The Web and The Rock

American Son

2011-11-07T21:30:00.000-08:00

Just caught this band playing a live gig at the Episcopal Church I attend. It was ethereal.

For the Record

2011-07-18T21:42:00.000-07:00

Record Room at the W Hotel in Austin. Good place for a drink in the heat, despite the fireplace.

The Boys of Summer

2011-03-28T22:05:00.000-07:00

The champion Linden Tigers from sometime in the 1940s. Some uniforms, huh? Uncle Frank is pictured bottom row last on the right. His little brother Wallace is pictured in the second row, also last on the right. As well as I can remember they didn't have state champions for schools as small as Linden when I recall conversations with Frank about that team. The playoffs only went as far as regionals, likely due to the economics of the time. He pretty much was the team, the best, maybe only, pitcher they had and could hit the ball a country mile. He was drafted by, I believe, the St. Louis Browns, a minor league team, played a little ball and then headed off to West Texas to begin his career in the oil industry.

Of course he and Uncle Wally would fight like cats and dogs as brothers often do. One story I remember well was that Frank got pissed off because he got sent to do some brush clearing that Wally didn't do when they were both teenagers. Sensing Franklin's wrath and thinking that a first strike was in order, Wallace hid behind a barn shed and could hear Franklin cussing coming from the house. Knowing that he couldn't either outrun Frank or even come close to besting him in a fistfight, he thought quickly and came to his only option. The element of surprise it was. As Franklin rounded the corner, Wallace torqued his right leg back as far as it could go for his five foot nothin' frame and let every ounce of it unwind squarely into Franklin's balls.

Frank dropped to the ground immediately. Wallace stood there stunned for half a second, and then sensed his only chance was to run while Frank was moaning in agony swearing that he would kill him when his balls ceased to be his main concern. Wallace ran. He got about 30 feet away when he was felled immediately by a meteor-like cob of corn thrown directly at his head, as if it were a catcher's mitt, by the older brother whom he thought he just crippled beyond belief.

"What the hell did you do to him then, Frank?", I asked, sensing an immediate older brother southern-style ass whipping was to ensue.

"I told him to clear the god-damned brush and get to baseball practice on time," Franklin laughed.

Years later I asked Wallace about this story and he confirmed that every bit was true as told. He laughed every bit as much in it's re-telling.

Southern Comfort

2010-11-22T20:51:00.001-08:00

To My Love

2010-10-20T22:48:00.000-07:00

No speed of wind or water rushing by
But you have a speed far greater. You can climb
Back up a stream of radiance to the sky,
And back through history up the stream of time.
And you were given this swiftness, not for haste
Nor chiefly that you may go where you will.
But in the rush of everything to waste,
That you may have the power of standing still—
Off any still or moving thing you say.
Two such as you with a master speed
Cannot be parted nor be swept away
From one another once you are agreed
That life is only life forevermore
Together wing to wing and oar to oar.

Impossibly Cool

2010-10-20T22:37:00.001-07:00

Hiatus

2010-10-20T22:05:00.001-07:00

Time to go visit Mother Nature again. It requires quite a bit of planning, the right gear, and the right guys to go with. Hiking up in Arkansas on the Ouachita Trail is never predictable, but it is also never boring. Looking forward to some nice foliage, nights by the campfire, the smell of hickory, and a peaceful rest by the Little Missouri river.

Done Deal

2010-09-18T21:35:00.000-07:00

This pretty much says it all about I how I feel: nostalgia, a longing for the 8mm 1940-1950s, Buddy Holly, pretty girls in dresses, and B0b Dylan bringing it all back home.

Our Land

2010-08-14T23:22:00.000-07:00

"It's easy to let the best of yourself slip away." May it never be so.

Sprezzatura

2010-08-03T21:43:00.001-07:00

Bring the heat, Italian style.

