Wallowing, Milne, And Celan
I went out on Friday night with Friday and her friend A. It was a good thing that Friday called me, because I was heading for some heavy duty wallowing time if someone hadn’t saved me from myself. With each day the time until the Fiery One returns grows shorter, but instead of lessening my loneliness, it is ballooning inside me. At times it is all I can do keep from weeping at work, on the bus, in the convenience store. I feel like one of those tragic figures that were so popular before modern cynicism took hold, like the woman in Waterhouse’s painting, “Lady of Shalott”. It’s like being in high school again.
As a result, I have been mooning about the house since Friday night. Well, I haven’t been strictly adhering to mooning about. I created this new template for myself, which you can see includes a dodo wearing glasses who drinks coffee. It’s because I’m a dodo for mooning about the house. And I drink coffee. And I wear glasses.
Really, I’m not going anywhere with this. I went out on Friday night, I’ve been at home ever since, I miss the Fiery One. Thank heaven that he’s getting back in seven days, because this loneliness thing is really wearing thin as an entry topic. I’m not even going to torture you with descriptions of my tragic emotions. Not even I am very interested in that anymore. On with quoting others then, because good poetry can be hard to find.
I am the first to drink of the blue that still looks for its eye.
I drink from your footprint and see:
you roll through my fingers, pearl, and you grow!
You grow, as do all the forgotten.
You roll: the black hailstone of sadness
is caught by a kerchief turned white with waving goodbye.
– Paul Celan, 1952
Do not work ahead,
do not send forth,
into it, enter:
transfounded by nothingness,
unburdened of all
microstructured in heeding
I make you at home,
instead of all
– Paul Celan, 1970
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