Muse on the ropes. Again. Plus Sarin.

My Muse, pondering (Laura Harrison McBride, 2012)

A few weeks ago, I had a moribund muse, half killed by months of visitors and no opportunity to let her exercise either her verbal or visual powers, to express her needs for truth or beauty or both.

And then, freedom. An empty house. A house with cleaning needing to be done, laundry needing to be washed, food needing to be cooked, husband needing to be looked after, dog needing to be groomed and cat needing to be waited on hand and foot. (Cat lovers will know that the last part is the only essential one.)

Still, I made a start at feeding my muse with things she needs and enjoys.

And then came Syria.

Who cares? Well. Let it be known that I am not a political animal. When I wrote for newspapers and magazines, I steered clear of politics. I wrote features and reviews.

Did I mention Syria popped up?

The Rime of the Aging Painter

Segway again. Last weekend, on our way back from Wells, Simon and I stopped at Coleridge Cottage, and there the subject of the Romantic poets returned to my consciousness. It would be fair to note here that, although I double majored in English Lit. and Theatre at university, I was a casual student at best. Mostly. I didn't give a rat's ass about most subjects and saw no reason at all that the world would be better or worse off if I got a wonderful grade in the work as opposed to an acceptable one. I had already figured out that employers didn't really care as long as you had a sheepskin from someplace, and I didn't have any intention of going to grad school. The B.A. was fine; M.A.? Why? I didn't plan to teach. I planned to write. Not poetry; journalism. In aid of which I did, in fact, go to grad school. 

Anyway, for reasons only my spirit could enumerate, I was drawn to the Romantic poets, much as, I suppose, I've been drawn to the Impressionist painters. So, there it was, the Big Class in Romantic poetry. The final exam was being shown 50 snippets of poems by the major and minor Romantic poets--minor works we had not studied--and determining who wrote each and why. I lost only two points out of a hundred on that test. And for years, although I never cracked it again, I dragged around a huge academic volume of the Romantic poets. And now I can't find it. Somewhere between Maryland, USA and Cornwall, UK, it got dumped-lost-given away-something.

But I found, in talking to the docent at Coleridge Cottage, that I still recall an amazing amount of stuff about those poets, 45 years later. That the Romantic poets were all political animals, that Coleridge was an activist who was often regarded by the authorities as a danger to decent society. My memory banks were pleased, and transferred the resurrected knowledge to my conscious brain; it's OK, then, to be a poet and an activist.

Truth will out

Well before last weekend, I had begun writing poetry that was rather well-received, I thought, on Glipho. I was actually quite pleased with that, if not quite as pleased as I would be for a similar reception to my paintings. I suspect my muse has wanted to write poetry for decades, but her journalist overseer prevented it.

Unfortunately, since the day it became clear that the United States meant to bomb another sovereign state because it is annoying America's rich folk and bankers, my muse has gone to ground. And the journalist has usurped her time.

I've renounced my US citizenship. I don't live in the US or Syria, and have no plans to go to either place, ever. So neither I nor my muse should really not give a rat's ass, especially since Labour made the UK do the right thing.

But I was planning to go to Cyprus in October. It has been three years since we last were there, so, during the upheavals of the summer, I decided a good dose of sun, sand and antiquities would restore my muse, and me, to health. Booked it...and these days, booking is the same as paying. No longer can one make any changes to flights, even for a fee. If we don't go, we just lose the entire fare. BUT...and it's a significant but...I have no intention of being a schnook and canceling. I simply won't show up for the flight as the cost to me will be the same, and I might thus prevent the greedy airline (in this case, one that begins with T) selling our seats for full stroke, twice. They MIGHT get takers at the gate...but probably not. It seems to me this ought to become a movement, in fact, among airline customers. If you can't go, don't show. Snappy, yes?

Common sense dictates...maybe

I doubt that I will go. I need to gin out a few more paintings to be juried so that I might join an artists' group that I hope will have me. 

I'm tired, though. Tired enough to run my mouth about all the crap the US is perpetrating on the world now. I'm feeling good about Labour turning off Cameron's plans for supporting Uncle Sod-All, but feeling bad about watching Obama follow the example of that most horrific of US presidents, George W. Bush. Up to and including lies, in this case, pressing the air strike issue with not one shred of proof that any Sarin attack happened, never mind that it was by Assad. As one commentator said, why would Assad do it? He was winning against the insurgents (American-backed, we understand), and gassing his own citizens certainly wouldn't help him win their hearts and minds.

But never mind. I have a muse to resurrect. Darned if I know how, though. I'm having a hard time concentrating on cleaning brushed, never mind using them.

And then there's this: If I am ever even tempted to paint on a canvas board again, might someone please strike me hard with their open palm? Nasty stuff, that. Did it for cheapness, as I meant only to sell copies of the original. Never again. My muse is worth canvas with a bit of life, after all, or how will she know when she's moving in the right direction?