Reverie II.

"My life's a shadowless horse

If I can't get across

To you"

~ Marc Bolan (T. Rex)

Not too long ago, I was told by a certain Lady that I need to get off of my Dark Horse, by which she meant: resist the temptation to rebellion for rebellion's sake. Nowadays, horseless, I am ignored by the larger mass of humanity, it seems. So I think ...

As I sit here, in my little room, with Eliot, Whitman, Poe, Machen, LeFanu, the Bhagavad-Gita, some Old and Middle English lyrics, etc., by my side, -- as I sit here, I think of certain writers, creatures of an atmosphere opposed to the development of ethical existence (perhaps) but certainly amenable to -- and nurturing of -- silent meditation upon one's loves, and expression (in the form of linguistic constructs) of one's ego eimi ho On (cf. Exodus 3:14, Septuagint).

As I sit here ... and recall: Machen lived in a tiny garret, subsisting (quite like myself) on green tea, tobacco, and scraps of food snatched opportunely whenever hunger became a nuisance. And he wrote (as I do) under compulsion of boredom. Only difference: he had no laptop, no cellphone, no instant communication with/to so-called people ... He was alone. As I should be. But I write to others, seek acceptance, hope for love. Yes, I said it. Loneliness sucks. There's my 21st century provenance smacking its lips. Oh well ...

What would I do, I ask myself, if I were living in some attic in, say, Providence RI (Lovecraft land) with no phone, no computer, no persons? I'd probably go insane. So much for 21st century English letters. Belles lettres. I wish. To write something as propositional as Eliot's Waste Land , as circumlocutory as Whitman's Song, as claustrophobic as Poe's Amontillado tale, as cloying as Machen's Pan, as rending as LeFanu's Carmilla, as deeply gulf-defying as the Bhagavad-Gita, as brown and green and new and old and crisp as a morning with Mom yelling and the woods calling as the Anglo-Saxon and "Alliterative Revival" masterpieces ...

As all that.

What would it take? Some time spent in a dusty room, masturbating into sheets, drinking cold tea, eating salmon out of a can, reading the same lines over and over and over and over ... waiting for a theophany on the wall?

Perhaps just what life serves up. A shitload of disappointment. A plate of angst and emotion and sad eyes thinking of relief, of horrid testimony to some ancient era living only in foggy memory with a bit of eloquent phrases tucked on the side, with a friend who knows, a lady who blows, a tramp with a tattoo, a promise of life-after-death, some type of monster living on unknown and unknowable STUFF, regret teeming like wasps, slug-like growths on my paper, destroying the old days, laying waste to all that was ...

Overly dramatic

A whimper not a bang

The white flesh palpates, the small foot disappears for a moment, and I reach for the solace of her body. She was a succubus of the highest order, Huysmans would've loved her. I didn't, and I paid.

Alone again.

Et je ne trouve pas ma maison