Nobody and the cloud salesman


“This is my letter to the world
That never wrote to me” –

Lately the depression’s back, that feeling that it (anything) is just not worth the effort. Nothing major, I do what needs to get done; work, eating, bills, laundry, etc. but nothing I claim to (merely) want to do.

“It seemed he was a cellar dank and dim,
To which no living man could find the key;
And from that day a very beast was he.
And while he wandered senseless on his way”   —

Not a feeling but an absence of any; no joy, no suffering. Although I remember real suffering and don’t miss it, I don’t remember real joy, all I remember of it is less of the lack.

“This is the Hour of Lead–
Remembered, if outlived,
As Freezing persons, recollect the Snow–
First–Chill–then Stupor–then the letting go–” –

Images start well, but an intellectual paralysis takes over slowly as I move from text, though pencil and photoshop, to WordPress; as the physical reality of it takes over from the mental; I slow and stop. Joy is the engine of art and it is a mostly a social and chemical thing. I — between those two — seem to have to little of it.  When down I can’t do much art. but when up…

“I can wade Grief —
Whole Pools of it –

I’m used to that —
But the least push of Joy
Breaks up my feet —
And I tip – drunken” –

Back to Emily, with her admiring bog, and Charles, a “filthy beast of a cloud salesman,” a pummeled, but beloved, poet holding up a word-frame to the sky. Both now, long time gone

“In the mournful solitude of your room, you wake again,
drunkenness already diminishing or gone…

…So as not to be the martyred slaves of time,
be drunk, be continually drunk!
On wine, on poetry or on virtue as you wish.” –

Or pride. I put the two dead poets together on their third date. They let me sketch them, but are changing their minds. I can feel them wanting their solitude; wanting out of mine.

“It is this horror of solitude, the need to lose oneself in the external flesh,
that man nobly calls ‘the need to love’.”

“Copulation is the lyricism of the masses. To copulate is to enter into another–
and the artist never emerges from himself.” –

Sources: the Dickinson photo is from 1847 or so, she’s 18; the Baudelaire, by his good friend Nadar,  is from 1855 and he’s 34; the background is sorta the 1847 Courbet portrait of Baudelaire; The combined pose is kinda a photo of me and a old girlfriend circa 1967, although I didn’t notice that until  I was done.

So let me be done with this, override the depression. My drawings when down are as good — or bad — as when up. In retrospect, I can’t tell which from which. Post the damn thing! let me get cup of tea.