myoosings

that's it on those; that's my rhyme, as that one butthole surfers song says. i mean, they'll change, but that's their trajectory.

my head's a mess right now. something's been happening with music (which is my "other life" [way to throw in super-irritating quotation marks]) that defies description but sure doesn't want to... it's like things are shaking loose, resettling, stirring up again--i'm not in a place (i hate the description of psychic states as "places" [and again with the quotation marks]) where i can afford to fake humility. all i can say is that i realize that it's probably pretty atrociously problematic to relate such crap to the real dichterliebe, but i don't care--not because i don't want to care, but because i can't afford to do so right now. i'd like to have the psychic energy to make an elaborate apology, but i just don't.

in short, these poems are born of a pretty creepy idea mixed with exhaustion. that might be a pretty elaborate apology after all.

in heine's poems, i thought it was interesting that what the poet seemed to be dealing with, as opposed to a sonneteer such as petrarch, was the ramifications of physical contact--which, belonging to the New Meat school of philosophical and aesthetic thought, was interesting to me (Meat-ists is what i'd term the aesthetic successors of Francis Bacon [the painter]--when i'm in a mood like this, at least, in which i get to say what i want and act as cocky as i wish). i mean, laura (or was it beatrice? i always get those two confused) lived on in perpetuum for petrarch the poet as a constantly unrealized thing, whereas the dude in dichterliebe actually gets some sugar, and then has to deal with it getting taken away from him. dream replaces flesh--actual flesh--and the poet eventually recovers, because the scar is physical, but not before spending some time dealing with the ramifications of being in the flesh alone, if you see what i'm getting at. petrarch may have touched his chica, but it has little bearing on his words (as far as i remember--among the host of things i'm not, i'm also not a petrarch scholar). things are probably not this black and white.

it shouldn't matter what the program of a poem is, i think--to say that i intended this dichterliebe experiment to be an imagining of the poet dealing with the ramifications of a touch never fully realized because of the limits of a consciousness that can never be truly engaged outside of itself does moderate violence to the poems even as they stand, which isn't much of anywhere. i don't think they should be more than themselves (which is maybe what nabokov meant by continually protesting against freudian readings, though one does suspect him of slightly more ignoble motives, possibly on purpose on his part).

i've been feeling more like a monster than usual.