My Analyst Told Me

Twisted/Annie Ross Annabelle Short / Wardell Gray

Mae West/Diane Arbus photographer

My analyst told me that I was…right out of my head.
The way he described it?
He said, I’d be better dead than live.
I didn’t listen to his jive! I knew all along that he was all wrong.
And, I knew that he thought I was crazy! But I’m not!
My analyst told me that I was right out of my head!
He said, I’d need treatment!

But I’m not that easily led!
He said, I was the type that was most inclined…
when out of his sight to be out of my mind!

And he thought I was nuts…no more ifs or ands or buts.
They say as a child, I appeared a little bit wild. With all my crazy ideas.
But I knew what was happening. I knew I was a genius.
What’s so strange when you know that you’re a wizard at three?
I knew that this was meant to be. Now I heard little children were supposed to sleep tight. That’s why I got into the vodka one night. My parents got frantic, didn’t know what to do!
But I saw some crazy scenes before I came to.
Now do you think I was crazy?
I may have been only three but I was swinging. They all laugh at angry young men. They all laugh at Edison. And also at Einstein.
So why should I feel sorry, If they just couldn’t understand?
The idiomatic logic that went on in my head.
I had a brain…it was insane.
Oh, they used to laugh at me when I refused to ride on all those double decker buses. All because there was no driver on the top.
My analyst told me that, I was right out of my head.

But I said, dear doctor, I think that it’s you instead.

Because I have got a thing that’s unique and new. To prove it I’ll have the last laugh on you! ‘Cause instead of one head I got two! And you know…two heads are better than one.

Diane Arbus/What I do



A Light Exists in Spring – E. Dickinson

tulips

A light exists in spring
Not present on the year
At any other period.
When March is scarcely here

A color stands abroad
On solitary hills
That science cannot overtake,
But human nature feels.

It waits upon the lawn;
It shows the furthest tree
Upon the furthest slope we know;
It almost speaks to me.

Then, as horizons step,
Or noons report away,
Without the formula of sound,
It passes, and we stay:

A quality of loss
Affecting our content,
As trade had suddenly encroached
Upon a sacrament.

march dock

I Have Lived and I Have Loved

I have lived and I have loved;
I have waked and I have slept;
I have sung and I have danced;
I have smiled and I have wept;
I have won and wasted treasure;
I have had my fill of pleasure;
And all these things were weariness,
And some of them were dreariness;–
And all these things, but two things,
Were emptiness and pain:milk weed
And Love–it was the best of them;
And Sleep–worth all the rest of them,
Worth everything but Love to my spirit and my brain.
But still my friend, O Slumber,
Till my days complete their number,
For Love shall never, never return to me again!

Charles Mackay

 

Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep

 

Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep –

Do not stand at my grave and weep
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry;
I am not there. I did not die

-Mary Elizabeth Fyre

 

 

 

Tom Thompson

Tom Thomson, one of Canada’s most influential painters of the 20th-century, was last seen alive around mid-day, July 8, 1917, when setting out alone across Canoe Lake to begin a fishing trip. He was familiar with the area, having visited there a number of times – while working in the Park as a fire ranger, a guide for fishing parties, and of course, pursuing his painting. Within hours of his departure, his empty canoe was spotted floating not far from the dock he had left from, and more than a week later, his body surfaced in the lake. His untimely death helped transform the aspiring artist into a cultural giant. His paintings are now seen in galleries across Canada, and exhibitions of his work always attract large audiences. In the last few years, paintings by Thomson have fetched over a million dollars at auction.

How Thomson died, who found his body, its condition, and even its final resting place all remain mysteries. Some propose the cause of Thomson’s death was an accident resulting from plain bad luck, while others suggest suicide, and still others point to foul play resulting from a conflict over debt, a love interest, or opinions about the war effort. To add even more mystery to the affair there are serious questions regarding whether Thomson’s body was moved from its first resting place.

Could it be that Algonquin Park, and Canoe Lake, were more dangerous than they appeared in Thomson’s paintings? As investigators began to consider the artist’s mysterious death, popular ideas of a peaceful, harmonious, natural parkland began to evaporate. The region bore the marks of intensive logging – treacherous stumps and logs lurked under the water’s surface. Could one of these have tipped Thomson’s canoe, resulting in his drowning? Could his death have resulted from something even more frightening? The abundant wildlife the Park helped protect presented a tempting target for poachers, who might be willing to go to extreme ends to hide their illegal activities. Could the trains coming through the Park, carrying troops and goods important for the war effort have attracted spies and saboteurs desperate to hide their subversion’s? The isolation of the Park might also have attracted Canadian and American men attempting to avoid fighting in the war. How far might one of these men have gone to maintain their anonymity?

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http://www.canadianmysteries.ca/sites/thomson