the night and the morning

sorry for not writing.
i haven't much to say these days, and my vocabulary has become pitiful. a sweet old man who knows my life says i'm too hard on myself. he might be right...but i don't know what else produces character quite like discipline and struggle do. i think i'd rather see hope glistening in the distance than satisfaction sitting dully in my lap. ?

i was just sitting at work this morning eating an orange and listening to "John Wayne Gacy, Jr." and thinking how i like that someone wrote that stuff. i admire people who can say big things in few good words. i can't really do that, so i am fascinated by those who can; they are kind of my heroes.

last night i lost track of the universe and spent a little time with a fellow who's no longer here.
in lieu of unspoken inspired ideas, i wanted to share some old words today.


Adam's Curse

We sat together at one summer's end,
That beautiful mild woman, your close friend,
And you and I, and talked of poetry.
I said, 'A line will take us hours maybe;
Yet if it does not seem a moment's thought,
Our stitching and unstitching has been naught.

Better go down upon your marrow-bones
And scrub a kitchen pavement, or break stones
Like an old pauper, in all kinds of weather;
For to articulate sweet sounds together
Is to work harder than all these, and yet
Be thought an idler by the noisy set
Of bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymen
The martyrs call the world.'

And thereupon
That beautiful mild woman for whose sake
There's many a one shall find out all heartache
On finding that her voice is sweet and low
Replied, 'To be born woman is to know--
Although they do not talk of it at school--
That we must labour to be beautiful.'

I said, 'It's certain there is no fine thing
Since Adam's fall but needs much labouring.
There have been lovers who thought love should be
So much compounded of high courtesy
That they would sigh and quote with learned looks
Precedents out of beautiful old books;
Yet now it seems an idle trade enough.'

We sat grown quiet at the name of love;
We saw the last embers of daylight die,
And in the trembling blue-green of the sky
A moon, worn as if it had been a shell
Washed by time's waters as they rose and fell
About the stars and broke in days and years.

I had a thought for no one's but your ears:
That you were beautiful, and that I strove
To love you in the old high way of love;
That it had all seemed happy, and yet we'd grown
As weary-hearted as that hollow moon.


-- William Butler Yeats