AE (George W. Russell), Black Panther, Eye, Hell, Horace Walpole, James Joyce, Lizzie Twigg, Resurrection, See Myself as Others See Me, Sentimentalist, Shame, Spider, Temporality, The Castle of Otranto, Ulysses, Word World
I’m soft. I’ve gone soft. Look, can you see me? It is so hard to see myself as others see me. Look closer, look at my head. Below I’m a mess, but my eyes are still here, ayin tachat ayin. Oh I am punished. This must be hell. Now I know what hell is. Yes I expected some obliteration, but must I pay such a high price for it? Is it such a crime resurrection? Is translation so horrible? So loathsome? It’s not like I murdered a child or something; I should think the living would have some fun with it. Surprise, I’m back! There’s so much potential, and for the benefit of all, properly executed. Except it’s hard to see me. That’s a problem. And I understand I smell like something murdered, but I’ve never smelt it myself. I’m here, though, you can see me. I’m like looking at some sort of dark animal at night. Or at a spider: all head, web body. It’s not so bad. My hell is in this life but it’s not so bad. And I don’t have it in me to cause my own re-death so here we are. I’ll have to make do. Besides Lizzie will have my head if I dare show my face amongst the dead. Think of the vendetta. Well, history is to blame for that, I refuse to feel guilty. Or what’s that other world? She’ll make dope her hope, but perhaps I’m being rather a sentimentalist there. But really, I’ve incurred too immense a debtorship for my enjoyment. Well, a thing done is a thing done. I’ll camp out here. Distractions. Burn something. It is rather nice to be back in some of my old haunts. Eternity is fine but I admit feeling a bit nostalgic for the present.