{"id":89829,"date":"2015-09-15T19:05:38","date_gmt":"2015-09-15T23:05:38","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/?p=89829"},"modified":"2015-09-16T17:45:54","modified_gmt":"2015-09-16T21:45:54","slug":"my-bitterness-my-mission","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/2015\/09\/15\/my-bitterness-my-mission\/","title":{"rendered":"My Bitterness, My Mission"},"content":{"rendered":"<div id=\"attachment_89830\" style=\"width: 610px\" class=\"wp-caption aligncenter\"><a href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/09\/a_man_disappearing_into_a_cracked_chamber_pot_which_has_the_wellcome_v0011297.jpg\"><img loading=\"lazy\" decoding=\"async\" aria-describedby=\"caption-attachment-89830\" class=\"wp-image-89830\" src=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/09\/a_man_disappearing_into_a_cracked_chamber_pot_which_has_the_wellcome_v0011297.jpg\" alt=\"\" width=\"600\" height=\"453\" srcset=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/09\/a_man_disappearing_into_a_cracked_chamber_pot_which_has_the_wellcome_v0011297.jpg 2586w, https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/09\/a_man_disappearing_into_a_cracked_chamber_pot_which_has_the_wellcome_v0011297-300x226.jpg 300w, https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/blog\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/09\/a_man_disappearing_into_a_cracked_chamber_pot_which_has_the_wellcome_v0011297-1024x773.jpg 1024w\" sizes=\"auto, (min-width: 62.5em) 67vw, 100vw\" \/><\/a><p id=\"caption-attachment-89830\" class=\"wp-caption-text\">A man disappearing into a cracked chamber pot with the legs of a woman, 1791. Image: Wellcome Library<\/p><\/div>\n<p><em>From a series of poems by David Ray in our <a href=\"https:\/\/www.theparisreview.org\/back-issues\/71\" target=\"_blank\">Fall 1977 issue<\/a>.\u00a0<\/em><!--more--><\/p>\n<p>My Bitterness<\/p>\n<p>I gave up some of my bitterness. Let me tell you why. Because you can prove the world is a good place, but you can\u2019t prove it a bad place, that\u2019s the truth, unless you\u2019re willing to go to someplace like Hanford, Washington, where they keep the nuclear wastes that\u2019ll be spilling into the Columbia River and then into the Pacific; the iodine alone\u2019s enough to finish off the human race. I gathered up evidence for years sure to prove not only the intentions, but the achievements, of evil. But all I did was accumulate a houseful of sickening data, like dusty plastic flowers of terrible colors with no intensities. (You\u2019ve seen those scrapbooks of wallpapers made from old aunts\u2019 skirts.) The facts are indisputable and beyond doubt. The facts are beyond question. That\u2019s why they\u2019re called facts. Who\u2019s questioning the facts? I could prove some things, in fact, about the slab of human viscera left in the Norge refrigerator in the autopsy room, and I wouldn\u2019t even have to put it under the microscope to do so. (Did I tell you, the green light\u2019s on any time an autopsy is in progress. Next time you\u2019re strolling down the corridor, just wander in and watch. It\u2019s free. And when the autopsy\u2019s over, they turn off the light.) But why bother? Who wants to put a piece of something like that under the microscope? That\u2019s what I did to my life for years. And I know too that the breath of the city can make a computer\u2019s printout dance a regular ballet, just from the poisons, a skein of fiberglass right across your nose. But to hell with it. One might as well try to recover the knuckles of a young concert violinist, knocked apart against pines airliners have slammed into on frozen hillsides. Better to forget one\u2019s mission and enjoy the cool shade of hillsides that don\u2019t mind serving happiness as well. Better to forget one\u2019s mission and enjoy the cool shade of those pines, the crazy moonlight through the branches. As soon as I forget a few more facts I shall doubtless find myself, as they say, delighted.<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>My Mission<\/p>\n<p>It is true, as I have implied, that everyone should give up his mission, whether it\u2019s to save the world, as mine always has been, or to live the life of a Don Juan. I\u2019ve tried that too, but it did and it didn\u2019t work out. I tried to cure myself time and time again, like that Don Juan in the Japanese story who tried to cure his lust by stealing a beautiful woman\u2019s chamberpot, thinking that if he made himself smell it, he\u2019d be cured. He managed to get hold of it (a wonderful gleaming porcelain pot) and began smelling its fumes deeply. But they merely made him swoon with ecstasy, and he realized he\u2019d have to look more closely to sicken himself. A closer look revealed an aromatic brew much like beer, with turds of sandalwood floating round. He knew he\u2019d simply have to eat the stuff to be done with thoughts of this lady. He ate one of the turds as if it were a cinnamon stick. But he loved the taste. And that\u2019s how it worked out with me too, me and the world.\u2014Though I feel like a fool, proving that shit is delightful, and I\u2019m not going to make another mission out of proving it to anyone else.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>From a series of poems by David Ray in our Fall 1977 issue.\u00a0<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":38,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"footnotes":""},"categories":[1188],"tags":[19448,19447,19446,19449,19445,19444,7221,165],"class_list":["post-89829","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-from-the-archive","tag-bitterness","tag-chamberpots","tag-david-ray","tag-don-juans","tag-fall-1977","tag-issue-71","tag-poems","tag-poetry"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO Premium plugin v25.4 (Yoast SEO v25.4) - https:\/\/yoast.com\/wordpress\/plugins\/seo\/ -->\n<title>My Bitterness, My Mission: Poems by David Ray from 1977<\/title>\n<meta name=\"description\" content=\"September 15, 2015 \u2013 From a series of poems by David Ray in our Fall 1977 issue.\u00a0My BitternessI gave up some of my bitterness. 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