Come
As a friend.
I have spoken myself into a corner and now it appears I can only sing and dance my way out.
Cherubino is not engaged in a masquerade, for the logic of masquerade presupposes a fixity of reference that is temporarily suspended.
Let me present you with a young Prufrock,
Who itches for and from all greener pastures.
Come such a long way down from distant Porlock,
And here, around, he tows his beaten horse.
Run off now, little man, go run around outside
In light, on fire, then fall in love with a breeze,
But only an hour at a time, to expire on the tiles.
To die, then cover up and dream on endlessly.
It’s clear, he’ll always be returning here.
The present can’t become unless he acts
The future can’t be here if he can’t see her
So, still more dead, he beats the beaten track,
Resign to life, forsake a love deserved.
Pursue your love, forsake a life deserved.
Who makes a cloudy day sunny,
Who makes the bees think of honey.
Who wears the same stunning dress each day,
Who soils a shirt held dear till one day all must be cast into a lonely grave.
I am no prophet and here is no great matter.
He whitens walls and she delivers letters.
They vie for who will break their gazes first.
The girl, the boy and Jacob’s metal ladder;
For now, however, it is purely hers.
Now and forever,
While leaning in and holding fast to it.
Now, fool, go write for her that string of numbers.
No, still not looking, obviously, you idiot.
What is about to happen?
Life is strange and exciting;
Death, banal and common.
Why don’t you come in? Only
Then you can look out and see.
I see.
I’m looking at the back of a man’s head.
Am I to follow him?
The man’s hands are like my own more worn.
Am I next?
It’s my head. Hey—where are we going?
Snap.
Into the fire!
Snap.
I want off this ride!
No, you don’t.
We get up on high, on a ladder,
Then fall and never quite get better.
The first begotten of the dead.
The man Henri Bergson thought dead before his time.
Not gone or even quite forgotten (yet),
And yet.
Yes, God is real,
Yes, Fate is real,
And Death is still
For ever and ever.
Not now. Now, leave,
And then come back.
I’m here blowing on embers.
Give it time and I’ll be fine.
It’s not over, I say!
It’s hard to say.
It will be just like old times!
It won’t be, but that too is okay.
You still feel warm to me,
More warm than others do.
Only later did I figure out what I meant by it.