Sometimes I imagine myself as a football team, but with me as the only player. I’d dribble the ball back and forth between two limp goalposts, muttering inchoate rubrics to myself. Then at half time, there’d be me again, this time reading a chapter from my latest work: The Eroticism of an Untouched Goose. Followed by me fouling myself, giving myself the red card, and replacing myself with me. Then it would all end with me losing to me and winning the nets for a chance to make them into fishnet stockings. And if that wasn’t enough, there’d be the after-the-game drink with me.
Does this kind of thinking hinge on the flap of solipsism, I wonder?
It reminds me of the tale of a man who desperately wants to screw in the filament of himself so as to shine in a strong arc only to realize that he holds the bulb in his own hands.
Oh, hell, my back-door philosophy will only get me into the pantry not the living room.
Dear Edna. Meet me on the ferry. I’ll bring fish from Rockland. Can’t we have just one more poetry slam on the breakwater? Oh, how I miss your funny little melody. Like a boat forever rocking on slaps and swells. I think I hitched up your skirt one night on the top of Mt Battie, but the stars were out and a shooting one made us both gasp, so I can’t be sure if it was me or the meteor that aroused you. And I’ve been very, very poor and very, very merry, drunk on elderberry wine but not enough to write about anything that any editor was willing to accept. But that’s because I’m not half as talented as you when you butter the toast and serve the tea hot well before I’ve even stirred in bed.
The Great Gatsby. I weep with gin. I rail with lemon. I go to the grocery store with a blank list. For I am the Great Gap. See how they all pass over me. And I could weave a strong rope bridge. But they’ll have none of my wit. Nor will they take my trousers to be dry cleaned.