What, specifically, can you tell me about the Orchid Interviews? Well back then, around that time we're focusing on, the
best sound came out of TEAK reel-to-reel machines. The Orchid Interviews are on these big tapes, the kind of tapes that fit
on the big machines. So you'd first have to find a machine. No, actually, last I heard, the tapes were missing. They
were, I know, in the New York Public Library System for a number of years, right here in the city, but then they
disappeared. All it takes is one slick whosit to slip something in a bag and return a bogus tape, you know what I mean?
But then the Orchid Interview transcripts began appearing. Or supposedly began appearing. I saw one. What did it look
like? Rough. The pages were all curled, someone had used it as a coaster and spilled coffee on it, you know, that kind of
thing. Did you read it? Did I ever. I was at this party and someone opened a knapsack--we called them knapsacks back
then--and I saw it and inquired because I heard there was going to be a playwright at this party, see, but it turns out to
be an honest to God transcript of the Orchid Interview. I curled up with that thing for the better part of the night. It
was like the party was peripheral, you know? You're killing me, Jack. I mean, c'mon, what did it say? I don't know. What
do you mean you don't know? Someone slipped me something in a drink. I woke up 6 blocks from the party with no shirt. I
never saw the kid or the manuscript again and I can only remember what I have told you.
Wednesday, July 19, 2006
Friday, July 07, 2006
Interview with Dr. Noell Phister, Director of Admissions, Maxwell Behavioral Health Complex, 1961-1974
So what you're saying is that there was a direct line from the experiment and the result we saw after it was in place?
What? What do you mean? I don't understand the question.
What I'm asking is if you saw a connection between the behavior of the animal and the experiments it was subject to?
Yes, most definately.
Can you briefly describe the experiments?
Certainly--the subject was bombarded with RF energy. The brain received huge doses of it.
And what were the results of this experiment?
The subjects were rendered brain dead.
I see. And did researchers conduct experiments on people?
No--apes.
I see.
And they lobotomized the apes, too. They rendered them vegetables, so there's some question as to how much they really suffered. If you're interested in this stuff you can Google Leonard Rubenstein. He was responsible for first developing the radio telemtry techniques.
Can you tell me a little bit about your work at Maxwell?
Certainly. I started there in the early sixties. The Feds hadn't cut Medicaire or Medicaid yet so the beds were full. We just couldn't take another patient. I could be wrong but I think all the wings were open then and the forensic's ward was in operation. It was until '73, '74, when it was moved. But anyway, we all were pretty optimistic because of the new drugs that were reaching the market everyday. Of course they had pretty severe side effects but they did give the patients back some of their lost lucidity. I saw some tragic backward cases get to the point where they could function again.
By "function" what do you mean?
What?
I mean, do you mean wipe their own asses or math?
I mean they they could do basic hygiene and feed themselves and even carry on a conversation It may not sound like much but, prior to the medication, they couldn't do any of that--they were like big infants who needed constant supervision.
Were there any experiments going on when you were at Maxwell?
Well, there was a laboratory in the basement of one of the outbuildings. I was never allowed to go in there. Some kind of research occurred there, though. But none of us knew what it was. I suspect they were looking at the brains of people who had died natural deaths--looking for lesions. Physical evidence of madness. Of course the Germans had already done the same thing at the turn of the century but the myth of deformed cells lives on. Even today researchers are using medical imaging to study the brains of schizophrenics to see how they differ from "normal" brains. Anyway, I don't know who was in charge of that project--it was all very hush hush.
Do you think the researchers were funded by the CIA?
I suspect they were because the staff working lab rotation was predominantly different from the regular hospital staff. In other words, while the lab staff was dedicated, we moved people around as needed, especially attendants, because sometimes a ward would get an especially violent case and need extra help managing him or her.
Was it discouraging working under those conditions? Well, like I said, there were drugs all the time and that gave us hope, yes, but it could get discouraging being around so much suffering. I remember one man murdered all three of his roommates in the middle of the night. It was gruesome and tragic all at once. But there could be real beauty, too, like when some of the more artistically gifted patients would decorate the units by painting on the walls. That was nice. People break into the hospital now. Most of the murals have been defaced.
Don't you find it ironic, doctor, that so many people wanted out of the hospital and now security has to prevent people from breaking in?
Yes, I do suppose there's a certain irony to that.
So what you're saying is that there was a direct line from the experiment and the result we saw after it was in place?
What? What do you mean? I don't understand the question.
What I'm asking is if you saw a connection between the behavior of the animal and the experiments it was subject to?
Yes, most definately.
Can you briefly describe the experiments?
Certainly--the subject was bombarded with RF energy. The brain received huge doses of it.
And what were the results of this experiment?
The subjects were rendered brain dead.
I see. And did researchers conduct experiments on people?
No--apes.
I see.
And they lobotomized the apes, too. They rendered them vegetables, so there's some question as to how much they really suffered. If you're interested in this stuff you can Google Leonard Rubenstein. He was responsible for first developing the radio telemtry techniques.
Can you tell me a little bit about your work at Maxwell?
Certainly. I started there in the early sixties. The Feds hadn't cut Medicaire or Medicaid yet so the beds were full. We just couldn't take another patient. I could be wrong but I think all the wings were open then and the forensic's ward was in operation. It was until '73, '74, when it was moved. But anyway, we all were pretty optimistic because of the new drugs that were reaching the market everyday. Of course they had pretty severe side effects but they did give the patients back some of their lost lucidity. I saw some tragic backward cases get to the point where they could function again.
By "function" what do you mean?
What?
I mean, do you mean wipe their own asses or math?
I mean they they could do basic hygiene and feed themselves and even carry on a conversation It may not sound like much but, prior to the medication, they couldn't do any of that--they were like big infants who needed constant supervision.
Were there any experiments going on when you were at Maxwell?
Well, there was a laboratory in the basement of one of the outbuildings. I was never allowed to go in there. Some kind of research occurred there, though. But none of us knew what it was. I suspect they were looking at the brains of people who had died natural deaths--looking for lesions. Physical evidence of madness. Of course the Germans had already done the same thing at the turn of the century but the myth of deformed cells lives on. Even today researchers are using medical imaging to study the brains of schizophrenics to see how they differ from "normal" brains. Anyway, I don't know who was in charge of that project--it was all very hush hush.
Do you think the researchers were funded by the CIA?
I suspect they were because the staff working lab rotation was predominantly different from the regular hospital staff. In other words, while the lab staff was dedicated, we moved people around as needed, especially attendants, because sometimes a ward would get an especially violent case and need extra help managing him or her.
Was it discouraging working under those conditions? Well, like I said, there were drugs all the time and that gave us hope, yes, but it could get discouraging being around so much suffering. I remember one man murdered all three of his roommates in the middle of the night. It was gruesome and tragic all at once. But there could be real beauty, too, like when some of the more artistically gifted patients would decorate the units by painting on the walls. That was nice. People break into the hospital now. Most of the murals have been defaced.
Don't you find it ironic, doctor, that so many people wanted out of the hospital and now security has to prevent people from breaking in?
Yes, I do suppose there's a certain irony to that.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
From "The Orchid Interviews" of Jeffrey Snodgrass. Amber Fisk, Interviewer.
AF: What would you say most influenced you as a child?
JLS: That would have to be film, text, and action. My passion for all things Frankenstein reflects this. I first saw the novel in my 5th grade classroom. I asked my teacher if I could borrow the book and she said no, that it was too hard for me. So I got my dad to buy it for me at our local bookstore. My teacher was right--it was hard. But with a college dictionary and a little perseverance, I got through it and, prior to college, read the book cover to cover a whopping twelve times, each time seeing something new.
AF: Who did you relate to from the book?
JLS: Definitely Victor Frankenstein who, really, if you think about it, is the true monster. He brings an abomination into the world but this creature has a blank mind and could use a little help negotiating society. What does Victor do? --He abandons the creature. So while most people consider the creature the monster, it is, in actuality, Victor himself.
AF: So you see yourself as a monster?
JLS: I see in myself the potential to be monstrous, yes. But I see that potential in a great many people, not just me. I know my ugly aspect really came out during my divorce. I was hurt. Only after the divorce was finalized did I allow myself to fully sink into a deep and dark depression. In many ways, my first marriage was an experiment, albeit a failed one.
