Reverie III.

"A Poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude ..."

~ Percy Bysshe Shelley

Floating on the surface of the wine-dark sea, Odysseus defied a god. Submerged, I defy ... A boatload of reading has left me with words and more words, time to spend ruminating, re-crafting others' moments.

I like to defy and argue, in the light of morning. But in the bleu du ciel (Bataille), or "the weight of primary noon" (Stevens), I find myself at a loss. When the sun is high in the sky, and my shadow (my second self, that seals up my discourse in a vault) beneath my aching feet -- then I swallow pride and listen ... to the voice of assholes.

Some people never shut up. They spit saliva laced with the semblance of words, and they deserve to have their tongue split, like some fellow from a lesser caste reciting the Mahabharata. These are the people who often get the most attention. Those with wisdom ... those for whom love is an option ... They are the ones who often retreat, when they should be spilling their bright illimitable souls to ... ME.

I'm listening to Bruce Springsteen now. A certain woman that I loved, long ago, couldn't stand him. But I find myself taken back (via "Thunder Road") to a moment at the top of a water tower in Sayrevile, NJ, when my little lady and I tossed beer bottles into a cemetery, laughed and fucked and had a blast. I loved her not, and she was immersed in some sordid family saga. But the wind rolled back her hair, and I was luxurious in my response. How much has changed! Chasing the Promised Land. It's been found, luxuriated in, and lost. So much the better.

Perhaps I'll put on some Beatles, and recall the lady who gave me a sense of forlorn love. A diner in Edison, NJ ... some quotes from Burgess (The Long Day Wanes) and a little footsie under the table ... Prophets crowd around in moments of joy -- with his finger ever at his lips, bidding us: Go fuck yourself -- AND SO: I have a memory of a motel at noon (yes, midi), where, with the aid of some scotch, I made a move ...

Hegel comes in somewhere. "The life of the spirit is not the life that shrinks from adversity, but in utter dissolution, finds itself" (Phenomenology of Spirit). Yes, I got his message. It took about a year, and some time at NYU, to get the sense that words are here for us to manipulate. I understand Hegel, Derrida, Heidegger, Plotinus, as well as the next guy ... Because I am able to work the words, motherfucker. Always the words.

Wifey-knifey came in (Where are you, Thomas Ligotti?) and extracted some pineal organ, rendering me a Christian ... Holy shit. I learned much in those years: the trinity is a trope for personhood; Christ is a lost soul who lived his poetry, knowing that writing is a dead man's task; the world is an arena in which most die and few laugh; and that I am a spectre of my childhood, haunting my own dreams. Thanks, God.

Some time elapsed. Amy, with the tiny feet and hair that forever effaced her pretty face. I know I was distracted, but Porphyry attracted me more than your luscious cunt. Funny how age gives us to think ...

And then: Marilynn. Silence decrees that the aged satyr speaks not. About her. A dirty word.

April. April. April ... Thrice in honor of the sacred number ... the triad, the tripod. But you need no invitation. Your name resonates and my love for you is timeless. In true Edward fashion, I shall give you a quote, as I fail in my own words, when you are around ... my light, my love, my little spark of eternal desire ...

"Serene will be our days and bright,

And happy will our nature be,

When love is an unerring light,

And joy its own security"

(Wordsworth, "Ode to Duty")