The gnashing of my teeth must have been heard all over the cybersphere. I trust that Blaugustine's sudden demise was noticed and loudly lamented? I will refrain from venting my rage against Virgin Broadband etc etc. because it would just cause more negative vibrations and I don't need any more of those, thanks very much.
You know what it feels like to lose your beloved connection, your beloved email, your beloved blog, your beloved words and pictures for two three four whole days, don't you? So I don't need to tell you. I'll just go ahead and post what I was about to post when I was so cruelly interrupted.
The Burial of Mickey Mouse: Part 22
Love is merely a madness; and, I tell you, deserves a dark house and a whip as madmen do: and the reason why they are not so punished and cured is that the lunacy is so ordinary that the whippers are in love too. (Shakespeare: As You Like It)
When in love, truly, deeply, madly - especially madly - the painter-part of my brain tends to go sulky, timid and passive. Unlike Picasso, damn him, whose every love affair produced surges of visual invention, I haven't got many images to show for those periods of my life taken over by the monsoon wind. On the other hand, verbal brain cells go into overdrive. Words flow out of feverish head into ever-ready pen, covering acres of paper, journals, poems, letters, filling up daydream and nightdream space. It's a kind of disease. No, not kind of: it is a disease for which there is no cure but time. I have caught and embraced this illness three times and that's more than enough for one life. I never wanted to be cured and neither common sense, morality, feminism, literature, art or psychology made the slightest bit of difference to my symptoms, too painfully ecstatic to be relinquished for the sake of mere contentment. Today, in the future of that past, I'm cured, but I cherish the residue of that dis-ease, the rich compost heap in which I hope some exotic flowers will grow before my time is up.
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