My intention had been to compose a blog, but it seems I can't get there from here.
Moon still banging rather powerfully at my front door; fingernail-on-the blackboard feeling.
Out of tune. Out of kilter.
I once wrote a novel about it, about a man who was just this "big raw nerve", aware, I suppose, like an existentialist, of the absurdity of society and the madness of the self. His life was a series of nervous jumps from one disaster to another.
Like promoting a person with a room temperature IQ to office manager, I suppose.
I know you've met them.
I keep meeting people who actually want to have issues, to be dysfunctional, to be like Chekhov characters.
It takes a long time to realize they are actually out of their depth , and it is no wonder that they have issues.
At least that's what they told me last time I was in "rehab". "You're here because you're stupid. There's nothing wrong with you that $200, 000 couldn't cure."
"But that's the whole point. I'm in here because I lost the $200,000. Talk about separation anxiety!"
Ah well. A vacation on the Ontario Hospital plan.
Something like $300 a day to keep the old lunatic.
My brain, "the creature", What is its form, what is it's dimension? Is it moving, or is it standing still? Is it aware, lit up, percolating? Or is it lust there lying beside me, insipid, stupid.
I am hardly Ezra Pound, but the great poet did spend years and years at St. Elizabeth's hospital, sort of Pounding-off.
Produced some ot the 20th century's best poetry that way.
Turned T.S. Eliot's "The Wasteland" from an inchaoate pretentious piece of crap into one of the best poems of the century.
Ezra Pound, crazy man, come over here and doctor my work . ( And I'll bring Benji with me? Heh. He says he's looking for the key to litarature, at least in characterization).
I finally meet an intelligent psychiatrist. "You don't need me, you need a fairy godmother."
I relate this to my friend.
He phones me the next day, "Ivan, this is your fairly godfather."
"F*ck off," I explain to him.
Of such stuff come blogs...I suppose.
They told Fitzgerald: If you're blocked, write about the block.
I'm actually still waiting for that return from one H & R Block.
I think they only lost 27 million on the stock exchange.
H & R Block?
Man, that's a separation anxiety!
Me, I was just short a load.