2003-04-14 - 3:31 a.m.
April is the cruelest month. And I'm not just saying that, it works: "breeding / Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing / Memory and desire, stirring / Dull roots with spring rain."
This past weekend remembers like a bad dream. It was a bad weekend when I battled the flies for hours, waking with tiny flies from somewhere crawing in my bed and on me, sweeping and mopping for hours with bathroom chemicals, to see my room gleam in desperate pursuit of knowledge they are gone. It was a good weekend when I went to a strip club, Cleopatra's in Palmetto of all places, with two girls who were totally into it, to see Monica strip and give me a lap dance as she called me by my first and last name. Or is that the other way around?
Yet the only tools for understanding that I have are those of Mary Douglas, an anthropologist who dealt with purity and danger, and the concept of taboo. I fell asleep on Friday morning while working on a paper and she came to me in a dream, but I don't remember what she said. What did she make of
The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
This past weekend felt like a bad dream. One that I can't wake up from. All I remember hearing is
“That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”
