerating the size of the beast that got away.
And that's how it all began. A pantomime of the kills made during the day and told around the fire at night. And then it became more. Some of them looked at the world around them and asked a question that has been asked by all who have ever lived. I think it might have been the first 'word' humans used.
"Why?" Such a simple little word. But it can cause all sorts of things to happen. Someone had to explain away all of that lack of true knowledge. And so they tried.
Some pantomimed the forces of nature... and tales of the gods were brought into being. Languages were born and soon tales and proverbs and legends were spread as tribes and clans met in trade. And among them, there were those who accepted my blessings, became better at spreading these stories for the good and knowledge of all.
More and more stories were created. And as the stories grew, so did their subjects. Ignorance about how the world worked demanded explanation and the gods became. Belief made them grow and soon everything had a god or goddess in charge. Including the stories themselves.
My work was split into three as the need for naming everything came more into focus for the humans. My daughters, Melete, Mneme, and Aoede, though there was no father for them other than the same circumstances that gave birth to me. And even they were not enough. Mneme was told as to having daughters, the Muses. My granddaughters had become the main focus of the storytellers by then. Calliope, stern Clio, Erato, Euterpe, Melpomene, solemn Polyhymnia, whirling Terpsichore, merry Thalia, and mysterious Urania. Urania... I never thought that they would need a Muse for astrology. Why need inspiration for reading entrails if you're supposed to be reading the future? But belief is given and accepted. They become what the humans want... maybe need. And through it all, I remain, hidden. _They_ have their shrines, their mouseions. But I? My temples are still the hearths where grandmothers spin their tales.
But then the belief in the old ways died away. I think the belief in my granddaughters lasted the longest against the science. Artists and musicians were often reaching toward them for inspiration. But the Muses gradually faded away in name and form. My blessings and theirs still touched hearts as they and their mother and aunts became once more an undivided part of myself. I was still there. From the greatest epics presented before royalty to the tales told once more before a fire to children so that they might know how the world works. I read stories in their dreams that never see the light of day. The dreams themselves are stories, fantastic in every sense of the word. Even now, humanities' dreams reach toward the magic of the past and future magic just out of fingertips' reach.
None pay tribute to my granddaughters now. Not like they used to. They'd be starving by now, if they were still around. I take my praises in different ways, always have. Not for me the grand pictures or poems. I've been forgotten... or perhaps I was never really known. But my work is always around. I take my pleasure in the stories that do not fade away but are taken from the dreams and told to others so that they might also know how the world works. The storytellers of now joke of their 'muses,' even offering to sell them for a mere pittance. But inspiration is a harsh mistress and it is often that I must battle her for my gifts to the humans. But battle I shall for my gifts are some of the oldest humans can give to each other. Some give the stories in lesser degrees back to others but all who want to share the ideas and visions they see have my blessing.
And now I have told you a small piece of my story. I'm not a very good storyteller, am I? It's just been so long since I've talked directly to anyone. I promised you my name, didn't I? You may call me Istoria, if you'd like. Hello! Oh, sorry, didn't mean to startle you. We heard that Grandmother had talked to you, so we thought we'd stop by, whenever we had a chance, and see if you had any questions or wanted to write something about each of us.
Who am I? I'm Melpomene. Don't recognize it, eh? I'm not surprised... Calli's usually the one humans think about when they hear 'Muse.' Oh, Grandmother told you that we weren't around anymore? Well, that could be due to many reasons... She's a storyteller for one, and you know how they like to stretch a few things to make reality sound better. And then again, many different artists or writers have tried to 'capture' a Muse and keep them against their will, so I'd guess Grandmother might have been trying to protect us. Isn't it a little funny... we're how many millennia old and our family still worries about us going out after dark.
Which one am I? Well, good writer, I am Melpomne, the Songstress if you translate my name, and I am the Muse of Tragedy. Yes, I know, I _love_ to sing but somehow I got stuck with the tragedies. But someone had to inspire the theatre world and back then there were only two kinds. Thalia grabbed comedy, so I took tragedy. _We_ were the theatre back then, a mask for each. And I was just as popular as Thalia back then, if not more so because everywhere you looked there was a tragedy and a moral ready to knock you upside the head. Now I almost _have_ to work with one of my sisters to get anything done. No one accepts tragedies as is, which I guess is nice, but you don't have to have a happy ending spelled out and spoon-fed to you.
