Somewhere to Crash

[my cabin in Al-Quala’a, Lebanon on 10/8/20]

Winter night, summer day.
After a hundred years,
I’ll go home to his room.

冬之夜
夏之日
百歲之後
歸於其室

That’s from the Book of Odes, of course. The speaker is a woman. After death, she’ll join her husband in his grave. To Orientals, a century means a full life. Newlyweds are even wished a hundred years of happiness. Most will be lucky to have one and a half. How many have never had 24 hours of joy? As for joining anyone after death, how desperately insane is that? Still, it’s a beautiful thought. Here’s Pound’s river merchant’s wife:

I desired my dust to be mingled with yours
Forever and forever, and forever.

Preparing to prosecute Pound, the US Foreign Broadcast Monitoring Service transcribed his emissions from Rapallo. Whenever Pound said Confucius, it was jotted down as “confusion.”

Whether you’re some yahoo in a Yahoo! cubicle or toxically manning a McDonald’s fries station, it wouldn’t hurt to have the Book of Odes within reach, for didn’t the sage say it’ll trigger your emotions, stimulate ideas, condition your sullen ass to be a much better beer buddy, show all the ways men hate and teach you the names of birds, beasts, flowers and trees?

Chinese is virgin tight, thus dry to Western sensibility. Winter night, summer day is enough to convey the hope, joy, despair and misery of an entire lifetime. You don’t have to be an Icelander to know winter nights are suicidally or boozily long. “Self love me long time,” you slur before vomitting. Dawn will never come.

What’s most charming to me, though, is the conflation of grave, bedroom and sexual stage. It’s where you will crash for the last time. Think back to your first night. I’m finally home, you thought. No matter how trashed, you’re engulfed by that realization. To mother, womb and definitive bed I’ve finally returned. If only I can just stay here. Of course, I’m only speaking as a man. Not everyone has had gender affirming mutilation. Denied this fundamental moment, incels just want to murder.