It was many and many years ago, I don’t recall how many, but not many … The verse takes hold of my mind just then, which I knew to be a derivative of the opening lines of some other poem - in particular, Poe’s poem, which I wouldn’t recall until later:
I saw thee once—once only—years ago:
I must not say how many—but not many.
For the moment, I remain puzzled over the mysterious source of my heavily butchered variant, wondering how the sound version must begin. But then I don’t really care to know at the precise moment. Nor have I any means to ascertain otherwise. I’m at the café with nothing but the paper notebook and the wrist watch (without the wrist band).
The circumstance to which I often allude well epitomizes my preferred offline, digitally minimal way of being. I don’t care for a quick answer. I’d rather linger in mystery. Even fantasy from time to time.
Or arrive at an explanation by reasoning from earlier, if not first, if not imaginary principles. Insofar that it slightly irritates me whenever I raise an open question enabling diverse avenues of imagination only to encounter the familiar this has long ago been determined, search (or the vulgar ‘google’) for an answer, or, scraping the bottom of the barrel, to conjure a smart phone for the quickest, immediatest answer yet. Boring.
Sometimes I want to reason about Scorpion or Sagittarius lacking the remotest astrological base. Induct ant colony behavioral patterns. Interpret highly allusive allegory without prerequisites. Introspect about Beelzebub without care for the scripture or the commentaries. Conflate the Valhalla Valkyries with the Walpurgis witchcraft. Or, though ancillary, I’m fairly fond of word fabrication.
Here’s a suggestion. Don’t be obstinate to appeal to imagination. Childish, care-free imagination.
Questions, comments? Connect.