A famous photo of Picasso and his Muse
SUPERFLUOUS
su·per·flu·ous
so͞oˈpərflo͞oəs/
adjective
unnecessary, especially through being more than enough.
synonyms: surplus, nonessential, redundant, unneeded, excess, extra,
As you all may or may not know, I am an intuitive writer, meaning: I sit in stillness and basically say to the great cosmic soup of writers that reside in the ethers, “What do you want to write today?”
After almost three years of supplying content for this blog just about EVERYDAY—I—the me that thinks she’s a writer, would have run dry of ideas a LONG time ago!
So I’m smart. I outsource my material to those that are wiser, braver and funnier than I could ever hope to be.
My Muses.
These experts literally mine my brain for life experiences and then craft a story around them utilizing my language skills, which as you know, means raw and real with plenty of f-bombs.
I don’t flatter myself to think that this is a new story specific to me.
Muses have been around since time immemorial, and I know that all of the great art and music, literature and any role that Meryl Streep has inhabited, has come into the world this way. Some of us middle-men (receivers) are just more aware of the process than others.
So that being said, I have been told lately by one Muse in particular, that my blog is superfluous. Okay…
By not knowing the exact meaning of the word I took it to mean insignificant, and THAT hurt my feelings.
How could that be so if they are the ones writing everyday?
Well, because they have moved me to explore other intuitive pursuits. I’ll get to those in a minute.
And because superfluous doesn’t mean that at all.
It means unnecessary because it’s more than enough, redundant, extra—NOT insignificant at all.
Note to self: Janet, next time grab a dictionary before you get upset, and remember—muses always pick the perfect word. Every single time. It’s uncanny.
Still I was confused.
You see, I thought my future would revolve around this blog.
A book, maybe three. Spoken word events with me telling the stories found here.
I have become so intertwined with this blog that I don’t know where it ends and my true self begins. The essence of my Muses has integrated to the point that they are me—and I am them.
What that means is that I am either mentally ill, (the jury is still out) or just a fucking great conduit (I vote for the latter).
“We bamboozled you” chortled the most prominent Muse recently while I was out on my walk. She is a recent addition. An overachieving, comedic, bossy pants who has hijacked…well, everything.
As you know, my walks often prompt conversations and ideas, even arguments between my Muses and me. “Oh you did, did you?” I responded, silently of course.
“We got to you through the writing, you were open and eager enough to accept us coming through that way”.
She was right. I had been fighting the process of accepting the involvement of disembodied, outside forces since the early nineties when they had first made themselves known to me.
Back then it scared the shit out of me.
Me? A channel? No fucking way!
Twenty years later they got smart. “We’ll tell her we’re Muses,” they conspired.
A writer with a Muse? Sure! okay! I can do that. And off I went, full speed ahead into the blogosphere.
Bamboozelment achieved.
That was 2012 and ever since then I have sat my ass in the chair every day and waited for them. And they always show up.
Here’s where it gets interesting.
Once you become an open conduit like that, it gets easier and easier for their thoughts to come through.
And not just when I’m in the chair. No, they chat away while I’m driving, in the shower, on my walks, going to sleep, waking up, even while I’m cooking.
There is a cacophony of—not really voices—but thoughts and opinions going through my head that I know are not my own. The difference is subtle, but I have been doing it long enough that I can differentiate who is who.
Sorry, I promised interesting and I can feel myself beating around the bush so here goes: People that have passed on, dead people, now talk to their loved ones (usually someone I know) through me. It’s really quite beautiful, not creepy in the least. The conversations, and they ARE conversations, are so filled with love and interesting, private information that they’ve even made the most skeptical among us—ME—a believer!
Also, in the last six months I have been introduced to the most brilliant, witty and profoundly deceased famous writer, who has captivated my imagination and bamboozled me into believing that my blog is superfluous and that our story, the story of the collaboration between she and I, which is mystical, and magical and hysterical—is my future.
That will be my book. That is the life that has chosen me.
She has been gracious enough to help write the dialogue for my musical, (that’s how she sucked up and gained my trust), she writes the best of my blog posts, and most recently she has been teaching me to write the screenplay of our relationship.
I don’t feel comfortable disclosing who it is yet. I’m sure I will sooner or later…Baby steps.
All this to say: The greatest impression she has made on me so far has been her sheer exuberance at being dead. She had NO idea it was so…interesting…and full of potential.
The fact that she continues to remain bossy, funny and highly opinionated; that she still gets to write via our collaboration, that she is able to focus on her loved ones, and reach out to people—has blown her mind—and subsequently, my own.
“Death has gotten such a bad rap” she reiterates over and over again laughing her wonderful laugh.
Don’t you love knowing that?
What a wild journey this life is, and I’m just beginning to see the purpose of it all.
Hope I didn’t freak you out too much, Carry on,
xox
