(no subject)

:
Yesterday morning, I unceremoniously crashed the seventieth anniversary of Entartete Kunst.  I had given up on waiting for an invitation that I knew was not forthcoming. After producing not one but two Wagnerian operas, the oversight of the committee to not grant me access to their art exhibition's premiere had me fit to be tied.  Coupled with the other issues I was having, and I was chewing the walls -- and I shamefully confess that was not a metaphor. 

In my ill-tailored, masculine clothes, and without a proper escort on my arm, I must have been a frightful embarassment.   It surely did not help matters that I had fortified my resolve by arriving drunk.  People gave me a wide berth and it was probably for the best, because there was more than one moment where I daydreamed about using my teeth to remove an arm from its socket.   I thank Buddha that N_M_ and her couterie were not in attendance; in my weakened state, I daresay I might have committed an unthinkable atrocity.

I did not stay long.  Even I was disgusted with myself. 

I did not attempt to visit the Kammerspiele, as I had originally planned so many months ago.  Instead, I secured a taxi to Berchtesgaden, the Bavarian nature preserve.  The guides did not exaggerate -- this time of year, many unique flowers are in bloom.  Even for summer, I did not dress warmly enough.    As soon as I had hiked far enough away from the noise of civilization, I forced myself to meditate.  I had moved from the greatest artificiality of man's hand, the De Stilj art so loathed by Nazis, and into an expansive artificiality of exiled nature.  The sky was cloudless. The air was smooth. 

I recalled the lessons Mother had taught me.  I concentrated to break the false chains of memory.  And as usual, I was less than completely successful, but at least when I had finished, I was no longer snorting fire and spitting bile.

No, it would be hours later, as I squinted in the darkness of some desperate bar, my head a mix of hang-over and self-hatred, when I had a conversation that did more to break false chains than my solo meditation. 

I am often castigated for wearing a mask and not disposing freely.  A few days ago, I had dared speak truly about my state of mind. It was surmise on my part, and I knew that what I felt and what had been were not necessarily the same thing.  I have thought about scratching the entry out of my diary, but no, I want to keep that moment in time. It was authentic, then, even if it is different now.

Confidentially: I wish I could think of a better phrasing than "thank you", but I am overcome.