Dirty Gerty's Hurdy Gurdy


Only the poem knows what's true

Friday, April 23, 2010


It's quite difficult, as we all know, to cope with the fading of someone we love. I must say, seeing my father in pain, etc., knowing these might be our final days together, etc., puts me in a horrid state. My depression is exacerbated, my thoughts, exacerbated. I can hardly write these blogs. All I can do is provide you (with) fiction. From me. So, I've decided, to give you a continuation of Part 2 1/2. I certainly hope you don't abhor it; if you adore it (which I doubt) do relay as much. I'd be quite happy and honored to hear your responses. And, mark me, I don't utilize writing as a catharsis. Some may speculate it is that in many respects, cathartic. But, I'm of the mind, the concept(s) at hand, when I write, are less venting and more relenting. More about this later. In my second novel Deirdre goes on about how art isn't meant to be cathartic, etc., But I won't bore you with that now. I might bore you, instead, with the continuation, and here it is:

“Well,” she said, “He was just listening to all my grievances, against you of course. Don’t’ look so dour! You know I’m kidding. Really, we were talking about personas. How people take on guises to complement their own… lack, of persona.”
“I’d disagree,” Dedrick said.
“Yes, yes, of course you would,” she said, and left the two of them in a corner, against a mirror and coat rack.
Dedrick turned to the mirror. It spat back his Romanesque nose. And the way it twitched. The mirror told him he was nervous.
Sylvia balanced her way to another room. The kitchen perhaps. May it be she was going for more wine? Or was she hiding something, from him. Dedrick never took much care of those who were meant to be close, to him. He found it far more resourceful to ignore them, so when you did pay attention there was so much more interest to be had. And Sylvia was no exception. Something was happening to her. That she should even venture outside in the getup she was in was surprising indeed.
“Mr. Forrester, haven’t you heard a word I just said?”
“No, no, and forgive me, doctor, I was just thinking, to myself, of course.”
“Within yourself, you mean.”
Dedrick excused himself, and went to the kitchen. She was there. Sitting at a table, looking at a bee circling the fake flowers. Her eyes were a blue made bluer by the darkness around them. They were large, and not so inquisitive. More dream like. As if, when she looked at you, she was really thinking of something else, so very far away.
“So, you’ve found me,” she said, with a giggle.
He didn’t respond. He only walked over to her side, and brushed his hand upon her soft shoulder. She wasn’t wearing her usual powder; the fragrance was more distinct. Like flowers in bloom. Exotic, too.
“Whatever are you thinking?” She said.
“Nothing important,” he said. And sat beside her. And brushed his finger through her long dark locks.
“Will you stop that?” She said.
He stopped. He turned in for a kiss. But she turned away.
“What’s wrong, Sylvia?”
“Nothing except the obvious.”
“Which is?”
“You think you know everything about me, and I so little, about you. Which, in some ways, is true. But, in many ways, isn’t.”
“You’ll always be enigma…”
“Will you stop that? I’ve had enough of your lies, Mr. Forrester. Funny thing is, you think you’re pulling the ultimate trick. The way to cheat death into thinking it could ever lose to life. You put on a false identity, which makes people want to know the real you, and you keep it ever so secreted away. Without even knowing, when you put up a false affront, people find you’re really anticlimactic. When you set up the truth, people are always expecting more.”
“I still don’t understand…”
“You wouldn’t, Rick, now would you?”
“Now that’s just not fair…”
“You know, I’d understand if you had some wild reality to secret away. I always knew you weren’t who you said you were. But, to think, Mr. Forrester is keeping the secret, that he’s really dull? I can’t accept it.”
“Then don’t.”
“It’s a bit too late for that.”
“So,” he said, “What do you want?”
“I want,” she gasped. “I want some time to myself. That’s all.”
“Away from me?”
“That is what having time to oneself means. Away from you. Away from everyone.”
“Except yourself, of course.”
She didn’t appreciate how he could complete her thoughts. How he so readily completed her life. Taking all the details he knew, and fashioning them into some fictional altruism.
“What kind of wine is that?” He said.
“White Zinfandel.”
“Your favorite,” he said.
She took a final sip, and rose. And left a kiss on his cheek. And said, “You don’t know, do you? How you’ve managed to break my heart, so it seems there was never any heart broken to begin with.”
He didn’t have the urge to cry. He couldn’t laugh. He could only affirm it; he had destroyed her. Like so many, she had been, for him, the perfect marionette. When he fashioned his characters, in all his works, they were always based on the people closest, to him. This latest novella was no exception. He used her; he took every bit of her dignity, and fashioned it into trite wordplay.
It was as if, he was holding her, and controlling what she said. Her movements. Her intuitions. Were all fashioned by him.
And what didn’t trouble him was his lack of guilt. She let this happen. They all did. He, so enamored they’d sacrifice themselves to be close, to him, enamored everyone. There was something about Dedrick’s ego that drove people bonkers. And yet, none of them knew who he really was. Some, with Sylvia’s perception, would say he were really dull. But her perception wasn’t too keen. Neither were the people who thought this novella was all about him, and his life. Truth be told, he was scared to confront the real Mr. Forrester.
