What even,.

So It has been very long since i have tried to find refuge in public posts to an audience I know doesn't exist. THat sentence itself seems ridiculous. If I went outside and yelled it to the trees I may find more benefit. BUt the trues have been to quiet of late to hear of torment, of tulmultuous seas and thundering waves, and the clear blue skies when everything seems possible in the sunken calm of a beautiful afternoon surrounded in the simplicity and complexitites of life. TO be short. As always. The heart breaks in a thousand ways every day Every day the heart resists Limbs are hung and tired Eyes sunken and joyless Somewhere in side, dear god, Somewhere in there I hide waiting. Waiting on the drone of time to say 'enoughs enough' Grief is nothing more than happiness. It overwhelms, it consumes and it explodes. Its a dark cousin, a dear friend. Grief and love share a bond Both to break and heal There was a day once when I dragged feet through an un mowed meadow the grass, the smells, the brilliant of each shade of green I was one of them that day. A hue. A mere brush stroke in this constant canvas of chaos Slowly, it will come As fast as it burnt through me As searing the pain Ages will pass before the cracks of it cloak break of and return to me a land where trust love and friendship make sense again. the sun was simpler in those days

Tepid Water

I am going to wander down this path again. I haven’t let my footsteps lead me here for such a long time for fear of tapping into something that I am not ready to mine. I have thought of it, I have toyed with it, tossed it around in my head. So perhaps a conscious effort to try and commit more meaningless thoughts to page might help purge me of this ache. I am always wary, always sure that once things exit my mouth they are there to fill the air of someone else’s lungs, to pile in someone else’s mind and to pour from their lips. Paranoid I know.

Nonsense.

Tasted bitter and tasted sweet,
A single melody in a bustling street.

wrapped in arms and wrapped in vain
The shallow breath of the oncoming train

Wasted time and wasted brain
I watched you fall into rain

I stomp in puddles with wandering feet.

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.


LET us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?”
Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,
And seeing that it was a soft October night,
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?

And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”

And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at all.”
. . . . .
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old … I grow old …
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

- T S Eliot

And so patience is a virtue I hear

Wait wait wait and bide your time. A smoke in the afternoon sun, lids closed for the glare and the same song playing over and again in my head. The same song. And I thought of you. Which is a far cry from the normal routine my head hammers through day in and day out. Such a nice relief.

Nobody knows you and nobody gives a damn

Again we cross this well worn track. I forgot which fork in the road I took before and now am left wandering across this path. The sights are the same, all so familiar. I thought I was taking the easy path but I have been led across the mountain track where rocks crumble at the edge to a deep fall beyond mist, Ive never managed to make up the bottom from such heights.

Fire, Fire, Fire

I can smell the smoke, as it rises above my bed and swirls out the open window. I can't see it in this dark space, but feel the air choke. The air thins, and breathing comes in rasps. Although I am stuck. Pinned down, awake and half asleep. It could be a dream? I could only be smelling the remnants of the battlefield my mind only just left. The scorched earth and burnt buildings.

The air is still, the mood sedated and all I can do is lie here and watch the dim glow turn into a pulsing light as the flames lick the edges of my bed and I know now that this is not the plague my dream has left, but the reality I woke up too.