You and your happy endings! Some things are _meant_ to be tragic and sad and they should stay that way! _Old Yeller_ would not have been such a classic if the dog had lived or if the boy received a happy playful puppy before his old dog died! 'Happily Ever After' is a rare commodity and not everyone can grab that brass ring... especially since I think someone likes to soap the brass ring with the metaphysical equivalent of glycerin. I did not go to all the trouble of nudging the Grimm brothers to write down the oral stories of hundreds of people just so that brainwashing cow of a company called Disney can sweeten them to the point of almost immediate insulin shock!
I'm sorry... Disney has been bothering me... they're having trouble with their squeaky-clean writing, with only the villains dying. Heroes can die too, you know.
I guess it all depends on how you define a 'tragedy.' Sure, a man may die, but if his death prevented the deaths of hundreds, thousands, millions? Sure, it may be _sad_ if a guy doesn't get the girl. But that's how life is. Life is not fair. 'If' is a big part of life.... half of it, to be technical.
The creations of others reflect the world around them. Whether by showing the world how it is, skewing the perceived realities, of showing a warped reflection of the world. Tragedy is a part of this vale of tears. Trying to ignore it or pretend it doesn't exist doesn't work. That's why Thalia was my partner... tears could come from sadness or laughter. You shouldn't let someone else decide for you why you have tears running down your face....
*****
Don't get too discouraged... Mel's a bit depressing when she gets down. We try to keep her up but her work these days really isn't too happy. She kinda gets everything that we don't handle... and that means usually the really sad and boring. And she ran out of "Po' me's" centuries ago. But I think I'm one of the closest to her... her mirror, I guess.
Good guess! I _am_ Thalia! Melon rind? Sorry, old joke. Yep, I definitely got the good end of the deal when we split the theatre. Makes me feel a little bad but I make sure I'm there for Mel whenever she needs me.
About my part in the universe? Okay. Well, let's see... comedy has been around as long as there has been a sense of humor. Unfortunately, humans were around for awhile before they developed a sense of humor. Seems like no matter what joke you tell, there's going to be someone who is either offended, or even worse, doesn't get it. Their loss....
_Everyone_ needs a sense of humor! Sometimes it's the only way to get through life. Sometime's it's all there is of life... if we didn't laugh, we'd all go insane and all that. He deserves Paradise who makes his companions laugh. You don't really stop laughing because you grow old, you grow old because you stopped laughing. Look at some of the best! Bob Hope, George Burns, Phyllis Diller... Don't ask me who Dick Clark works for, though... it isn't me. I think some other deal was made with him.
Sorry about that, I tend to laugh a lot and I kinda get loud. Where was I? Oh yeah. Well, after awhile, people developed different kinds of humor. Slapstick came first. That was easy, no words needed there. A slip, a splat, a splut. About sounds Latin-ish doesn't it? Once you had language, then came the attack of the puns. They were by mistake at first but all it took was a miswording and someone with a sense of humor and the rest was a groan that echoes throughout the ages. I'm kind of fond of puns. Slapstick is nice but sometimes you just don't have a cream pie at hand... or on face.
Then came the other types of jokes. I'm not really fond of stuff overloaded with obscenities. Insults have a good place and even in battle, they can do a lot of damage. But I really like laughter.
Big belly laughs, little chuckles, snorts, I like them all. I like a different kind of laugh... the free laugh you hear from a happy person, a happy child. The laugh that brings tears to the eyes and makes your cheeks hurt. The kind that when you're laughing that way with a friend and you've calmed down, just a single look between you starts the whole thing over again. That's the laugh I like to hear.
What's with the costume? This old thing? The ivy's for eternity and hopefully humans will always have some jokes, some sense of humor. The crook... well, have you ever seen a _really_ bad act?
*****
As she walked on, the evening closed in on her like a black silken curtain closing at the end of the play. The moon, usually her single spotlight, had chosen a different actor for tonight's monologue. She walked on, listening to the muted applause of rustling leaves and the cries of nightly bird stage hands as stars twinkled in a marquee that spelled out everyone's name. She was wearing a long black trench coat that billowed behind her as she walked down the street to songs and beats that no one had to physically hear to understand. The heels on her shoes hit the pavement in a rhythm like the beginning of "We Will Rock You." A sensual strut that challenged any who watched to match that freedom of spirit. The wind whipped her trench coat around like dark wings as she turned to look at the interviewer. Her turn-away could speak volumes.
