The title is from Goin’ Down To Monte Carlo by Van Morrison. The first time I heard this I knew it to be true, like opening up the short door to the bedroom attic of my brain and discovering some private memory in a wood crate. This will make a good epitaph, but only applied to the 99.999%. Sartre got it wrong if he left out love. I’ll look for a book of his today. See what the existentialist has to say. Meanwhile, from Leopold Courting Rose, my non-existentialism:
Autumn is a time for little perfect memories of sheer bliss. Tonight I was a demon, you were a ghost, and together we buried a little witch under a pile of leaves. Perfect. I will never forget this happy memory! My job, my only true employment, is to think on these things. I am a lonely painter, pirate cook, and poetic imbecile all rolled up into one huge clog of hyper-sensitive neurons. That makes for worthwhile walks in harvest moonshine. Night walks with you talking about our memories and our plans. Everything you are I have seen in me at the best of times. But I am not as constant as you. Nor can I compare to the stuff of you, like breasts and belly button. I don’t carry hips to drive all the boys crazy with desire. No small of back that cries “My God, press your thumbs into me!” Rose, Rose, Rose… I never had a single soul to share my dreams. I am confident enough to believe in what I hope for. You say that you have a hard time trusting someone. Imagine Ron to be a maple tree. Now ask me, “Will you be here tomorrow?” “Yes Rose, these roots go deep.” “Well, you must fear something?” “I have only one.” “Well?” “I fear before bed you walk to the shed, and oil that chainsaw you use for a head.” “But I don’t understand.” “I guess, Rose, that you’d have to be a tree to understand.” The moral of this dialogue: When a tree says he loves you, quit your job at the lumber yard if the feeling is mutual.
And finally, why Sartre’s words are brilliant and clear:
I’d Rather Be High by David Bowie
Hell Broke Luce by Tom Waits