--Dr. Matthew C.
I want to drink because I want to drink; to forget yesterday, today, to remember what cannot be forgotten. Khayyam, you and your words are dust. Molecules of black ink on a blank canvas fade into one another. The deep continuities of life are really a ramshackle collection of memories(in the mind or the heart), a beige jacket one tries on in a dream, the sleeve extending over your wrists, the feel of it all wrong. But you wear it nevertheless, this unique mark of falseness all that is possible these days.
At the hospital Ubo says...an English teacher asks his class: who was the greatest person to ever live? Anyone who can tell me the correct answer will get five pounds.
A Muslim says, why, that's easy, it was the Prophet Muhammad. But then a Buddhist raises his hand and says, no, it was the serene and all-wise Buddha. A certain Mr. Patel then blurts out: "No, it was Mr. Jesus Christ, Sir!"
The teacher is chuffed by this answer. "Well done, Patel!"
After the class he asks Patel: "Good answer, but aren't you a Hindu young man?"
To which he replies: "In my heart of hearts I know it's Krishna, but business is business!"
~~~
What a load of crap a Ph.D is. Really. Could there be anything that's more useless? Of course, your view is slightly warped at the moment after seeing the very attractive East European neurologist (blushing face, childish voice, and curly hair and all). But no, you've always thought that: what can the mind know on its own? Theoria (of the highest 'objects'), contemplation. That can't be it. A sign outside a door, at best.
I am almost never there, in these
old photographs: a hand
or shoulder, out of focus; a figure
in the background,
stepping from the frame.
I see myself, sometimes, in the restless
blur of a child, that flinch
in the eye, or the way
sun leaks its gold into the print;
or there, in that long white gash
across the face of the glass
on the wall behind. That
smear of light
the sign of me, leaving.
old photographs: a hand
or shoulder, out of focus; a figure
in the background,
stepping from the frame.
I see myself, sometimes, in the restless
blur of a child, that flinch
in the eye, or the way
sun leaks its gold into the print;
or there, in that long white gash
across the face of the glass
on the wall behind. That
smear of light
the sign of me, leaving.
--Robin Robertson.
2 comments:
Liked the anecdote about integration very much. Its like Norman tebbit and cricket
But why are you dissing khayam?
Your phd comment somehow reminds me of woody allen in his early days when he still had something funny to say (by the way all other associations with woody allen are not intended:-))
Beth
hmm..beth, i'm not really (i think)..it's more of a homage to him! We are all dust. of course, that's not all we are, but dust that dances for but a short while in the light nevertheless. but even so, even if that's all that's possible 'these days', even if we're not always here...we're still here, right now. And the "i want to drink" sorts of fits in with Khayyam, no? There's no overcoming transience (certainly not through academia or religion) and there's no acceptance of it either (via hedonism or the "blushing cheek") what a bind we're in! I guess i should add a :-) now.
orr?
how are you?
thanks for your perceptive comments today (and over the years).
ciao,
b.
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