“Poetry in Motion” is what the ad said. I was desperately looking for a sign, a symbol, a burning bush of some sort to add some meaning to my existence. Or least a little something to brighten my day.
The Love Song Of J. Alfred Prufrock
By T. S. Eliot
“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
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…
Oh, do not ask, ‘What is it?’
Let us go and make our visit.”
I smiled. I grinned. I pulled out the book I was reading and jotted a note in the back leaf, an empty page. I was thinking about the Texas Gulf Coast, oysters, one night in a cheap hotel down there, and up, over my head, a sign that I was looking for. On the city bus, of all places.
I’ve collected, over the years a series of English prints called [url=http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/ASIN/0304340839/fishinguideto-20]”Poems on the Underground” because I’ve enjoyed the poems, the collections are at times academic and light-hearted, and perhaps, a chance to discover someone I’ve never read before.
Then, off to Corpus Christi this weekend. Alas, I don’t have time to dawdle and compare fishing stories, no time for lonely walks on the beach. No surf. Quick trip for work. Maybe, hopefully, some good seafood.
But wouldn’t it be nice to park on the sea wall in the sunlight, and read a slim volume of poetry? One of many fond memories was backing the truck up on Mustang Island, and sitting in the bed, tapping away on a hand-held computer, hoping I wasn’t getting any sand in the keyboard, mashing together a column. In the winter sun, still warm by the breaking surf and receding tide with gulls wheeling overhead.
My sudden burst of inspiration on the bus also brought a smile, one of those inward [url=http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/entertainment/2775817.stm]grins, thinking about the [url=http://www.newscientist.com/news/news.jsp?id=ns99993405]number of folks who’ve used T.S. Eliot’s poetry.
I popped that quote in front of the week’s horoscope mail. I doubt it’ll get much attention, but at some point, this work has to have meaning for me. Seeing those lines on the bus meant a lot to me. I’ve quoted it before to various compatriots, partners in crime, as it were, but I figure someone I call “[url=http://www.astrowhore.org]Bubba” usually misses the point. Still.
Right before I spotted the lines, I was planning on where to eat Saturday night. I know a place, on the island, not quite sawdust on the floor anymore, but the feeling is the same. The oysters are usually fresh off the boat. Doesn’t get much better than that – boat backs up to the pier, and unloads the fresh food straight into the restaurant.
“I do my best thinking on the bus” [Repo Man]