There was something to amnesia. Sylvia complemented him in the sense her thoughts were so overbearing, her madness so inclined, she could eradicate her past. And wonder; was any of it even true? Did she lose her brother? Did she deal with this illness for a time? Or was it all artificial? The bee swarmed around the fake flowers, it had to know the scent wasn’t there. But it was attracted to their luminance; the luminance the key, to everything, in life. Even if it was false, we were always so attracted to it. Sylvia was stretching at something she could no longer handle, when she tried to off herself, it wasn’t like she even considered the life she had, with him. She saw everything as a contrivance, and the artificiality became too overbearing, she had to leave. And lose her soul to the hollow host.
He could have been wrong, about all of this. He may have been imposing himself on her. He often did that, in real life. In fiction, it was always the lives of others being imposed on his psyche and into words. In real life, it was his life imposed onto others and into their actions.
When he met Sylvia, she was 24. A friend, whose name he couldn’t even recall anymore, who said she was the real deal, introduced her to him. Really avant-garde, he said. The real deal. So when she floated up to him, treading rough on the air, he was asphyxiated by those dreaming eyes. When she looked at him, he knew she looked beyond him. Into what sort of world? He knew she’d be the perfect wife, because she could invent what was beyond him. She could care less for his real identity. She was really avant-garde.
He knew about the Lupus. She was diagnosed at nineteen. She had to leave school to study close at home. She’d deal with oppressive bouts of fatigue and arthritis. None of which he could feel, because he had never experienced it. And when she was diagnosed with this nephritis, he wanted to scream. He really did care about her, on some level; the real Sylvia. Knowing her kidneys were scarred, seeing what the Prednisone did to her, and the chemo, and now the CellCept. She was 25 when the nephritis happened. It had been four years since. At 29 she was wearing the body of something that must have been monstrous, to her. And he didn’t know, how despairing it was. To lose your looks so young, it seemed so superficial. But it really hurt. Especially considering her mental afflictions.
He found her beautiful. Certainly, she wasn’t as striking as she had been at 24. But even with the added weight, the added conflicts, her eyes were dreamier. She walked through a room and made flowers envious, with her delicacy. And fragrance. And the beauty of a sleepwalker. She had it. La Somnambule. Her gift was the ability to take everything in, accept it, repel it, fight it, and in the end, even after trying to sacrifice her life, seek it.
She was always a seeker. Seeing beyond everything. As if there were something on the horizon far prettier than she.
Why had she said that? It was true, certainly. But why did she come out and verbalize it? It made accepting it all the more difficult. Sometimes, when people keep to themselves, you’re able to venture into their minds, and look upon yourself, in relief, and see what sort of source you really are. But when people verbalize what you are, what you’ve done to them, you deny it. Because the verbalizing kills its intrigue, your attraction to it.
The bee buzzed and flew out of an open window. He knew he should go back to the party. Keep an eye. But he’d much rather sit and ignore everyone. The last year had been so stressful. Having people nitpick over his words. Some saying they were too ornate, others saying the ornate was what made it real. Because what was fiction without some bombastic disguise?
All along, though, it was really Sylvia, who drove him to his “madness.” The taking her, the making her a source of contemplation. The re-creating every event in her life, into some monster. And having people fuss, over every detail, hegemony, subservience, even sycophancy, were all terms thrown about. What none of them knew, though, was the import of his being in that state. Where someone you know becomes a concept, to be clothed and nurtured, and presented to the world in adolescence with too much lipstick.
It was all overbearing. He despaired knowing what she must have been through. And what his character was experiencing, so… fruitless.
“So here you are,” Edward sat across from him.
“Hello Edward.”
Disturbed. Someone always disturbed his thoughts. Or something.
“How goes it?” Edward said.
“Not so well, bro.”
Edward laughed. “No need to call me bro. I may be much younger, but I hate the machismo vernacular. Kind of reminds me of chimps taking their ground, but not really taking it at all.”
“Sylvia wants nothing to do with me.”
“Yup,” Rick said, “She knows everything. About my real name, my faking all those characters. Making it seem autobiographical when it’s really biographical.”
“Some women would be flattered at being a muse.”
“But don’t you see? Why would you? You’re so damn young. Sylvia knows she was more than a muse. She was what becomes a muse when it’s overworked. A victim.”
“And really,” Edward said, “There’s nothing more insulting than that.”
“So, when did you find out about her nephritis?”
“She told you?” Edward nodded. “She must be off the rocker then, telling complete strangers about her health issues.”
“Do you love her?”
“What? Why are you asking me that? You’re so young, what do you care? Love to you is a sex romp.”
Edward laughed. “You didn’t answer my question. And by not answering, I think you’ve said all that needs to be said.”
Edward rose, but Rick grabbed his arm.
“Do you think I should leave her?”
“No,” Edward said, “But I think she should leave you.”
Preposterous. The audacity of the young. He smiled at Edward as he left the room, with a glass of Pinot. What did Edward know to make him so boundless? But maybe it would be best if Sylvia left him. Five years of marriage was a bit too much, especially to one so young, but with the grace of a sage.
Such grasp. She had such grasp of fantasy. Knowing, more importantly, that fantasy was really where all reality was to be had. Because it was in the fantastical that you put real motivations; in trying to be real, motivations were always imagined.
If Sylvia left him, he would be the victor. Because she wouldn’t be able to handle him. Wasn’t able, was what people would say. Couldn’t put up with the stress of being married to one so powerful...

