A Day In The Life Of A Muse

A Day In The Life Of A Muse

When Sir William Jones first wrote of Caissa, the goddess of chess, in 1763 he was not, as is popularly thought, inventing her – he was touched by her gracious presence. Who knows how long she has been guardian of the spirit of that noble pursuit, or whether she even pre-dates the game in some form? I can only tell you what I know of her, as given to me in a vision one blessed day.

A man wakes fitfully from dreams of chess positions he can't quite fathom with one fading image he struggles to retain. He rushes to the board he always keeps ready, as unseen Caissa watches approvingly. The man hurriedly sets up the position fixed in his head then sinks back, realisation hitting him as it filters in and another small part of understanding of the bishop versus rook endgame is his. From dream to board to brain Caissa has guided him; she needs no prayer of thanks though – satisfied with what she has wrought, she glides away, ever-ethereal.

She seems to step from one encounter to the next, a seamless transition and she is viewing two young boys with a board between them. One, slightly larger and presumably the elder by a small margin, is showing the other how the pieces move. Caissa drifts near the younger boy and her aura briefly encompasses him. He gives a little squeal of delight and picks up a knight, depositing it on a square an L-shape away from where it started. His older brother (which he must be, from the resemblance) looks pleased and nods to him. I start to understand – this is not necessarily some great player in the making; Caissa is cultivating the spark in those who will love the game and grow to worship her simply by playing it.

She moved on, this time to a park where two old men were playing chess at a picnic table. They were playing without clocks or scoresheets but it was clear how much enjoyment they were sharing. Caissa paused, her aura touching both of them. One venerable ancient played a clever little pawn move and the other stared at first and then applauded. From what I witnessed, it was apparent that Caissa had helped one gain the insight to play the move and the other the insight to appreciate it. I realised that this one fine move would live on in their minds and had already enriched them both.

The next image she takes me to is a scene where an artist is painting a young woman reclining on a couch. Something in the air suggests the two are lovers, although she is fully dressed in this sitting. The painting is barely begun; some of Caissa's perspective makes up part of the vision, as I know intuitively that the painter is stuck for how to proceed. Again, Caissa's glow touches him and something clicks in his mind. Caissa waits and watches as he starts to sketch loosely an image of a chessboard in front of his beloved. The painting, as we watched, started to take shape and it becomes clear that the subject of the composition was now a young woman in the middle of a chess-game, waiting on her opponent to return to her. Something spoke of her loneliness, despite containing an expectancy that she would not remain in that state for long. Nearly done finally, he called the woman over to view it. She hugged him warmly, pleased. Caissa started to move off; part of me hoped the picture would gain the acclaim I felt it deserved but I was sure they would keep this one for themselves. I mentally wished them well as the scene changed.

Next stop: Hollywood! Or a film set, anyway. Two actors dressed as cavemen sit bizarrely at a chessboard on a small rickety table in amongst a corner bustling with props. Near them a mammoth's head languishes and they are surrounded by piles of primitive tools, weapons and bones. They sit fascinated by the position between them and are oblivious as another cast member, also in costume, approaches them. “Places in 15 minutes, guys” she says, to very authentic cavemen-like grunts in response. At the very moment the actress glances down at the chessboard, Caissa invisibly reaches out to her. Enthralled now with the pattern displayed, the girl pulls up another chair and watches as moves are made by each caveman in turn. They start to talk to her, her presence now part of their little enclave, explaining manoeuvres. It transpires that she knows the basic rules but had only just realised how compelling the game could be. Caissa smiled, content and I knew the vision was about to re-focus on another scene.

This next encounter surprises me – there is no chessboard present. One studious-looking man is at a computer with lines of code printed out in piles around him. He is not even playing chess on the computer. My confusion starts to clear however when I hear him mutter something about game-play algorithms. I realise he is writing a chess program and my jaw drops in amazement. Caissa sure was diversely busy. On cue, she extended the glow of her aura to his chair; he sat upright, his endeavours rewarded with inspiration. He started to type furiously. It struck me that this was in one way the most intangible of the sights the muse had shown me but also the most profound: she had given someone the focus to let a machine think more like a chess-player; this one infusion of hers would possibly be the most far-reaching – she was indirectly breathing life into the program. We left the programmer to work, satisfaction etched on his features.

The first impression that greeted me for Caissa's next “job” was to duck and shelter. We were in a caravan where a morose-looking couple sat listening to the raindrops hammering relentlessly off the metal roof and walls. Magazines and crossword-books strewn around the caravan told a graphic story of a holiday of disappointment, amidst a never-ending deluge. I could spy the beach through the window of the caravan, devoid of sunshine or sunbathers. Caissa stretched out a hand to each of the couple and their eyes met, shining. The man reached for a portable chess set with wooden pegs for pieces and the woman smiled back at him, obviously relieved to be doing something together. They were soon engrossed completely in the dance of the little wooden pegs across the miniature board. So much so, in fact, that they did not notice when the rain stopped battering the shell of their mobile home, nor when the rainbow split the skies outside. Caissa moved on.

There was a massive contrast from that small scene of shared contemplation to what greeted us next. Rows upon rows of tables like an exam room at a large school, each one a little island of thought and worry. A chess tournament, with more boards than I had ever seen in one place. From the juniors and novices at the end nearest the doors to the masters of the game on the podium there stretched a sea of human faces. Caissa seemed to herself be lifted by the sheer concentration of people playing chess and she soared through the air above the players' heads. Here and there she would swoop slightly to a table and a player's face would light up with inspiration. Aside from the occasional cough or adjustment of a chair, there was no noise except the click-click of the clocks; it was an almost-silent monument to Caissa's game and the love of it. I had the impression of being in some kind of church. Strangest of all, as she approached the end of the hall with the masters, I could swear some of them looked up in recognition, of the phenomenon at least if not actually seeing her. From novice to master, though, she played no favourites.

And finally she visited me: a writer with mental block, which was cast aside in her presence.

Caissa came in all her glory,

Peeling off reality's veil;

Showed me glimpses of her story:

Bestowed on me her wondrous tale.

Transfixed, I gazed at the vision

Granted me, of muse at labour.

From planted seed came fruition;

Pen of mine was put to paper.

Another good one!

Woot!

Thanks guys.  Thought I'd try something different this time - mainly as I am running out of ideas.

Bravo!!! At last something literate besides the drivel and sniveling that seem to dominate these boards. The Dragon salutes you! >:[

Well done, this is great stuff!