Not Daphne du Maurier … or 10cc

9 Sep

Last night I dreamed of Mandy-mae again.

(No, it wasn’t last night, it was last week, as you can tell from the reference in “Not Heraclitus”. But, you know, “last night” is more immediate and a better opening.  I think the first line is working out much better than the second and third lines at the moment.  Hopefully the writer will get down to some serious editing of his digressions, instead of moaning all the time about how this is taking him away from his “serious work”.  Taking him away from his True Blood DVD more likely.)

Last night I dreamed of Mandy-mae again.

(Starting again is not editing, chum.)

My second crush (leaving out teachers).  The important one.  I haven’t thought of her in, oh, centuries.  I never even wonder “what became of…?” when it comes to her.  I thought I had annihilated all feeling for her the night I saw Trevor “get with” her at a school dance.

Those feelings that spring up again after a thousand years.  Yearnings and aches for the impossible, and mostly, for the denied.  Can a Trevor be a poet?  Can a Trevor have a language of longing?  Or is the fault mine? Am I stuck in an adolescent country and western sensibility, when I think all art has to be about loss and falling short (though not necessarily about pick up trucks or crops)?

Cheap sentiment is an easy pool to lay a pipe from.  Thousands of bands, millions of love songs, the lyrics the singers mouth totally at odds with the uber-cool image they portray.  But that is not art.  (Writer, get a hold of yourself, stop having flashbacks to 14.)

We are fascinated with sociopaths, a window to the alien.  But any poems a Trevor would want to write, who would want to read?  Ted Bundy and Jeffrey Dahlmer wrote their sonnets in broken bodies.  Human flesh clags to their teeth.  Yet they were never sated, they too longed and yearned.  Is there something there that is just like the rest of us?

“Any life when viewed from the inside is simply a series of defeats”, wrote Orwell.  Is that right?  Does a Trevor see it that way?  Is it time to realise that the poetry of positive thinking is all around us?  Is it time to recognise the art that we walk through, the canvas that we are draped upon?  Do I need to break out of my adolescent angst and see the possibilities all around me, the universe of art that overshadows dream induced hormone flows and memories of ancient rejections, that I have been blind to?  If I listen hard, will I hear a chorus of carefully arranged corpses harmonising “me, me, me, me, me ….”?

“Hitler willed, wanted, craved war and the desolation brought by war”, wrote Donald Watt.  And as I go on my way, do I see Trevor out of the corner of my eye, brush in hand, smile painted wide and beaming, as he looks on at his handiwork, and is pleased?

 

 

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