Today marked the return of a kernal of knowledge which struck me from the Biblical Foundations of Literature class: the idea of making something happen by singing about it. For as Rilke said Gesang ist disein, or "Song is existence." Only of course in the Classical sense, it is not the singer of the song that brings the thing about; it is the Muse, who is evoked at the beginning of whatever the work will be. In fact, music is derived from muse as is amuse, museum and on and on.
I also know now that Odysseus was polytropes, turning many ways, which was necessary being as he was constantly in danger.
I used to think that the nasty stiffness in my shoulders was due to my unfortunate lack of substantial excercise, but apparently no. It is Anamnesis, the soul within struggling to remember what was lost, which is to say complete and utter wisdom. Just like Plato said, and like Wordsworth was pensive at the passing of.
I shall stop now. Thank thee, heavenly Muse, for supplying my ramble.