Who is the muse and where does she play? Is she on the ground so that one must be careful not to step on her in the morning? Or is she in the stone waiting for the sculptor to melt surfaces away and display the infinite?
She is everywhere and nowhere, waiting for that special sensitivity of hand that carries the deftness and readiness to absorb surprises when life tries to block or derail us from the passions that caused us to fall in love with art.
She is the exploration of the inner dimensions, blossoming in a single moment. She is the spiritual connectedness that causes boundaries between life and art to disintegrate. She is the one who causes words and ideas to come so rapidly that we cannot write them down fast enough and she is that journey of self that we experience inside every work of art.
Moving dry eyes to tears and to laughter again. Creating copious messes out of the most stringent of men. She is the language of movers and doers, of lovers and learners. She is the creative mind that plays with the instincts she finds in your innards.
She is a matter of context, how we do what we do. She rides the waves of humanity and yet still supports us like that dirty old shoe. She slithers and dances, impish, yet solemn. She is crazy and wild and cannot be contained by texts and columns.
These interreflecting themes, these prerequisites of creation are the things that make her scream, they are the breaking of expectation. This creating of something new is not by the mind but by the inner necessity and boundaries made blind.
She is the improvisation of an attitude, a spirit. Holding life above flames and hoping just to sear it. She is galumphing through the immaculately rambunctious and seemingly inexhaustible energy as she takes hopes and dreams and makes them work in synergy.
She is untamed, unpredictable, innocent, destructive yet her alluring charm has the power to be seductive. Continuous adjustment of continuous change holds the promise of adventure, of a journey unchained.
She is the cloak that hides us when we have to disappear, for how can art form when we are still here? She is the wide-eyed concentration, most favorable to its germination, in which both child and world vanish from the place which they are banished.
She is an explosion of creativity into those conventional ideas such as daily routines and Ave Marias. She is the improvisational theater of everyday life and the wanted relief to workforce strife.
She is the muse of the ages and she litters our pages with foolish advice that’s better than sages’. She works off the clock and finds time to mock our silly decisions that we watch like a hawk. She determines our ravings and genius creatings so that somehow we see what life’s meant be.
(c) Lauren Otheim – 2009