What’s A Woman To Do?
The oracle deck in this photo features the lovely artistic work of Catrin Welz-Stein
I need a good muse.
All the best writers have one I’m told. Granted, it’s usually male writers that are bestowed with one. Some slinky sex kitten reclines on his couch, eating grapes and drinking all his best wine while he feverishly sweats and slaves over a keyboard, somehow miraculously inspired by the mere presence of such a woman. She definitely has the better job, if you ask me.
But I’m not a man, and there doesn’t seem to exist a male version of that sort of inspiring support person for us female writers. (Ah, the dirty double standard strikes again.)
The whole idea of a muse stems from ancient Greek mythology. The Muses were sisters and goddesses of literature, science and the arts, who were daughters of Zeus, and all of whom were also romantic cohorts of Apollo, god of the arts. The sisters frequently entertained all the gods on Mount Olympus with their singing, dancing, music, poetry and other general artsy frolicking. So they were actually artists, themselves, not just couch candy for some blocked dude’s sick imagination. Like so many other stories of auld, things have somehow gotten a bit twisted in the retelling when it comes to the part the women played.
But I digress…
My muse, if I’m pressed to claim one, is more like living with a grumbling, hairy little troll who hasn’t bathed in a while, who bangs about the house slamming cupboard doors and knocking into furniture while talking to himself in fragmented sentences, unaware of where his thought stream ends and his utterance begins. It’s like that in my head sometimes. He’s more annoying than inspiring, and about as far from sexy as Eve was from being Adam’s muse—but that’s a whole other story for another time…
You can imagine then what it must be like to approach a muse such as this—such as he is—when I’m trying to drum up ideas for my column. He’s of little help, glaring at me from where he crouches in the corner of my office, smacking his food which he eats with his hands, straight from the pan.
So, heretic that I am (though fully justified since I got shafted in the muse department), on occasion I defer to a deck of oracle cards for inspiration. The artwork on this particular deck of cards is so stunning and unique they never fail to inspire—unlike my stinking muse.
The card I drew for this particular column says, “Can You Hear Me?”
This inscription immediately brought to mind one of my favorite artists, Florence Welch, of the singing group, Florence and the Machine, and her song entitled, Cassandra.
A portion of the lyrics say, “I used to tell the future, but they cut out my tongue, And left me doing laundry to think on what I’ve done. Can you hear me? I cannot hear you…”
One of my favorite songs, it’s all about creativity and its accompanying frustrations, and more subtly, the push back against thousands of years of feminine oppression. Florence is always all about that.
The Cassandra Florence is referring to in her song is also a woman from Greek mythology. Cassandra was the stunningly beautiful daughter of Priam from the city of Troy who Apollo took a shine to (apparently having grown bored with the Muse sisters), and in an attempt to win Cassandra over, grants her powers of prophesy. Though grateful for the gift, Cassandra, having vowed to remain celibate, refused Apollo’s further advances. Outraged, Apollo put a curse on her so that, even though she could accurately see the future, no one would ever believe her.
Well now ain’t that just the way of it.
Can’t give a girl nothing without wanting a certain something in return.
And she sings, “Can you hear me? I try to still look with wonder on the world, As the roses bloom, And the riot van is still plainly in view…Can you hear me?”
