Lisping the Lucid Light

The Double

The Double

How did I become double? School of Quietude poet and Post Avant Boho?

Reading Dostoyevsky while standing in line for the bus in front of the Coatesville Post Office that would take me to the Army at the same time my double was gadding about Berkeley (possibly)? No. But and well… Well, it’s a long story involving ruby slippers, the Jim Jims and the Diamond at the End of Time. I include this passage. Somewhere in the middle of the adventure – showing a fated encounter with my other self. I had just come back to Castle Elsinore… “But I went to Elsinore.I admit that I did feel somewhat disoriented. I was in front of the arras -- the vulgar one Keats had installed -- and for an instant I thought it was Polonious who was (I saw his feet) hiding behind them. I put my hand on my sword. Perhaps I'd take a poke at him and get him out of there... and then the arras was twitched aside and a figure with a sword glittering in his hand stepped out. He wore a plum colored doublet and hose, fine Spanish boots of Spanish leather, his eyes were mad but full of a supernal intelligence, his hat was of the latest French style with a white feather and made of the same midnightly satin as his cape and festooned with scenes from the Kama Sutra done in scarlet and silver thread. The bastard was dressed just like me. I tore my own sword from my scabbard. I knew who it was. " type="text/javascript">
It’s the eyes, of course. Any duelist knows this and it was the first advice my old teacher, Sir Diaphanous Silkworm, had imparted to me many years ago and with many blows in the upper room of the adjunct to the Inns of Court. Follow the eyes… and I attempted to do so…but the eyes of the vile bard were so bright and mad, withal sad and merry – my eyes, damn him -- that I was distracted. The ruby slippers didn’t help.

“Duck stealer,” I hissed attempting to shake off my right slipper. My opponent, blade flashing, slowed his advance. He smiled sardonically. Stopped and bowed. “Slippered pantaloon!” And he flung back his head and laughed. I did the same.“Ha haha hahahah” Shakespeare "Ha hahah hahahah hahahah hahaah!" I cried! There was something desperate in his laughter. I did the same.

“Ha haha hahahah” Shakespeare

"Ha hahah hahahah hahahah hahaah!" I cried!

There was something desperate in his laughter. I heard it. In fact there was something desperate in mine.

And at once I knew what it was.

We were both scanning the vaulty upwards for a chandelier to swing from and I could tell from just this that both of us had in many an adventure found one and leaping vaulted over the heads of the King’s men uttering defiant slogans to appear behind then bringing down the dreaded portcullis on the heads of those sons of bitches.

My slippers were off. I lept backwards bringing my blade down to quickly sketch the first lines of a merry yet sad poem in the air.

He did the same. The second line. How the hell did Shakespeare know Yeats?

I remembered the advice of Polonius: “Beware of entrance to a quarrel, but being in Bears’t that the opposed may beware of thee.”

I looked steadily at him. How could I help but notice as he stood there that he bore his weapon with the grace of a Douglas Fairbanks and a match for my Errol Flynn or that we both shared the slim yet agile and muscular physique so desired until it all went bad…?

My blade snickered and the fiery letters formed. His certain defeat.

"Wie in der Hand ein Schwefelzundholz, weisz!"

The first line of Rilke’s” Spanish Dancer!”

(And again I wondered how anyone could write poetry when the word for “ match” is “Schwefelzundholz”)

He seemed stunned and appalled and I sneered laughing.

And he laughingly sneered. And it was my turn to be s and a’d as he cut the English translation of the last line of the poem into the gloomy gloom of the questionable corridor of Elsinore.

“She tramples it to death with small firm feet.”

I fainted. I deserved defeat.

And awoke – alive – Shakespeare stood over me. I slowly struggled up… averting my gaze from the poet who defeated me – yet again. He brought out a pack of Luckies and offered me one. I took it reluctantly. I would smoke it and then he would kill me.

I was out of matches. Somehow he knew and produced a lighter in the shape of a golf club, He was close. I smelt – the unmistakable scent of duck a la orange, a fine cognac and of hemp.

Damn you, RON,” I said,. “I knew it was you all along.”

“Rilke is overrated, LON. It’s so sad to see this…decay…” He giggled.

I jumped back and screamed!

“Watch out It’s the hunchback!”

Of course he didn’t believe me but I grabbed him and turned him around and we both, I am afraid, made low moan.

You would too… for advancing down the hall were, as far as I could see, most of the more unpleasant characters from the plays.

posted by & @ 1:31 PM