Not one for many words, she was. She usually depended on her sister Euterpe's works for the boundaries on her own. But every move was a picture, a verse, a single note in the dance. For that was who she was, Terpsicore, the Muse of Dance. Michael Flatley could just eat his heart out and a few other choice body parts too. If a picture was worth a thousand words, how was a dance measured? Perhaps in heartbeats, for how priceless are they?
A fountain ahead, sparkling faintly in the far-off light of a street light. She leapt up onto the stone bench encircling the fountain, head thrown back in silent laughter. She pirouetted around the rim in a dance that seemed to be a defiance of the Danse Macabre. "Blue Monday" maybe or "Don't Fear the Reaper." Her movements called forth the music instead of the opposite. "Moondance" now as she glided onto the rippling surface of the lower level of the fountain. With the chorus, she wrapped herself sensuously around the main plume of water, beadlets of water glinting on fabric and hair that becomes only as wet as the Muse desires.
She stepped away from the fountain, bounding from the rim, her trench coat floating behind her in an image that movie directors could only recreate in their dreams. The silence was in itself an invitation to dance, a still body a confirmation that dance was possible. She tied back long dark hair, looking both younger and older at the same time. She had the look of a ballet chorus member new to a company and also the look of a teacher who was one more lesson away from total collapse. But in both was the fire to dance that dance, to give that lesson, even if that was the last dance they could ever give. The show must go on, no matter the pain, broken bones, bleeding feet. The dance was what was important... not who danced it.
As she finished, a toe started to tap, a swift jazzy beat. The sound of saxophones drifted into the mind as if some celestial disc jockey was playing the requests of a Muse who wished to show off. A laugh finally burst from the lips of the whirling woman who was cutting a fierce rug with an invisible partner. "Mr. Pinstripe Suit" soon segued into "Brown-Eyed Girl." She slowed down, the echoes of her laughter still ringing from the surrounding trees. No sweat, no harsh breathing from an almost unconscious effort to be constantly moving.
She stopped to stretch for a moment, the opening strains to "Hotel California" or "Poison." She looked at the stars, at the fountain, ignored a breeze that toyed with strands of hair escaping the ponytail. She whispered in a low voice, "Always dance as if no one was watching..."
She sauntered away again, down the street to "The Distance." The streets were quiet as a recital hall hours after everyone has gone home. Rustling leaves swirled around her feet in a wind-thrown dance, their scrapings like the distant clapping of thousands. The stars were once more spinning in their own gyrations as Terpsichore strode away to "Blue on Black."
*****
She's very beautiful, isn't she? Terpsi seems to know just what to do with the music I help to create.
Pleased to meet you too, my name is Euterpe, the Music Muse.
Oh, that's very kind of you to say. No one's ever described my voice in that way. I take after my aunt Aoede.
Well, let's see, since Mel and Thalia spoke a little about the old days, I guess I could too. I think music was invented shortly after man was created. Maybe a little after stories were invented, wouldn't want to end up being older than my grandmother, eh?
Some people just have a knack or a urging toward music. They sing out, without words even, to fulfill a need deep with them. They were the ones who sang the sun up, who started the logging songs to keep the men on beat and enable more trees to be chopped down safely, who sang to sooth the children to sleep. Lullabies are some of my favorites... the words change over the centuries but the sounds of them don't.
Many ceremonies and rituals involve singing or music of some kind. And they are usually well recognized by many people, even across other cultures. The "Bridal March," "Pomp and Circumstance," and "Happy Birthday" to name a few.
Oh sure, I'm involved with all of my sisters. The epic stories of the Vikings told in the great halls by the skalds were a co-effort between myself and Calli. I don't work as often with Clio, but the rhymes that the children know are a nice little effect we made. Oh, you didn't know they were important? Of course they are! That's how generations learn, how they remember. Memory lasts only so long as someone wants to remember. So they make up little stories and rhymes for their children, thinking that that is all that the children need to know about such goings-on. But "London Bridge" is about the people going to and dying in the Tower. "Ring Around the Rosies" is about dancing games of the Puritans. People forget what the rhymes are about but they remember the rhymes.
