The Poet of Indolence

      

   

     When Carlo Castorelli died in 1983, few people remembered that he had been universally acknowledged as the world acclaimed “Poet of Indolence”. Born in 1916 in Tamalpa, California to an Italian father and an American mother, he lived a relatively obscure life until he reached puberty sometime in the second week of November 1928. He was in the bath, which is not an unusual place to experience such a significant occurrence. Unlike most boys his age, however, Carlo did not linger after his discovery, ruminating and questioning the event. Instead, he writes in his journal, “I stood up from the tepid water, wrapped a towel around my then slim waist, and dashed to my desk. I scribbled the first thoughts that came to mind and they needed no editing. The result was my first ode, 'Oh, My Foot'.” The poem was included in the Spring 1929 edition of Arden Wood Magazine and clearly indicates the direction in which the young wordsmith was headed.

Oh, My Foot

My foot, my right foot

It is beautiful beyond belief, and

More lovely than all other feet

I soak it until the skin is pink

And soft and

Then trim the perfect nails that punctuate each

Similar yet varied digit, a quintet of flexible flawless fantasy,

The final extensions of my sacred self, forward facing and

Perpetually prepared, balanced, they

Splash and flicker in warm water

I massage the heel

Gently

Making small circles

With a rough cloth.

When I am finished my fine foot

Is opaline, pearly

It catches light with a creamy

Iridescence as I turn it this way

And that.

My other foot

Is a bastard and not worth the sock

I regretfully pull over it each morning.

But I must. For the sake of symmetry.

      A Whitman-esque celebration of self is apparent in this youthful paean but within the short, brilliant poem, Castorelli also sets the tone for a life of personal praise, individual appreciation and a complete disregard of all others; he created a new form of poetic expression and selfish imagery. When he was refused the Nobel Prize because, as one member of the committee stated, “Castorelli is a despicable little runt. His poetry is wonderful, even deserving of the Prize, but all members of the commission have gone on record and stated that they cannot be in the same room with him. He poisons the air and pollutes the intellectual discourse with his constant referrals to his proportions and his wheedling requests.”

      Devotees will be delighted to learn that there is a movement afoot to award a posthumous Nobel Prize for Poetry to Castorelli, a man whom Ernest Hemingway once called, “The only one of us with the Goddamn guts to truly love himself. If I were him I would die from sheer delight.” Great praise, indeed.

      It is that final line of the above poem, though, the resigned and mawkish, “But I must,” that has captivated critics and scholars for decades. What did Castorelli mean? What, or who, was pressuring him to give equal attention to his other foot, a foot that he so clearly despised? Why was symmetry important? How did a young inexperienced boy, only slightly past his twelfth birthday, achieve such unmistakable poetic sophistication? And why did young Carlo disappear between the years 1938 and 1941? Where did he go? Who was the “Blue Woman”? I hope to address these questions and more in my critical biography, “My Wonderful Extremities: The Secret Life of Carlo Castorelli, The Poet of Indolence.” Look for it on Amazon this Fall.