0xc0495d62…0330sent to0xc0495d62…0330·#20,252,341·view on Etherscan
Returning home, the sight of a cushion face down on the ground fills me with so much repulsion that I become oblivious to guido, sick and dying guido, panting and heaving at my feet for attention. I think of lesser gods, I think of higher gods, I think of the human chewing gum, I hear their teeth clenching and grinding. See the unintentional side-grin. More than often, the sight of a mere apple is enough to drive any person insane, the existence of that apple that is. Then there s the half-eaten apple, the hideous and tantalizing shape of the bite. Then all the gods that abandoned me squirming and squiggling inside that cushion. I kick it past the hallway and smile to myself. Guido stutters half-way towards then turns back. I am his lesser god, I am my even lesser god. For today, I m the one who s going to abandon all of them. I see the sitter curled up on the couch, he doesn t even know I ve returned. Who knows that I ve returned? Did I even leave? Only guido. Only the sick and dying. Only they know I ve returned, only they know I never left. I miss my son. "Don t ever tell anyone anything. If you do, you start missing everyone," as Holden says. Have I ever told anyone anything, have I ever told you, reader, anything? It's impossible to tell anyone anything. Between perception and its articulation, the telling hangs, executed, swinging in no place's square. Still, even without telling anyone anything, I miss everyone.
Is it mere ennui or a sense of betrayal? But what was even promised? Birth is the first betrayal. Whoever you are, if you are, why send me here if there's a supposedly better place I'm going to return to, return to you? Why send me here to look for you?
Guido is now circling the cushion, sniffing at it, he lifts his rear left leg. I pull out of the phone from my pocket to take a picture of him. He doesn't finish through, walks away, he spares the gods. In the picture it looks like he is about to, no one can tell if he finished through. If I showed you the picture and told you he didn't spare the gods, you would've believed me. Only I have to live with the knowledge that the gods were spared again. I'm in no such mood. I will finish through. With everything.
John Berryman, Dream Song #14
Life, friends, is boring. We must not say so.
After all, the sky flashes, the great sea yearns,
we ourselves flash and yearn,
and moreover my mother told me as a boy
(repeatingly) 'Ever to confess you re bored
means you have no
Inner Resources.' I conclude now I have no
inner resources, because I am heavy bored.
Peoples bore me,
literature bores me, especially great literature,
Henry bores me, with his plights & gripes
as bad as achilles,
who loves people and valiant art, which bores me.
And the tranquil hills, & gin, look like a drag
and somehow a dog
has taken itself & its tail considerably away
into mountains or sea or sky, leaving
behind: me, wag.
I conclude now I have no inner resources, I only have Firstbase, which I thought were my inner resources. But the Firstbase I have and the Firstbase you have or probabaly no longer have are vastly different. You can ironically "hold" it or drop it at all, I occupy it or it occupies me, depending on which direction the apple is turned.
Soon.