We Stand, Not Quite in Lines

We Stand, Not Quite in Lines


We stand, not quite in lines,
Waiting, looking downstream;
There is no stirring of
The air for some time, then
A wetted finger might
Know. Now, a penumbra

Hails us from the dark, from
Deep inside the tunnel,
From the direction whence
We leave, then a single
Eye flashes, then two
Where one once flash'd, till

The breeze a wind becomes
And suddenly in glass
And steel, repeating only
I only see my my
My face, my my face, my
Face. My face. My face. My face.


L. Steve Schmersal, We Stand, Not Quite in Lines, June 2016

Liebestod/Schadenfreude

In the man's own hand, supposedly. In that Wilde hand.

It really comes down to the question of which you love more: the thing you love or ruining the thing you love or ruining the love for the thing you love or ruining the love of the thing you love. Unfortunately, all of these things may be the same thing. 

In a funny way--both in a way that amuses and a way that is strange; when apprehended with both senses, perhaps in an ironic way, in an uncanny way, which is not to say, in a queer way--this explicates Schadenfreude better than any literal definition, since, of course, the joy we feel when touched by the knowledge of the misfortune of the other must only be an echo of the joy we feel when touched by our own satisfying, familiar misery. For misery loves its own company, as we are told.