at this lowest ebb of fathomable experience:
i have crossed paths with Shakespeare
with that saying: i would, i perhaps could
be the master of infinite space -
were it not for me having bad dreams...
no... i wouldn't call them bad dreams
just dreams....
Edinburgh in the darkness
yet illuminated by snow...
Edinburgh as this Luciferean realm:
whole hearted darkness around yet illuminated
by snow: trivial details...
one dream i'm walking on Nicholson St toward
the Royal Mile
i pick up a phone that someone has lost
the phone calls... it's some ypoung *****
and her boyfriend on the other line
i tell them i could meet them somewhere
for them to retrieve the phone:
so oblivious the communication between
two parties...
a second dream i am walking with Fiona and Tristan
and we're looking for New Arthur's Place
but it isn't our hall of residence...
this bout of heavy sadness this drowning melancholic
retrospective: that i dream of Edinburgh
and it's the time of night and the night is
illuminated by snow...
the genesis of all my unravelling and now
that i am presented with the potential zenith of
joy i find myself suspicious of the gods' graces
that i should be happy and no longer suffering
and what now? what am i supposed to do with
all this supposed happiness -
even when i think of my bride to be i think:
and this is my reward? where was she when
i was at my lowest with the fiercest foes
and ardent allies?
my kidneys are not as hurt as the fact that
i've been forcing myself to sleep: in order to dream,
when i envisioned a culmination of
tragedy and the onset of Alzheimer's i said
to my friend Alexander: then i will travel to the land
of the Dutch and go into a puny make-believe of
a forest and ingest some mushrooms and
reinvigorate my mind to quicken toward making
new avenues of thoughts...
but not until then...
this sadness is so physical it cannot be just some
metaphysical feeling:
it's the imbued finality of being hung dragged
and quartered: it's a sadness that terribly demands
respect: and where was she when i was nowhere
to be found, it's a melancholic masculinity
that does not partake in the lynchpin of feminine
scoff and malaise of the pain threshold
bordering on sado-masochism and out of this simple
existential parameter does my
masculine ache forward: nothing coming to
the birth of: ego ex nihil...
neglecting my personal hygiene a little...
then my intellectual hygiene is lost even though
the advent of A.I. has done little to clean up
the auto-suggestive algorithms concerning the music
i might want to listen to...
such glorious dreams of retrospection
and to think than in less than a week i'll spend
a night in San Franciscco travelling toward Oakland
airport
that a marriage will take place that
something impossible like a surrogate daughter
will be there: hardly waiting...
while she just idly spends her time on the telephone:
but that i dreamnt of Fiona and Tristan so vividly
that i dreamnt of my Gothic stronghold
my little Edinburgh in the night with all that snow
all that snow like constellations in the sky
or at least the descended light from the moon
after all: Fiona and Tristan were the ones
running around Edinburgh while i had my psychotic
breakdown or as i like to call it:
the death of ego the scattering of thought
how the soul escaped the body or rather how
a god stole the comfort of the medium of thought
in that medium of "audible"...
why would i claim to think i am even remotely worthy
of this little itch, scratch... of happiness...
i haven't known that sensation for so long
it almost reminds me of what happens
when a wild animal, caged, after years, decades of
mental anguish locked in a cage...
is unable to fathom the freedom gained with
being released into the wild...
where are my rumminations of
the geometry of the circle where
is the geometry of the cube? how am i to ponder
my former ravenous pacing backwards and forwards
in aimless orbit in a prison of the gods' whims
and example...
who is this that supposedly gained the graces
and final excuses to feel happy to feel confined
to what other grey mesh of humanity takes for granted?!