The Living (from Suicide Month)

[Quixilated]

Hello River,

I really enjoyed this, I found it evocative and vivid.  I know that it is intentionally sort of a ramble, and that's one of the things I love about it, but even so it could probably use just a bit of pruning and tightening so the reader doesn't become lost along the way.  I'll point out a few of the places that I felt a bit lost or disconnected, and also the parts I like best.  In reference to your most recent notes, I do want to say that I liked the repetition and thought the abrasive tone suitable for the mental state of the narrator.

The Living


Well, I've always believed in an old dragon axiom: that which does not kill me makes me stranger.  

Jesus Christ! These times are just mad – well, I suppose all times are mad, to those with eyes who live in them. Or maybe I'm the mad one – everyone around me seems to be happy. Or at least content. Or at least complacent.  Yes to this. 

Jesus Christ! Should I tell, should I tell? or should I make like Sylvia Plath again, encase my troubles in poetry?  More importantly, how long has it been, since I last encased my troubles in poetry? 

Or maybe I should just encase my head in carbon monoxide. Ha! no, too indulgent.Honestly, this whole section on how and why not didn't do much for me.  I sort of get why it's in here, but it seems to be in a different tone of voice than most of the rest of the poem and it just felt off somehow, like drama for drama sake, maybe a compromise and just take some of them out?  Maybe just keep two, three at the most.

Slit my wrists in a Roman bath? Too grandiose. If you put one more back in, I was on the fence about this one.  But the gasping for breath and then again is what sold me on the jumping and drowning.  

Burn myself alive? But what would I protest, and who would listen?

Jump off a building? A simple death, and if the building's tall enough, for a second I'd feel like flying. Before the terror kicks in, the gasp for breath – 

Drowning? Again, that gasp for breath – 

A pistol to the head? Maybe set up like in "The Deer Hunter", or in that Lermontov book. Whichever way, it's definitely the simplest death, though somehow it still feels too grandiose.  

Though now I wonder: would God hate me if I killed myself? That's what everyone says about hell. "God still loves you as you hang, but his anger will fry you to a crisp for all eternity." That's the very definition of hate, stupid.

– oh, don't worry, dear reader, I don't actually want to kill myself. I desire a more symbolic death, like that time I broke all contact with the lot of you. Or that other time I broke all contact with the lot of you. Or the time I went to Russia, and for a moment contemplated just staying, just hiding out in one of the monasteries, living off the kvass, the leftover hosts – at last, witnessing winter.  And I love this part.  LOVE it.  And also how the bit about winter returns in the last line.  

But not a social death. I find that rather redundant, now – again, these times. Not a spiritual death, either, otherwise I wouldn't even consider killing myself. Something quieter, more honest –  gotta be honest, I don't really know what you mean by a "social death," do you just mean something like ostracized?  Also don't really know for sure what you mean by "spiritual death" in this context.  But I like the "quieter more honest" line.  

Here, I'll tell. I fell in love with a shadow, with a dream. Yes, it sounds cliche, but you mustn't take things so figuratively – not everything I say is poetry.  LOVE!

I fell in love with a shadow, with a dream. She was beautiful, with red hair, green eyes, and a body made of marble. Now that last one, that was figurative. And again love this and all the "shadow dream" repetition that ensues.  It makes this part feel like it is a bit in a dream.  

I fell in love with a shadow, with a dream. And her mind was beautiful, too. She always knew what to say – rather, how to say it.

I fell in love with a shadow, with a dream. And her heart. She was the first (and last) person I ever truly talked to – and the only voice I actually loved hearing. (Don't you see? When I'm loud like this, I'm not saying anything – I'm just coaxing you to speak louder. Not that you ever notice, you Narcissus)  I like this line, but I have no idea who you are talking to in the parenthesis ... still the reader?  Or the girl for some reason?  I love the line, but just don't understand where it is being aimed. 

I fell in love with a shadow, with a dream. Maybe a memory, although that's a question I don't want to consider anymore, it's caused me such heartache.

It's causing me heartache now. It's always like this, you know: every year, like spring cleaning, I pass my fingers over my naked body, remember all the old wounds, examine all the new ones. Then this – the perpetual scab. Like an eight-day old operation, changing through error from Jew to Lucy. Yes, God hates fags.  Confused by the use of the word "like" here.  This is not an actual literal wound?  Or it is?  Is it a wound from a sex change operation? or is it some other real wound and in that case I don't understand the comparison.  But perhaps I am missing something here. ??? 

He also hates incestuous couples, whatever you call them.This incestuous comment just seems really random.  I don't understand it's purpose here or how it relates to what is said before or after.  Returning to the wound: I pick it, as I pick all my scabs. But unlike with the others, which I eventually let grow into scars, it receives special treatment. After picking, I scratch – after scratching, I poke – after poking, I plunge. And lastly, like a vampire, I lap. My blood tastes sweet.

(I believe you've tasted it before? in my words, my poetry – in fact, even in my acts, for everything I do, I do for love of you)  Again, who is the narrator talking to?  The girl I'm assuming because of the love bit, but as the narrator so clearly says "dear reader" earlier, it is confusing to be talking to both of us without clearer defining that this is going on and when.  I keep thinking that every time it says "you" I am meant to think me as the reader, but then what follows doesn't makes sense in that context.  If the narrator is talking to the girl, perhaps he should only talk to her and not also to the reader?  Or is she the reader?  But if so then that isn't clear to me.  

Of You – of her. Yes, that's the heartache: she rejected me. Rejected me by not existing, that shadow, that damn dream. That Daddy. But the wound is different – I know how not to conflate. The wound is this: that I conflate her with God. No, that I love her above God.  Don't understand "That Daddy" ??? And is she the wound?  Love of her the wound?  That's not clear earlier if that is what the wound is.  But otherwise, love this line.  

Here's the thing about suicide: once you witness an exit, you desire it more than the field outside. You desire it more than happiness. You desire it more than passing your hand over Witchgrass, than watching your Geraniums grow white with snow. Such that in the end, you truly can't ever be happy.

I'm just glad I don't care about happiness. I don't think I'll be happy in the cold, however much I say I love it. I don't think I'll be happy in the church, however much I know it's right. And I don't think I'll be happy with her – but still, I'll be with her.  I love that you brought it back around to snow and even the church (I'm assuming the one in Russia where the narrator was going to hide out and witness winter?) 

When I kill myself, it won't be for my sake, but for hers.  

Anyway, I know you said you weren't really planning to edit or at least not any time soon.  And honestly I love it as is but thought pitter-pattering through your poem would give me an excuse to say so.  

Sincerely,
Quix