I'd Rather ...

"... have a bottle infront of me than a frontal lobotomy."
Tom Waits

"... be a lightning bolt than a seismograph."
Ken Kesey

"... vote for something I want and not get it, than vote for something I don't want and get it."
Eugene V Debs

"... stay here with all the madmen, than perish with the sadmen roaming free."
David Bowie

"... be black than gay because when you're black you don't have to tell your mother."
Charles Pierce

"... eat glass."
Bijou Phillips

A Woman's Love of Eros

For some time, I had been drowning in a lethargic and unstimulating university life, wallowing in an intellectual and emotional death that left me cold, cynical and afraid. But suddenly, there was a sudden and hesitant awakening: I delayed the completion of my courses due to illness, and began to read. O how it comforts one's heart to know that literature can cure a soul's miseries! I had not touched a pen (figuratively speaking) for over a year, and books were but mere obligations enforced upon me by aloof and indifferent professors, dry odourless leaves of staid and unbending knowlege. But now - O now! With my newfound freedom and leisure I am devouring shamelessly books of no masculine objective value, disregarding science and semantics, books of the inner life, books that have awakened my imagination and allowed me to survive the endless mechanical days while reaching in every direction for ideas and experiences, oblivious to others and them oblivious to me. O what a wonderful, sweet taste this is, the forgotten embrace of beauty!

I have recently begun to collect erotica, and among my precious collection is Anais Nin's short stories, tales of Parisienne trysts, sensitive gypsies and adventurous artists. They conjure up sepia-tinged worlds, but explore alike the depths and intricacies of human relationships and typical Freudian motivations behind sexual and social actions.

However, it was a brave move on my behalf to attempt D H Lawrence's Lady Chatterly's Lover, as I am a loyal reader of harsh Russian novelists and the likes of Kafka. But how rewarding it was! My heart had just been broken, but to immerse myself in his rolling poetry, his rather simple story littered with philosophical observations converted me to the realm of female feeling. It is indeed a wonder that a man should write this, as the woman's voice speaks sonorously with realism and sincerity.

I then read Colette's Gigi and the Cat, as well as The Vagabond. Her words are pure, absolute poetry that describe so precisely the feeling of Paris, the theatre, and her characters. In her short story, The Cat, there is a character whom I believe should be played by Lou Doillon if ever made into a film.

Next on the list? Gustave Flaubert's Madame Bovary and Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller.

A Supermarket In California

What thoughts I have of you tonight, Walt Whitman, for

I walked down the sidestreets under the trees with a headache

self-conscious looking at the full moon.

In my hungry fatigue, and shopping for images, I went

into the neon fruit supermarket, dreaming of your enumerations!

What peaches and what penumbras! Whole families

shopping at night! Aisles full of husbands! Wives in the

avocados, babies in the tomatoes!--and you, Garcia Lorca, what

were you doing down by the watermelons?

I saw you, Walt Whitman, childless, lonely old grubber,

poking among the meats in the refrigerator and eyeing the grocery

boys.

I heard you asking questions of each: Who killed the

pork chops? What price bananas? Are you my Angel?

I wandered in and out of the brilliant stacks of cans

following you, and followed in my imagination by the store

detective.

We strode down the open corridors together in our

solitary fancy tasting artichokes, possessing every frozen

delicacy, and never passing the cashier.

Where are we going, Walt Whitman? The doors close in

an hour. Which way does your beard point tonight?

(I touch your book and dream of our odyssey in the

supermarket and feel absurd.)

Will we walk all night through solitary streets? The

trees add shade to shade, lights out in the houses, we'll both be

lonely.

Will we stroll dreaming of the lost America of love

past blue automobiles in driveways, home to our silent cottage?

Ah, dear father, graybeard, lonely old courage-teacher,

what America did you have when Charon quit poling his ferry and

you got out on a smoking bank and stood watching the boat

disappear on the black waters of Lethe?

Allen Ginsberg