X-muse & Inspiration
When in the course of human events . . . you may meet a stranger . . . on some enchanted evening . . .
When the poet pens a perfect line; when the painter puts the final touch on that enigmatic smile or places his own prints on the fingertip of God, who else was there? Who watched, waiting, in the gathering gloom as night fell and the artist, lit by a single candle perhaps, pursued his vision with single-minded persistence straight on 'til morning? Who planted this vision in a pliant mind with a partially perceived whisper, a fleeting touch, and slender smile? Who, in that inspired instant, guided and coaxed, pointing the way to a perfection only she personifies?
This is a site about Muses — those very special women — who walk in the waking world but inhabit our dreams; who move us as much by a brutal beauty as with sweetness and light; who cause us to question, to create, to crave; occasionally to cry.
Ancient lust, old-school Eros, thoroughly modern means. Wantonly creative, laughing at limits, she bestows Art without Mercy, pushing us Beyond, promising the Moon, that Ancient of Days; delivering (when it pleases her) that Enchanted Moment when the veil parts and we look the Divine in Her face and discover She has no use for clothes.
Promiscuous artisans of desire; passionate and willful and utterly immodest, they are the X-muses. This is where they live — for the moment . . . in the Moment.
For only pennies a day.
We invite you to strap in, buckle up, observe the No Smoking signs, relax and enjoy your flight. So what if it's bumpy ride. This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship . . .
Play it again, Sam
X-muse & Excellence
What is it in this morass of mediocrity wherein infinite legions of electrons tirelessly convey the puerile means to sate prurient desires? Is excellence now but a creative anachronism? Does it matter anymore? Has it worth? How is it measured?
Answer first in the negative: it is not a thing of numbers. Not of megapixels (39 of them for all love!) or megabits (7 per second sloshing on to your screen in full HD array!) or bevies of blondes and brunettes, uniformly buxom, precisely plucked, and expensively enhanced. If all the Web's a stage (and it seems to be) how many tacky trollops taking tired turns in the half-light of a transplanted couch potato's blurry regard do we really need? How much ridiculous writhing to the strains of a strained piano sound track, redolent of leisure suits and black-light Elvis posters, is enough?
Calculate, masochistically, the measure of the morass. Yes, calculate. Calculate, sir, and be damned.
Where then does excellence lie? In the Eyes. It begins in the eyes of a Muse. Capture that look and commend it to the care of an Artist who cares enough to cultivate her craft. Thus it begins. Nurture it in the warmth of her regard; temper it in the fire of her passion; polish it patiently, never being hasty to whore it out in hope of some hollow applause; the mere noise of uninformed admiration. Be true to your Muse. Be open, be vulnerable. Be ravished by Her reckless inspiration. Be consumed. Be joyful. Be fearless. Be afraid. Be very afraid . . .
Does it matter? Only as much as your heart. Has it worth? Only as much as your soul. How is it measured? That one's easy. Does it lie within?
Come in and see* . . .