This shit is getting to me. I woke at four this morning and started thinking. They were not happy thoughts. I have been dragging my body through time and space listlessly. Now my mind is slowing too. Lying in the dark, I was confronted by my fears. They overwhelmed me. I tried to put up a defense. What was I looking forward to? Oh, man, that army was far outnumbered. The morning coffee? I couldn't think of anything else. I had to get up. I couldn't stand lying there any longer. I realized that it was true. I am filled with fear and am looking forward to nothing.
If this sounds melodramatic to you, you are very lucky. My guess is that you are not living in the same circumstances as I, that you have many more connections and interactions to distract you. If you, too, are living alone and find my confession pathetic, I would wager that you are much younger than I. I will guess that in the last three months you haven't lost your partner, left your job, made a bad decision that cost you a lot of money. . . .
Making every decision alone is wearing on me. Should I do this now or wait? When is this due? Who should I call?
Shit fuck goddamn.
I have always enjoyed my life. I have not envied others. I have felt myself extremely lucky.
Suddenly, I've fallen through a hole in the floor. Paranoia is overwhelming me.
All I can do is change my mind. Today I am going to begin making lists of things to look forward to. I probably need to narcotize myself less in lockdown.
Other people's troubles, of course. . . . Everybody has their own.
ReplyDeleteOk. I'll be the first. Where is c.c. anyway? AnitaH? How are you doing up in North Country. Q never comes here anymore.
Oh shit - writing that probably sunk you deeper. Not my intent. *heart*
I'd like to air a few grievances as well:
1. Melatonin is for Pussies & Xanax is for Getting On Planes*
I tried Qty. 5 10 MG Melatonins last night - Zippo. Nada. Nuttin.
Another recent night (and this just came to me today on my lovely stoned dog walk - me and the Topper) I took one Xanax. Now - I only have a v. small supply of those. And the only reason I have them is for flying. So when I take a Xanax - like a Pavlov's dog I'm going somewhere. Well fuck if I didn't run around the world the whole night.
Who says weed makes you dumb?
2. There is no way - Elvis Costello's "Imperial Bedroom" album cover isn't quite framable. And also "Almost Blue" is a BEAUTIFUL definitely not questionable song.
And what is it exactly he singing about when he says "To murder my love is a crime, but will you still love a man out of time?"
I'm not one to run to the Google Machine when I have a theory brewing inside my own head.
Am I rambling? Too bad we are in the Time of Corona.
Okay - Isn't Everyman a "Man out of Time to some extent? Campbell's "Hero with 1000 faces"
or this from "Pathways to Bliss: Mythologies and Personal Transformation:"
Artists are magical helpers. Evoking symbols and motifs that connect us to our deeper selves, they can help us along the heroic journey of our own lives. [...]
The artist is meant to put the objects of this world together in such a way that through them you will experience that light, that radiance which is the light of our consciousness and which all things both hide and, when properly looked upon, reveal. The hero's journey is one of the universal patterns through which that radiance shows brightly. What I think is that a good life is one hero journey after another. Over and over again, you are called to the realm of adventure, you are called to new horizons. Each time, there is the same problem: do I dare? And then if you do dare, the dangers are there, and the help also, and the fulfillment or the fiasco. There's always the possibility of a fiasco.
But there's also the possibility of bliss.
Beautiful.
I was going to continue my lecture showing a poem of Tom's and when I went wandering into the files I found the one below. And because I mentioned c.c. and it is nearly almost May 5th - I choose this instead. The notes are important. And I'm totally not offended if no one reads or they think "wtf" - the poet would just be happy his work is still floating around the ether. So thanks for that. xo
I'll continue my lecture another time probably not so I'll just say Tom always wrote about Trump as "Sulla."
*shit for the first time I am unable to publish because of my droning. I will be posting the poem next. And again, I really always appreciate the space to get a couple things you know - moved out of the unless I'm meditating - constant noise in my head.
ReplyDeleteDas Kapital
Underneath her checkered vest
she wore blue velvet
to the county parade.
The urchins cursed and stole
the holes in their pin-stripe suits
patched with tin foil,
little portraits of Jesus
being baptized by John
in the river Jordan
were painted
on their wingtip shoes.
If the masses prove less docile
more stringent measures could be applied,
the connection of the eyes
to the teeth:
a film noire
in which the elephant died
could be denied
Just before the storm troopers
landed in electric blue,
the old Woman donned her shawl
in the hot sun and said,
"who are they to tell me what to do?"
then continued on her way to the shed
where she poured the apple cider
into brown jugs
even as the black smoke rolled;
Maximilian's jails were full anyway
upon this fifth of May.
The members of the Club
adjourn,
discussing legal fees.
Genius lies drunk in the slum
of London mortified.
Hegel's redundant dialectic.
The diseases made easy decisions.
She borrowed the money
to bury the baby. At last rites
for the old man,
eleven people came
to stand abject in the rain.
There is much in the vault
unseen by the garish world
the mirror is tarnished
the reflections faded
arboreal transmutations,
harlequins without sound
drumming on concrete puddles
parasites pound on pores
promising Paradise.
distracted temptation
wretched flowers
comatose wrapped in paper
the hideous sound of disrepair,
yet Death itself is none of those.
the young children clap their hands
the old men forget their mortality
for a while,
young girls catch the eyes of boys
and smile
while conclusions
congeal
in the detritus of the county parade.
NOTES:
Urrr. Among other things, the 5th of May is Karl Marx's birthday. Not that that has a lot to do with this particular poem. At least I don't think so, but I may be wrong. I Often am.
Written May 9th, 2006 Tom E. Brady
The Tampa Bay Buccaneer's quarterback?
ReplyDelete