AF: You didn't answer the question. Do you see yourself as a monster?
JLS: Yes.
AF: On what projects are you currently working?
JLS: I'm reading memoirs that have anything to do with madness (e.g., I Never Promised You a Rose Garden, Darkness Visible, The Day the Voices Stopped, Madhouse, One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest, etc.) and writing a memoir of my own. I've read through all of the memoirs I've bought except for one on Nazi doctors that proved too harrowing. It was a $20 book and I read exactly half of it so I didn't get $10 worth but that's OK--it was giving me nightmares. But back to the issue of creating something: For months now I've been generating all of this text with no clear understanding of why or what it is. Now that I know it's a memoir, I go back through the material and it makes sense. I'm really pleased that I didn't give up on the project at the phase when it seemed pointless, like a waste of time.
AF: How is the serialization of Swimming Pool going?
JLS: Fine. I took a break from it this spring because the editor wanted to do an entire issue devoted to one person, Dipo Kalejaiye, and his poetry. But in many respects the core document of Swimming Pool remains alive as I continue to consider what it means to be mentally ill in
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Nadine
"Inspired by visit to Fruit of the Vine Homeless Ministry"
We met in the cold,
dark,
breezy night.
In the dark,
no light in sight.
I could see her frame,
barely outlined,
till I drew closer and I could see the pain in her eyes.
As she smelled of cedar, propane and outdoors.
Words spoken softly in the shadows,
we exchanged names,
and as I listened to her speak,
the cold breeze wrapping around her body,
I saw a glimpse of what could be.
I could be Nadine.
She stands in the bumpy road,
waiting for food and a little propane,
just to get her through the next couple of days.
Would she know where her next meal would come from?
She stands alone,
or so she thinks,
isn't God with her?
Does not God love the poor,
and those without shelter,
without food,
without warmth.
I know that He does.
There we stand all bundled up,
passing out food,
saying things like "God is with you, you are not alone."
But how would I feel if I had to walk even one mile Nadine's shoes?
Sleeping in the woods,
living in the chilly cold and cruel outdoors.
Could I give up my Starbucks,
my designer dress slacks,
all the luxuries I have to extend a helping hand,
to someone that God loves,
whose name is etched in His heart,
written on the palm of the Creator's hand,
someone that matters,
someone who is hurting,
that someone is Nadine.
Do I cry for her?
My heart aches for her,
and all I take for granted.
She tells me about her life,
and I listen under the stars.
I have never seen them so bright,
God is real,
He is here.
This is no ordinary night.
I am in tune to deep brown eyes,
saturated with pain,
disappointment,
and all those broken dreams.
I listen in the night,
and for the first time in my life,
I can feel my heart completely break,
shatter and fall into pieces,
not for me,
but for Nadine.
I don't want to leave her here.
I look around I see men,
women,
and even a child standing in the middle of the road.
Four years old,
in a spring jacket,
not meant for the cold,
no gloves,
no hat,
and her tiny smile electrifies me,
and saddens me even more.
They are all looking for a meal,
because normally they are living in the shadows.,
do we even see them.
No different than you or me,
This is just one stop on our journey,
five more camps to visit tonight.
As we leave,
their frames disappearing into the darkness,
I say this is not enough.
Not enough blankets,
not enough food,
not enough love,
not enough to fill the void in their hearts.
Trade places with me,
let me be in your place,
my heart aches for Nadine,
my heart bleeds without rest.
I am not doing enough,
not enough to show God's unfailing love.
What more can we sacrifice,
for our dear friend Nadine?
So think of Nadine,
when you want to dismiss,
all the beautiful things God has given you,
especially a warm home,
and a safe place to rest.
Somewhere tonight,
Nadine will crawl into a ball on a used blanket,
and wonder "Where will my next meal come from"?
"Is there anyone thinking of me"?
"Is there anyone concerned with my safety"?
Somewhere tonight someone will curl up to a bottle of old 'Jack',
to keep warm.
Somewhere tonight,
someone will lie awake hungry from all the pain inside,
emotional,
spiritual,
and physical.
So I leave you with one thought,
be grateful for what you have,
you never know when it might be lost.
written by Erin Lamb
March 5th 2006
"Prayers and blessings go out to the FOTV, and those without shelter or food all around the world. You don't have to leave the country to find the poorest of the poor. They are right in your own backyard."
We met in the cold,
dark,
breezy night.
In the dark,
no light in sight.
I could see her frame,
barely outlined,
till I drew closer and I could see the pain in her eyes.
As she smelled of cedar, propane and outdoors.
Words spoken softly in the shadows,
we exchanged names,
and as I listened to her speak,
the cold breeze wrapping around her body,
I saw a glimpse of what could be.
I could be Nadine.
She stands in the bumpy road,
waiting for food and a little propane,
just to get her through the next couple of days.
Would she know where her next meal would come from?
She stands alone,
or so she thinks,
isn't God with her?
Does not God love the poor,
and those without shelter,
without food,
without warmth.
I know that He does.
There we stand all bundled up,
passing out food,
saying things like "God is with you, you are not alone."
But how would I feel if I had to walk even one mile Nadine's shoes?
Sleeping in the woods,
living in the chilly cold and cruel outdoors.
Could I give up my Starbucks,
my designer dress slacks,
all the luxuries I have to extend a helping hand,
to someone that God loves,
whose name is etched in His heart,
written on the palm of the Creator's hand,
someone that matters,
someone who is hurting,
that someone is Nadine.
Do I cry for her?
My heart aches for her,
and all I take for granted.
She tells me about her life,
and I listen under the stars.
I have never seen them so bright,
God is real,
He is here.
This is no ordinary night.
I am in tune to deep brown eyes,
saturated with pain,
disappointment,
and all those broken dreams.
I listen in the night,
and for the first time in my life,
I can feel my heart completely break,
shatter and fall into pieces,
not for me,
but for Nadine.
I don't want to leave her here.
I look around I see men,
women,
and even a child standing in the middle of the road.
Four years old,
in a spring jacket,
not meant for the cold,
no gloves,
no hat,
and her tiny smile electrifies me,
and saddens me even more.
They are all looking for a meal,
because normally they are living in the shadows.,
do we even see them.
No different than you or me,
This is just one stop on our journey,
five more camps to visit tonight.
As we leave,
their frames disappearing into the darkness,
I say this is not enough.
Not enough blankets,
not enough food,
not enough love,
not enough to fill the void in their hearts.
Trade places with me,
let me be in your place,
my heart aches for Nadine,
my heart bleeds without rest.
I am not doing enough,
not enough to show God's unfailing love.
What more can we sacrifice,
for our dear friend Nadine?
So think of Nadine,
when you want to dismiss,
all the beautiful things God has given you,
especially a warm home,
and a safe place to rest.
Somewhere tonight,
Nadine will crawl into a ball on a used blanket,
and wonder "Where will my next meal come from"?
"Is there anyone thinking of me"?
"Is there anyone concerned with my safety"?
Somewhere tonight someone will curl up to a bottle of old 'Jack',
to keep warm.
Somewhere tonight,
someone will lie awake hungry from all the pain inside,
emotional,
spiritual,
and physical.
So I leave you with one thought,
be grateful for what you have,
you never know when it might be lost.
written by Erin Lamb
March 5th 2006
"Prayers and blessings go out to the FOTV, and those without shelter or food all around the world. You don't have to leave the country to find the poorest of the poor. They are right in your own backyard."
Sunday, March 12, 2006
The Right Person
When you meet the right person,
a part of your soul lights up.
They make you smile,
and tickle the inner most parts of your being,
with all the things they say and do.
They accept you,
for who you are,
and embrace every quirky,
and silly thing you do.
You strive to be someone better,
because that person sees the best in you,
and you want that part to sparkle and shine.
Like a fire,
your like,
may fan into a full flame of love,
and before you know it,
that person is consuming your every thought.
When you wake in the morning,
when you lay in bed at night,
that person is with you in spirit.
You know you are in love when you begin to sacrifice what you want,
What you need,
and you start to live to please.
