I've had this snippet from T.S. Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" playing through my head all week as I stumble up stairs and through cemeteries, wondering whether there is, could possibly, be enough time for it all. It is a constant companion, this question, especially when things are most beautiful, seem most tenuous. I want to ask serving staff, stairs, wisps of smoke whether there will be enough. Surely someone knows. Some days, I know that the time we have is the time we have, and then I go eat something gooey and sweet. The rest of the time, these stanzas quiet, soothe. Eliot always has the answer.
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.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
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7 maids a-milking:
New header! New header! Where have I been?
this is how I felt at the beginning of our honeymoon, I even cried about it... but there was time (and we had much less). At some point you will relax and let go, and the Paris days will streach to infinity.
Pere Lachaise! Perhaps the coolest place we visited in Paris (we were not there very long...)
eliot knocks around in my head this time of year as well. it's such a plaintive, nearly defeated poem - that's eliot for you - but i fell in love with "prufrock" so completely when we met that it's still, and always, pure joy.
did i tell you the story of sixteen-year-old me at pere lachaise?
You did not, L. Do. tell.
when our family went on a eurovacation after my junior year of high school (my first time out of the country), all i wanted was to visit jim morrison's grave in pere lachaise (hush). no one else was remotely interested in this, so for some reason i was let loose on paris by myself with a metro map and the invulnerability of youth. my french was very good then, so i arrived with loads of time to wander about...and actually gave french tourists (correct!) directions in the cemetery several times. i was so pleased with myself that as i turned back to the metro i neglected to notice that i was walking just over a massive subway grate; wind from a passing train ripped my map from my and and blew my little plaid skirt up about my ears.
I, too love Eliot, although my favorite is the Old Possum's Book of Practical Cats- and not just because it's the text for the musical Cats, but because it's just fun.
http://reneetbouchard.blogspot.com
Do I need to direct you back to the comment that you left me telling me that there was all the time in the world for all of my dreams to happen?
L: I was certain this story would involve Jim Morrision, but plaid, too! Brilliant, young you.
P: Your post is what set the poem singing through my brainlet. I guess I'm just feeling especially mortal this week. Wheeeeeeee.
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