I am, and my life is, the proverbial tale told by an idiot. Several dozen times a day I quietly cry out, “ow!” as I remember something un-smooth or embarrassing that I said perhaps yesterday, or perhaps when I was five. I know I should let it go, but that’s like saying that if you have fair, easily burned skin, maybe you should go tanning. Thanks. But today I was forwarded this poem that at least eloquently expressed that same feeling. Maybe one day I’ll be able to shrug off all my blunders, but if I had that kind of Cask of Amontillado wall built over my ego I wouldn’t have considered being an artist in the first place.

Oh yeah, poem:
———————
Account
By Czeslaw Milosz, translated by Robert Pinsky and the author

The history of my stupidity would fill many volumes.

Some would be devoted to acting against consciousness,
Like the flight of a moth which, had it known,
Would have tended nevertheless toward the candle’s flame.

Others would deal with ways to silence anxiety,
The little whisper which, though it is a warning, is ignored.

I would deal separately with satisfaction and pride,
The time when I was among their adherents
Who strut victoriously, unsuspecting.

But all of them would have one subject, desire,
If only my own—but no, not at all; alas,
I was driven because I wanted to be like others.
I was afraid of what was wild and indecent in me.

The history of my stupidity will not be written.
For one thing, it’s late. And the truth is laborious.
——————–

Every line of this poem is a morning-after story - I have lain in bed after many a night on the town and gone over my various actions and pronouncements, and come to the same conclusions. I only wish I could say them with such economy and compression. If I could, no doubt I’d have much less to be embarrassed about.