It doesn’t stop… I got to work this morning to find out that my friend J’s son passed away over the weekend. He was in his 20’s and living in Montana. J’s manager reached out to me this morning to ask me to reach out to her.. I hope I have something to offer… it’s not something I like being an expert in.<\/p>\n
I really cannot figure out what’s goign on this month.. some sort of powerful changes are moving through the world. Diane and I were talking about it today.. there’s nothing to ‘do’.. just pay attention and be present for people..<\/p>\n
T.S Eliot’s Wasteland seems appropriate.. .. I used to read Eliot when I was in high school.. The first stanza of this poem keeps comign into my mind each time I hear of some new sadness this month: This April is<\/em> the cruelest month<\/p>\n The Waste Land T.S. Eliot (1888\u20131965). <\/em><\/p>\n I. THE BURIAL OF THE DEAD<\/em><\/p>\n APRIL is the cruellest month, breeding What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante, Unreal City, Nite all, nite Sam It doesn’t stop… I got to work this morning to find out that my friend J’s son passed away over the weekend. He was in his 20’s and living in Montana. J’s manager reached out to me this morning to ask me to reach out to her.. I hope I have something to offer… it’s … Continue reading Monday night – waste land<\/span>
\nLilacs out of the dead land, mixing
\nMemory and desire, stirring
\nDull roots with spring rain.
\nWinter kept us warm, covering
\nEarth in forgetful snow, feeding
\nA little life with dried tubers.
\nSummer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
\nWith a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
\nAnd went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
\nAnd drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
\nBin gar keine Russin, stamm’ aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
\nAnd when we were children, staying at the archduke’s,
\nMy cousin’s, he took me out on a sled,
\nAnd I was frightened. He said, Marie,
\nMarie, hold on tight. And down we went.
\nIn the mountains, there you feel free.
\nI read, much of the night, and go south in the winter. <\/em><\/p>\n
\nOut of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
\nYou cannot say, or guess, for you know only
\nA heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
\nAnd the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
\nAnd the dry stone no sound of water. Only
\nThere is shadow under this red rock,
\n(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
\nAnd I will show you something different from either
\nYour shadow at morning striding behind you
\nOr your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
\nI will show you fear in a handful of dust.
\nFrisch weht der Wind
\nDer Heimat zu.
\nMein Irisch Kind,
\nWo weilest du?
\n‘You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
\n‘They called me the hyacinth girl.’
\n\u2014Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
\nYour arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
\nSpeak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
\nLiving nor dead, and I knew nothing,
\nLooking into the heart of light, the silence.
\nOd’ und leer das Meer. <\/em><\/p>\n
\nHad a bad cold, nevertheless
\nIs known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
\nWith a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
\nIs your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
\n(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
\nHere is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
\nThe lady of situations.
\nHere is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
\nAnd here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
\nWhich is blank, is something he carries on his back,
\nWhich I am forbidden to see. I do not find
\nThe Hanged Man. Fear death by water.
\nI see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
\nThank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,
\nTell her I bring the horoscope myself:
\nOne must be so careful these days. <\/em><\/p>\n
\nUnder the brown fog of a winter dawn,
\nA crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
\nI had not thought death had undone so many.
\nSighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
\nAnd each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
\nFlowed up the hill and down King William Street,
\nTo where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
\nWith a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
\nThere I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying ‘Stetson!
\n‘You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!
\n‘That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
\n‘Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
\n‘Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
\n‘Oh keep the Dog far hence, that’s friend to men,
\n‘Or with his nails he’ll dig it up again!
\n‘You! hypocrite lecteur!\u2014mon semblable,\u2014mon fr\u00e8re!’ <\/em><\/p>\n
\n-me<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"