These bad ancestors, I tell you, returning to us in the guise of ugly and inconsiderate crows. Not only do they caw obnoxiously but they use my head as a public toilet very often. And every time, without fail, my doting grandmother informs me how lucky I am to have this wonderful service done to me. Ah the blessings of the ancestors- how nicely must they occur, how finely smelling, how... how...semi-solid.
Yes, I know you have been pottied upon as well, but have you seen my shock of hair? It is not that fine curtain you flaunt-all of you- or as the case may be not. Anyway, I am a more inviting Makeshift-Loo-of-Nasty-Ancestor-Masquerading-As-Harmless-Calcutta-Crow. By the way, what are suburban crow-cum-ancestors like? The rural ones must be absolute brutes or charmers. These are darker, for one. And bigger. And louder?
Speaking of ancestors and such things, I am siezed by a terrible spirit of profundity and realization. I cannot, of course, specify or elaborate further. One thing I always hoped I had, in some measure, was sincerity. Is sincerity an attribute of the weak? I was told this by somebody whose opinion ceased to matter a very long time ago merely because the insincere, strong or otherwise, bore/irritate/annoy/repulse me. Even if they excel at vaudeville or...anything really. Sincerity is the strongest weapon of the good. Does goodness matter? Why on earth am I-who am by turns struck by acute neurosis or awful lethargy-talking about morality? Because I am. Because I must salute goodness. Because I must.
I had this Baudelaire phase a while back. Don't we all, you might add. (Huh!I had it in French!)and then I started re-reading Oscar Wilde on a sudden whim. All of him. And every work appeared different. Everything became invested with a new meaning that encompassed pain and suffering but in anticipation. When I read the fairy tales I cried like I had never cried before. And every brilliant little epigram meant much much more. Than it did.
Just quoting a leeetle beeet from De Profundis;
The gods had given me almost everything. But I let myself be lured into long spells of senseless and sensual ease. I amused myself with being a FLANEUR, a dandy, a man of fashion. I surrounded myself with the smaller natures and the meaner minds. I became the spendthrift of my own genius, and to waste an eternal youth gave me a curious joy. Tired of being on the heights, I deliberately went to the depths in the search for new sensation. What the paradox was to me in the sphere of thought, perversity became to me in the sphere of passion. Desire, at the end, was a malady, or a madness, or both. I grew careless of the lives of others. I took pleasure where it pleased me, and passed on. I forgot that every little action of the common day makes or unmakes character, and that therefore what one has done in the secret chamber one has some day to cry aloud on the housetop. I ceased to be lord over myself. I was no longer the captain of my soul, and did not know it. I allowed pleasure to dominate me. I ended in horrible disgrace. There is only one thing for me now, absolute humility.
I think I agree. Because in the end lies the beginning and in the truism lies...truth.