Live to please them,
live to be near them,
and nothing can take that away,
not even time or space.
That is when you know,
You have met “The One.”
The one that changes your life in the most profound way,
and you most certainly are never the same.
Some may search for love,
and never find it,
for love lingers in the secret,
undetected,
until one day it decides to appear and takes you to places you’ve never been.
Places you never asked to go.
Those who look for it,
rarely ever find it,
because love knows the best time,
the best place,
and the right person.
Some mistake lust for love,
that burning passion,
that only wants to please itself.
Lust seeks to take,
to feel good,
but it does not last, it fades.
The fire quickly ignited,
does go out,
and lust seeks another person to reignite that flame.
Oh, but Love.
Love gives, and gives, and gives,
till there is no more space.
Love saturates,
penetrates,
and permeates,
every area of your heart and soul.
It does not leave you empty,
but has you begging for more.
Love accepts you as you are,
and wants to nurture you,
please you,
and meet every need in the safest most purest way.
So don’t settle for lust.
Don’t look for love,
but live every moment to the fullest,
and before you know it,
love will be knocking at your door.
And the person you never thought you’d meet,
will be waiting with open arms.
They won’t complete you,
but compliment you,
like two pieces of a puzzle,
cut out exactly to fit together and make one beautiful piece.
This is when you know you’ve met the right person.
Written by Erin Lamb
March 2006
a part of your soul lights up.
They make you smile,
and tickle the inner most parts of your being,
with all the things they say and do.
They accept you,
for who you are,
and embrace every quirky,
and silly thing you do.
You strive to be someone better,
because that person sees the best in you,
and you want that part to sparkle and shine.
Like a fire,
your like,
may fan into a full flame of love,
and before you know it,
that person is consuming your every thought.
When you wake in the morning,
when you lay in bed at night,
that person is with you in spirit.
You know you are in love when you begin to sacrifice what you want,
What you need,
and you start to live to please.
Live to please them,
live to be near them,
and nothing can take that away,
not even time or space.
That is when you know,
You have met “The One.”
The one that changes your life in the most profound way,
and you most certainly are never the same.
Some may search for love,
and never find it,
for love lingers in the secret,
undetected,
until one day it decides to appear and takes you to places you’ve never been.
Places you never asked to go.
Those who look for it,
rarely ever find it,
because love knows the best time,
the best place,
and the right person.
Some mistake lust for love,
that burning passion,
that only wants to please itself.
Lust seeks to take,
to feel good,
but it does not last, it fades.
The fire quickly ignited,
does go out,
and lust seeks another person to reignite that flame.
Oh, but Love.
Love gives, and gives, and gives,
till there is no more space.
Love saturates,
penetrates,
and permeates,
every area of your heart and soul.
It does not leave you empty,
but has you begging for more.
Love accepts you as you are,
and wants to nurture you,
please you,
and meet every need in the safest most purest way.
So don’t settle for lust.
Don’t look for love,
but live every moment to the fullest,
and before you know it,
love will be knocking at your door.
And the person you never thought you’d meet,
will be waiting with open arms.
They won’t complete you,
but compliment you,
like two pieces of a puzzle,
cut out exactly to fit together and make one beautiful piece.
This is when you know you’ve met the right person.
Written by Erin Lamb
March 2006
Sunday, January 22, 2006
Phantasmagoria 4 & 5
(C) 01-22-06 Jeffrey Snodgrass
Phantasmagoria: Installment 4
Peacock:--
Were I less dejected I might write more, but, as things stand, I shall be pithy. Financial woes continue to burden me. Were it not for Harriet and her sweet goodness I feel as if I should succumb to the weight that burdens me exponentially with the passing of every day. Reconciliation with my father will never be, can never be. We are like two strangers attempting to communicate across a gaping chasm, echo distorting our words, our voices inadequate to the charge. Fate is a cruel mistress and even sterner taskmaster. We have had Miss Hitchener here for her holiday and spend many a pleasant evening conversing before the grate. Harriet has been very good about accomodating our fine guest. Rarely have I found a mind as keen as the Brown Lady's. You know she goes about with Aeschylus in hand, discoursing on antiquities? She is a veritable professor only wanting in one thing to hold a chair. I can never imagine more favorable circumstances for communication than these. You ask about the pointing finger in Mab's notes. Did you know the press reported that Hunt contributed those marked items? I've also heard it told that Byron did the same. That his Lordship does not know me does not seem to have occurred to anybody. I must remain silent on the meaning of those cryptic marks. It is indeed a strange alchemy which brought forth that child, a sheer humunculous of will. I will add, however, that fear of libel had much to do with the setting of the type, with which I had some hand. We were very pleased with your last and dinner remains a pleasant memory, though the inn was course and crowded. Let us plan on meeting again the next time you are in town. London is a fine city for losing oneself, whatever be the reasons. I remain your faithful servant--Bysshe
Father (By way of Mr. William Whitton, Great James Street, Bedford Row):
I have suffered for an art you neither can nor care to understand. I have stood alone when the company of fellow men would have alleviated my great solitude, but solicit their company I did not. I have never alloyed my handiwork with common strife but have sought always to join art and life in one meaningful struggle. This, none of this, expect I for you to understand. You are by nature intemperate in your perceptions and take all things as a sign of your sanctimonious censorship. You claim that I have chosen a Medieval career. How am I to counter that which is in essence fundamentally contrary to the very beatings of my heart? How am I to make sense of a topsy-turvey world when you withhold from me every means within your power to obviate my physical suffering? Were I alone I would lay no claim to either your good, common sense nor your resources but, through divine accident and choice I have dependents. You may deny me the means to live but in humble supplication I ask that you consider the needs of my coterie. I call upon your good sense and ask that you consider my request. As indicated, I am forwarding this through your solicitors. I know you loathe me and would not welcome direct word from me. Let the censor have his way with my sentiments: Eventually all that we do is made known and public. I remain your faithful servant--Percy
Phantasmagoria: Installment 5
Peacock
I see a direct connection between your nympholepsy and Plato's statement about art as arising from a mental frenzy. Do write and tell of how the pagan poem progresses.
Peacock,
I have only just learned that Harriet has destroyed herself. She was pulled from the Serpentine on December 10. Apparently she had been residing at 7 Elizabeth Street, a haunt of mine. I wholly blame Eliza for this catastrophe. Never was there a more cruel nor jealous creature. Harriet was kind, loving, and judicious in executing herself towards others. She was a model of hope and charity to all who knew her; in short, she was too kind for this world. Now she has shaken off the chains of existence that encumbered her and I am confident she exists on a much better plane. As you might imagine, we are all very distraught. Life can by turns both unforseen and fickle reduce us to inanimate clay. Now I am resolved to secure parentage of the children. William shall have a sweet brother and sister, playmates who shall animate his spirit and sharpen his sensitivities. I've no doubt Mary will execute her duties as a mother to the fullest. I remain firmly convinced that Ianthe and Charles are in great danger while they remain associated with the Westbrooks. They stand to inherit every vice and evil of prejudice which one may communicate to another, and are children not the more vulnerable to such pernicious and insidious influences than are sensible adults? I would mourn for them as well were I not confident that Eliza should hand them over to our custody. There has been some talk of legal action but I do not take it seriously. I hope to communicate brighter news by the next post. I remain your faithful servant, Bysshe
Dear G,
Thank you for conveying your sympathies regarding Harriet. I assure you, we were all shocked and dismayed by what happened. I can convey the details particular to this case when we dine this Sunday. Even Mary is distraught--such a generous, loving person. Until we meet, I remain--PBS
Mary's Diary:
We went to Trudeau's to see the magic lantern show and Bysshe was enraptured by the spectral images dancing along the walls and across a heavy drapery. Via phantasmagoria, the macabre came to life, accompanied by the monotonous droning of the hurdy-gurdy. Jane was fair beside herself. We certainly needed the diversion when one considers the strain we have all felt of late. If waltzing skeletons please us, so be it.
