I made the mistake (or was it?) of telling him he was as easy to read as a simple old dog. Warm bed, warm bath, good food, a good scratch of the pate every night. He said, True enough. You realize what that makes you? What? I said. A complicated old bitch, he said fondly. Closer to the left ear. Ahh, that's it.
Public poet or private poet? Oh--private! Private all the way.
Nothing new to say, no one new to say it to, only the same old, same old, repeating it all over again. This must be what death feels like.
I have no idea how to phrase things to make you understand them the way I mean them. If I say them as they occur to me in my real voice, I see that I'm hurting you. When you say things in your real voice, you would hurt me too--if I were the protist with an eyespot that you seem to be.
He can't be happy here, can't leave here. Suffering from an intelligence deficit. Not his. The inability of this place to hold the conversation partners he needs. So he's bored and finally contemptuous of his fellows.
All my aphorisms try to tell you about me, not how to be more like me. I have no advice and what works for me probably wouldn't satisfy you anyway. I like oatmeal, for example, so cholesterol-busting is an easy job for me. Maybe not for you.
