A Tall American Beauty Poet Stretched Out Long and Languid on Professor Freud’s Horsehair Couch (Shaped After an Ancient Roman Chaise Lounge)

I can’t keep my hands off Hilda Doolittle. I crave reading her. She’s such an American woman even though she reached most of her fame in England after following her lover since high school days, Ezra Pound, to London, just before WWI began, after Ez went to England looking for someone to understand his poetry.

It was natural for young American writers at the turn of that past century to look back to their European mostly British heritage for their guidance; it was taught to them that way in the private schools they went to—Europe held the arts highest of any place in the world—they were literate; they had invented the printing press; they had invented the typewriter; they had invented Western Culture.

Also, there was a lot of progressive thinking going in London during those post-Queen Vicky, Edwardian years in the Empire, haughty years for the Brits, the sun never setting on their missionary work and their successful using of Capitalism to rape the world of its human and natural resources except the God and Messiah they were doing this missionary work for was their Royal Hoaxers, The Crown--and The Crown needed constant attention, most of The Crown a club of morganatic fops, mixed of blood, rigidly controlled, neurotic from being so kept from reality and having to imagine what life was really all about and having the power to make reality whatever you wanted it to be, a part of it the sport of ordering people under your control to kill themselves for your well being, like ordering human beings (their subjects) to lay down and form human bridges over rough places in the road to the palace and allow your golden carriage to roll over their humbled bodies—so they all die in service to The Crown, so what? Who the hell cares about human life when you’re that high up on the catbird seat?

Whistler’s the American with his success there who invited these artsy-fartsy American kids to come to England looking for snobbish fame. England has always been very impressed with the United States and vice versa. The US was always their darling colony, their upstart sons and daughters, their freaky sons and daughters, the ones they had to boot the hell off God’s chosen Island in order to get anyone white to settle in these mostly white-unexplored continents inhabited by these red people these white people deemed savages. The Brits then were imperially everything they could get their greedy hands on, taking stuff over in the name of The Crown—attempting to take over the WORLD, of course, the oyster of their powerful dreams—RULING THE WORLD the goal of kings, princes, dukes, earls, potentates, military leaders, doges, warlords, high priests, caliphs, presidents, prime ministers, chancellors, pontiffs, corporate CEOs, software developers (with the exception of Steve Wozniak, according to Steve Wozniak), financiers, newspaper publishers, CABLE television owners since time began…HOW LONG IS THIS LIST? Continue on with one of your own, but you catch my drift surely.

To rule the world is the goal of all MEN with a lot of POWER. Georgie Porgie, our “president” has this kind of POWER. His father still has this kind of POWER. Together he and his father and his brother Jeb have even still more of this kind of POWER. Jeb is next in the Bush Family Line to be president. So watch out; they’ve taken it all back from the Dumbocrats before; in fact, Pappy may be calling for a breather while they get themselves back in a circle so they can maybe steal the 2008 election back for the family through Jeb, who is probably seen by the family as being more liberal than Georgie Porgie so therefore the perfect candidate to kick Hillary in her big keister.

Georgie Porgie is the killer in the family—he takes after his daddy, who was a killer, too. Pappy had to be to prove he wasn’t really a wimp, which he of course he is—Pappy killed 400 innocent people down in Panama before he triumphantly led us into his private Gulf War, his excuse to get us involved in the Middle East, to get in there and start civil wars so we could have a reason to preemptively attack them—as the New World Order—Pappy’s brain trust’s idea, remember. Also, please don’t forget that Pappy Bush is an ex-head of the CIA, and don’t forget he was right in the big middle of the Contra scandals during Ronnie Raygun’s dopey (read Alzheimer’s) administration, that goofball administration that include Unka Dick and Rummy, that administration that started us down the road to this Neo-Con Fascism that is still hovering over us like Dracula’s cape hovered over those vestal virgins as he drained them of their blood. That’s it! Georgie Porgie is a VAMPIRE. [Don’t get me wrong, now; next-in-line Jeb’s a killer, too. Check out Florida’s death row situation.]

See where reading women writers like Hilda Doolittle leads me? Right into my feminine-self crusade against the MEN with supposedly bigger DICKS than mine. Hilda Doolittle is the kind of woman who knows the size of a man’s dick before she even sees it—the size of a man’s dick not being the most important thing about a man to a woman like Hilda Doolittle. Hilda could look at Georgie Porgie and old Pappy and tell ya, mentally and emotionally, they have little tiny dicks—little tiny dicks for brains, which are the dicks that really count to a woman like Hilda Doolittle. I mean, come on, Casanova reportedly had a tiny dick. So did D.H. Lawrence, yet women, including Hilda Doolittle, flocked around Lorenz, flamed after him, like muses, and their flirty dancing turned poor weak Lorenz into a stiff-cocked God, praising him as though he were a Phoenix! Wow, if only I could have women thinking of me as a Phoenix! Whew! That’s wrenching thinking, man; I’ve got to cool out…. A Phoenix is a bird hatched while its nest and egg are being consumed by Hellfire—it rises out of the ashes of its egg. That’s what women with brains and wit and strong passionate solar plexuses want: a man who though seemingly limber of dick rises above the wasteland to phallically skyscraper into the skies of their lovers’s eyes. God, I am writing poetry again, like I warned a post or so back.

I have to quote H.D. now, from her book Tribute to Freud to whom she went for counseling first while he was still in Vienna and then later after he settled in London to escape Hitler and to eventually die there. H.D. though highly of psychiatry as did most of those expatriate American writers back in that era—Scotty Fitzgerald would later write a great novel, Tender Is the Night, about a writer named Dick who is madly in love with Old South plantation-debutante flitty sexy beauty and marries her and they move to Europe and Switzerland where she ends up in a sanitarium undergoing psychiatric therapy, which his actual wife in real life, Zelda Fitzgerald, actually went through, a crazy woman with a strong imagination, some said a better writer than Scotty though that’s not true. Scott Fitzgerald writes some of the most beautiful prose that I’ve ever read.

“We ourselves are free to imagine,” writes Hilda Doolittle, “to reconstruct, to see even, as in a play or film, those characters in their precise setting [Paris, 1885] …. Dr. Charcot was concerned with hysteria and neurotics this side of the border-line. That border-line, it is true, was of necessity but vaguely indicated; there were hysterics, neurotics on this side and the actual insane on the other but there was a wide gap for all that, an unexplored waste-land, a no-man’s land between them. At least there was a no-man’s; at least there were cases that no so very long ago would have been isolated as insane that now came under a milder rule, the kingdom of hysteria.” [Tribute to Freud, “Writing on the Wall,” chapter 59, p. 77, First McGraw-Hill paperback edition, 1976.]

Wolves enter the kingdom of hysteria when they howl either in sadness or in pleasure. Wolves growl when they are mad and ready to fight.

thegrowlingwolf
for The Daily Growler