Published Monthly

From the Editor ... (February 2004)

by Michael Haislip

Another dreary February day tempts me to curl up into the fetal position and drink myself to sleep. Winter inflicts upon me a desire to hibernate and ignore everything until spring comes, but duty calls. I have an issue of AntiMuse to prepare!

This issue is our first. This is history, dear reader. This is the day about which pompous New York literary critics in the future will say, “’Twas when the literature was slain upon the pens of barbarian writers.” Then they will go back to skimming The New Yorker and nodding appreciatively to the strains of Baroque music. Ah, to live the high life.

I’ve asked myself, repeatedly, just what is this little website supposed to achieve. For months, I mulled the answer, seeking guidance from any who would offer. Finally, at the first staff meeting, I stood before their questioning glares and answered.

“Gentlemen, will be the best damn website about the poultry industry that the world’s ever seen!” I pumped my fist toward the heavens in passion.

After being greeted with blank stares, I realized I had been mulling over the wrong website. I attempted to salvage the situation.

“AntiMuse will be the best damn website about the … uh … muse industry that the world’s ever seen!” They cheered. Thus, we arrive at this point, a conflux of space, time and energy that we have humbly titled AntiMuse.

Invariably, I am asked why we chose our peculiar name. The short-yet-somewhat-true answer: we refuse to be controlled by the Muses. The Muses were the Greek goddesses who inspired authors and artists to create their masterpieces. Believers in the Muses thought that all great works had felt the touch of the nine goddesses. But what of those works that straggled along, uninspired, hoping for some divine guidance? To where had the Muses fled? What happens when the artist is shunned by Calliope, muse of epic poetry, and is instead embraced by Wanda, muse of the dirty limerick? We welcome these anti-muses with open arms and flowing ink. We love Yolanda, muse of illicit beauty salon gossip. We salute Francine, muse of Star Trek fan fiction. We offer burnt sacrifice to Shelley, muse of teenage angst poems.

Within our electronic pages, you’ll find an eclectic mix of prose, poetry and art that defies classification (or, at least, resents being pigeonholed and would take you off its Christmas card list should you attempt that). We hope our offerings yield the emotional rewards that everyone seeks when browsing pseudo-intellectual websites. Enjoy.


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