Baffled

2010-07-24T22:19:00.001-07:00

Well, I must admit I had never heard of "The Baffler" until perusing some unorthodox texts at an independent bookstore in Austin, Texas. There I found both "Boob Jubilee" and "Commodify Your Dissent" a collection of brilliant, sometimes flawed salvos from an underground news-mag based out of Chicago chronicling the rise of business and it's effect on popular cultural during the late 80s onward. The former is on loan to a friend in banking from NYC, the latter (pictured above) remains in my possession.

The "salvos" themselves harken back to recall the spirit of H.L. Mencken and, often not, the more troubled soul of Babbitt. What makes all the the chicanery and descent into venal marketing codes and shameless pandering of the age possible is what the authors call "a catastrophic failure of critical intelligence." In short, we cannot as a public general or citizen private, think for ourselves.

Studs Terkel, in his forward for "Boob Jubilee" calls it "one hell of an important book." Why you may ask? Because it, and it's companion book "Commodify Your Dissent" do one important thing: Tell the Truth.

Sumbitch

2010-07-24T21:55:00.001-07:00

Check it out. It's worthy of the post title.

By Design

2010-07-24T15:14:00.000-07:00

Filed under industrial design. Is it art? Maybe, maybe not. But I always find this sign interesting every time I pass it.

Ethereal

2010-07-19T22:22:00.001-07:00

Thinking Back a Bit

2010-04-25T22:30:00.000-07:00

I am reminded today of the miners that lost their lives too soon, of the oil men that perished in the Gulf. And then of the Challenger astronauts that also lost their lives too soon, one of which, Francis Richard "Dick" Scobee, always had a special meaning for me. I never cared too much for Reagan's politics, but he sure nailed it on this one and helped a country mourn as it does today:

This is the poem from which Reagan's speechwriter, Peggy Noonan, is drawing:

High Flight

Oh! I have slipped the surly bonds of earth
And danced the skies on laughter-silvered wings;
Sunward I've climbed, and joined the tumbling mirth
Of sun-split clouds - and done a hundred things
You have not dreamed of - wheeled and soared and swung
High in the sunlit silence. Hov'ring there
I've chased the shouting wind along, and flung
My eager craft through footless halls of air.
Up, up the long delirious, burning blue,
I've topped the windswept heights with easy grace
Where never lark, or even eagle flew -
And, while with silent lifting mind I've trod
The high untresspassed sanctity of space,
Put out my hand and touched the face of God.

Pilot Officer Gillespie Magee
No 412 squadron, RCAF
Killed 11 December 1941

Official Endorsement

2010-04-18T21:06:00.000-07:00

Sometimes a song comes along that really makes you give pause.This gem from The Low Anthem is such a song.

Check em' out. Americana/Folk at it's very best in a long, long

time.

Your Saturday Afternoon

2010-03-20T22:16:00.000-07:00

Desert Places

2010-02-06T21:14:00.000-08:00

Desert Places
by: Robert Frost

Snow falling and night falling fast, oh, fast
In a field I looked into going past,
And the ground almost covered smooth in snow,
But a few weeds and stubble showing last.

The woods around it have it--it is theirs.
All animals are smothered in their lairs.
I am too absent-spirited to count;
The loneliness includes me unawares.

And lonely as it is that loneliness
Will be more lonely ere it will be less--
A blanker whiteness of benighted snow
With no expression, nothing to express.

They cannot scare me with their empty spaces
Between stars--on stars where no human race is.
I have it in me so much nearer home
To scare myself with my own desert places.

I am back from Big Bend, a rough hike through
the rain, hail, and freezing rain.

Across the mountains lies Mexico in this photo.

My gear is clean now, but the desert places remain. 

The Parting Glass

2009-12-25T22:53:00.000-08:00

This is one of my favorite Irish ballads and always bespeaks to me the fitting end of an evening and a year well-spent. I won't be here for New Year's, but rather in warmer climes. However, this will be the song that I will be listening to when I recall the year that was.

God bless, and joy be with you all.

