I think I might be in trouble. Seventy-five years I have lived and for sixty-five my imagination and spirit have pushed and pulled, prodded and poked, keeping me restless and creative. My self concept in recent years has been inextricably linked with women about whom I wrote, with whom I spent much of my waking and sleeping time, into whom I put my very being, whom my imagination and spirit have heretofore easily summoned. They have been as real to me as Anne and Jerri with I lunch weekly, or Gary and Edri who keep my spirits centered on what can be, not what has been or will be.
Those women about whom I wrote-- Julia, the feisty fiery daughter of Rome's Emperor Augustus-- Tanaquil, whose indomitable resolve was influential in the movement of a mud-hut village into the Rome of Julia's time-- Queen Cartimandua, forced by necessity to yield to Rome's imperial power.
These women, whom my imagination could easily summon or be summoned by-- these women who have been my Muses.. They have abandoned me. There was a time when keeping Julia at bay was a struggle, which I managed to prove to myself I was sane. Now summoning her is a struggle, and thus my fear of senility or insanity is more a threat. For now I know full well that the health of my psyche lies not with their absence but their presence.
