I’ve lately been reading a book by Alix Strauss called ‘Death Becomes Them’ – it’s a morbid curiosity book about some famous suicides. Good read and I recommend, what I took from the book was further reassurance that we poets are the craziest/ most depressive bunch, a touch ahead of painters and fiction writers, of which I am all three. The other source is a study conducted by Professor Arnold Ludwig, M.D., of the University of Kentucky. The study was titled – methods and Madness in the Arts and Sciences which found better than 9/10 poets had a diagnosable mental illness (probably mostly Depression, bipolar/manic depression, and personality disorders) while visual artists and fiction writers were both in the seventieth percentile.
To me this says that the end of my life is predictable. Once I tire of the MDD (insofar), the chronic pain in thigh and hip and back, Tinnitus and susurrous murmur in my head enough the rest is knowable. On the other hand I am also in the category (according to Ms. Strauss’ research) where I am apt to avoid letting go, married with child – both of whom I adore. So, I guess who the fuck knows. I’ll continue in my obsession with death and suicide in the meantime.
death caressed his cheek and trigger
and sat idly waiting for the resolve.
I’ve noticed lately that my leg has gotten stronger and more capable. I can crouch down fairly easily now to do things like look at the .357s located on the bottom shelf of a display counter. The pain has been increasing with the strength which bothers me as I thought the opposite would be true and I am now more hesitant than ever to make the appointment with the doctor that I know needs to be made.
death/suicide
mental instability
weaponry (guns and knives)
aliens (the outer space sort who look in windows and take notes, also I thought for years that I was from Sirius or hoped rather)
forced voyeurism as being witness unwittingly
and at the moment the last one escapes me as it’s on the downgrade right now.
the shortlist of current obsessions.
Right handed – Left caned
I haven’t always needed three hands.
two had been sufficient.
now it is hard to hold a cane
and do other things as well as previous.
at least
while standing.
– Hoc Scripsi
things are getting weird now.
thank you Troy – me
the platitudes of willful resemblance 