I disowned my real pain & engaged with its subordinates:
despicable neediness, heroic guilt and undeterrable envy. Each day
I woke trussed up with this hernia of failure, bleat bleat.
There was inevitable blood; I slept on a pyre of bottles. Stalked
by motherhood, unable to summon my latent powers. Leaves
blew into the hallway and did their ageing there, the eager wind
fussed with them like the beaded fringe of a shawl at war with itself.
Powerful identification with the leaves. In the garden, splendour
made its entrance while I wasn’t looking. I was quaking
all this time, my whole body a throat stoppered by tears. I tried
to will dreams of romantic redemption, but my brain swatted
them away, like flies gunning for something you really want to eat.
No one should be frightened of pleats
My life has been merely a prolonged childhood. Bored, with a squalid
boredness that idleness and riches bring about (I would make a very
bad dead person). Money is not attractive, it’s convenient. The only
thing I really like spending is my strength. Every time I’ve done
something reasonable, it’s brought me bad luck: that sweet smile
of gratitude, tinged with a longing to kill me. I am ready to start
all over again. The first people to whom I opened my heart were
the dead. I hate people touching me, rather as cats do. I merely
observe that I have grown up, lived, and am growing old alone.
I loathe people putting order into my disorder. Let them skip
the pages. Sometimes I lose myself in the maze of my legendary fame.
What an abomination, a ghastly disease! That handsome parasite
that is the imagination, lapped up in secret, in the so-called attic. I
imposed black; it’s still going strong today. I don’t have to explain
my creations; they have explained themselves. I knew how to express
my times. I used to tolerate colour. Changing one’s mind appalls me.
Do you see what a foul temper I have? I cannot take orders from
anyone, except in love, madly, with a man who loathes me. Everything
is lovely and empty. I only care for trivial things, else nothing at all. If I
built aeroplanes, I would begin by making one that was too beautiful.
I encountered a surface that was not safe to stand on.
It was between me and the garden.
The garden said take as much time as you need.
It said you don’t even have to tell me.
I volunteered, ‘my requirements for love are
a living thing that loves me but barely needs me at all.’
I was indoors, the garden was not listening.
Sound / abrasion / highly scratchable soul.
I considered standing on surface of it all
(everything is reflected in the surface:
sky, my very needy beauty, cellular detritus,
the damp packet of the future) but I knew
the outcome was giving way. My mother had
recently told me I stayed until the bitter end once
before and it was a mistake. I visualised tight buds
of thoughts laid out like a pathway
but my self was in its interminable confinement.
‘I am taking up too much of my own life.’
I was shouting beyond the threshold.
The garden told me at last, you are
in the business of remembering. Attend to your dream.