Tuesday, April 20, 2010


I've been struggling what can compact to word.

What can't compact to word is simple.

The impact of some news I've received, from last week, pertaining to my father.

He's here at home now, fortunately, albeit in hospice, at home.

My sister wrote a beautiful poem, about him.

Which I won't care to share, as it is quite personal.

But I will say this.

There's a reason cliches exist.

We often spit them off as thoughtless whimsies, sometimes to vituperate.

They exist only when we feel them, and when this happens, they become less.

Than Cliche.

My father said, the other day, worry not about the past or future.

Take each day as is.

To anyone else, that would seem obvious.

But when you're in the Charybdisean free fall of grief, you forget.

You put it in a box on a shelf to remember, but also forget.

It's only when the epiphany comes, physically, that you realize.

Taking each day as is is probably the greatest cliche ever to exist.

Cliches are the only things that make us endemic.

In a world where what seems to be is equated by what wants (to be), there is solace.

In taking things as they are, in just embodying a moment to be lost.

Without even considering it will be lost.

It's kind of like embodying energy, without thought.

This is the supreme act of life.

The red poppies Mr. DH Lawrence wrote of in his Thomas Hardy study.

Without it, we are nothing but a death, in life.

Because I have scant to share, this eve, I'm going to provide the beginning.

Of part 2 1/2 of my second novel.

I hope you like.

It's not nearly so powerful as the rest, of the book, which may just be why I share.

My weaknesses, always.

And by the by, I AM back:

PART 2 ½
When Sylvia entered a room, she was always an elephant. When she entered the living room, gazes turned, upon her risqué dress, and those heels she was trying to steady herself upon. What were they thinking? Dedrick had often wondered, that, what people really thought about his young wife.
And she was young, in many ways. But older than everyone in the room. She never knew that was part of her appeal.
She had certainly changed since they met. She was fatter, for certain. And less confident in her looks, but more confident in her art. Maybe this display was her way of showing him, and everyone, she didn’t really care, anymore.
But was it an act of desperation? Her last call before suicide? He should really keep an eye.
Sylvia shook Dr. Strattleby’s hand. Which was must larger than hers. And coarser. Mr. Forrester couldn’t help; could it be her hands were like petals guarding a bud, having not been touched by wind or rain or sustaining grief? But then she had been through so much. May it be this was a part of her that hadn’t found the storm, had instead kept it enclosed, from wind and rain and sustaining grief?
Dr. Strattleby looked over at Dedrick, and back at Sylvia. There was certainly a look of concern, from him. But flippancy, from Sylvia. Strange she should be so enamored by pseudonyms. His was obviously one, and Dedrick Forrester wasn’t really a name you’d find in the White Pages.
Mr. Forrester walked over to them, and coughed. Sylvia caught his cough, and used it as a reason to escape Dr. Strattleby’s company.
“Not so fast yet,” Mr. Forrester said, “I’d like to know what the two of you were saying.”
“To ourselves or to each other?” Sylvia said.
“To each other.”
“Well,” she said, “He was just listening to all my grievances, against you of course. Don’t’ look so dour! You know I’m kidding. Really, we were talking about personas. How people take on guises to complement their own… lack, of persona.”
“I’d disagree,” Dedrick said.
“Yes, yes, of course you would,” she said, and left the two of them in a corner, against a mirror and coat rack.

