symphosium delinquere (main title)
i was trying to find myself, mother. they weren’t just cigarettes, they were western civilization. they were my surrender to a greater ideal. i don’t want to talk about it, mother. when was the last time you had sex in the cold? in the freezing cold, in the mississippi cold. i dare you to take a tranny for a spin.
mssr. lamont will live one of those dastardly lives. it’s in his blood, thick as the moose spit in his lungs. there’s no way out but down… it’s suffocation unless he takes off the corset. he will, like the greats before him, do poorly in higher education – there is no safe context for his lifestyle in such a crooked institution. he will fail to funnel his eloquence into short, staccato limericks and play-by-plays of passive old classics and he will find himself unaffected when his professors scribble with red all over his words. he will drift, broken backed and hopeless, and he will try to console his family but they will not understand. mssr. lamont will be no pediatrician, no attorney, no steward of the arts. he will not be famous. mssr. lamont is no failure. what a miracle to do poorly in school, to never sport a sound occupation, to never ride a horse. he will miss class to sleep in and watch lee van cleef. he will ignore his readings for better horizons, like milligrams and grams and faulkner. he will tire of faulkner and go shit out lemongrass. he will invest his money in better things, and surround himself in luxuries he can afford… alone in the middle of it all. he will love and be loved. he will be better than those around him… but hide it in his slights. he is older and he is older and he has gone on in prolific stagnation and so it goes indefinitely. he’ll cough and he’ll gag and he’ll smile assuredly, having the littlest faith in himself and littler in anyone else. for mssr. lamont cannot bend over for anyone, or anything – he cannot stoop his words into little scholarly tarts for his teachers, he cannot stoop his thoughts into dainty little idealisms so the childlike women can fall for his charm, he cannot steep his brain in formaldehyde to keep away the approach of death. mssr. lamont isn’t tough, he’s just broken, and to bend any more would be the end of him – so he hold’s himself steady and rips on the drums with his free hands. there are four seasons that will pass; the prime, the pale, the lonely, and the passing, and come summer he will rip the yip from the bud, come fall he will gnaw the sky from the leaves, come winter he will whistle from between his teeth, and come spring he will ride back gallantly again, a horse as pure as melted snow, a six shooter at his side with bullets like the glance of lucifer (and thus the light will be brought), the great cosmological west as far as the eye can see and getting farther, immortal, beyond boys and girls, where the moral are the immoral and the amoral are men, the tough men, real men, legendary mountainous men. there is brass at our back and the call of vesuvius at our beck. ride, mighty ones, and bring with you the light of the west. shining like the first ray of sunlight to strike mt. katahdin, roaring like the feet of stampeding buffalo…