Letter To My Muse

If you knew anything about my muse, you would understand why I would never attempt to contact my muse through an ode, for example.  And, because of the nature of our association, I go no farther than drafting epistles to my muse—  Just to be on the safe side of its whims and desires—

So let me begin by telling you a few things about my muse…

Unlike what most people perceive as a muse, something near divine inspiration, my muse possesses no such qualities whatsoever.  My muse has its own character, tastes and inclinations.  Idiosyncrasies, you might say.  My muse, for example, is extremely methodical and highly analytical, and always declines my invitations to go where I am going.  Not only that—  But my muse seems to derive pleasure from occasionally slapping my face.  And while my tolerance for psychic pain is truly monumental, I cannot bear the slightest suggestion of physical pain.  Physical pain is to me akin to what I imagine as the sensation of Death.  And I have no room for that in my life!

Indeed, I do not—

And then my muse also imagines itself as something of a poet itself, rather than a source of divine inspiration, as it should be.  And although circumspect in what falls from its lips—and concise—the effect is almost always one of vast bewilderment on my part…

What the fuck!  Where did that come from?

Such was my response one day when my muse decided to actually speak to me.

While dallying about The Pastures of Imagination and thoroughly enjoying my visit there, I was abruptly plucked and deposited back on planet Earth, when my muse said to me:

“You are a terrorist!”

“Me? A Terrorist!!!”

Surely my muse was joking. But as I looked into its eyes I couldn’t tell for sure.  I thought I detected a glimmer of playfulness there, but right behind that, was, well, a mysterious place, and I had no way of detecting its real intentions.  And ever since then, I find myself frequently referring to the jarring intrusion of that day, which has since forced me into a chronic state of introspection, filled with endless questions and uncertainty.  And I can’t say I have solved the mystery satisfactorily— Not yet, at least.  Nor, perhaps, will I ever.  But it sure woke me up.  And ever since then, whenever anyone asks me about my muse, I say, without hesitation—

“Muse, you say?  Muse?” … I say.  “Ah, yes— My muse.  Nothing specific, really.  But I do think the idea overrated.  And the value of a muse…  At best… Is…  Highly negotiable.”

Things That Never Made It Into Print

By Things That Never Made It Into Print

Keep it simple ... Radical ... Writer, Artist, Dancer, Musician, Chicago Betty

Leave a Reply