Henry out of bed early on Sunday grazing about— the usual stuff— pancakes, coffee, Mescal shots, and The Times literary section.
Sean O’ Casey stuff in The Times, hardly a Yeats, Yeats modern, new wave and industrial. O’Casey, old fashioned sitting room stuff to be read while wearing a quilted smoking jacket.
Later Henry rolls a joint and does a few lines of cocaine. In front of his computer he is off in a flash, spurred on by the dope, it (the dope) lifts the artist out of the rough into reverie.
In a dream, awake in benign and gentle climate as wind massages and wakes his senses. Laying in a rice paddy like Whitman in grassy field at one with the higher stuff, alive again.
Sounds taking on a deeper dimension, offshoots and boughs fluttering in wind, crickets and grasshoppers rubbing wings chirping dry pit-a-patter rhythm in the mix.
Whitman in reverie of “Leaves” then talking politics, Jesus what a setback for the serenity of hour, like adding salt to pudding sweet.
Like taxing sacred nature of life, like taxing peace and serenity…
Henry with his head in the clouds, apolitical, ignoble, poor....