«I am stuck inside the palace of my own vast imagination. I have no love left for the page. I line up images, one after the next, like a blind man lines up mice to make them squeal. At night I turn into a minotaur and visit my own dream; she is a woman of venomous beauty, dangerous to the common thought; the minotaur sees this but as he is immeasurably strong, a half-god, he does not flinch; his mission is not to run but to rave. When the woman opens her eyes, one look from her freezes the bull-headed hero. But when she closes them again, he thaws again, shakes and stirs her in her sleep. They’re locked in this poisonous game of back and forth; of day and night; up and down. As I am. But at least it’s happening. I am dreaming. One day, when no monsters visit me any longer, I will be sadder than any man. The real secret is not the mythically deformed man, but the witch-woman. I understand the father, but not the mother. I fear my journey at night, my knightly call to the arms of awareness.»
#43/100 Days 2011. Via my blog Nothing To Flawnt “a mystic pizza of poetic meanderings”. Illustration: Picasso: Minotaur kneeling over sleeping girl (1933). Published in “Kaffe in Katmandu”.
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