Sunday, August 28, 2011
Eschered by M.C. Escher
Abundaman en todos costados ventanas viejos y abas el derribar debuhan adelante una cella o pozo.
--Jorge Luis Borges.
(It abounded on windows on all sides, with stairs leading down to a cell or pit).
It's probably my immigrant family backround, but every so often, I get the feeling that Canadian society leads you to a trap, or a series of traps.
--Or maybe I mean just Canadian women.
Whatever the case, I am today already down the stairs and in that cell or pit. I have been Eschered,all perspective gone...Like W. Somerset Maugham's take on what science and biology will eventually reveal to confound us with us: River is jungle and jungle is river.
But it's probably more commonplace.
Somebody is f*cking with my head.
There was a time when I was Harry the Rat with women, when it was me who was serving the drinks and let the wenches beware.
Now in a relationship after ten years of drought,I walk on eggshells, dare not leave a woman scorned or even alone, for I know the back-blow, bullshit and even need for therapy that can result.
And yet I know that I must walk.
I got my suitcase in my hand
Now ain't that a shame?
New Orleans is my home
That's the reason that I'm goin'
This time I'm walkin' to New Orleans.
I got no time for talkin'
I gotta keep on walkin'...
I think I'm going to have to take a walk to Hamilton. It is eighty mile away, and that should be far enough.
My family lives there, but I am informed that all problems start with the family...and end with the family--and that is somehow jarring. Euripides: All problems start with the family... And end with the family?
It seems that I am partially responsible for alienating my immediate family...I dare not do more damage. But my sisters, for whatever reason, tell me that all the women in my family are castrators. I did chose a wife not of my own tribe, she was magical, a doll, but lately, and there, I get that "One-hung low" feeling.
It is especially strong now, with me just back from the hospital with blood pressure problems, and hell, say it on: I can't seem to get my shift-lever mechanism to work.
(I had a student in my creative writing class with the same problem. Myself successful, virile and on top of the world at the time I displayed an amazing insight of worldliness, saying to the student that it will all pass. It is in the bounty of the woman).
Now I wish I could find that student. How're ya doin' now after thirty years?
Well, I did find out he was now unemployed and that hardly leads to feelings of bibilousness. Hell, even gassiness...Maybe I had become something of an old fart and that's why the disconnect between the old student and me.
I sincerely hope it's just the post-hospital
state. You feel not quite up to things after a spell with IV's, needles and sleeping pills.
Why this feeling of being Eschered, as in a push-me-pull-you lllustration.
And the dank feeling of being in a cell or pit.
Over seventy and veering between old Eros and Thanatos?