Sebald Beham:
Moon: plate seven from The Seven Planets with the Zodiacs (1539)

"She will say in ten thousand subtle ways which game we play today."

The Muse turns Seventy today. This long-awaited milestone must mean something and should by all rights be portentous. Seventy has traditionally marked the boundary between middle and ever-encroaching old age, after which, like wearing white dresses after Labor Day, one does not do a whole raft of things, such as wearing Spandex in public. Her time has passed for dalliances. She should be exclusively engaged in serious business, and is and has been. Unlike most who achieve this milestone, The Muse seems to be in the prime of her life and still growing. She certainly seems to be enjoying herself, fulfilling the role of Port Commissioner and taking piano lessons alongside schoolchildren, even performing at public recitals. She still behaves as if she's ageless or timeless or both.

The Muse turns Seventy today, and I find myself at a loss to say anything in any way profound. In the past, I've written a poem or a song for her birthday, never once knowing beforehand what I would perform. The great mystery seems to be that one never knows beforehand. The imprecision involved serves as probably the greatest barrier to entry for any budding poet or songwriter. With will, way might manifest, but will alone won't necessarily conjure anything on its own. Inspiration's involved, and curiosity. I've found that I must embrace the great mystery that seems only to encumber me. There's rarely a straightforward response to any seemingly straightforward question—no crooked response, either, other than what The Muse suggests.

Still, some statement seems necessary if not necessarily prudent. I've often enough uttered utterly forgettables when reaching for memorable or even eternal. One tries to accomplish what one can, but often confuses purpose with plan. I have excused The Muse her many trespasses because each was necessary in order for me to be who I am. I fear that I cannot and do not properly reciprocate, for my gifts lie elsewhere if they lie anywhere at all. We travel well together, she the eternal navigator and I the inevitable driver, if only because I'm such a ninny that I cannot countenance anyone else's driving. I don't trust The Muse behind the wheel, even though I always know who's really driving.

Seventy should warrant a genuine celebration where family and friends flock in from great distances to revel in The Muse's presence. Who bakes the birthday pie for the master piemaker? Who facilitates the gathering for the facile facilitator? Who plans the party for the planner? Who commishes for the commissioner? Who muses for The Muse? These are the questions whose answers elude us; they double-bind themselves into fundamental unanswerability, much like The Muse. She despises the designation, yet I persist in using it, feeling as though this euphemism best describes how I see our relationship. I know full well who's in charge and whose judgment ultimately decides, but it's no mere act of deference on my part. I insist that I am my own man, but one for whom it's usually better when someone asks me impossible-to-answer questions and insists that I listen, if not necessarily respond.

The Muse serves as a deferent designation, not one I intended as a degradation. I intended it to elevate her presence from mere partner to something more insidious, something even more present. Not everyone knows who's driving. When The Muse is in the room, she's guiding, subtly insisting upon having her way. Do not be afraid; the result will almost always be better for her influence. Something special usually happens, though few will notice The Muse's fingerprints on the murder weapon. She works as skillfully with silence as she ever works with sound. Let's say that whenever The Muse is around, she's in charge. She will say in ten thousand subtle ways which game we play today.

©2025 by David A. Schmaltz - all rights reserved

Tags: #FollowingChapters, #PureSchmaltz