AN OPEN LETTER TO CRUEL SPRING
I've been bored. I've been busy. I've been going to seed.
Earlier I had beer. I sat in my jeans, without socks, in my chair. Now I have wine, I wear shorts (uncharacteristically), and I'm waiting until it's night enough to sleep. I've been watching movies, horror movies, French movies, old movies, silent movies. I've been reading; "Nausea," D. T. Suzuki, Berryman, Barthes, Dorothy Parker, graffiti. I've been watching the BBC: "Black Books," "Doctor Who," old and new.
I've been reading poetry:
"Dream Song 14," by John Berryman
Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.
After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns,
we ourselves flash and yearn,
and moreover my mother told me as a boy
(repeatingly) "Ever to confess you're bored
means you have no
Inner Resources." I conclude now I have no
inner resources, because I am heavy bored.
Peoples bore me,
literature bores me, especially great literature,
Henry bores me, with his plights & gripes
as bad as Achilles,
who loves people and valiant art, which bores me.
And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag
and somehow a dog
has taken itself & its tail considerably away
into the mountains or sea or sky, leaving
behind: me, wag.
I was chilled and sad throughout the tail-winter, and now I'm sad and humid in the premature summer. I feel old, strong, handsome, and transparent.
I've been writing, which is like not being bored for very short spans of annoyed. As says Peter de Vries, I can't stand the paperwork.
I've been quoting again -- mad gobs of quotes, an all-proper improper lexicon. That's a quality of both precocious youth and disaffected age. I've also been going quotable again. I fear I'll die of a brain aphorism; yes, that sort of thing.
I've been trying not to rant about politics and American culture here or anywhere, because it's pointless to do so, and even the venting rallies rather than quells the anger.
I've been meditating, eating healthily, exercising, improving (to no purpose) my balance, driving, buying new music, visiting thrift stores, making new distant friends at the end-of-the-alley dive bar, slimming, thinking, going for walks. And still I'm left with a taste of aluminum and nowhere to go at 12:30am.
It's going to be a dodgy spring.
I've been bored. I've been busy. I've been going to seed.
Earlier I had beer. I sat in my jeans, without socks, in my chair. Now I have wine, I wear shorts (uncharacteristically), and I'm waiting until it's night enough to sleep. I've been watching movies, horror movies, French movies, old movies, silent movies. I've been reading; "Nausea," D. T. Suzuki, Berryman, Barthes, Dorothy Parker, graffiti. I've been watching the BBC: "Black Books," "Doctor Who," old and new.
I've been reading poetry:
"Dream Song 14," by John Berryman
Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.
After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns,
we ourselves flash and yearn,
and moreover my mother told me as a boy
(repeatingly) "Ever to confess you're bored
means you have no
Inner Resources." I conclude now I have no
inner resources, because I am heavy bored.
Peoples bore me,
literature bores me, especially great literature,
Henry bores me, with his plights & gripes
as bad as Achilles,
who loves people and valiant art, which bores me.
And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag
and somehow a dog
has taken itself & its tail considerably away
into the mountains or sea or sky, leaving
behind: me, wag.
I was chilled and sad throughout the tail-winter, and now I'm sad and humid in the premature summer. I feel old, strong, handsome, and transparent.
I've been writing, which is like not being bored for very short spans of annoyed. As says Peter de Vries, I can't stand the paperwork.
I've been quoting again -- mad gobs of quotes, an all-proper improper lexicon. That's a quality of both precocious youth and disaffected age. I've also been going quotable again. I fear I'll die of a brain aphorism; yes, that sort of thing.
I've been trying not to rant about politics and American culture here or anywhere, because it's pointless to do so, and even the venting rallies rather than quells the anger.
I've been meditating, eating healthily, exercising, improving (to no purpose) my balance, driving, buying new music, visiting thrift stores, making new distant friends at the end-of-the-alley dive bar, slimming, thinking, going for walks. And still I'm left with a taste of aluminum and nowhere to go at 12:30am.
It's going to be a dodgy spring.
VIEW 5 of 5 COMMENTS
I'd be up for other vegetarian options.