Polymorphous Travesties

It is easier for a camel to pass through the eye of a needle than for a needle to prick the same I twice.

If I invent ten thousand different personalities, maybe you’ll find one you like.

My I’s come and go without bothering to consult me.

In love, I morph wildly from moment to moment, until one day I’m surprised to discover I no longer recognize myself in the mirror – I’m not the same person that fell in love with you – I’m not in love anymore.

Maybe if I assume Japanese names – Yasujiro, Kenji, Akira, Shohei, Takeshi, Toru, Jun’ichiro, Matsuo, Murasaki, Sei – I’ll turn Japanese.

A diary of my other lives – realizing the imaginary, imaginizing the real.

Like someone possessed, his body didn’t belong to him alone – he gave it (he couldn't help himself) to whomever he fell for.

When I grow up, I want to become an archipelago. Spread out over a flickering sea, I would collect lost and drifting things and pile them into ziggurats on my shifting shores.

Other boys wanted to become firemen when they grew up; I wanted to become a siren.

I’m a salamander, a water lily, a sandpiper, a tide pool. If you want to know me, meet me at the water’s edge. If you want to love me – plunge in.

Last night I dreamt I only spoke Spanish, and everyone else spoke only Russian. We were having a picnic on a breezy hill. Everybody was laughing as the samovar boiled away on the grass.

Is it possible to outgrow the blindnesses of youth without replacing them with grown-up habits of unseeing? Is changing our blinkers from time to time (glimpsing reality’s brilliance during the fleeting transition from one darkness to another) the best we can hope for?

To write . . . Today I’ll be a sunflower stalking the sun. Tomorrow I’ll be a telephone sending electric messages across the sea. Next I’ll be a hill passing the time as hills do. And then I’ll be an antswarm in a rainspangled forest. And then . . .

If I were God I’d die laughing.

If I turned into a girl, the first thing I’d do is masturbate.

What would the world look like if I were fat?

Voices, always voices – an unsleeping multitude’s incessant babble. Who said that?

I don’t need an Orpheus to fetch me back from the underworld – I’ll sing my own way out of hell.

I’m getting curiouser and curiouser as I go on – I can’t resist following each wandering smile to the next wonderland.

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