… with a bad thorn in your side. You there, my friend, with a winning air. Who pawned the lie on me when he looked brassly at my shyest secret. With my whole heart under your hammer. That though I loved him for his faults as much as for his good. My friend were an enemy upon stilts with his head in a cunning cloud. ~ Dylan Thomas”
You know who you are. So don’t look away so coy. I would withold my art from ‘the world’ out of rage, but I am in a self destructive mood these days (I have them, they compete with Winter Blues for the spot light) so I refuse.
Instead I choose to withold rage for the sake of what is left of my art or my-self, the line is fine. I will choose a sadistic rant in its place. The loss, I am sure – will linger longer – for you. I choose to deprive you for I do have a dark side silent though it slithers along the ground stitched to the soles of my feet. I will refuse my role as accomplice to your cathartic purge paid for – in full by my personal mea culpa much needed when the opiate tide runs dry. The lines that draw me, macabre cartoon of the Divine Virgin Mother, bind and restrict me is the very same frustration you keep at bay by being – busy, busy, busy. Never remains in the shadows though – does it?
And anyway Dylan Thomas says it better than I ever could, and so – I will let him. Most days this time of year in Melbourne, I am so exhausted by disappointment, boredom and general catatonic disinterest in respirating, I can barely lift my quill and stir my fill of witty insight and scribbles of transformation. So I won’t. Instead – I will provide a mediocre expression of the hum of self destruction growing well all around.
Here’s what I know, about you – my friend … actually, I am too tired just now ZZZzzzzz perhaps another time?