Life of a Porcelain Doll;
Sitting here, in my room, staring at the fiber-optic rabbit hole, finding art, collecting future memories, here I sit, not with the one I love, not with my babybaby; My love is true, it is true and it is strong, and yet I’m mortal, doomed to die, to die, to die, as is she —
Homer, with his English whispered to him from the dark of the orchestra pit by Mssr. Fitzgerald, said it like this, when Odysseus, ever-cunning, ever-crafty, trapped for seven long years on the Isle of Ogygia, home of Calypso the Hider, must plea one last time for her, immortal, beautiful, and terrible to release him home to Ithaca —
To this the strategist Odysseus answered:
“My lady goddess, here is no cause for anger.
My quiet Penelope–how well I know–
would seem a shade before your majesty,
death and old age being unknown to you,
while she must die. Yet, it is true, each day
I long for home, long for the sight of home.
If any god ahas marked me out again
for shipwreck, my tough heart can undergo it.
What hardship have I not long since endured
at sea, in battle! Let the trial come.”
And that’s how it is; that’s how I love her; words escape me, and times of leaving are near, but a beautiful and golden future unfolds before me — I cannot see it, it scares and confuses me, and somewhere on that road, we both shall vanish from the Earth, but the Golden God of Changes lights the way and I know that over there that yonder hill, she waits for me with a sparkling smile and hoping eyes and I go to her, I go to her, I go to her.