BUGGER-ABOUT

The pounding flutter of my heart, my heart's beating heart, the instinctive, restless rush of my blood vessels, the sway of Enkidu-rich hairs on my skin, my stigma-legs in my boyish soul lamenting my youth to be lived through. Among my raven-black carpets of hair, a shining strand of silver-weathered hair; the trees, thinning in autumn, shed their Midas leaves. My anxieties yet spur me to renewed action. 

I who was once a mischievous, mischievous man, ready for mischievous mischief, and a fool - now I should shun all vain quarrels and vain quarrels! And my fickle moods, in their fluctuations, daily make wild waves, and besiege, or wrestle with strong bastions of soul. Shore-lost, homeless little boats, clinging to yarrow-life hopes, toss in the unknown sea of unknown tempers. Somehow I could have been like that, to their useless, sluggish, useless deeds, and always ready for sinister Theiresasian rhymes! 

- Only if I can feel and know daily that I can count on soul-satisfying, unceasing encouragement - that alone can penetrate the pessimistic gloom. Only the spirit of understanding, humane people, of a common wavelength. Only in star-spangled fidelity Can my sick heart beat with rich content, Though stubborn to the core! Thus I imagine myself in malleable, malleable avatgarde workshops; so I may be in the eyes of others a lazy idler, a no-man's-land. Human ignorance, curiosity to improve, has made me a thinking explorer!