I humbly think of Humboldt, who is himself an allegory; or I could trace these allegories back to their sources: Hermes, or Eshu, these divinities of tricksters; but damn, brother, we writers aren’t even fooling ourselves at the end of the day, the way we write our lives in catachreses. Clearly, I’m still searching for the right words. They say they saw you a few days before the fall, weak and worn and worried away like a wish in a wishing well, still waiting. That’s the way of things, I guess. They release you from the hospital and you walk your way home to the morgue your damn self.
It’s the journey we’re all of us making, and what matters is what we make of it along the way. No one can say you didn’t give it your all. Couldn’t sit at a desk like a dullard dulling the days away, but rather rewrote life as a series of noir scenes, dreams of a livelier life among the dregs of modern day doldrums of deadly boredoms. I humbly think of Humboldt, hanging out in the bowery, hat hanging low, dirty, lousy, lazy and inspired. Joyous in his madness and always on his way to his next drink. It’s the sober light of morning, the six o clock sun rising orange red between the cenotaphic buildings that shocks; a shock too bright to bear. Maybe just best to sleep the days away.
Is there a soul, do we come back, do we move on, or do we disappear, words writ on water? Well, you certainly had your soul mate, your Charlotte, even if we lack souls to share with our soul mates. It’s the only thing we can ask for in this crisis of recurring mornings; a little bit of love, and if the soul is illusory, then love is illusory, and then that means living without illusions is a tragedy not worth entertaining, because living without love is probably not really living. And loving without a soul is not loving, but responding, biologically, to the machine, these cities, these cenotaphic buildings. I humbly think of Humboldt: this purgatory of living without illusions and the crafting of perfect illusions is the impossible task of every writer, stuck on the threshold between night and dawn, lucidly dreaming.
CATACHRESES 