Do you remember when they force fed Dr. Johnson with that fish? Sam’s senses were not coarse enough—he spit it out—though Boswell importuned, Dear friend, eat or you will die. Death is better than Scottish ludefisk though it spites real love.This is the ambiguity of taste. Some say you can’t get away with your mind intact. Others say you can. I’m with Johnson: first refuse dried fish no matter the promise.
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I’m filled with tangled string.
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A look contains the history of man. (Auden) Some days I’m grateful I can’t see your faces.
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America: this rock is Eden, go away, we’ve already found it.
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Mutual need. Mutual aid. Simple. But even the Anarchists are specious. I once introduced myself to Utah Philips, the protest singer, said, in the manner of all young enthusiasts: “Its a thrill to meet another anarchist.” He glared at me. Said nothing. But of course I couldn’t see his face. And he’d said all he needed to say. His anarchy has a small “a”.
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Each lover has a theory of his own about love and loss and love again. Mine is easy: be equally kind to all. OK, not so easy. But honest. As for the scurrilous (like that professor of writing in Ohio who spreads lurid stories about her students and colleagues, just so she can pretend to be their emotive midwife) you just set the soul dial from “love” to Scottish ludefisk. I’d save you if I had to.
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In grief, the glimpse of a face, my own? Is that how I will die?
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I shall go out today and write an epic in a language of dogs.
Planet of the Blind 