Erato is easy to work with, all of those love songs. And then with Mel, you get the angsty songs of unrequited love. Poly does sacred music, so I guess she's more specialized. Thalia likes limericks and parody or satire songs. She always giggles to "Jeff Gordon's Gay" or anything by Ray Stevens. Urania doesn't do a lot with me herself but she's always happy when the music I inspire inspires her folks. Terpsi dances to anything I do, though the end of "Teenage Wasteland" makes her wheeze a bit and she gets all red in the face...
Sorry about that. I think I just _have_ to keep moving. Tapping a foot, tapping a pencil, always have a tune in my head. _I_ think we'd all be better off with a soundtrack for our lives. Wouldn't that be great? But then again, trying to pick the perfect song for a certain moment would be torture!
The most inspired musician of all time? Are you kidding?!?!? I mean, the three B's, tons of Renaissance composers, John Lennon, lots of rock-n-rollers... Okay, okay, if you want me to pick one, I'll pick...Yanni! *smile*
*****
Mind if I sit down? Thank you. No thank you, that's not necessary. Which one am I? I haven't heard that in so long... it's kind of nice. I am Calliope, my sisters call me Calli. The eldest Muse, Muse of epics, epic poetry, and the one that everyone seems to think of when 'Muse' pops up in conversation. Which is why it is nice to have someone ask which Muse I am.
It is tiring. Do you know how _long_ those Jordan books _are_?!? It is not as if many people still actually hard-core believe in us anymore... it is mostly mentioning of muse, with a small 'm.' How can you tell the smaller case letter? Listen to any mother talk, and you would understand. There are just some things that are capitalized in speech.
Do not even mention to me 'the Great American Novel.' Too many of those people want to 'have written.' They do not understand really what a Muse is about. Okay, maybe my sisters do it differently, so these folks do not know what _I_ am about. And if I see one more story about capturing me and doing unspeakable things in order to have my help, I will go on strike and I'll take my sisters with me!
I am sorry... I did not mean it toward you. I am just a bit jittery. Thank you, some ice water would be very nice.
How does being a Muse work? Well... I guess that it depends upon which Muse you want. Okay, the people I was talking about before, they think that they invoke the Muse and 'poof', there I am with the fantastic Work there for them to sign their name to and become rich off of. That is _not_ what I do. A Muse is more like... a lightning rod or a refiner. There are an infinite number of possible stories or songs or whatever sleeting around the universe. We attract various possibilities to the person we are trying to help. Then the person chooses which they want to work with. We do not really influence the whole process, it is more like a catalyst. There are various road-bumps along the journey but most people only need a slight nudge over them.
But one does not always need a Muse to have inspiration! And indeed, not every epic had my hand in it. We all have other things we are interested in that are not related to our specific talents. Sometimes the time away from the people we help helps to recharge our own 'batteries,' so to speak. And we can definitely use them....
Oh, no... she's at it _again_. I am sorry, but I should not stay around for this... you have my sympathies...
Isn't she done _yet_?!? Almost everyone else has gotten to talk to you but not me! Of course, _never_ me!
Yes, I _would_ like to take a seat and you'd better have your keyboard ready! Because I have had it!!! And I am going to finally vent the whole thing! Hades hath no fury like a ticked off Muse, they say!!!!!
Oh. Who am I? *sigh* Okay, I'm Erato, Muse of Love Poetry/Music and Mimicry. Ha, didn't know about that last one, eh? Not that _that's_ been giving me any problems. But the other title, you can just take and shove it...
All right, I'll try to watch my language. And my temper. But no real promises. I haven't ever been able to speak my mind about you people and now I'll finally have _my_ say!
What's the matter? What's The MATTER?!?!? Are you blind _and_ deaf? Have you _seen_ what passes for written and sung works on love anymore? It's enough to make a harpy throw up!
*sigh* Okay, that may be a bit harsh. But come on! I'm in charge of _Hallmark_ cards. Believe me, if they don't have a card for it, they will soon. Not many people try to write their own feelings anymore! Their own work may not be ranked up with Hallmark, but at least it's honest and real, not mass-produced for your stepmother's boyfriend's pet ferret.
