On Being a Muse

definition: Muse
n. A source of inspiration.
v. To consider or say thoughtfully; to reflect deeply


It is hard to define tangibly the nature of my occupation when it relates to the area of Muse. I myself am not in any way in control of this. Neither of course is pack leader. It is a moment's revelation, a string of coincidences that ignites the spark of inspiration or as they say 'conjures up' the muse.

For example, a few weeks ago, PL, while retooling this new internet den, was wondering what he could do about my 'voice'. Although his interests are primarily visual he can't ignore the importance of the written component to this here internet project. Not being a writer, he decided that some work was required, some research necessary to develop the idea of a 'voice' that could bring a perspective to the subject of life in the metropolis that would be particular to me. He looked over at me while he was thinking this. I was lying on my daybed at the time, just about to take my late morning nap, but noticing the intensity of thought behind his glance I decided to walk over to him. He smiled and bent his head down to greet my approach.

He had very recently had breakfast, an intruiging smell of cream cheese still lingered on him. Cream cheese is a rare delicacy only very occasionally doled out in minute portions as a treat. I leant in and sniffed gently around his lips to re-acquaint myself with its tangy milky odor. 'Perfume' he said immediately. 'I have to re-read 'Perfume' by Patrick Susskind he continued to mutter to himself. There it was. Eureka. Unwittingly I had given him the clue to his endeavour. My curious sniffs had reminded him of that novel which described in enormous detail the smells and scents of 18th century Paris as experienced by a murderous perfumier born with an unusal gift of smell.

"He would often just stand there, leaning against a wall or crouching in a dark corner, his eyes closed, his mouth half open and nostrils flaring wide, quiet as a feeding pike in a great, dark, slowly moving current. And when at last a puff of air would toss a delicate thread of scent his way, he would lunge at it and not let go. Then he would smell at only this one odor, holding it tight, pulling it into himself and preserving it for all time. The odor might be an old acquaintance or a variation of one; it could be a brand new one as well with hardly any similarity to anything he had ever smelled, let alone seen till that moment: the odor of pressed silk for example, the odor of a wild-thyme tea, the odor of brocade embroidered with silver thread, the odor of a cork from a bottle of vintage wine, the odor of a tortoiseshell comb."

Will this be how I 'reflect deeply' on life in the big pomme? Will it be my calling to render sketches of this city not in black and white celluloid like Woody or jazz inflected refrains like George, but to capture its aroma? With 25 times more olfactory receptors than humans, I can tell you one thing for sure-the city that never sleeps certainly smells and that dear reader will be a thing of significant interest for this muse.