My plaintive cry on behalf of all Artists who suffer...

Helga’s Heartlines: A Journal
Friday June 1, 2001
Newmarket, Ontario


My Muse has not abandoned me: she has gone into hiding. She is playing games with me. How do I know this? She sends her telltale signs. She teases me with topics and plays tug-of-war with words. She won’t let go of my thoughts even when I wish it. She preys upon my consciousness till there’s no peace in ignoring her absence. Her memory, her essence linger the more I seek to free myself. See, she knows I have time on my hands. I’m on holidays with no special plans.

She’s behaving like a heartless lover. So cruel! I look for her everywhere. Oh, Recalcitrant One, where are you? Who are you? Which guise would you take? Where is my Clio, goddess of History, she who celebrates fame and glory? Did she flee? What, then, is her camouflage? If she would alter then let her be Euterpe who charms and delights with Music and lyrics, or, to be so-blessed, would that she be that one, my best favored, the beautiful Erato, beloved, of erotic and lyric poetry....

As I said, I’m on holidays, which ought to mean, among other things, freedom from the compulsion to write. If I must use my head then why not read and ponder something instead? Yes, take the time while it’s weighing heavily to peruse the works of my fellow artists and would-be competitors. Let me see, know, what I’m up against.

I try it but it backfires! Goodness me! What a triumphant find, thus traumatic shock to me! I’m envious and intrigued; tormented and conflicted. Another aspiring, yet-to-be-discovered and duly celebrated author’s silken tongue entrances my soul with seductive musings. I am swept away. What would I surrender to be held in his heart, embraced in his speech! That, or to possess his great gift or never have unearthed him.

More Musings – My Muse amuses herself with my fanciful thoughts and creative leaps of imagination - I conceive that our twin souls combine in one heart, melt in one mind, beat in time; glide, dip, roll, sway in sublime and rhythmic sympathy. I visualize the sensuous dance of our elegant enfoldment generating dazzle and sparkle like the facets of a polished prism that vibrates in harmony with its own shining reflection. If I can’t dispossess my awesome fellow writer from his lofty perch then I seem to be seduced with the desire to absorb or be absorbed by him in order to sustain my idea of myself! Meanwhile my Alter Ego laughs at me.

Having found small comfort in this would-be lover’s delightful poetic prose, thus am I currently further discouraged from my literary pursuits. I will dabble with cultivating my garden instead of augmenting my writing repertoire. Pansies and petunias lift their colorful faces for me and saucily search for sun. I solicit it also, but it retreats behind clouds at the least provocation. A balmy, breezy, temperate afternoon it is, but one with more cumulous cover than blue blanket of sky. Sol, my supreme inspiration, alas, is elusive today.

I pause from my labors to partake of the quietude and ambiance of this glorious garden retreat. So it can soothe me and help me seek solace in contemplation and meditation. Sometimes silence speaks to me. It whispers insistently. It divulges fabulous secrets and profound insights.

Not now, regrettably. Rather, a cacophony of incessant sounds commence: the uncivil assault of barking dog, drone of air-conditioning, roar of lawn mower, shrill shriek of screaming infant, screech of tire and gunned motor, the chatter and clatter of construction crew and equipment. God help me! Will someone – any one - please help me? Where, oh where, are you, my Muse? Why do you do this to me?


Postscript:

June 12, 2001
I believe I have received help! I got the following good advice on good authority - another writer/philosopher friend of mine sent it to me:

Biting my truant pen, beating myself for spite,
‘Fool,’ said my Muse to me; ‘look in thy heart and write.’"
-Sir Philip Sidney