Strange correspondences emerging here. Why have I expended so much energy to conform, to be seen as an OK guy? Why?
Well, leaving psychoanalysis aside, enough is enough. I have visited Jim Morrison’s grave in Père Lachaise but it is only recently that I have come to some understanding of his status.
Rebel. Visionary. Pain in the arse.
And then there’s Rimbaud. Arrived in Paris in his teens, at the invitation of Verlaine. Scandalised the capital. Did his own thing. He just didn’t care what others thought of him. Some stuff pathetic, childish.
These are surface phenomena until they are absorbed and promulgated.
Bliss. To sit out in my backyard, in bright sunshine, reading Enid Starkie’s (1973) biography of Arthur Rimbaud while listening to Gounod’s Faust on a Bluetooth speaker.
My neighbour working on his car. Corvids rushing all over the place. Clouds slowly evaporating. Comings and goings.
Remembering walking along the lungomare in Naples. Stunning sunshine. A statue of Padre Pio on rocks in the sea. A wedding at Egg Castle (Castel dell’Ovo) and a fine lunch in its lee.
None of it makes sense. So… just enjoy. Seek out and experience things for what they are. Enjoy. Take on the mantle of the teenage Rimbaud. It helped sustain me in my own teenage years, just yesterday.