How often it is that I come to find myself on the outside of life looking in! It’s
as if everything that happens in life, in my life, happens around me. My only
participation is as some sort of cosmic voyeur looking in from outside. I observe
everything, watch everything – but I am not a part of it all. I am not a part of it
any more than it is a part of me. I make my mark. I offer advice, yet it is not
heard. They do not listhen, so I exist without them, utterly alone.
Perhaps this will all be allotted me my fair portion as a “tortured grey human”, but
tortured I am not. I am not about to go chop off my ear like Van Gogh and I can
sleep through the night.
But there is some element of torture in my life. Life tortures me. Everywhere I go
it surrounds me, enveloping me, taking me places I hadn’t dreamed of and leading my
quietly past. A foreigner. A stranger in a strange land. A Lady among peasants.
So it was that, as always, the story happened all around me. Where I tried to get
involved, I found I couldn’t. I was shunned. And I received nothing more from it all
than an epitaph: The Divine Parrot Owner.
I scoff at the sound of it: Divine Parrot Owner! Bah! My friends may laugh at me now
and then, but I am no comedian, and where I am “divine” I suppose in the creative
act, I am certainly no laughing matter. I hang about in dull and dark places, the
fog, the shadow, obscurity. I go down into the depths of hell, and I cannot find my
way out. Even Dante with his celestial visions of beauty cannot lead me out.
And I think that’s how I came to receive the epitaph.