The introduction to the edition of John Berryman's Henry's Fate I have right now is quite interesting in its biographical discussion of Berryman's tireless writing and academic life. He wrote poems all the time, an almost complete biographical study of Shakespeare ... and Christ. And I do not care how it sounds or how I come off ... but I think many thinking people, people obsessed with thinking and gaining knowledge and wisdom often cannot allow much else in. This was indeed the case with Berryman and I fear it could be the case with me. There is a pseudo me ... the one everyone sees and interacts with ... I think the real me is the one I keep well hidden for fear of isolation, alienation, basically not feeling I can just be a part of normal modern life. But I also cannot help the studying, the writing poems daily, doing erasures, writing essays. But I guess what's crazy for one person is absolutely necessary for another.
Someone mentioned my "tragic barriers" ... evidently I am always painting pictures even though that is oddly the time I feel I am the most real ... not pseudo. And then someone else mentioned that my new collection of poems is a story with both tragedy and hope ... that it is clear the characters in the poems were evolving to a greater truth. And then someone else said this was a more mature and more entertaining collection than the "quirky darkness" of Small Murders. I like that is has been something different to the three who have read the book. I like also that right now my exhaustion is so acute that my eyes are red, dark circles under them ... and all this somehow has some uber-awake feeling ... I feel at once drugged and unable to function as I feel oddly enlightened and peaceful.
Sometimes I think even a bit ahead ... an hour ahead, several minutes ... and want to get away as fast as I can. And when I think maybe months ahead I wonder what will be different. Will anything be different? Will I be different? The world? My daily circumstance and geographical location? And with all of this invariably comes a sense of dread. I guess I am cynical. But I know I am not distrusting. And whatever happens will no matter what. There is so much insignificance when we constantly in one way another convince ourselves of so much significance. There are only a few important pillars in life to me ... I have only possessed one ... and still do. I can only ever hope to see this sooner rather than later ... like, before it seems too late and I can't get over it.
And then maybe everyone is right about me. Maybe I multiply like larvae. Maybe that's my fate ...