Soul or Hole

There are days of unconsciousness, I mean days that are not recorded, that are difficult to remember because of their automatic nature, days when you cannot recall what you ate or what you read or with whom you spoke or what you watched.  One day bleeds into another like the colors of a cheap madras shirt.  No, perhaps not.  Perhaps like the ink of a newspaper left in the rain.  Smears of color are too pleasant a description. 

That has been my work week, a blur of unremarkable usualness. 

Bland days passing rapidly. 

But. . . the esteemed photographer Ed Ross has agreed to exchange prints with me which is thrilling.  There is now a greater expectation in life than I had the day before.  An immortal thing. 

Woody Allen has signed to do a "television" series for Amazon.  This is bound to be a bad idea, I think.  It will be Woody the Worst/Awful Allen.  I hope not, but I haven't hope, really.  It could be good if it was about a man who marries his step-daughter.  I wouldn't mind that one, especially if there was a Woody the Polaroid Photographer exhibit that went along with it, a companion book, if you will. 

Oh, I need to stop that.  People will think the worst things about me.  They already do.  People only understand the satire they wish to understand.  The rest they take as truth and blasphemy and they verge on the practice of something as bad as Sharia Law. 

The days are gray and damp, and perhaps that contributes to my existential gray.  I have nothing to kick about, really.  But I wonder why we who are born say such things at all?  Existence is a crime that was committed at conception.  We all are the products of lust and desire.  It is from that which we came. 

If only it was that to which we returned rather than the long blankness that seems to lie ahead. 

Crazy Jane Talks with the Bishop

I met the Bishop on the road
And much said he and I.
'Those breasts are flat and fallen now,
Those veins must soon be dry;
Live in a heavenly mansion,
Not in some foul sty.'

'Fair and foul are near of kin,
And fair needs foul,' I cried.
'My friends are gone, but that's a truth
Nor grave nor bed denied,
Learned in bodily lowliness
And in the heart's pride.

'A woman can be proud and stiff
When on love intent;
But Love has pitched his mansion in
The place of excrement;
For nothing can be sole or whole
That has not been rent.' 

William Butler Yeats