(no subject)

I write and I delete, write & delete, write & delete, ... Nothing more. I'm not happy with anything anyway. In an attempt to calm myself down, I started reading in my dissertation which I got reprinted and bound today in three additional copies.
I stumbled upon a poem by A.E. Housman. I really liked the metaphor in it and today I had a slightly different reading of the poem than when I wrote my comments about it.

the poem:

"Oh who is that young sinner with the handcuffs on his wrists?
And what has he been after that they groan and shake their fists?
And wherefore is he wearing such conscience-stricken air?
Oh they're taking him to prison for the color of his hair?

'Tis a shame to human nature, such a hair of head as his;
In the good old time 'twas hanging for the colour that it is;
Though hanging isn't bad enough and flaying would be fair
For the nameless and abonimable color of his hair.

Oh a deal of pains he's taken and a pretty price he's paid
To hide his poll or dye it of a mentionable shade;
But they've pulled the beggar's hat off for the world to see and stare,
And they're taking him to justice for the color of his hair.

Now 'tis oakum for his fingers and the treadmill for his feet,
And the quarry-gang on Portland in the cold and in the heat,
And between his spells of labor in the time he has to spare
He can curse the God that made him for the color of his hair."

(Housman)

My previous reading suggested that this is a poem on the outer oppression of the homosexual per sé, and even though I still would argue for this reading, I am convinced that there also exists another way of interpreting it. The main character could be any lover, not necessarily the sexually deviant persona who is being suppressed. All persons capable of love undergo a comparable torment - once in their lifetime, once every day, all the time. The poem can now be about refuted love, about tearing open wounds, spilling a salt shaker in it - an uncaring audience neglecting the whole thing. No Tim, it's a poem about genetics, trust me. Even if you could interpret the dyeing of one's hair as the utmost form of selfprotection from love, I should still think my initial reading was right.



On a lighter note, my dentist said I was fine (and yes, he was talking about teeth) and he asked me whether or not I'm here to stay for a longer time now. I told him I'd be gone in six days and he wished me a good time (by which he undoubtedly meant that I should have a year of carefree dental health and metres of dental floss).

Tomorrow I will get an English translation of my diploma, a great big backpack to travel under the hardest conditions, a new sleeping bag (the old one is a very good army one from 1962 with feathers and everything -rarely used and in mint condition, way too warm for any country but Belgium though) and some chocolate.

That's enough nonsensical information for one night, besides, three of my toes are sleeping and I feel watched. If I get raped tonight, it will be by a 40-year-old Dutchwoman who followed me here from Amsterdam (just so you know what to tell the police). She has three kids and has the annoying habit of showing her sticking out bodyparts to anyone she finds hot enough. Because she has such a good taste, I will not lock my bedroom door tonight (which comes out to the parking lot).

I'm such a kind person. (first I had erroneously written "king person", but that slip of the finger might just disprove my point here...hmmm)