December 08, 2005
...to a friend of mine who wrote, "Although it seems, on the surface, people are hard enough to kill, the evidence suggests they are much easier to destroy on the inside. Throw a box of dishes down a flight of steps; at the bottom it still looks like a box of dishes but as soon as you pick it up you know almost immediately something is terribly wrong."
I am writing in the kitchen today, as opposed to some fog-hugged café, and I too am confounded. Is one's identity conceit or deceit? Covering, uncovering, or neither? A box of bells, a mirrored shell, or just broken dishes?
In the sixth grade at Catholic school the freckles of a sweet redhead named Henry hid chameleon in the bloom of his cheeks when he told me, "You talk like Anne of Green Gables."
Miscreants use words to define themselves in a world where they find themselves in no reflection but their own; these conversations with one's self are as fickle as psychosis. Identification is a system through which they usefully misunderstand their selves, and then others'. But who can blame us?
Miscreant -- archaic: "heretic"; from Old French, mescreant, present participle of mescreire, "to disbelieve".
Psychosis -- from Greek, psukhosis, "animation", from psykhoun, "to give life to", from psukhe, "soul/mind".
I dwelled myself into personal non-existence years ago, like many poets before me; I call myself liminal and have slipped into the grey passion between presence and introspection, or, as Bierce said, "disability and a frost."
After writing this in response to your letter, specifically, I think my other reading friends might like it if I were to paste it onto spezzato. I hope this does not offend some rule of cyber-etiquette of which I am unaware -- but Hell, I don't even know where to sit at a table for three, and can only hope that this and all of my social ineptitudes form part of my charm -- a larger aspect of it arriving, I am sure, from the fact that I fit a size 7 3/8 hat.
Posted by delire at December 8, 2005 06:10 PM