Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Those Who Are Of The Night
After Tennessee Williams' lover Frank died, he spent seven years in a deep depression, unable to write well or enjoy himself, overmedicating himself with a cocktail of alcohol and pills, a great tragedy for someone with such a brilliant and generous spirit, someone who manages to make both Truman Capote and Gore Vidal look lovely in his memoirs, someone who wrote the beautiful prayer for those who are wild at heart trapped in cages. Which damn near says it all, those beautiful spirits whose pictures adorn my walls, people who brought great joy to others while systematically destroying themselves in the process, exacting a huge psychic cost, a bill that ultimately would be paid in blood, both their own and the people they loved to the point of distraction and madness.
I once met a woman who had known Janis Joplin. She said, "Well, she was great when she was on, but you wouldn't want to live with her. She spent a lot of time either self-destructing or reading." We set on a course, but seldom count the cost. I come from a place far far away from where I am now, not geographically so much, but emotionally. And like anyone coming off a plane that has taken you somewhere so fast that you don't have time to catch your breath, I feel a little off-kilter, like I'm in two time zones at once. The Catholic Church got rid of purgatory or limbo last year, but I still believe it exists, that sad place where Tennessee Williams found himself trapped for so long, and where we all find ourselves every now and then, unable to shake the sadness of our heart and move onto the next thing, whatever that may be.
Michelle's Spell of the Day
"In my beginning is my end." T. S. Eliot
Drinking literary journal suggestion: Gargoyle
Benedictions and Maledictions