Micheal Valencia

(The Twentieth of June, Nineteen Hundred and Eighty Nine / A Suburb of Los Angeles)

'It's Inspiration (The Muses Have Been Calling All Day)


They’re clicking beneath my fingers; I’ve waited all day for this moment—and now it’s here.

I’m uniting all of the abstract thoughts of my day and assessing the power of tonight’s Muses: I’m in the process of reclaiming every stray philosophy that I found hiding in between my study pages; the little Platos, feeling mischievous, I suppose, that attempted to provoke me from beneath Milton’s meter; that, foot by foot, florid description by florid description, early American poem by early American poem, kept protruding their anxious heads—daring me to juxtapose them with the beloved poet and compare syntax…and they’re still clicking away!

I am currently casting antecedent glances; recalling every loose concept that tried to escape under the graphite of my daily erudition; bits and pieces I fancied would be quite appropriate, if tweaked slightly, with the theme of early colonial history; or was quite confident would, if made slightly more impersonal and maybe a bit more objective, eloquently accentuate Tom and Huck’s relationship.

But I’ve tempered all scholastic creativity—just for this moment…and they’re still clicking away!

Minute after minute, hour after hour, the ideas kept evincing their grandiose forms of introspection—and I kept reserving them for later, tucking them away in the most inviolable sectors of my brain; they incessantly asked for the permission to allow their insightful commentary to knock the instructors prostrate with profundity, to grant them clemency if they opened an abyss and swallowed a hapless educational administrator in its philosophical depth, losing him forever from all except that which was conceived by my faculties—but I told them, it’s not about recognition…and they’re still typing away!

So, just as when I began evaluating tonight’s procession of Muses, gauging who can facilitate my intellectual creation most well—my cognitive muscles are straining themselves in accordance with the degree that one might surmise with the construction of brilliance—my remembrances are acting as my fountain of creative elixir—my apparent placidity (back and bottom in chair, feet reclined, eyes on screen, fingers on keys) is really a stupor of almost divine excogitation—my mind, no longer a mass of biological matter, composed of cerebellums and cerebrums, etc., is adopting the capabilities of our greatest water-filtering systems; instead of germs and bacteria, however, it is filtering all extraneous conceptions, and sustaining the world of intelligentsia with the Waters of Wisdom-my fingers, extensions of this miniature Isaiah in my head, are serving for the tools that will sculpt Lord knows what monument…and, lo and behold, they’re still typing away!

Submitted: Friday, May 02, 2008

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