Truncated
I spent my lunch today staring at William Blake plates. The first time I had ever seen his work was in high school. My senior year, we were all required to take a Brit Lit class, even if you were also taking a Latin American lit class, Brit Lit was impossible to get out of. Of course, when I went to college, I realized how grateful I was to have some grasp on the English classics. My professor was this strange short man, whose name evades me, he was in deep love with the novel, The Brideshead Revisited: the Sacred and Profane Memories of Captain Charles Ryder. His personal obsession engulfed my life that fall semester. We were forced to read the book and then watch the 11 part series, each part one hour. As a way to combat the torture of Brideshead I would flip through my Norton's Anthology of British Poetry and look for the word "picaresque" or "bloodied". That is how I came upon Blake. I read his Songs of Innocence and his Songs of Experience. I didn't understand his religious references. I was not raised with religion, or anything as organized. But, his poems were fierce. Even in my ignorance I felt his desire for enlightenment, enrichment and his inner rage at the conventions of average around him. "The imagination is not a State: it is the Human existence itself." Shortly thereafter I discovered his etchings. Never in my life had I seen something so profound and had no idea why it was or what it meant. Many of his images have tortured me at different points in my life. For a long time I referred often to his drawings from The Marriage of Heaven and Hell when confronted with difficult choices. I'd spend time peeking at the curves of the people, naked in fear and death, others encased in harmony and light. The center in which these polar opposites lapsed into blurry gray filled me with desperation. Of course, time passes and those things that moved you when you were so young begin to lose their luster, their power...or so you think. I haven't looked at his work in a couple of years. Today I did. It all came flooding back: How will you cross this finish line? Can you hold your hands above your head forever? Impossible questions that make me quiver from toes to ends of my teeth.
~***~
It's Halloween. I've been settling up mental debts and realized I might be a little short. I owe myself some dignity and direction. I've been kicking around the idea of hibernation, under one god, indivisable with lots of liberty and quiet. I have to get my projects off the ground and I can't seem to do that responsibly. Instead, there are people to ponder and things under dim lights to see. I must refrain from those too young for me. It will be cold soon and I will need to flip up my lapels, stick my head down and breathe through my nose. The wind is strong. I have to make a phone call soon to a nice boy I did meet this weekend and offer some cider and conversation. He is too nice to brush off, but too young to consider. I hope he never reads this.
..
..
..
..