Me and My Muse
Me and My Muse
We try to get along. I believe, however, that the tension of a push-pull chemistry is necessary for maximum quality output! There are times when I welcome My Muse into my life, and then there are times when I wish to escape her. (Yes, I believe My Muse is a “she.”)
My gift - of writing - emerged after an hour of sleep one night. Here is how it usually goes between Me and My Muse:
Me: "It can wait till morning. There are only 3 lines."
My Muse: "You have to write it now."
Me: "But I am tired. I want to sleep."
My Muse: "You won't sleep, not until you get these words safely down on paper."
By then, at least 10 minutes have gone by and I am fully awake. So I explain to Dear Husband that I must write. I get up out of bed and write while seated on the leather sofa in the family room. One bright light illuminates my keyboard.
On that night, I wrote a poem from 12:30-1:30 a.m. I then returned to the vacated lumpy spot in the bed and immediately fell asleep until 10:30 the next morning.
Life then resumed its normalcy, although I am beginning to think that the interruption of my routine by My Muse has become the norm. There is no predicting these things. The only sure prediction is that I will once again have to interrupt whatever it is I am doing to sit down and write. If I just sit down and plan to write, chances are My Muse will find something else to do!
This tribute is dedicated to the Russian Artist, an inspirational figure who has been the muse of many a writer.
I was blessed during the past few years to have known a Russian artist. She served as my muse, and I as hers, in ways that were simultaneously material and extra-sensory, physical and symbolic, mundane and mysterious. We met because of chance; because of the lines of our classical training that drew us at times literally together; and — by design — artistic and otherwise, through the hand of God.
Doctor Zhivago, the one and only version, the Original, happens to be my favorite film in the Modern Epic category.
This film depicts the Russian as real. The Urals represent the governmental regime
that threatens to smother the Individual. It’s the Urals vs. the
Individual: the Urals win. In the United
States, the Individual wins. There are
indeed “men to match their mountains” (a paraphrase of the un-erasable words by
Sam Walter Foss, the writer/librarian from New Hampshire).
In America, the rational and real among us have been striving to prevent the corruption and Stalin-ization of art, culture, life. Because of my Russian artist-friend, I now understand this film, and the book by Boris Pasternak, on a profound level that I’d not heretofore known.
True art never dies. In a sense neither does the artist who poured her immortal soul into that piece of work to express everything that the Overlord tried to stamp out. Therein lies the “secret of durable pigments” of which Nabokov so achingly wrote. The Russian ballerina, the Russian ice skater, the Russian composer, the Russian writer, the Russian painter, the Russian poet — during previous eras, they all exuded an unparalleled artistic sensibility, a love of freedom, that can never die. Nabokov wrote Speak Memory because he knew all too well that the memory was the only gift that truly speaks.
And when the Citizen permits any pompous, pen-wielding bureaucrat to silence him or her, the essence of life, and of art, begins to die. Memory is the only intimate treasure that an individual, and a culture, can possess that endures the test of time, and the trials of that time. Perhaps the people who have lost their memory have lost their minds as well, and we in America now watch the liberals, in their catatonic states, lashing out at the people who threaten them — the individuals who cherish freedom, and memory.
Henrik Ibsen asks in “Peer Gynt”: “If you lie, are you real?”
The fomenters of the Left are, in a very real sense, not real.
Americans do not know the fear of living under the thumb of the corrupt criminals who are the Government — for 70 years, and then under the gun of the KGB thug who enshrines himself as the New Dictator: killing rivals; killing freedom from within; killing art — past, present and future.
No museums or art curators will deal with Putin. When Putin dies, then perhaps life and language and art will again thrive in Mother Russia. And Americans will come to know the pre-Soviet portrait artists and the art forms that have languished since the Wall fell. One wall came down; a different wall of tyranny was erected. And freedom, along with creative thought and true art, will be permitted once again in a land that has begun to savage the next generations.
Russia was always an empire, never a nation. That tragedy cannot be changed. But the Russian people cannot be blamed for the sins of their government. Hopefully, that statement will not often be said about Americans.