Dereliction

Sometimes W. wants to send up a great cry of dereliction. Not his dereliction, he says, but dereliction in general. Abandonment.

Who has abandoned us? Who has left us behind? In truth, we left ourselves behind. We deserted our duties, for what sense could we make of our duties? We deserted our responsibilities, for what sense could we make of our responsibilities?

We left it all behind, all the better to understand dereliction. For wasn't that what we wanted: to meet with dereliction in the middle, having thrown away our lives? Wasn't that the answer: to give ourselves over to dereliction so that dereliction, true dereliction, might find us?

When will it come? We're waiting. We're at the crossroads. We've come this far (we've sunk this low). Robert Johnson was said to have sold his soul at the crossroads to become a great guitar player. We would sell ours, but who wants to buy them? Dereliction has deserted us – is that it? Even abandonment has deserted us – is that it?