Archive | February 2006

My Favorite Poem

1. 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
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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 …
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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,
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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,
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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;
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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;
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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
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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—
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[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
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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,
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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—
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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?
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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
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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
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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!
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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?
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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,
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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,
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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”—
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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,
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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:
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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.” . . . . .
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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,
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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 …
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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.
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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
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Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

T. S. Elliott

Well I’ll Be Writing This One Down

I had another vivid dream last night. It was kind of different. There was a man and a woman in it. I’m not sure if the woman was me or if I even knew the man. It was more like a movie and it actually had like a beginning and middle but no end because the kids woke me up but right away I knew how I would end it if I were writing it.

So I’m gonna… one day.

Besides all the dreaming, though, I’m working hella hours this week. 9 to 5 my ass. I’m [supposed to be] working now actually.

I did type the rough draft of Replacements and I’m letting it rest a bit. The deadline is Tuesday.

I finished the edits for Her Mama’s House yesterday as it turned out there were some. Nothing major, though and the director has been very complimentary of my work.

What else, what else?

Oh! Rachel Kramer Bussel talks about the release of her upcoming anthology (in which my story, Dressing Desire is included) here. Check me out in the table of contents, tee hee!

I think that’s it. Bought three pairs of shoes this week. But that’s it. I’m set for the summer. I hope. Well, we’ll see.

Apparently Life Goes On

… at least the writing life does, and for that, I suppose I should be grateful.

First a little publishing news:

I think it’s okay now to say that the afore mentioned anthology that Things Between will be published in is called Ultimate Undies: Erotic Stories of Lingerie and Underwear edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel and Christopher Pierce and will be released in August.

I heard back from the director handling the short film version of Her Mama’s House and she approved the script and didn’t have any additional suggestions. I should start receiving audition pictures over the next week. How crazy is that?

Now about today. Even though I’ve had an utterly crappy week and was convinced I was capable of nothing more than work and attending to the sick, out of nowhere I pumped out a rough draft to a new story. It’s called Replacements (and that is constantly changing). It’s handwritten right now and my intention was to type it up tonight before heading to bed, but we’ll see how that goes. I am pretty tired right now.

When All Else Fails

…cruise the ‘net for sexy summer sandals.

Going through a rough patch personally right now and preparing for big, big changes ahead. So, I’m doing what I do best. And you know what? It turns out it ain’t writing!

I’ve found like four pair of sandals that I want for crazy cheap and will be ordering them tomorrow.

I’ve been online for hours reading blogs, checking email (of which there is none) and looking for things that I don’t really need to be spending money on and pretty soon won’t have the room to store.

I could be writing instead. They say it’s therapeutic. And if I wrote something worth reading, it could even be financially rewarding.

But. I think I’d rather be shopping. Or sleeping. Or eating.

Damn it. Am I depressed?

Dreams And Dreams

I had what could have been a disturbing dream last night had I not already known that death in a dream symbolizes:

The old is dying; make way for new beginnings.

And it’s right on the money.

I’m It!

C of Eclectic Everyday tagged me with this:

Four Jobs I’ve Had:

Cashier at a grocery store
DMV clerk (processing car titles, woo hoo)
Claims Processor for an insurance company
Data Entry Clerk for another insurance company

Four Movies I Can Watch Over and Over:

The Bridges Of Madison County
Pretty Woman
The Color Purple
Misery

(and if I can have an honorable mention, Fools Rush In)

Four TV Shows I Watch:

Lost
Desparate Housewives

How I Met Your Mother
Will & Grace

Four Places I’ve Been On Vacation:

Kissime, FL
Asheville, NC
Boone, NC
Glen Cove, NY

Four Favorite Dishes:

Rotissere Chicken
Banana pudding
Turkey on wheat
Green salad

Four Websites I Visit Daily:

Ink In My Coffee
The Anti Wife
Ye Olde Inkwell
K (I would link to it but I’m not sure she wants any extra traffic)

Four Places I’d Rather Be:

In my own world
In my own home
In a nice, hot bath
Anywhere… writing

For Books I couldn’t live without:

To Kill A Mockingbird – Harper Lee
Bird By Bird – Anne Lammott
In Search Of Our Mother’s Gardens– Alice Walker
Beloved – Toni Morrison

Four Blogs I’m Tagging:

No tags… sorry!

Wow

Every now and then I stumble upon a blog that just knocks my socks off. I don’t even remember exactly how I got there, but I found I Should Have Told You tonight and I had to tear myself away.

If you’re like me and in the mood for blog cruisin’, go check it out.