Friday, April 9, 2010

So, the blogging has been sparse...OULIPO!

My blogging has been quite sparse over the past week. Mostly because of my depression, my "irrational" thoughts, "delusions," and "paranoia." I must say, there's quite an intriguing interplay, between the mind, when it's sick, and stress being imposed upon the body. Some years ago I think I read an article about how obsessive compulsive children are actually more prone to have autoimmune diseases, like Lupus. In my childhood, I wasn't merely OCD'ish, but, as I look back, somewhat medicated, completely whacked!

I'm not certain what I should blog about, today. It's almost 5pm. Still damp, and cool, a blatant contrast to yesterday's zephyr inducing weather. And, someone I love dearly, received awful news, yesterday. My father. I'm a bit tentative, writing about him too much, because it's not something he would want addressed to the whole blog'o'sphere. But, he's been battling a recurrent cancer, metastatic melanoma, and despite a new experimental therapy, his tumor grew, not only that, but it's putting pressure on his liver. Its (tumor's) nodes are constraining a bile duct, more specifically, making his liver function... off. He's getting a risky procedure done, to fix it, but, I'm quite worried indeed. And this only, here I am the solipsist, makes my thoughts worse, thoughts I won't relay for fear most of you will shoo me away, or run away, thinking, clear off, or better yet, RELEASE THE KRAKEN! (Did I spell that correctly? With me, orthographical solecisms sometimes abound)!

Everything occurring has honed my perceptions of death. Which is a bit unfortunate. A character in my first novel, says he's amazed at how death "indebts" us. How we couldn't live without the contrast it brings. How we require a small act of suicide each day, to foray into our multifarious psyche.

And what we owe it, in return, is known to everyone: life.

I'm tempted to embark on my interpretation of Dasein. Being, generally. But it's far too simple. It's only this. We are matter, incontrovertibly conserved, and even if invisibly, our molecules will always shape the universe. In this sense we're bound by nothing. A culpable, capable nothing, that intrudes upon and exceeds us every day we live. And interconnects all. And this is what beauty is, the interconnectedness of nothing.

When I think of existentialism, and nihilism, I'm reminded that there are values at stake. For either to exist, there must be some predecessor. A notion of GOd and value, that gives these systems their own contrast. I propose a new nihilism. Though, given my cursory knowledge of philosophy, from Plato to Gorgias to Nietzsche, this may have already been presented, to the world. I think when we speak of the universe as being composed of nothing, as "God Is Dead," and whatnot, there really is something there. It's kind of like silence. In silence you have a greater perception of sound because the awareness of it is more prominent; in sound the awareness is defunct. In nothingness you have a greater awareness of SOMETHING, because when you think of monotheism, or polytheism, God or Gods, you take the concept at hand for granted. You don't see that when you live in a state of "nothing," there really is something infiltrating your axis. And this something has more value than any contrivance, any myth we create as a means of coming to terms with our destiny. We are inundated by nothing, it's nothing that connects us, and I argue that this gives more value to life, and spirituality, than any religion, which to this day, exists. It's, remember that childrens rhyme in a previous blog, "the way clear water carries a strain of love long past and leaves it unsaid."

If you can feel that statement, you know what I'm referring (to). And we exist on the strangest continuum. The ineluctable modality of form versus the seeming negation of it. But, the beauty of our being is, that is isn't petrified, or manifested. It's something on which we must ground our faith and determination. When I was little, reared a Roman Catholic, in religion class, I remember how I used to envision "God." Not as a bearded man with staff and whatnot. But as something more... diaphanous. Comparable to a cloud, so that the outline of it was clear, and tangible, but the composition of it, him really, was... numinous. Invisible, even.

