Sitting this morning and reading Shelley and I get the passage he writes when he is 20,

"please me procure me two toddler girls to educate away from the man."
his solicitor declined, and thought the idea of putting the chastity of two girls into a man in the flower of his summer.


and I remember then that I do have two girls, and that I am in Shelley's possession, wherein one kind of possession, one's body, becomes another kind of possession, passion. Suddenly my body emflames from a thousand points at once, a convergence, of Shelley's university, the mad poet Shelley through the enlightening enfulgence of Richard Holmes, and watching Kate Winslet seduce Jim Carrey in Eternal Sunshine Of The Spotless Mind, as unwittingly played by my wife last night, and my own natural, waning, summer. When my body flares up it is in my loins. I want nothing more in that moment than to relieve the pressure of those points drawn of passion. I am in Shelley's possession! Truth.

"Not just absurd, but horrible."

What I wanted to say was that I didn't relieve all of that pressure, not just then, not just there, rather I channeled it into getting up and taking care of the daughters, which meant, to my castrated sensitivity, that I eschewed the throes of passion, in center of self, for a more subdued one that expands outward, like hammered gold. 

So to say I am in Shelley's possession is to reify my own self-possession and reject Shelley, as lonely Shelley surely will have to eclipse himself. Or rather reach out, toward Mary, toward Byron, toward the reader, drowning in fire.