The Muses are pangender

“Them in Pieria did Mnemosyne, who reigns over the hills of Eleuther, bear of union with the father, the son of Cronos, a forgetting of ills and a rest from sorrow. For nine nights did wise Zeus lie with her, entering her holy bed remote from the immortals. And when a year was passed and the seasons came round as the months waned, and many days were accomplished, she bare nine daughters, all of one mind, whose hearts are set upon song and their spirit free from care, a little way from the topmost peak of snowy Olympus.”

Hesiod, Theogony

He who made me question my prejudices, each and every time.
He who led me into the maze from where so many of my stories sprung.
He who inspired me to publish them.
He who danced with me in a way that made me a better dancer.
He who told me each and every time that he believed in me, without me asking.

I loved them all: inspiration and attraction are not so very different, after all. But they were not my lovers: they were my Muses. And it’s mere circumstance that they were all men.

But surely no one really meant that Memory herself only had daughters.

 

 

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