"Thanks for making me shake,
it keeps me on point."
Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends & we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never once beautiful. It was just red.
Got this advice from a friend yesterday & it made my heart high-five itself.
"…The valve gets broken
& then it’s just you
Emoting relentlessly, animal noises
surrounding you, within you
Either you mind the blackberries
staining the porcelain sink
or you are back there in the field
with me, rubbing your fingers
along the stings…”
What if you woke up, in the skin of a wolf, and then there you are, a wolf, with a nose full of skin smell and a mouth opening of its own accord, now biting, bleeding, all over everything, and then you’re not a wolf, you’re a man, you’re on the ground, you’re screaming for someone to save you as you are lifted and dragged and driven to a room full of screaming emergencies. But so what if the nurse in the emergency room is not so much a beacon of salvation, but a reason to keep breathing? To say hey listen, once my internal organs stop bleeding, how about you and I limp on down to the drive-in and make out for hours? And what if she said Oh honey there hasn’t been a drive-in in this town for years, and then you, in a rampant and misguided attempt at bravery, place your mouth over hers, and, for once in your life, breathe as one, with the blood rushing to your cock, the same blood that is spilling out all over the floor, and you spill, like that, all over everything, clinging to this idea of life with every bit you have, your eyes narrowing, your mouth widening, your teeth sharpening themselves on that hunger, on that promise, of the drive-in, of its absence, of life, of the ass of the nurse or the windows of the soul, something, anything, to guide your hand to that heart in your chest, and squeeze just a bit more life out of it.
But at the very end Dencombe tells his doctor, who is also his friend and who greatly admires Dencombe’s work: “A second chance—that’s the delusion. There never was to be but one. We work in the dark—we do what we can—we give what we have. Our doubt is our passion and our passion is our task. The rest is the madness of art.”
"The April day was soft and bright, and poor Dencombe, happy in the conceit of reasserted strength, stood in the garden of the hotel, comparing, with a deliberation in which, however, there was still something of languor, the attractions of easy strolls. He liked the feeling of the south, so far as you could have it in the north, he liked the sandy cliffs and the clustered pines, he liked even the colourless sea. ‘Bournemouth as a health-resort’ had sounded like a mere advertisement, but now he was reconciled to the prosaic. The sociable country postman, passing through the garden, had just given him a small parcel, which he took out with him, leaving the hotel to the right and creeping to a convenient bench that he knew of, a safe recess in the cliff. It looked to the south, to the tinted walls of the Island, and was protected behind by the sloping shoulder of the down. He was tired enough when he reached it, and for a moment he was disappointed; he was better, of course, but better, after all, than what? He should never again, as at one or two great moments of the past, be better than himself. The infinite of life had gone, and what was left of the dose was a small glass engraved like a thermometer by the apothecary. He sat and stared at the sea, which appeared all surface and twinkle, far shallower than the spirit of man. It was the abyss of human illusion that was the real, the tideless deep. He held his packet, which had come by book-post, unopened on his knee, liking, in the lapse of so many joys (his illness had made him feel his age), to know that it was there, but taking for granted there could be no complete renewal of the pleasure, dear to young experience, of seeing one’s self ‘just out’. Dencombe, who had a reputation, had come out too often and knew too well in advance how he should look."
If my fists were flowers they wouldn’t even be fists, they’d just keep opening and opening and opening. Goddamnit, it is spring! I am short skirt, combat boots, standing curbside in the sun, an armload of ranunculus blooming. I am trying. The grocery clerk asked if I was sun-drunk and of course I…