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If Blood Could Fly - A Letter to My Muse
by
Michael Walker
2 Nov 1999

Being a big bratty baby here; I just tried to post a rather lengthy (belated) "letter to my muse" for a writing class assignment ... and somehow managed to lose it in the ethers. Backup? Of course not. You would have loved it. I'll try not to take it as a personal affront from my bastard muse ... who I assume is presently rolling in the ethereal hay with laughter; since the piece was all about how I could now survive without Its injurious presence in my life. So much for creativity and truth.    -- Mike

Ahh, my dear sweet muse, If blood could fly the sky would be red with it's wingsThis is the sort of imagery I was able to snare as the rage exploded through my head. It happened minutes ago when I realized the letter I'd written you had been swallowed up by the electronic ethers -- your minions now doubt, the flying monkeys that hassle and embroil your autistic children, the artists. And how appropriate that such a thing should happen as it did; so motherly of you, wasn't it, so parental? Why, you even made me think it might have been my own stupid, brainless fault. That I - in some way - ought to have prevented it by, how?, SAVING A GODDAMN COPY?

So, if you recall, dear muse, the last diatribe I sent you, the gore that was my heart and soul, I have decided to toss you aside like the garbage you are. (No one else knows of this, of course, since you so swiftly challenged my decision by wiping my idea clean.) You'll remember that I told you that from this moment on, the capital "M" that used to befit you in my innocent brain would now be changed to the smaller "m." No big deal on the universal scheme of things, I'm sure, but it is a small something. Oh how I hate you, you coward.

If you were half the caring Universe I'd hoped you were, you would have helped me along my path rather than subject me to the pains and humiliations that other human writers are heir to. And don't toss that knowing look my way, the one that says I am a thankless child who does not harbor enough gratitude for the life you have given me. You gave me nothing. My real earthly mother (there's another subject to drone on angrily about, isn't there?) -- my real earthly mother gave me life.

And a sweet thing that was, too, considering she abandoned me at birth like a piece of sour hay. Yeah; you and your knowing looks. You can shove them where the moon don't shine.

From this point onward, I am on my own, muse. No longer will I blame you for not assisting me in my literary endeavors; I no longer want your help. I will take the battered story that was my youth and I will herald it with flowery words and turn it into something beautiful; for isn't even death and destruction beautiful in its own way? I will turn the manure of my existence into -- if nothing else -- words that can (hopefully) give others hope.

What will I say that is so important, you ask, oh dough-faced seer? I will discuss the truths of life that are contemptuous in the eyes of your ilk. I will plainly explain how aging and dying are over-rated scenarios that tie people down. I'll debunk the myths that say wealth and prosperity are so important, that only the good die young, and that a life half-lived is better than no life at all. I will dispel the notion that politics has any importance and I will expound on the value of selling ones soul to their own personal Satan.

To wit, I will write freely as a feather floating down the wind, as sharply as paper is to cheese, and with as much precision as only the hateful can muster against truth.

And you, my dear, sweet, bastard muse, can take a flying leap.

Once fondly yours, Mike

Copyright © 1999 by Michael Walker

Michael Walker is a freelance writer in Washington, DC.  He is also the founder and proprietor of DREAMWalker Group.