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Jul. 5th, 2003 10:25 pmBookstore with free coffee samples. Sit in the corner with the sunlight and read. A Time For Assasins, a study of Rimbaud by Henry Miller. Had to put it down, too painful. How I feel like Rimbaud now, lost, yearning for independence, freedom, any way out. Also arrogant and unwilling to compromise. My life has been such a series of failures and disappointments from end to end, with no successes in sight. What to do what to do. You know this feeling, of course. Miller was right, the Rimbaud-type has swept the world, supplanting the Hamlet-type or the Faust-type. He's no father figure, he's the wayward older brother that we keep comparing ourselves to.
Switch from that to Rilke's letters to a young poet. If his advice was so great how come we don't hear about the young poet he was writing to? Still, It's good advice, and littered throughout is his caveat: there is no guarantee of success. It's the Rilke Method, as seen on TV. Warning actual results may vary. He has such a mature voice, though. The kind of man you want to listen to for hours. I don't know if I'd have anything to say to him but I would love to listen.
I stretch my hand out on the table and whisper 'everything is painful'. My father overhears me. Gives a quizzical expression and asks "Why?"
'because it is in its nature to be painful'
Outside the sun is frozen in its fall to the earth. A small cloud hovers over it, just like a halo. The whole way home it hung over my shoulder like an angel growing sad and red, and finally disappearing.
Switch from that to Rilke's letters to a young poet. If his advice was so great how come we don't hear about the young poet he was writing to? Still, It's good advice, and littered throughout is his caveat: there is no guarantee of success. It's the Rilke Method, as seen on TV. Warning actual results may vary. He has such a mature voice, though. The kind of man you want to listen to for hours. I don't know if I'd have anything to say to him but I would love to listen.
I stretch my hand out on the table and whisper 'everything is painful'. My father overhears me. Gives a quizzical expression and asks "Why?"
'because it is in its nature to be painful'
Outside the sun is frozen in its fall to the earth. A small cloud hovers over it, just like a halo. The whole way home it hung over my shoulder like an angel growing sad and red, and finally disappearing.