Keeping Pace

2009-12-15T21:03:00.000-08:00

Back from Paris and into the season of Advent. Hence the reason for so few missives from yours truly, and likely few before the new year. Heading south for New Year's to Key West to search for some inspiration in the warm weather and cocktails. Methinks there's a good chance I'll find it. And it will probably be wearing shorts and a t-shirt, holding a cold beer, and humming a Jimmy Buffet tune sitting in an open air bar with more graffiti than a Paris Metro tunnel. And that's just fine by me.

Speaking of Mr. Buffett, here's one of my favorite tunes of his that hasn't been overexposed yet. He's one cool character too. I met him backstage in 1993 in Dallas, shot a few hoops with him, and came away quite the fan, not only of the music but the person. See you in 2010, from a distance.

A Moveable Feast

2009-11-19T21:31:00.000-08:00

Going to Paris for the Thanksgiving Holiday. The photo above is of Harry's Bar, a favorite watering hole of Hemingway and other ex-pats. I fully plan on going back there this trip, sitting at the same table, but maybe not having quite as many beers as the first time around. . . ?

Papa would be disappointed.

Lonesome Sound

2009-11-16T22:12:00.000-08:00

Enjoy two great pickers interpreting a masterpiece.

They hit this one out of the park.

The Heart of the Matter

2009-11-15T21:23:00.001-08:00

Frank & Margaret.

Be True to Your School

2009-11-04T21:53:00.001-08:00

It is that time of year. College football is in the full swing of things and old loyalties start to emerge again. Mine (and my wife's) is The University of Texas. I love this new made-to-look "vintage" track jacket I found a couple years back in Austin. Graduated from there many moons ago and still slip into town every now and again to catch a game (and to see my parents). Planning a mini-road trip to Waco with a co-worker to watch the Horns play Baylor in two weeks.

If you are going and see someone wearing this, chances are it's me.

Raison d'être

2009-10-07T22:56:00.000-07:00

A destiny that leads the English to the Dutch is strange enough; but one that leads from Epsom into Pennsylvania, and thence into the hills that shut in Altamont over the proud coral cry of the cock, and the soft stone smile of an angel, is touched by that dark miracle of chance which makes new magic in a dusty world.

Each of us is all the sums he has not counted: subtract us into nakedness and night again, and you shall see begin in Crete four thousand years ago the love that ended yesterday in Texas.

The seed of our destruction will blossom in the desert, the alexin of our cure grows by a mountain rock, and our lives are haunted by a Georgia slattern, because a London cut-purse went unhung. Each moment is the fruit of forty thousand years. The minute-winning days, like flies, buzz home to death, and every moment is a window on all time.

From the opening passage of Thomas Wolfe's Look Homeward Angel. I always thought this was Wolfe's great opening passage to what the stuff of life actually is: chance combined with a bit of pre-destination. Some luck will do also. My Uncle Frank always said I'd rather be lucky than good.

Each of of us is all the sums he has not counted. I actually used this turn of phrase at my grandmother's funeral many moons ago to describe what she meant to me, the lacking of what I felt her absence would then mean. It rang true then and still does now.

Encore

2009-10-07T22:29:00.000-07:00

Too good to pass up. Reminds me too much of how things really are.

It's a Big Old Goofy World

2009-10-07T22:02:00.000-07:00

One of the all-time great singer-songwriters. Mr. John Prine.

Enjoy. And be happy.

Color Guard

2009-09-30T19:56:00.000-07:00

Packed away the colors of spring and summer for another season this past weekend. Autumn has officially begun, the heat has for the most part abated, and college football is in the swing of things. The World Series is just around the corner as is Halloween. Life is good.

So, farewell to the seersucker and linen, trustworthy and faithful companions to survive another Texas summer. Farewell to the red and yellow chinos that marked my casual Fridays in the summer. So long to the pastel polos and sockless candor that define summertime.

The pleasure was all mine.

True Love Ways

2009-09-16T20:19:00.000-07:00

Back when rock stars wore dinner jackets, ties, and generally dressed liked

they were professionals ready to get down to business.