And, I'm beginning to see how this early image shapes my perception today. An aphorism for life? I'll quote Robert Stone again. There it is.

It's as simple as that, yes, but grounded in something so abysmal, we're blind to see (it).

I can't ramble about philosophy, as I'm quite the novice. What I do want to say, on behalf of my father, and this might sound a bit detached, and strange, is this: I'm happy The Large Haldron Collider exists. I'm happy the "god particle" is under investigation. I'm happy that, even in a vacuum of seamless (ness), something still compels us to think, and re-create. As of late, I've found it all so futile. Why do we even bother when we know the end? And the end is really the beginning, is really the answer as to, the "meaning" of life.

If I can impart anything on my remaining readers, it's this: nothing may seem a lifetime away, but it's really a lifetime that lets us foray into something far more profound than something. Read some Oulipo. You'll know what I mean.

Monday, April 5, 2010

Last Night... What Happened?

A trusted source relayed, to me, there were cops (in abundance), Police SUVS, even a military truck (?), by Tides Beach? The road, to Tides, was in fact closed off. The bit about the military truck seems rather... sketchy... that may have been something else, which appeared to be a military installation. Even so, I could write a piece of flash fiction, here, as pertains to what it might have been. But, frankly, I'm not in the mood, my imagination, that is, quite sub-par today, my wit, too. I'm guessing it was an alien or one of those "monsters" floating up on shore, like the Montauk Monster, or as of late, most recently, The Glen Cove one (!).

Today, in this luxurious weather, spring is attacking me with its luxuries, after all, I want to say something about The Paris Review Interviews, so I will. The one about Robert Gottlieb (let's hope I spelled that correctly), is quite intriguing. In case I performed a spelling solecism, spelling his name incorrectly, I'll refer to him, within this blog, as Mr. G.

In the bit about Mr. G, The Paris Review put together a bunch of writers who were commenting on editors, on Mr. G and whatnot. Writers like Toni Morrison, Cynthia Ozick, Michael Crichton, Joseph Heller... and there was one idea I adored. It was set forth by Mr. Crichton. He said, basically, as a writer, when you conceive of something, it's like standing on a dock with the view of a ship off in the distance. You see it in its entirety, but find yourself, quite suddenly, in its bowels. With a view of nothing but the wires and pipes and whatnot, losing the "full" concept you had had from the dock. It's editors like Mr. G, who can see the work as if from a dock, who in fact have the gift, the ability, to guide you to make it that way, as you originally viewed it, again.

I think this is quite true, for all good editors. Because, I find, when you write, it's very much like that. You have the conception of the idea, in your mind, you have an image of what it will be like overall, without any intricacies, any details. And then, when you start in the process of re-creating this image, you end up in its bowels. Diverted by the technicalities and syntax at hand, by the characters, the plot, the images, you can't quite put it all together. You know there's a collective "dock image," containing these intricacies, at hand, but you can't see it. A good editor, an excellent editor, however, can. Because good editors make it a priority, to mine the writers' temperaments, to see the psychology, to see the aim, and sustain their own vision within this process. What makes the work speak, what makes it an image to be seen, even when there's emphasis on its "bowels."

I like reading about Gottlieb. It seems, to me, anyone who worked with him, saw that he had the gift of... intuition, and perspicacity. He knew when a writer needed to axe 300 pages. He knew what did and did not work. And there's another idea put forth that I like, that a good editor is kind of like a director. Someone who can take ALL the actors' potential, and fit it into a film reel; someone who can take all the writers' potential, and fit it in a book.

I'm writing about this, I suppose, because my mind is defunct, but, I want to put forth my appreciation for GOOD editors. Not the sort that nitpick over EVERY word, and point out ALL the grammatical and spelling solecisms, but the ones who know how to give the piece its voice. Though, not necessarily to give it its voice, but to polish its voice. To do this, an editor must be VERY well read, and very acute, and quite astute as pertains to readership.

Something Gottlieb lamented, Mr. G I mean, is the way things have changed. The way publishing houses used to take chances on beginners, even if it meant no profit; now they are simply profit machines. And, the editors, well, some of them try to make the work entirely their own, discrediting the writer every which way. A good editor is someone who doesn't do this. Someone who is selfless, in trying to polish the writers' voice, but able enough to stand up and point out what doesn't work in getting the writers' idea across. I would adore a Mr. G; it's too bad the Mr. G clones aren't sold in stores, because I'm certain, I'd be the first to grab one. Maybe even a robotic replica, of Gottlieb.