Phantasmagoria: Installment 4
Peacock:--
Were I less dejected I might write more, but, as things stand, I shall be pithy. Financial woes continue to burden me. Were it not for Harriet and her sweet goodness I feel as if I should succumb to the weight that burdens me exponentially with the passing of every day. Reconciliation with my father will never be, can never be. We are like two strangers attempting to communicate across a gaping chasm, echo distorting our words, our voices inadequate to the charge. Fate is a cruel mistress and even sterner taskmaster. We have had Miss Hitchener here for her holiday and spend many a pleasant evening conversing before the grate. Harriet has been very good about accomodating our fine guest. Rarely have I found a mind as keen as the Brown Lady's. You know she goes about with Aeschylus in hand, discoursing on antiquities? She is a veritable professor only wanting in one thing to hold a chair. I can never imagine more favorable circumstances for communication than these. You ask about the pointing finger in Mab's notes. Did you know the press reported that Hunt contributed those marked items? I've also heard it told that Byron did the same. That his Lordship does not know me does not seem to have occurred to anybody. I must remain silent on the meaning of those cryptic marks. It is indeed a strange alchemy which brought forth that child, a sheer humunculous of will. I will add, however, that fear of libel had much to do with the setting of the type, with which I had some hand. We were very pleased with your last and dinner remains a pleasant memory, though the inn was course and crowded. Let us plan on meeting again the next time you are in town. London is a fine city for losing oneself, whatever be the reasons. I remain your faithful servant--Bysshe
Father (By way of Mr. William Whitton, Great James Street, Bedford Row):
I have suffered for an art you neither can nor care to understand. I have stood alone when the company of fellow men would have alleviated my great solitude, but solicit their company I did not. I have never alloyed my handiwork with common strife but have sought always to join art and life in one meaningful struggle. This, none of this, expect I for you to understand. You are by nature intemperate in your perceptions and take all things as a sign of your sanctimonious censorship. You claim that I have chosen a Medieval career. How am I to counter that which is in essence fundamentally contrary to the very beatings of my heart? How am I to make sense of a topsy-turvey world when you withhold from me every means within your power to obviate my physical suffering? Were I alone I would lay no claim to either your good, common sense nor your resources but, through divine accident and choice I have dependents. You may deny me the means to live but in humble supplication I ask that you consider the needs of my coterie. I call upon your good sense and ask that you consider my request. As indicated, I am forwarding this through your solicitors. I know you loathe me and would not welcome direct word from me. Let the censor have his way with my sentiments: Eventually all that we do is made known and public. I remain your faithful servant--Percy
Phantasmagoria: Installment 5
Peacock
I see a direct connection between your nympholepsy and Plato's statement about art as arising from a mental frenzy. Do write and tell of how the pagan poem progresses.
Peacock,
I have only just learned that Harriet has destroyed herself. She was pulled from the Serpentine on December 10. Apparently she had been residing at 7 Elizabeth Street, a haunt of mine. I wholly blame Eliza for this catastrophe. Never was there a more cruel nor jealous creature. Harriet was kind, loving, and judicious in executing herself towards others. She was a model of hope and charity to all who knew her; in short, she was too kind for this world. Now she has shaken off the chains of existence that encumbered her and I am confident she exists on a much better plane. As you might imagine, we are all very distraught. Life can by turns both unforseen and fickle reduce us to inanimate clay. Now I am resolved to secure parentage of the children. William shall have a sweet brother and sister, playmates who shall animate his spirit and sharpen his sensitivities. I've no doubt Mary will execute her duties as a mother to the fullest. I remain firmly convinced that Ianthe and Charles are in great danger while they remain associated with the Westbrooks. They stand to inherit every vice and evil of prejudice which one may communicate to another, and are children not the more vulnerable to such pernicious and insidious influences than are sensible adults? I would mourn for them as well were I not confident that Eliza should hand them over to our custody. There has been some talk of legal action but I do not take it seriously. I hope to communicate brighter news by the next post. I remain your faithful servant, Bysshe
Dear G,
Thank you for conveying your sympathies regarding Harriet. I assure you, we were all shocked and dismayed by what happened. I can convey the details particular to this case when we dine this Sunday. Even Mary is distraught--such a generous, loving person. Until we meet, I remain--PBS
Mary's Diary:
We went to Trudeau's to see the magic lantern show and Bysshe was enraptured by the spectral images dancing along the walls and across a heavy drapery. Via phantasmagoria, the macabre came to life, accompanied by the monotonous droning of the hurdy-gurdy. Jane was fair beside herself. We certainly needed the diversion when one considers the strain we have all felt of late. If waltzing skeletons please us, so be it.
Tuesday, January 10, 2006
The Scar
(c) 1-10-06 Jeffrey L. Snodgrass
I found myself staring at the thin pages of an old anatomy textbook, exploded views of organs, grinning skull, flared pelvic bones. The nerves of the penis as a fine mesh. The dim desklamp illuminated block after block of dense type. I dragged off my cigarette and gave the impression of serious study. I'd found the book at a flea market. Paid three dollars for it because the binding was still good. "That would look nice in a lawyer's office," the man selling the book had said. How long had this volume lain unread? Now my greasy fingers turned its leaves, as if looking for a clue or sign that my eyes might register as correct. And when I realized this truth I would suddenly discover, without pain or difficulty, that some invisible force was guiding me in this enterprise, slowly and gently leading me to the moment when I would say aloud and without feeling self-conscious, "A-ha!" And why shouldn't I be given such a moment? Why should I be denied the one true longing that I've had for so long, to understand? Never was I solely content with simply being, sitting slack-jawed in front of the television, going through life without questioning who I was or what my purpose might be. And I suppose this is how I came to feel lonely.
People are perverse. Many of them have secrets, things they've done, or not done but thought about. Like sleeping with a brother when old enough to know better, or shooting a police officer, or lying down, playing dead, when faced with combat. Most would agree that human weakness emerges from under duress but, in reality, I think boredom gives rise to the greatest acts of violence, boredom and a sense that things will not improve--not quite hopelessness but close to it. But no, that calls for desperation and desperate people are rarely bored. You know, a simple party game--playing William Tell with an apple and .357 Magnum--can lead to a bullet in the forehead. You may wonder why I even think of these things, of my death or other gruesome particularities that most people either ignore or relinquish with delight to therapists, pastors, spouses; well, I have no one. I have no wife, no lover, no friend, no pastor, no pet, nothing. I suppose it's by choice. You see, I want to be alone, like being alone. I'm used to being alone. My parents take no interest in me. They dote on my sister, fresh out of law school and on her way. What am I? A maintenance man at a local community college unclogging toilets and replacing fluorescent bulbs.
After I was dishonorably discharged from the army for trying to castrate myself, I sold mattresses. In the world of sales, this is the bottom-most rung of the ladder. Now, whenever I buy something, I always pay the asking price. I can't stand haggling. My boss at the mattress showroom would undermine my commission to make a sale. Our prices were already low. I just about starved doing that kind of business. Then I went back into the hospital, used my health insurance from work. Not the hospital in Germany where I was stabilized and discharged, no, this was a large hospital outside Trenton with lawns and circular drives and brick buildings with two-storey porches held aloft by white columns. The place looked nice considering how much suffering went on there. I suffered, yes, but the meds straightened me out pretty quickly and, before I knew it, I was on my own again, free. So what happened?
She happened--what else? Oh, I know, I said there was no other, and that's true--now, but then, not after my second breakdown, or whatever you want to call it. She spoke to me in the bar of the Thunderbird Motel (Color TV, Swimming Pool). I had just slid down to the end of the counter nearest the door, beside her, and away from the restrooms, which stank. I was putting Sweet and Low in my coffee when she said, "That stuff's rat poison. It'll kill you." She was lovely. Plump, yes, but sweet. As it turned out, she never used artificial sweetener but she did have a predilection for booze and pills and, somehow, managed to reconcile these things in her mind. She also smoked, the mother of all sins. Smoked long, thin cigarettes. For the first time in my life I found myself drawn to another person. She invited me back to her room. The carpet felt stereotypically damp and complemented the to-be-expected tacky artwork over the desk. I looked and there they were--two pineapple lamps with yellowed, crooked shades. The bathroom was in dire need of a tile job. A small pair of vice grips served as the hot water tap in the shower. "Are you going to come in here or snoop all afternoon?" She was naked on the nubby bedspread. I took her quickly and without thinking. Later, I would take her again, slowly, while she was dry, eliciting a sharp cry as I roughly entered her. She was cute. And sweet. And best of all, she couldn't see my scar.
