I’ve known old Eph and Murial for several years. Cantankerous, fickle, transient, one on my right shoulder and the other on my left. At times I think they hide in my armpits. When my head starts to itch, fog rolls over my brain, and my creative well runs dry, but my shoulders feel lighter and inspiration leaves. They’ve skipped again without notice.
Stress builds, I knuckle rap my forehead and cry out for Eph and Murial, but alas, no result. I can hear them giggling just beyond the pale of reach.
“I need you, at least one of you!’, I screech. ‘Eph, you get back here and help me out.’
No response. Photoshop sits blankly in front of me.
‘Murial! Oh sweet Murial. My muse of sanity and softness. I have a Snickers bar for you.’
Cajoling sometimes helps. Murial loves her Snickers. All I get in return a museful snort of disdain.
I know they hear me, I know they’re watching my distress. Are they laughing, or are thinking it’s time to cut the wires.
Days go past, nay, it seems like weeks. I’m pulling autumn photographs off “My Passport’ drive just to have something to play with. The snow is gone. A week of fiftyish weather comes along and that time goes to playing cowgirl.
‘Giddy up, Maggie!’
The sun in out and I don’t have to bundle up like the Pillsbury Doughboy to waddle through the barn.
The temperatures dropped again, the winds are back up, and I’m inside. Eph and Murial are helping me this week. There’s a side of Peeps to keep their long gone blood sugar pumped. Eph is willing to take chances. He likes color and boldness. I never know what will happen when he’s helping. I suspect he’s been hanging with the old Impressionists, and other bones of the modern art movement.
Murial, she’s traditionalist, feminine, enthralled with early photography and the great landscape painters. A downright frilly filly.
I end up posting a platter of stewed photographs … textured and layered, altered colors, some spring pics from last year when our crabapple bloomed, and toned a few. I really don’t know where my brain has been these past few days. I look at what I’ve produced and don’t recognize myself. I blame Eph and Murial.
The Road Less Paved 