By the by, does everyone know where the word robot came from? It originated in Carel Kapek's play, RUR. In the early twentieth century. But, get this, it was really his brother, Josef, who came up with the idea. Just a bit of trivia to flit away anything that now, to you, seems mundane.

And also, here's an aphorism for you to digest. "There it is." From Robert Stone. Seems to me an encapsulation of everything we seem, and everything at stake, in the slosh and slip of the dream, from which we must wake. Or must we? That's simply a thought, for another day. Now I'm on a hunt to find extraterrestrials, or, perhaps something more productive, more work on my second novel.

Friday, April 2, 2010

Be It April Not The Cruelest Month?

I realize this is a bit... kitsch, even cliche, of me to say. But as I foray into April, I do so with ample... hope. I'd bother you all with my thoughts on The Wasteland, but must leave TS Eliot alone. And I do prefer Prufrock's love song to anything, really. Even so, I've made some decisions. As i sit, zephyrs catching cold, coming in through the windows, watching Cheyenne with my father (on the Western Channel), I do prefer that and Have Gun Will Carry, I cannot help but think about my second novel. Don't inquire why, just be certain it has been on my mind, through these horrid headaches, this horrid fatigue, all from Lupus, and has excited and disconcerted me.

Some of you are aware, but it's called The Life of Dedrick Forrester. The first part signifies two voices, seeming to be with their therapist. One, Deirdre, is a bit Apollonian, while the other, Rick, is Dionysian. They each, in other words, embody an aspect of artistic experience (or so I hope to convey), one of reason and dreams, the other of passion and ecstasy. They come to their therapist with separate problems that converge around the death of Deirdre's younger brother. And her issues with depression, attempting suicide (Rick does too), and, like me, having Lupus.

As you read through it you find it's a bit too... contrived... to be an "open" therapy talk. A bit too contrived to even embody thoughts. You recognize, as Dedrick leaves his footprint/signature, at the end of Part One, it is either his reaction to being with these patients, or him being an embodiment of the patients themselves. In the second part I detail Dedrick's relationship with his errant wife, Sylvia, in a less vivid, more cliche way of writing... I will not give anything else "away." But I will say, what I wanted to do with this piece is actually very simple. I wanted to detail the hardship of being in a depressed situation, of being depressed over illness and whatnot too, and on top of it all, trying to cope with the death of someone you love at a very young age. How does one go on from that?

I'm, as I often say with my first novel, reconciling redemption with decay. There are "iffy" circumstances behind the younger brother's death, and I think most of the Part One is meant to insist art is much like the process of grieving. Insomuch as in grieving, we sometimes re-create the person as a ghost as we want them to be. We do not abort them. Much like the artistic process, they are an experience, meant to be conceptualized into an image. And it's when they become this image, that we must come to a fruition and... let go. I have yet to decide which aspect of artistic experience I want to have win over, whether it be the Apollonian (Deirdre) or Dionysian (Rick). What I do know is this: writing this has helped me catch the nuances that don't necessarily compose our "inner voices," but do compose our writing, our art, etc., etc.,

It seems, to me, we sometimes take words for granted. We use them, we read them, we do not fully appreciate their scope and grasp. And in doing this, we lack something. We lack the appreciation of Zephyrs catching cold. We lack the appreciation of a simple April Day, whose innocence and consequence signifies so much more than we can say. We become automaton(ic), less than la somnambule, more like greedy zombies. I may be biased because I adore words, words are really my art, so I have more time to focus and think about their impact and implications, but they are so much more than a manner of communication. They are a manner of excommunication, in many ways. Insomuch as in pursuing them we are often most alienated from what we think we most love... because, if you study the process of conceptualization, you see that in it you give something up. You become something other to what you thought you were. And, as all "others' know, in the manner of the dear departed Edward Said, sometimes it's best to be the underdog, the "other," as pertains to our experience. Sometimes it's best to stand outside and see what we re-create really says so much more about us than the immediacy at hand.

So, is there any reprimand we can possibly except, except the one that tells us it's wrong to discard the notion life is a matter of mirrors, when it's really a matter of (foggy) glass?

I will not be on much this weekend. I'll be quite busy. But I wish you all a lovely Easter, and a conceptualization that TS Eliot was right, in his situation, to call April the cruelest month; but, for me, and hopefully, for you, it is the re-creative capacity of life and all matter of art and dreaming.