I sit on a bench and think about the girl. Someone has been here before me. I see spit and cigarette butts on the cement. We would all like to think a bench is ours because we have chosen it. We would all like to think that we have some degree of control or influence over our lives because we think about them and plan and do all of the things we think we should be doing. But I know better--I know that, in the end, we are but images, pictures in an anatomy textbook, cadavers on dissection tables. I wrote my congresswoman. I'm hoping she can get me an honorable discharge. I'll take my government money and go out to Montana, or South Dakota, or Alaska, and try again. I'm young, only 32. We'll see.
(c) 1-10-06 Jeffrey L. Snodgrass
I found myself staring at the thin pages of an old anatomy textbook, exploded views of organs, grinning skull, flared pelvic bones. The nerves of the penis as a fine mesh. The dim desklamp illuminated block after block of dense type. I dragged off my cigarette and gave the impression of serious study. I'd found the book at a flea market. Paid three dollars for it because the binding was still good. "That would look nice in a lawyer's office," the man selling the book had said. How long had this volume lain unread? Now my greasy fingers turned its leaves, as if looking for a clue or sign that my eyes might register as correct. And when I realized this truth I would suddenly discover, without pain or difficulty, that some invisible force was guiding me in this enterprise, slowly and gently leading me to the moment when I would say aloud and without feeling self-conscious, "A-ha!" And why shouldn't I be given such a moment? Why should I be denied the one true longing that I've had for so long, to understand? Never was I solely content with simply being, sitting slack-jawed in front of the television, going through life without questioning who I was or what my purpose might be. And I suppose this is how I came to feel lonely.
People are perverse. Many of them have secrets, things they've done, or not done but thought about. Like sleeping with a brother when old enough to know better, or shooting a police officer, or lying down, playing dead, when faced with combat. Most would agree that human weakness emerges from under duress but, in reality, I think boredom gives rise to the greatest acts of violence, boredom and a sense that things will not improve--not quite hopelessness but close to it. But no, that calls for desperation and desperate people are rarely bored. You know, a simple party game--playing William Tell with an apple and .357 Magnum--can lead to a bullet in the forehead. You may wonder why I even think of these things, of my death or other gruesome particularities that most people either ignore or relinquish with delight to therapists, pastors, spouses; well, I have no one. I have no wife, no lover, no friend, no pastor, no pet, nothing. I suppose it's by choice. You see, I want to be alone, like being alone. I'm used to being alone. My parents take no interest in me. They dote on my sister, fresh out of law school and on her way. What am I? A maintenance man at a local community college unclogging toilets and replacing fluorescent bulbs.
After I was dishonorably discharged from the army for trying to castrate myself, I sold mattresses. In the world of sales, this is the bottom-most rung of the ladder. Now, whenever I buy something, I always pay the asking price. I can't stand haggling. My boss at the mattress showroom would undermine my commission to make a sale. Our prices were already low. I just about starved doing that kind of business. Then I went back into the hospital, used my health insurance from work. Not the hospital in Germany where I was stabilized and discharged, no, this was a large hospital outside Trenton with lawns and circular drives and brick buildings with two-storey porches held aloft by white columns. The place looked nice considering how much suffering went on there. I suffered, yes, but the meds straightened me out pretty quickly and, before I knew it, I was on my own again, free. So what happened?
She happened--what else? Oh, I know, I said there was no other, and that's true--now, but then, not after my second breakdown, or whatever you want to call it. She spoke to me in the bar of the Thunderbird Motel (Color TV, Swimming Pool). I had just slid down to the end of the counter nearest the door, beside her, and away from the restrooms, which stank. I was putting Sweet and Low in my coffee when she said, "That stuff's rat poison. It'll kill you." She was lovely. Plump, yes, but sweet. As it turned out, she never used artificial sweetener but she did have a predilection for booze and pills and, somehow, managed to reconcile these things in her mind. She also smoked, the mother of all sins. Smoked long, thin cigarettes. For the first time in my life I found myself drawn to another person. She invited me back to her room. The carpet felt stereotypically damp and complemented the to-be-expected tacky artwork over the desk. I looked and there they were--two pineapple lamps with yellowed, crooked shades. The bathroom was in dire need of a tile job. A small pair of vice grips served as the hot water tap in the shower. "Are you going to come in here or snoop all afternoon?" She was naked on the nubby bedspread. I took her quickly and without thinking. Later, I would take her again, slowly, while she was dry, eliciting a sharp cry as I roughly entered her. She was cute. And sweet. And best of all, she couldn't see my scar.
I sit on a bench and think about the girl. Someone has been here before me. I see spit and cigarette butts on the cement. We would all like to think a bench is ours because we have chosen it. We would all like to think that we have some degree of control or influence over our lives because we think about them and plan and do all of the things we think we should be doing. But I know better--I know that, in the end, we are but images, pictures in an anatomy textbook, cadavers on dissection tables. I wrote my congresswoman. I'm hoping she can get me an honorable discharge. I'll take my government money and go out to Montana, or South Dakota, or Alaska, and try again. I'm young, only 32. We'll see.
Thursday, January 05, 2006
Phantasmagoria 3
Phantasmagoria: Installment 3
Peacock:--Well, know that we are conducting a grand experiment, one that will not easily pass from our minds any time soon. What we seek to do is revolutionize the way people think not only about themsleves but others as well. Is that so surprising? Think about it. What could we possibly do that would be more original than place within ourselves the seed of hope? --And it is,
I think, hope, though one could certainly argue in favor of something else, too. But would we, could we, should we? Those are the questions that deserve some kind of answer. Make a gift of your ideas. I've not received a charity in so long. I am, perhaps, too circumspect but the load of opprobrium is upon you, not me, and I can only hope and marvel at the transformation that has taken place in the last 72 hours. So brilliant and bold your scoldings that it would appear the
heavens have released a judgement upon us all. No--no--fret not--I am not angry, nor should you be. Rather, I am peevish because of a glandular disorder that Watkins says will pass when the weather is warmer. We shall see. Until then my throat is painfully swollen and I must take lambs broth for sustenance. But these details do not interest you I know. Poor Peatrick, he has but hours to live and is lying in at hospital. The doctors say his spleen has surely ruptured. From what I can gather the details go something like this: he was on his way to Bond Street when several drunkards molested him, one striking him repeatedly with a cudgel, another an ashplant. The repeated blows damaged his organs. We all consider it a freak accident, a matter of inopportune location. He suffers greatly. Were I a praying man I surely would but evidence of God's carelessness abounds, this being a prime example. His mesotints were to be displayed next month--such a promising career ahead of him now cut short by the assasin's dart. More later--I am too moved to write.
Such misery compounded. Peatrick has succumbed to his wounds. He is to be buried this afternoon off Chapel Street in a
quiet family plot. He has but little to leave his uncle, who has promised to care for his destitute sister, and these arrangements were hastily made the night before his passing. Hunt and I shall attempt a subscription in Margaret's name. She was engaged to a sailor but his man o' war is not due back for 6 months and he has made no attempt to contact her--we can only suspect the worst. Margaret is most distraught--I shall do everything in my power to comfort her.--P.B.S.
Do not think for one minute that I have not given serious thought to your plight. Though time we have, the moment will come when a reckoning is due. Are you ready, with your misery? Are you prepared for what has been foreshadowed? We can but hope for some sense of comfort and little more given the scope and breadth of our lives, however sweet, short, or fine. You are
like a sprite grown amongst the dew and suddenly faced with harsh light, or a fairy with its wings clipped. But I digress. My purpose in writing was to thank you for your magnanimous gift of money which we direly needed--it came just in time. Kiss little Lara for me. I remain truly yours, Heather Barnstock
Trelawny Remembers Ariel: I remember him well: He was a blushing man-boy, shy, reserved, but ask him about the book in his hand and he would launch on a lecture as if a Chair of Continental rhetoric. Aeschylus was his favorite past-time. He delighted in all of the descriptions of animals. I never knew him to be without a book or pot of ink. One day he sat through supper without ever
looking away from Plato. He delighted in the classics, a harmonious occupation while in Italy, so close to the source, so to speak. I can still picture him, even now, reading and eating toast (for he preferred bread). Somehow I find this simple domestic image comforting. As if it were indestructible. And I am heartened by the fact that people still find him an object of curiosity; I'm always happy to oblige a curious post with some kind of response, so long as it does not reek of sensationalism. The critics like him much better now that he has died than they did while he breathed. He has a distinct following. I think that would please him very much.
