This post is--prepare yourself--post-Romantic, though not yet Decadent. "April is the cruellest month," says The Wasteland, but May is cruel, too, in a modern way. And December, in a post-modern. And cruel, too, all the months that put us in mind of mortality and work. Wandering lonely as a cloud is not consistent with getting anything done, and there are things to do, as deadlines make clear. Dead lines.
So at night, when a DVD of a guttering candle might cast a virtually eerie light on our new furniture, I have been cutting life into art.
A book aimed at bringing that nightingale look to your well-decorated Southern California McMansion forms the base, and the superstructure comes from the history of human anatomy.
"My heart aches, and a drowsy numbness pains / My sense, as though of hemlock I had drunk..."
That interior life, deep in the heart, inhabits these chambers.
Flayed humanity (idea for new Broadway musical = Forever Flayed?), it turns out, "walks in beauty."