Romance novels. I don't want to talk about it. There are great romantic stories with plot and research and effort put into them; and then there all of the others. There, that's all I want to say about them.
And the boy bands... I think I want to cry. Going on and on about how fantastic and perfect and instant love is. Are the lyricists _insane_?!? Love _can_ _hurt_!! Love at first sight is a one in a million effect and believe me, it is _not_ easy to set up! While lust at first sight, I could help set up in my sleep. No, make that in a coma. Country music, the olden kind, not this mix-mash of rock/country/pop/who-knows-what that's some of the music anymore, no-offense-sis. That was mourning over their loves gone wrong or just plain gone but still it felt more _real_! Reminds me a little of Echo. She was a nice girl. Really a shame she fell in love with that pretty boy. Nicely wrapped package but nothing inside the box, if you know what I mean. But she came to us, crying about having to be something special to attract him. She was already special! But she wouldn't quit harping about him, so I taught her mimicry. She showed it off and the twit falls in love with his own reflection and she pines away out of love for him.
In the old days, love was different! Oh, back then, we had the real stuff! Back then, if you fell in love, you were willing to _die_ for each other! Mel always had something to work with! If your fellah went off to war, you stayed faithful and walked that widow-walk with your head held high! You searched those battlefields for his body and if you found it, you mourned so loud the whole _country_ heard it! Calli's boy, Orpheus, sweet kid, _he_ had a romantic mind! True, there are limits and the phrase _is_ 'till death do us part,' but still...
Well, yeah, back then, the relationships _were_ mostly arranged by the parents. But still! Look at what you've got now? Women are manipulative, nasty, backstabbing and bored. Men have roving eyes and hands, can't recognize a good girl if she set fire to his shoes, have no idea how to win a woman, and they're bored too. Both sides have no clue what the other side wants. Both sides actually _believe_ what that crone Society tells them is right for what they should look and act like. No wonder there's all that angst in all of those songs, everyone is so screwed up! Every guy seems to want a supermodel, every girl seems to want a knight or cowboy on a horse.
You don't know what love _IS_ anymore... you want your love to worship you with no effort on YOUR part. Love is supposed to be about what you can do/give/be for the OTHER person!!! Love is supposed to be caring for someone else beyond your own needs! That's what was sweet about those unrequited loves... that they were willing to chuck their own feelings and heart out the window for the happiness of the one they loved. Love for a child, love for a spouse, love for a parent... it didn't matter. Love for a country even! How many parents gave up so much out of love for their children? How many people died for love of their country? _Real_ love, _true_ love is a feeling directed at someone else, not yourself.
The most beautiful love song or story I've ever heard? Well, Lady of Shallot is nice... but I think my favorite poem is the one that starts "Roses are red." The simple stuff is sometimes the best. The very, very best thing I ever heard is "WO AI NE!" Oh, you don't know Chinese? It's the famous three-little-words. Get it now? Any of the other translations... the thing that makes it so special, no matter what language it's in, is that it was meant and said with an entire heart behind it. Someone yelling out their love's name with their whole soul in every syllable... now that's beautiful....
You lucked out there... she calmed down talking to you. You should _see_ her around Valentine's Day... she can switch moods in record time. It's like watching one of those cartoon ping-pong matches between two octopi. By the time you've turned your head, she's switched to a different mood. And you should have _seen_ the time she heard these two girls talking.... One girl said to the other, "How do you get a guy to like you for who you are? I know that's not important, but..." She went into _total_ meltdown.
But enough about that. I'm Clio, Muse of History, historicals, etc. Pleased to meet-cha! So how are you liking your little dip into our history? Oh, no, I'm not the one who inspired you into this... that's someone else. Really? You want to know about me? Wow....
Okay, I know, I know. Why a muse for history, right? It's supposed to be facts. But what one writes down is colored by themselves and who they are. I mean, it depends on the culture. Plus history is usually written by the victors... unless they're illiterate, in which case, the ones who are still alive create the oral tradition. And then you get the problems with the old 'telephone' game. Plus it depends on who's telling the story. Take a look at stories told in certain cultures as part of initiation rites. The same story can be told for both the boy's initiation and the girl's initiation, but it can have completely different meanings or subtext.