Dear Mr. Place,
I write out of motivation to kindly enact from you your offer of solicitation made several months ago. In that time you have become aware of Mr. Shelley's activities and, as I can tell, have formed an unflattering opinion of my friend. In the interest of preserving your faith in me as well as the dual purpose of restoring your good opinion of Mr. Shelley I write. That Mr. Shelley is my friend I will not deny. How could I renounce one who has found such favor in my heart as he? I will attempt to outline for you some of his activities, of which I am certain you have heard, in connection with his motivations for undertaking those actions. It is true that he and Mrs. Shelley have separated. Never was there a more unfortunate union. She is in every way superficial, transparent, and frivolous. But perhaps I am too unkind. For every quality of
depth that Shelley possesses she possesses three of a more base nature. He favors books and ideas, she hats and gowns; he seeks out and cherishes the sublime, she the courting of wealth and society; he clambours for the lofty, she the aristocratic. I find no fault with her except that she is not in a position to understand, let alone nurture and support, the more ethereal qualities of her husband. Never were two people more different. Shelley married her at a very tender age. I remain convinced that she married him on the promise of a fortune. Her love of him does not extend beyond his means. She has sought credit from any merchant that would extend it. She has run up exorbitant bills on frivolous possessions. She has, in short, ruined him. He finds himself hounded on all sides by creditors and bankers harranguing him for repayment, enacting usurous rates on resources he may never acquire. He has, if I
may express such a fact in the strictest of confidentiality, taken out injurious post-obit loans. He remains unreconciled to his father, the one person who could set his financial craft on an even keel. All of these things in conjunction with sensitive health have left Mr. Shelley more than distraught over his opportunities. Never have I met a more open and curious mind. Were you to meet him I am sure he would strike you as warm, erudite, and soft of apprehensions about others. I am to leave Skinner Street and seek some sort of employment, though I've not settled on a particular kind. As you know,
G has been highly supportive of me and sought only my best interests. As a young man it is time for me to make my way. India beckons--it is only a matter of time before I answer her exotic call. Count me as one of her sunburnt Colonials. In the interim, any pecuniary aid that would be forthcoming would be most appreciated. All I can offer you in exchange for
assistance is a heart-felt thanks & my word that I shall execute my living expenses with maturity and responsibility. I eagerly await word from you and remain your most faithful servant--Charles Clairemont
PS--Jane asks that I commend her to your memory. CC
Claremont, Unbeknownst to you, I did meet Mr. Shelley in Hookham's and G's company. I did not care for him. At this time I am uncomfortable extending either you or Mr. Shelley a loan. I am your faithful servant, FP
(C) Copyright January 2006, Jeffrey L. Snodgrass
Peacock:--Well, know that we are conducting a grand experiment, one that will not easily pass from our minds any time soon. What we seek to do is revolutionize the way people think not only about themsleves but others as well. Is that so surprising? Think about it. What could we possibly do that would be more original than place within ourselves the seed of hope? --And it is,
I think, hope, though one could certainly argue in favor of something else, too. But would we, could we, should we? Those are the questions that deserve some kind of answer. Make a gift of your ideas. I've not received a charity in so long. I am, perhaps, too circumspect but the load of opprobrium is upon you, not me, and I can only hope and marvel at the transformation that has taken place in the last 72 hours. So brilliant and bold your scoldings that it would appear the
heavens have released a judgement upon us all. No--no--fret not--I am not angry, nor should you be. Rather, I am peevish because of a glandular disorder that Watkins says will pass when the weather is warmer. We shall see. Until then my throat is painfully swollen and I must take lambs broth for sustenance. But these details do not interest you I know. Poor Peatrick, he has but hours to live and is lying in at hospital. The doctors say his spleen has surely ruptured. From what I can gather the details go something like this: he was on his way to Bond Street when several drunkards molested him, one striking him repeatedly with a cudgel, another an ashplant. The repeated blows damaged his organs. We all consider it a freak accident, a matter of inopportune location. He suffers greatly. Were I a praying man I surely would but evidence of God's carelessness abounds, this being a prime example. His mesotints were to be displayed next month--such a promising career ahead of him now cut short by the assasin's dart. More later--I am too moved to write.
Such misery compounded. Peatrick has succumbed to his wounds. He is to be buried this afternoon off Chapel Street in a
quiet family plot. He has but little to leave his uncle, who has promised to care for his destitute sister, and these arrangements were hastily made the night before his passing. Hunt and I shall attempt a subscription in Margaret's name. She was engaged to a sailor but his man o' war is not due back for 6 months and he has made no attempt to contact her--we can only suspect the worst. Margaret is most distraught--I shall do everything in my power to comfort her.--P.B.S.
Do not think for one minute that I have not given serious thought to your plight. Though time we have, the moment will come when a reckoning is due. Are you ready, with your misery? Are you prepared for what has been foreshadowed? We can but hope for some sense of comfort and little more given the scope and breadth of our lives, however sweet, short, or fine. You are
like a sprite grown amongst the dew and suddenly faced with harsh light, or a fairy with its wings clipped. But I digress. My purpose in writing was to thank you for your magnanimous gift of money which we direly needed--it came just in time. Kiss little Lara for me. I remain truly yours, Heather Barnstock
Trelawny Remembers Ariel: I remember him well: He was a blushing man-boy, shy, reserved, but ask him about the book in his hand and he would launch on a lecture as if a Chair of Continental rhetoric. Aeschylus was his favorite past-time. He delighted in all of the descriptions of animals. I never knew him to be without a book or pot of ink. One day he sat through supper without ever
looking away from Plato. He delighted in the classics, a harmonious occupation while in Italy, so close to the source, so to speak. I can still picture him, even now, reading and eating toast (for he preferred bread). Somehow I find this simple domestic image comforting. As if it were indestructible. And I am heartened by the fact that people still find him an object of curiosity; I'm always happy to oblige a curious post with some kind of response, so long as it does not reek of sensationalism. The critics like him much better now that he has died than they did while he breathed. He has a distinct following. I think that would please him very much.