Buddy Holly was one of my favorites growing up, which made me

somewhat of an anachronism in a time when rap music was

coming of age and 80s hair bands were what counted for inspiration. He's

a fellow Texan, died too young as most know, but was completely a

gentleman and a singular talent.

It's funny, but I remember growing up wishing my eyesight was so much

worse than it was ( I still have 20/20), just so I could don a pair of horn

rimmed glasses just like Buddy wore. Every now and again, I still feel

the same way.

The song is really tremendous, much more nuanced than "That'll Be the

Day" or "Peggy Sue", which is what most will be familiar with. He was

in his maturation process as a first rate producer, which accounts for the

tasteful string section in "True Love Ways" as well as the smooth

sax interplay you'll hear throughout.

All in all, quite lovely.

J. Alfred Prufrock Revisited

2009-09-09T22:10:00.001-07:00

"If I thought that that I was replying to someone who would ever return to the world, this flame would cease to flicker. But since no one ever returns from these depths alive, if what I've heard is true, I will answer you without fear of infamy."

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 5
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 … 10
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, 15
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, 20
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; 25
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; 30
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 35
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— 40
[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 45
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, 50
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— 55
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? 60
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 65
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 70
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! 75
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? 80
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, 85
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, 90
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”— 95
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, 100
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: 105
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.”
. . . . . 110
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, 115
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 … 120
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. 125
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 130
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

The Other Side of Summer

2009-08-25T20:24:00.000-07:00

Well, we're now easing out of the summer doldrums, or what I like to call the month of August. I can tell now from my evening runs that it is getting darker earlier, albeit ever so slightly. We're what I would call on the other side of summer. Or at least at the beginning of the other side.

This time is when the first furtive thoughts of packing away summer clothes come and go but are usually chased away by the Texas heat and the need to continue dressing cooly and sanely. The summer weight shorts, linen shirts and poplin will stay for another month or so. The time is winding down for the seersucker and madras though as Labor Day approaches. Thoughts of tweed, corduroy and shetland must be kept at bay but for a while longer.

The wife and I have been daydreaming of the first cold front of the fall, the first hint of color in the leaves, the waning of the sun and a harvest moon. The first spicy taste of pumpkin ale, and the first aromatic whiff of pinion wood in the outdoor fireplace are just around the corner. Such are thoughts that this other side of summer lends itself to.

But we've much summer to go here in Texas to get carried away with too many autumnal notions just yet. So to add a degree of levity to these vagarious contemplations, I suggest listening to Elvis Costello's The Other Side of Summer. I am posting a link to the video as it appears there are some copyright issues precluding me from actually posting it:

http://www.contactmusic.com/videos.nsf/stream/elvis-costello-the-other-side-of-summer

It is a reminder of the power of pop in the summery melodic structure but also a reminder of the cold, cynical sharp edge of Elvis' pen against such a happy, cheerful wall-of-sound backdrop that is part Phil Spector and part Brian Wilson. A little wordy but brilliantly worded (the song, not the last sentence). It's from the album Mighty Like A Rose. Enjoy.

Funny little fellow, everybody knows. Don't know what to call him, but he's mighty like a rose.

The Uncle Frank

2009-08-17T22:05:00.001-07:00

When I was about 17 years old I was introduced to my eccentric Uncle, one who up to that point in time, only existed in tales of his far flung travels and excess. He was, quite simply, the most interesting man in the world. He was my mother's oldest brother, and in the summer of my 17th year he purchased a lake house, or more accurately, an entire lake and two houses and needed summer help. I was ready, willing, and able. And broke. A lethal combination to be sure, but when coupled with the innate desire to know about my Uncle and his life's adventures, I couldn't say no.

Anyway, Frank split his time between Daventry, Northamptonshire, England and this lake house near the small sleepy Texas town he grew up in. He named it Daventry West. And for the next three years until I left for University, I worked for and came to know and love the man, his temperament notwithstanding. But I digress, somewhat, as this is actually about The Uncle Frank, the libation that he taught me how to make and make damn well:

Two parts gin (Beefeater), Ice, Two dashes of Angostura bitters, then finish with Tonic and a slice of lime.

