Werner Herzog is the kind of crazy person with whom I can identify.
I love seeing people through his lens.
Tortured by the machines they’ve built in their own dark hearts,
crippled by their need to overcome imaginary obstacles and to
win the last gasp battle, though it cost them everything to do so.
Which it does,
I don’t know why the broken-hearted and broken-headed appeal to me so much. Except, of course, that I dress myself in that garb in my own interior dramas. But, really, everything looks so much more vivid and real and just somehow better when seen through those eyes. I go through my daily life and it seems a wasteland peopled by folks who really do care about shopping at Costco and what Bill O’Riley said yesterday that it makes me want to grab them by the collar and shake them, shake them, shake them-
“Do you not see?“….
I am so goddamn grateful for my strangeness. I wouldn’t give it up for the world. I love that I can make art, and that I can make poems, and that I can make love to my wife. I am deeply grateful for the ability to see sunlight fall on the floor, to feel the coolness of clean sheets against my skin as I slide into bed at the end of a long day. For the scars on my hands and arms and the lines around my eyes and the furrows in my forehead and my strength which has yet to fail me. For my unreasonable fears and my many failures. For the taste of good food and drink and the smell of wet grass in the dark and all that comes with being a broken human being in this world.
For all of it.
It is a debt I cannot repay.