Dear Mr. Place,
I write out of motivation to kindly enact from you your offer of solicitation made several months ago. In that time you have become aware of Mr. Shelley's activities and, as I can tell, have formed an unflattering opinion of my friend. In the interest of preserving your faith in me as well as the dual purpose of restoring your good opinion of Mr. Shelley I write. That Mr. Shelley is my friend I will not deny. How could I renounce one who has found such favor in my heart as he? I will attempt to outline for you some of his activities, of which I am certain you have heard, in connection with his motivations for undertaking those actions. It is true that he and Mrs. Shelley have separated. Never was there a more unfortunate union. She is in every way superficial, transparent, and frivolous. But perhaps I am too unkind. For every quality of
depth that Shelley possesses she possesses three of a more base nature. He favors books and ideas, she hats and gowns; he seeks out and cherishes the sublime, she the courting of wealth and society; he clambours for the lofty, she the aristocratic. I find no fault with her except that she is not in a position to understand, let alone nurture and support, the more ethereal qualities of her husband. Never were two people more different. Shelley married her at a very tender age. I remain convinced that she married him on the promise of a fortune. Her love of him does not extend beyond his means. She has sought credit from any merchant that would extend it. She has run up exorbitant bills on frivolous possessions. She has, in short, ruined him. He finds himself hounded on all sides by creditors and bankers harranguing him for repayment, enacting usurous rates on resources he may never acquire. He has, if I
may express such a fact in the strictest of confidentiality, taken out injurious post-obit loans. He remains unreconciled to his father, the one person who could set his financial craft on an even keel. All of these things in conjunction with sensitive health have left Mr. Shelley more than distraught over his opportunities. Never have I met a more open and curious mind. Were you to meet him I am sure he would strike you as warm, erudite, and soft of apprehensions about others. I am to leave Skinner Street and seek some sort of employment, though I've not settled on a particular kind. As you know,
G has been highly supportive of me and sought only my best interests. As a young man it is time for me to make my way. India beckons--it is only a matter of time before I answer her exotic call. Count me as one of her sunburnt Colonials. In the interim, any pecuniary aid that would be forthcoming would be most appreciated. All I can offer you in exchange for
assistance is a heart-felt thanks & my word that I shall execute my living expenses with maturity and responsibility. I eagerly await word from you and remain your most faithful servant--Charles Clairemont
PS--Jane asks that I commend her to your memory. CC
Claremont, Unbeknownst to you, I did meet Mr. Shelley in Hookham's and G's company. I did not care for him. At this time I am uncomfortable extending either you or Mr. Shelley a loan. I am your faithful servant, FP
(C) Copyright January 2006, Jeffrey L. Snodgrass
Tuesday, January 03, 2006
Phantasmagoria 2
Phantasmagoria, Installment 2
Like Dionysius or the wild beast I have come full circle from my earlier position, the one I proposed yesterday. Now the heartfelt sentiment has turned sour and only a lonely tolling bell signals what had been a carbuncle of hope. I would not
renounce your mysteries so easily, nor would I suffer a misunderstanding: Far graver things than these have occupied my mind and through simple arithmetic I have devised a new logic for calculating the untenable. I suppose yours is a brighter, better future, for you are young and not yet trained in the grooved ways of the narrow social prison. I would only ask that you renounce obvious falsehoods and delight in those things which ring true for one with your understanding of fate. What can I say without sounding foreign? My tongue has learned the sounds of the meadows, the brook, the moaning lulling wind
about the eaves. I can but shadow my circumspect self looking for a sign of what once was and now is no more. I remain very truly yours--PBS
What would you have me say? I've given the best years of my life to you and how am I repaid? You bed a mere child, and right under my nose, as if I wldn't notice. This can only mean one thing:--divorce.Mlle Mulready
There is no future in what you are saying and there is no past. What had been a sincere hope is dashed. Ours is not a sophisticated science, one of physical pleasure--ours is a controlled aesthetic, for should we inadvertently set fire to the keg the explosion would remove the better part of civilization from view. I can only hope from our correspondance that you find yourself in improved health and that through a scurious means yours is not a protracted discomfort. Give all my best to C----. I remain yours, Lord B
We have as proof a very sad tale, one not easily told. Patrickson has taken his own life. So very promising was he. Now he is but an allusion to that poverty of spirit which is wanting in the hopeless. I would stand on solid bedrock if I thought I could but I feel my grip slipping. I can feel myself falling through a crack so infitissimally small that I can't believe I'm not in a cavern. Have you ever felt this way or is it the opium? I can't imagine what would have possessed you to write as you did. I have been most magnanimous, generous, and open-hearted toward you, as a brother should and for what? I've not approved of your leaving, of this you may be certain. We all had every reason for doubting the motives which you held to be pure and untainted. We all had fair reason to doubt the motives of that man you call friend. Mr. Shelley has not considered how your leaving with him has had a pernicious effect on your
reputation. Word has spread that intimacy is a common event between you and he. I doubt this very much myself but not everyone will provide you with the generosity of spirit of a brother. Honestly, Jane, what were you thinking? Of course you have pled happiness and that is worth something I suppose. You have certainly had yourself a little adventure. In some ways I envy you your freedom but in others I can only think that you have damaged your spirit in some way, which, when taken fully into consideration, is worth infinately more than the approval of a radical. I trust you will find it within your heart to
patch things up with Pappa and to come home soon. Mary is another case entirely. We miss her as well but quite clearly she is in no position to leave nor should she. Does this position on the issue surprise you? She is most certainly a ruined woman. What kind of life could she hope to have here, at the scene of her childhood? Her innocence is gone. Perhaps I am being unfairly critical and, if so, dearest Jane, please forgive me, for I am but emotional. Would you return sooner I might put on good cheer but my heavy heart will not allow it. Know that, regardless, I remain your ever-devoted brother--CC
Dearest Brother, would that I could return I would. I see my fate as a cruel one, broken by boundaries which have thrust themselves into my face quite unexpectedly. That I did not think things through is very true. I left for the Continent on an impulse and that impulse has shaped my life ever since. I assure you, I am well-treated here and want for very little. Shelley is teaching me Greek. He translates beautifully and one never had a more patient teacher. Mary spends her time mourning the loss of child which lived but 12 days. We do not speak of it and she has been ill, both through poverty of spirit and in the flesh. Perhaps Shelley is more optimistic on this front as he sees ample pportunity for having another child. He is currently negotiating with his father's solicitors and may inherit any day now, a most portentious event to be
certain. We all look forward to your next. Take care, fair brother, and may your spirit rest easy in your heart--Clara
(C) Copyright January 2006, Jeffrey Snodgrass
Like Dionysius or the wild beast I have come full circle from my earlier position, the one I proposed yesterday. Now the heartfelt sentiment has turned sour and only a lonely tolling bell signals what had been a carbuncle of hope. I would not
renounce your mysteries so easily, nor would I suffer a misunderstanding: Far graver things than these have occupied my mind and through simple arithmetic I have devised a new logic for calculating the untenable. I suppose yours is a brighter, better future, for you are young and not yet trained in the grooved ways of the narrow social prison. I would only ask that you renounce obvious falsehoods and delight in those things which ring true for one with your understanding of fate. What can I say without sounding foreign? My tongue has learned the sounds of the meadows, the brook, the moaning lulling wind
about the eaves. I can but shadow my circumspect self looking for a sign of what once was and now is no more. I remain very truly yours--PBS
What would you have me say? I've given the best years of my life to you and how am I repaid? You bed a mere child, and right under my nose, as if I wldn't notice. This can only mean one thing:--divorce.Mlle Mulready
There is no future in what you are saying and there is no past. What had been a sincere hope is dashed. Ours is not a sophisticated science, one of physical pleasure--ours is a controlled aesthetic, for should we inadvertently set fire to the keg the explosion would remove the better part of civilization from view. I can only hope from our correspondance that you find yourself in improved health and that through a scurious means yours is not a protracted discomfort. Give all my best to C----. I remain yours, Lord B
We have as proof a very sad tale, one not easily told. Patrickson has taken his own life. So very promising was he. Now he is but an allusion to that poverty of spirit which is wanting in the hopeless. I would stand on solid bedrock if I thought I could but I feel my grip slipping. I can feel myself falling through a crack so infitissimally small that I can't believe I'm not in a cavern. Have you ever felt this way or is it the opium? I can't imagine what would have possessed you to write as you did. I have been most magnanimous, generous, and open-hearted toward you, as a brother should and for what? I've not approved of your leaving, of this you may be certain. We all had every reason for doubting the motives which you held to be pure and untainted. We all had fair reason to doubt the motives of that man you call friend. Mr. Shelley has not considered how your leaving with him has had a pernicious effect on your
reputation. Word has spread that intimacy is a common event between you and he. I doubt this very much myself but not everyone will provide you with the generosity of spirit of a brother. Honestly, Jane, what were you thinking? Of course you have pled happiness and that is worth something I suppose. You have certainly had yourself a little adventure. In some ways I envy you your freedom but in others I can only think that you have damaged your spirit in some way, which, when taken fully into consideration, is worth infinately more than the approval of a radical. I trust you will find it within your heart to
patch things up with Pappa and to come home soon. Mary is another case entirely. We miss her as well but quite clearly she is in no position to leave nor should she. Does this position on the issue surprise you? She is most certainly a ruined woman. What kind of life could she hope to have here, at the scene of her childhood? Her innocence is gone. Perhaps I am being unfairly critical and, if so, dearest Jane, please forgive me, for I am but emotional. Would you return sooner I might put on good cheer but my heavy heart will not allow it. Know that, regardless, I remain your ever-devoted brother--CC
Dearest Brother, would that I could return I would. I see my fate as a cruel one, broken by boundaries which have thrust themselves into my face quite unexpectedly. That I did not think things through is very true. I left for the Continent on an impulse and that impulse has shaped my life ever since. I assure you, I am well-treated here and want for very little. Shelley is teaching me Greek. He translates beautifully and one never had a more patient teacher. Mary spends her time mourning the loss of child which lived but 12 days. We do not speak of it and she has been ill, both through poverty of spirit and in the flesh. Perhaps Shelley is more optimistic on this front as he sees ample pportunity for having another child. He is currently negotiating with his father's solicitors and may inherit any day now, a most portentious event to be
certain. We all look forward to your next. Take care, fair brother, and may your spirit rest easy in your heart--Clara
(C) Copyright January 2006, Jeffrey Snodgrass
Monday, January 02, 2006
Phantasmagoria 1
Phantasmagoria: An Epistolary Short Story, Installment 1
Phantasmagoria--An exhibition of optical illusions produced by means of a magic lantern (OED).
