Muses: Hot Chick or Rambo Downey Jr.?

Muses. They’re supposed to be there for motivation and inspiration. According to Greek mythology, they are the goddesses, or spirits, that guide and inspire science, and literature and the arts. Some say there were three muses, some say there were nine and each one had their own field (epic poetry, dance, love poetry, astronomy, music/song, history, tragedy, comedy, and hymns). I don’t really give a fuck how many there were, so long as they got the job done. I like to go with three, simply because my personal journal has three muses imprinted on the thick leather cover (and it’s got gold trimmed pages, because I’m classy as fuck), when it comes to matters of mythology. However, when it comes to matters of needing a muse for personal projects and work and whatnot, everybody only ever says, “I need a muse,” referencing a single entity to help them out.

So what the hell is this muse anyways? I think most people imagine a drop-dead gorgeous woman, with flowing locks of auburn or gold, and eyes that pierce your soul like Excalibur. And some sort of toga that just barely covers her boobs. But looks aren’t everything, she’s also the smartest and most creative mother fucker there ever was, and that’s why she’s a fucking muse.

 But why stereotype muses to be bodacious babes? I mean, that surely wont help you get motivated or inspire you do be productive in anything at all. Instead, you’d be distracted more than ever and you might as well just sit and stare at her, drooling, wishing that some magical breeze came by and blew away her loose toga instead of painting, or writing, or music-ing. I know I wouldn’t get shit done, I’d be distracted too. And I would probably be plotting ways to cut her hair, or convince her to start wearing parachute pants with Uggs, because my muse sure as hell isn’t allowed to be prettier than me.

You see, a more reasonable approach to what a muse would be would probably be some kind of drill sergeant, screaming at you to get your shit done or else he’s going to tie you up and pour Tabasco sauce on your genitals, and take pictures of you crying like a little bitch and send it to everybody in your email contacts. Now that’s what I call motivating… But lacking in the inspiring department. So he (the muse is a man now, apparently) needs some sort of rogue-hero quality, too, making you kind of want to be like them. Something to inspire you while simultaneously scaring the crap out of you.  Like muthafukkin Rambo!

I can already imagine him yelling “You’re going to write some fucking music, and make a fucking painting, and write a fucking song, and discover a new planet so you can be a bad ass like me, or else I’m going to chop your mother fucking dick off and make you eat it on a mother fucking bun with some mother fucking sauerkraut!”

But you know, if you can get as lazy as I can get, even motivation via threats won’t work too much. No matter how much I think I could be a bad ass like Rambo, it still isn’t inspiring enough. What I am going to need is some rewards for my work, or a good healthy amount of bribes. Like cash money, or a free housecleaner for life (I really, really, really, really hate cleaning), or better yet, my sexy muse will pleasure me all I fucking want. And if you are like me where you are pretty sure your virginity has grown back, that’s a nice trade. But not with Rambo’s face. Sorry, Mr. Italian Stallion, you’ve got a nice bod, but that mug doesn’t whip me up in any sort of frenzy. Let’s see…

Oh dear god. Oh my lord. Mr. Robert Downey Jr., you can help me discover new planets any day! If you tell me too, I’ll write a fucking novel of epic proportions, I’ll paint a new Sistine Chapel, I’ll even compose a symphony that could make Beethoven weep. Just don’t put your shirt back on, and I am good to go.

Although, I think he still might be a distraction while standing around the room looking like a god of all that makes my vajayjay dampen. But knowing the rewards from accomplishing the tasks and goals and work that he is there to help me complete (whether they be under the sheets or on a table top or in a hot tub… Mmmm…) would be a fine enough inspiration and motivation. I must say, though, the subject of all the works I would create in that situation would be rather adult-rated in nature.

I don’t fucking know. As far as it seems, my idea of a muse has transformed from a spirit guide into the arts, literature, and science to being an orgasmic bribe.

But then again, Muses can be many things. Your muse can be passion for a lover, or an obsession, or a presence of enlightenment in life. Some inventers and painters have copies of Leonardo da Vinci’s sketchbooks as their muse. Some songwriters and musicians have a collection of records and tapes and CDs to play over and over by their favorite artists as their muse. Some writers have favorite authors that inspire them, and the idea of a best seller is their motivation. John Lennon’s muse and greatest inspiration was probably Yoko Ono, despite the fact that she is most notorious for breaking up one of the best bands of all time and it was more than likely an unhealthy relationship. It doesn’t necessarily have to be one imagined entity for all things, nor does it even have to be a person at all. For fuck’s sake, I think Van Gough’s muse was absinthe. Actually, I think many artists of the late 19^th century used (and abused) absinthe as a muse. I personally am not a fan; I don’t like the licorice flavor and it’s too expensive.

Eh… I’m just going to stick with my Robert Downey Jr. as my muse for now and call it good. I’ll make a more meaningful one later, but at the moment, my mind is… elsewhere… Oh goodness, is it ever elsewhere.