Self-Portrait in a Minor Key

A man walks in rapture down the street with all the trappings of one who sees—his special glasses, his binoculars, his periscope straddling his neck, his thin hand stretched out across his forehead to guard his gaze—and he points to invisible entities for all who cross his path, with ringing fervor and a poet’s taste for precision. Some who encounter his assault merely stare on; others, detecting the irony, whisper behind poised glances and cupped hands, while a few are openly incredulous and say, loudly enough, wanting to be heard, “What a fake.”

For--can't you see?--this man rolling through town with all the equipment and idiosyncrasy of a seer has no eyes.

Something

In my life, in my writing, I want only this: urgency. The urgency of a deeply-kindled purpose. When I am read or heard or felt, I want the onlooker to be--the in-looker.

For the highest honor is for each of one's gilded, scintillating utterances and each act bursting into bloom to be an overflowing, the generosity of inner abundance; rather than the scourged shell, the bad actor's mockery, the hidden shame--that is, need, boredom, laziness, etc.

So yes, poor logician that I am, I ask for the contradictory from life: the frantic pulse of self-creation, the lazy oblivion of inner wealth.