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Caution: Detour Ahead These days, the zeitgeist obsesses me making a haunting mush of everything. It tugs at each loose thread pulling, until I think I will burst apart at the seams. Go ahead, laugh while I fall headlong down rabbit holes while clocks melt and mimes leave handprints on my windowsill Rabbis dance on my rooftop with violins. Sometimes, Sontag chases me in a game of hide and seek and I scream, "Yes you have found me!" I run into her arms but she moves and I fall flat on my face at the feet of Paglia, who kicks me in the head. I hate myself because (but not exclusively because) misogynist passages of all Tropics of Miller make me explode while I cannot bear one more page of the gentle erotica of new age flowering feminists When I read Hemmingway, I like myself. I hate myself, I am the marlin; I flail, fight, lose to a win but, devouring Ulysses again and again I become Molly Bloom, yes. There is no nothing to be done with me |
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