What am I doing now? Well, there are always histories being written. Diaries being filled even as we speak. But I've also been helping with the alternate history fictions. You know, like what if the South won the Civil War, if Hitler won WWII, if Rome hadn't fell. That sorta stuff. Kinda neat, aren't they? All of these alternate universes, just waiting to pop out of nowhere and into someone's imagination...
I know I don't sound like my sisters. I've tried being very serious about all of this but it can drive you completely batty, ya know? Having to pay attention to all of the deaths, all of the battles, all of the hurt... and then see it happen all over again.
Every history has two viewpoints, two sides of the coin. Two paths to choose from, to travel down. History keeps moving forward, yet it keeps repeating itself. And it's not exactly fun and uplifting reading either. Mankind doesn't seem to get along well with each other. You like to think in terms of 'us' against 'them.' The problem is, you think of everyone else as 'them.'
But I also get to see the triumphs, the glories, the celebration that people have. That's the perks of this job. It's the little people that are the most important. A leader is only effective if you have someone to lead. The winner in all of this might not be the guy who won the most battles, conquered the most land, or was the leader of the most people. I'd really like to see the nicest person be the winner. Have you ever heard of the Tzaddikim? 36 unselfish men and women upon whose backs the world rests. It's because of them that the world exists. They don't even know they are the Tzaddikim. But I think they find out, afterward, though. And can't you just see them, saying "Oh no, it couldn't be me... that's too important for me to have done..."
Have you ever looked at the world though brand new eyes, like you're seeing everything for the first time? No histories, nothing to repeat. A new birth is a new page. It's really a special miracle, ya know?
You're almost done, you know? Have you been learning a lot?
I am Polyhymnia, Muse of Sacred Music. I mean, what else could I be with that name? You can call me Poly, like my sisters do.
*laughs* Oh yes, I still have work. Cecilia and I have regular lunch-dates to discuss music. We're also trying to see who can find the best chocolate cafe/bar in the world for dessert. So far, she's ahead....
Saint Cecilia, Catholic patron saint of church music. Why would I be talking to her? Music is a universal language. She doesn't seem to feel bad about talking music with me. I mean, we both help out with music... and I don't think her Boss really minds. I mean, it's not like _I'm_ writing the stuff. I just help out with the nudging. And do you know how many Catholics in the Renaissance invoked the Muses in the pursuit of their great works of music and the arts? I think her Boss likes the help we give the other patron saints in their various works. Gives them time to help everyone out and still time to ponder the Infinite or whatever they do when they're at Home.
Depends on what you call 'sacred' music. Sure, you have all those hymns but what about the others? A baby's laugh is pretty sacred, isn't it? A little kid singing happily is pretty neat. I'd like to hear a hymn of birdsong and little kids blowing bubbles... That's something that should be heard down through the centuries... Not every song needs words.
Depends on the place too. Walk into one of those big cathedrals and hymns are about all you _can_ think of. I wouldn't encourage anyone to try humming something else... probably get kicked out. I think it's the awe. You just _feel_ the Presence there that makes you want to whisper.
Oh, why am I hanging out in the other faith's places of worship? Well... you could call it interning, or 'don't ask, don't tell,' or turning a blind eye. Music is a big way of praising Whomever is Above. If you listen to a lot of those folks in the big buildings, you probably wouldn't even have any music. Yeesh, you go from tons of music in the old days, praising and singing enough to give a migraine, to bits and pieces now. Gregorian chants were nice. The Renaissance was interesting... all of those composers! And many of them dedicated to their church. Of course, given that the churches were big patrons in those days....
Everyone has a different view on what sacred music is now. I like ones that sound like the first hymn... a heartbeat. Oh sure... it meant you were alive. Isn't that enough to give praise about?
And so you come now to me... even though I've been here the whole time. Yes, I was the one who 'nudged' you and nudged my family into talking to you. Some of them really needed it, a chance to blow off some steam. And it's always helpful when you have someone that listens to you. Grandmother needed to know that people listen to her, that she's not just some phantom. I feel closest to her, thanks to the new job.
Someone's been keeping track of who has been visiting, eh? Well, let me at least be formal for a moment. Greetings, I am Urania, the Greek Muse of astronomy, and, coincidentally, astrology. The youngest.
