What a delight. There I was, reading your words as I scrolled down the page, letting the images roll over me: a stone cellar that worked as a natural humidifier, men sitting quietly in overstuffed chairs in a dim room smoking cigars and listening to Lady Day.
When the conflict arose, the tragedy of the Green Door now closed, I commiserated with your anger and angst. I mourned your loss and expected to read of your existential realization that all things must end or of your poetic revenge on the faceless PTBs (Powers That Be).
Instead, I found a self deprecating insight wrapped in a poetic and perfectly timed punchline:
“Mendacity, sooner or later, destroys the individual,
even while he pursues the facade
he believes to be individuality.
I offer this simple observation:
the door was green before there was a parlor.
I had missed that point completely.”
This one will stay with me for a while, I’m sure. And what more can one ask of a poem or any work of art?