Every thing is so miserable that I often wish myself quite dead although it is so shocking but to think of.
--Claire Claremont to Lord Byron, 19 November 1816
Dearest Albe,
I could think of no earth-shattering praise such as you have given me. I cannot dwell on what has been any more than raise the dead. Not that I would. What has died should be left alone. Opening the mouth is not so terribly
important after all, is it?(1) And where are you now that I write this? You have gone from me and here I am, all alone with my tea and a hope of seeing you again. But I know that cannot be. You have left and taken with you the better part of my heart. I am so lonesome without you. Won't you please send me word of how you are doing? Any small, short line will do, even a reprimand by way of the Snake(2). I have nothing to look forward to but your scant word here or there delivered through the post. I will remain yours--CC
I think you've got to be more open to the simple phrases and delectable sentences of life. I think you have got to be more in union with the ultimate source of power before you can lay claim to knowing the eternal mysteries of nature. Only through and by the power of exploration will the truth come to light. Only through an investigation into the dim portal of fate will
we ever find ourselves truly free of misery. Is it misery that you seek? If so, you have found it out and, if not, it has found you and has not yet introduced itself, as it shortly will. Rest assured, the titanic efforts you make to control your
lust and limited understanding of the world are small measures near and dear to anyone's heart. What use the pompous stain? --How valiantly cavalier the free soul? What are these things but lies deduced to confound us in every single thing we do. How shall we escape from ourselves when so few remain free and single from a particularly cruel fate? I would not ingest such words unless you plan on performing some barbaric and cruel surgery on your spleen, for any understanding of the things about which I write will lead but to misery, misery mine. But I saw all this foreshadowed in a dream. My noonday slumber
gave rise to a labyrinth and within this labyrinth there arose a misunderstanding of means and I felt myself bereft of locomotion or hope or even charity. What more can I say? Chaos reigns complete and madness is taking its own toll. Lugubrious I may not be at this time in my life when found treasure is more priceless than air. Like some alchemist bending
over furnace fanning charcoal, smelting a mysterious stone, so I labor on, proving my soul hearty and irregular, vast and void as the circumference of azure sky that seeks to encircle me under its dome. I have found a fine drought and now by inference await the chance to mold this plastic life into something new. For now I remain yours--PBS
* * * * * *
Cancelled Lines For A Promethean Drama
"Sprite to Prometheus, Titan"
What plastic shape is this that moves without will?
How shall I put down the heart-felt insurrection?
What has died and what is not yet dead? All these things and more I seek.
What can we know but sickness, lethargy, rebellion?
So take the strain and break away from that which sucks the frozen floe
through tempest chill.
Make known the boundaries of your own energy and free the
mechanism that would tie you earthbound.
A rock face shall become your new home and fuel the fire renounced.
For what is magic but ill design and transparency?
* * * * * * *
My Dearest Maria,
Well what do you want for me to say? You received a free frank(3) and for that you should be grateful. I, however, have no recourse but to protest. I can only hope that some simple misunderstanding does not swamp what has been a
very bright career. Saw Tommy Turner this night and he was lamenting his inclinations. I encouraged him to marry and thereby put his desires for young men aside. He claims his nature is perverse but unaffected. I tend to believe him in all that he says. His eyes were misty with feeling. So much promise he shows as a writer and painter, dual his talents. He read me a poem about a drunkard that I thought quite good--every common pub has one, every village its representative. He says he was inspired by a poem of Royall Tyler. What can I say but weather on? It is all any of us can do. I remain yours--CC
Footnotes:(1.) From Egyptian burial rite(2.) Shelley(3.) Duty-free postage, a privilege of Parliament
(c) copyright January 2006, Jeffrey Snodgrass
Phantasmagoria--An exhibition of optical illusions produced by means of a magic lantern (OED).
Every thing is so miserable that I often wish myself quite dead although it is so shocking but to think of.
--Claire Claremont to Lord Byron, 19 November 1816
Dearest Albe,
I could think of no earth-shattering praise such as you have given me. I cannot dwell on what has been any more than raise the dead. Not that I would. What has died should be left alone. Opening the mouth is not so terribly
important after all, is it?(1) And where are you now that I write this? You have gone from me and here I am, all alone with my tea and a hope of seeing you again. But I know that cannot be. You have left and taken with you the better part of my heart. I am so lonesome without you. Won't you please send me word of how you are doing? Any small, short line will do, even a reprimand by way of the Snake(2). I have nothing to look forward to but your scant word here or there delivered through the post. I will remain yours--CC
I think you've got to be more open to the simple phrases and delectable sentences of life. I think you have got to be more in union with the ultimate source of power before you can lay claim to knowing the eternal mysteries of nature. Only through and by the power of exploration will the truth come to light. Only through an investigation into the dim portal of fate will
we ever find ourselves truly free of misery. Is it misery that you seek? If so, you have found it out and, if not, it has found you and has not yet introduced itself, as it shortly will. Rest assured, the titanic efforts you make to control your
lust and limited understanding of the world are small measures near and dear to anyone's heart. What use the pompous stain? --How valiantly cavalier the free soul? What are these things but lies deduced to confound us in every single thing we do. How shall we escape from ourselves when so few remain free and single from a particularly cruel fate? I would not ingest such words unless you plan on performing some barbaric and cruel surgery on your spleen, for any understanding of the things about which I write will lead but to misery, misery mine. But I saw all this foreshadowed in a dream. My noonday slumber
gave rise to a labyrinth and within this labyrinth there arose a misunderstanding of means and I felt myself bereft of locomotion or hope or even charity. What more can I say? Chaos reigns complete and madness is taking its own toll. Lugubrious I may not be at this time in my life when found treasure is more priceless than air. Like some alchemist bending
over furnace fanning charcoal, smelting a mysterious stone, so I labor on, proving my soul hearty and irregular, vast and void as the circumference of azure sky that seeks to encircle me under its dome. I have found a fine drought and now by inference await the chance to mold this plastic life into something new. For now I remain yours--PBS
* * * * * *
Cancelled Lines For A Promethean Drama
"Sprite to Prometheus, Titan"
What plastic shape is this that moves without will?
How shall I put down the heart-felt insurrection?
What has died and what is not yet dead? All these things and more I seek.
What can we know but sickness, lethargy, rebellion?
So take the strain and break away from that which sucks the frozen floe
through tempest chill.
Make known the boundaries of your own energy and free the
mechanism that would tie you earthbound.
A rock face shall become your new home and fuel the fire renounced.
For what is magic but ill design and transparency?
* * * * * * *
My Dearest Maria,
Well what do you want for me to say? You received a free frank(3) and for that you should be grateful. I, however, have no recourse but to protest. I can only hope that some simple misunderstanding does not swamp what has been a
very bright career. Saw Tommy Turner this night and he was lamenting his inclinations. I encouraged him to marry and thereby put his desires for young men aside. He claims his nature is perverse but unaffected. I tend to believe him in all that he says. His eyes were misty with feeling. So much promise he shows as a writer and painter, dual his talents. He read me a poem about a drunkard that I thought quite good--every common pub has one, every village its representative. He says he was inspired by a poem of Royall Tyler. What can I say but weather on? It is all any of us can do. I remain yours--CC
Footnotes:(1.) From Egyptian burial rite(2.) Shelley(3.) Duty-free postage, a privilege of Parliament
(c) copyright January 2006, Jeffrey Snodgrass
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