The Muse's Corner
By the Philosopher of Arena Football, Paul Celmer
They say the Owl of Minerva flies at dusk, but it was not until well past midnight that I awoke in a cold sweat. My mind was troubled. I roused myself from the warm solace of my bed for I knew I had to make the trek downtown to seek the wisdom of The Muse.
As is typical of towns in the South, the mass transit system in Raleigh is a cruel farce, so there was of course no chance of getting a bus. I saddled up my trusty old Sears ten-speed, and took off into the night, the only sound that late in my quiet and cozy suburban neighborhood being the bike’s bent sprocket screeching against the rust encrusted chain like a creature from the 9th circle of Hell.
The week had not gone well; there were many things that troubled me. For example, why is there something, rather than nothing? That is, why do we exist? And other problems such as, does human consciousness exist independent of the body? Why do electrons jump in quantitized packets of energy, rather than moving in smooth transitions from one energy level to the next? Is there a pattern to the infinite sequence of prime numbers? And the toughest question of them all, the question that forced my nocturnal wanderings: Why did my boy Graziani and the Philadelphia Soul only score 20 points in week 8. Yes, only 20 points. Pitiful. Perhaps they thought they were playing the game in the Fall? Who knows? Then I remembered: The Muse.
After a short hour of climbing lung-scorching hills and nearly getting run over by drunken madmen, I finally saw the great bone-white columns of the Raleigh train station rising before me. With appropriate trepidation, I struggled as usual with the massive doors and entered. There was no lights, no sounds, nothing. But I had to have my question answered. What caused Graziani to falter? Too much D? Off field shenanigans? Not enough heart? No team chemistry? I shouted all my rage and anguish into the empty cavern: “Why did the Soul choke so badly?”
My words echoed into the terrifying darkness. There was no answer. But, high on the wall, just beyond the eye’s ability to see clearly, there was a note affixed with duct tape. At that wild interface where vision turns to murk, I struggled to make out the words, and finally managed to read:
"Look deep into the Arena--
That Zen Rock Garden
In the heart of America
To seek your answers.
Mirror Man, Mirror Man,
Bouncing off the wall
Who is the greatest
Receiver of them all?
Looking the wrong way,
Dare to Mule-kick your rock
Into the teeth of defeat.
For despair not,
There will always appear
A T. T. Toliver
To recover your last on-side hope."
After reading this, I still had no idea what the problem was with my Philadelphia Soul. But I at least had hope for week 9.
And so should you.
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