The Muse

An owl I met today on my afternoon walk to the river. He said his name was Muse. An interesting name for an owl, yet I inquired no further. I enjoyed the pleasant conversation we shared as he flew alongside me on my usual solitary sojourn. I asked him what his occupation was. He declared in a decidedly British accent, his voice soft and clipped, "I flutter over the shoulders of others, often adding to their work, and I give them something, a tangible object they put into their writing, or story. And in return, they give me perspective, a way if you will to look through the eyes of another."


I enjoyed my chat with the muse, and he had many things of great importance to say. He had knowledge of the future, although probably inaccurate, was of great interest to me. He predicted a world with greater control, a Utopian society with longer ages, pre-determined weddings, and the strictest guidelines. He then stopped his narrative to ask me how I would like such a future. I replied this was not utopia, but a crumbling dictatorship, cracking at the seems. He went on to tell of a young boy who had managed to keep a treasure in that society, where such secrets, knowledge and treasure are forbidden. I inquired what sort of treasure the Muse would keep, what secret poetry he would memorize. His answer surprised me. "I would pick the raven, by Edgar Allen Poe. It is actually one of my proudest achievements, sung by a raven, collecting on the knowledge of all the Muse knew, then transferred to a tortured soul who lived in times where such knowledge hides in the shadows. Becoming popular for a time, then dissolving into literature to hide between the pages in the library." We talked the afternoon away, the Muse seeming glad of conversation for a change. He apparently was used to speaking ideas, but unused to conversation. Most humans had little time for such things anymore. Promising to return next week to his tree, I said my farewell and walked myself down to the grass.

My paws becoming tired, I flopped on the grass near my favorite spot, remembering the phrase "do not go quietly into the night" he had mentioned in his scenario. I rather liked the idea. History is full of examples of people who refused to back down, and our literature seems lately to be written of nothing but. Swirls of ideas poured into my head as I watched some ducks trawling lazily across the pond. I had plenty to think about. The Muse made sure of that. Although sometimes hard to put into words,  there are certain memories, ideas, and feeling which float on the air waiting for a spot to land. One such idea, landed close to me, but dissipated before I could even identify it. Several others, strands, almost pieces of the muse lay scattered on the wind. I was sure that if he dropped by again, the two of us could write a book. A book of courage, and desperation, a book of character and wonder. A book, which in the hands of a historian would only be a book. But a book which in the hands of a talented storyteller would captivate an entire audience until the final page. Fantasy is one way we bring magic and a sense of wonder to our world. Quite another is to experience it. There is plenty we do not understand, but somehow, in a fantasy world, we have the power to make every day, every breath of our characters extraordinary. Ever notice most books have little to do with an average person with a 40 hour work sched.? That is because we do not care to read about someone working an average job. We do that every day. We want someone who is unrestrained by the precepts of reality.

There are other subjects the Muse mentioned. Subjects of graybeards, mushroom people, writers, fire, mystery, and curiosity. Dare to wonder, he had said. Wonder about what? I believe he meant wonder what one person could do if they too were unrestrained by the precepts of reality. Most of us are pretty happy. I am sure content in my field of grass, and the arching trees overhead. But maybe snoopy is right. Sometimes it is okay to live it up a little. I think I will devote the rest of my afternoon helping him catch the red barren.

Woof,
Hope the muse visits you soon,