So the next time you find yourself at the end of a great meal, sidle up next to the bar and explain to the bartender the above concoction (you'll probably have to), and enjoy the benefits of this singular digestif. But be sure to tell him that it is called The Uncle Frank.

He wouldn't have it any other way.

The First Miracle

2009-08-11T21:06:00.001-07:00

(Click for full view)

I guess my tastes don't get much more antiquated than this, but this is perhaps my favorite painting hanging in the Louvre. Decadent, spiritual, and hopeful all at the same time, The Wedding at Cana is truly a sight to behold. It is Paolo Veronese's interpretation of Christ's first miracle, the changing of water into wine at a wedding feast in Cana, when of course the wine had run out. To begin with it is absolutely huge (click for full view), and in between the edges filled with incredible detail, both mystical and seemingly base. If you're ever in Paris and have just one painting to see, give this some consideration (along with The Raft of the Medusa, also in the Louvre).

Have a glass of wine afterwards and ponder the mystery.

Let's Dance

2009-08-09T21:06:00.001-07:00

One of the most underrated films that I remember from my

youth: Fandango.

Set in Texas, it's the classic road trip movie down to the

border.

Rent this movie. It will take you back to your youth, and

the privileges that were yours.

If I Should Fall From Grace with God

2009-08-04T20:50:00.000-07:00

Likely one of many posts regarding not merely a great Irish

band, but one of the all time great bands. Period.

U2 never stood a chance.

Get Sacked

2009-08-03T20:49:00.000-07:00

The great American sack suit:

3-button rolled to two

No darts

Natural Shoulder

Flat front trousers, cuffed about 1 1/4.

As worn by Archibald Cox. Cox was, of course, the special prosecutor sacked by Nixon during the Watergate scandal.

The Campari Defense

2009-08-01T19:57:00.001-07:00

Three trips around town and finally one package store that had what I needed. A few even said they'd never heard of it (young bucks). But I finally found it, in all it's bittersweet glory. Try it with some OJ and club soda. You'll be glad you did.

Bar of the Year

2009-07-30T21:44:00.000-07:00

I know it's early to declare a winner, but I have only one trip left this year (to Paris), and I don't see anyone dethroning this place anytime soon. Small, 20 yards from the ocean, tucked away on Jost Van Dyke, BVI, the One Love Bar is beach front funky at it's best. Purists will opt for Foxy's or Ivan's down the beach, but this place wins with atmosphere hands down. Seddy, a belonger or native, owns the bar with his wife Raquel. Stop in sometime in April when I'm there and I'll buy you a beer.

The Web and The Rock

2009-07-14T22:04:00.000-07:00

The title comes from one Thomas Wolfe who lived all too short of a life. "Look Homeward Angel" and "You Can't Go Home Again" are seminal works, shaping much of my literary worldview as well as a lense, through which, I can identify with a sense of place and my own history as it were.

"The Web and The Rock" is Wolfe's final tome, pieced together largely from Wolfe's disorganized notes and diaries by his editor, Maxwell Perkins, in what was surely a Herculian endeavor. Some have criticized it as a book shaped more by Perkin's editorial license than Wolfe's coherent story, since his notes were apparently all over the place. Nonetheless, it stands, "As one man's discovery of life and the world." And so it should be.

It's a muse, as it were, for some of my meanderings on this site, which probably won't see the light of day and it's just as well. I am just posting thoughts on the books, drinks, relatives, clothes, ideas, etc. that seem to capture that idea of a sense of personal history, belonging, and (sometimes) taste and preference. For the record, I like old things. My preference is for the timeless and antiquated. And, yes, this drives my wife nuts. Enjoy.

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	5
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 …	10
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,	15
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,	20
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;	25
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;	30
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	35
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—	40
[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	45
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,	50
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—	55
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?	60
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	65
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	70
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!	75
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?	80
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,	85
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,	90
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”—	95
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,	100
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:	105
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.” . . . . .	110
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,	115
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 …	120
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.	125

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	130
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.