*laughs* No, I don't sponsor the Psychic Hotline or any of them. I've moved into a different line of the work. In the old days, I was the Muse who inspired people to look to the heavens. But it wasn't just for stargazing... it was to encourage people to look beyond the material sphere, to look to the Heavenly beyond and their place in it. To gaze up into a sparkling night toward the far edges of the Universe and ponder all that was, that is, that will be. And then try to tell their fellows what they had learned in their mental journey beyond the atmosphere.
What do you mean, what am I doing now? What do you think? Oh, all right, I'll spell it out. I am the "Muse of Speculative Fiction."
Oh, don't look so astonished. That's just _one_ of my titles. We all have more than one title. I just happen to 'nudge' Sci-Fi and Fantasy writers. Isn't what I described before what they do? They gaze toward the far reaches of the human mind and the universe. They bring what they find there back to their fellow man and try to explain it. The problem comes in the translation, of course. Some ideas are just too big for words. And then when you try to put it into words, the idea becomes smaller, less glowing, and more fragile. It becomes more human. That's why it is so hard to write at times. No matter how you put the ideas down on paper, the words are never enough to encapsulate the whole idea, the entire picture. And that is a frustration that is itself beyond words. It might be best expressed in moans and cries out into the night, though. I wouldn't recommend throwing things.
Not everyone is willing to listen to these ideas straight from the writer. So they have to be 'tricked,' with pretty pictures and shiny swords or robots. With romances or daring deeds, they are drawn in to a place in their minds where they can absorb the meaning of the message.
People need their fantasy. Science fiction too, but they are two sides of a mirror*. A person is transported from one place to another without use of a vehicle. Does it matter whether it is via spell or transporter? A servant is not human and obeys orders exactly. Is it a robot or a golem, an AI or a zombie? An great evil is lose in the Universe. Is it Sauron or Darth Vader? Yes, I know, Darth Vader became good in the end. The Emperor is higher in metaphor than Sauron, though, and we are not going to argue about this right now. Maybe later.
The point is that people _need_ stories. If you become dependant on only that which you can see or taste or feel or hear, you are going to have a very simple life. Alright, I will give you an example. Nothing up my sleeve...
Okay, I want you to tell me where to find an ounce of 'fairness.' Can't think of any place right away? Okay, just a speck will do.
And yet, billions of people have asked trillions of times, "Why _me_?" "That's not _fair_!" and "Why _not_ me?" The Universe is not fair and yet in your deepest hearts, you think that for some reason, it _should_ be. Not a bad idea, mind you, just hard to get, from a viewpoint of a supposed 'anthromorphic personification of a form of inspiration.'
An ounce of fairness, a pound of justice, a sprinkling of mercy. All things that you 'think' life should have. And you get so bent out of shape when you don't have any of those things. And that's why you need stories. To remind you that life 'should' have those things. Have you ever heard the old saying that if you talk about something bad happening, it will come true? That if you tell what you wished for on a star or on your birthday candles, it won't come true? You tell your stories in the hope that the good ones will come true, that the bad ones won't come true. Or that the good will overcome the bad and 'they live happily ever after.' Faith, belief... Oh, the power that you have to recreate the world around you....
You don't think you have any effect on the world around you? *smiles* Dear one, do you realize how much of your world is due to someone imagining, dreaming beyond the normal? The Furies enforced good family behavior; chivalry served from the Round Table; noble elves, absolute power that corrupts, and the thought that you should keep an eye on the little guy brought to you in a small ring from Middle Earth; the answer to Life, the Universe , and everything; and so much more...
Shakespeare and Sandman, Verne and Card, Carroll and Goldman. This is what truly separates you from the animals. Not intelligence. Imagination. The ability to see what is not there...and to actively go looking for it. To dream of something and upon waking, working to make it reality. To take the raw stuff of the void around us and spin out of it tales and pictures that go forth and multiply.
Stories need someone to tell them how to be. You need stories to tell you how you should be. As times have changed, so have the stories. But the themes, the underliers, the bedrock of the human soul are all still there, just in different covers. And you, my writers, are the ones who give those ideas a different form and send it back out into the world to begin anew. All you need is a little push, and you can all fly so high....
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