1   b   c   d   e   f   g   h   i   j   k   l   m   n   o   p   q   r   s   t   u   v   w   x   y   z   2

2004.04.12 18:11
Re: living democracy
maybe all bin Laden really wants is control of Saudi Arabia
maybe the Vatican should consider going into the movie business
maybe (fill in the blanks)
All I really know for sure is that last week Peter Jennings said Circus Maximus when he should have said Circus of Caligula and Nero.
All the news that fits the advertiser's standards.

2004.04.14 14:29
Re: this from UCLA
It seems clear that what the Palestinian students are doing is reenactionary.
Moreover, what are walls if not seminal architecturism?
"architecturalizing reenactment" sounds like a synonym for mnemonics (especially as outlined by Quintilian--reference Frances A. Yates, The Art of Memory, page 3).

2004.04.14 17:18
Re:enactionary architecturism
Reenactionary appears to be a word I invented sometime in the second half of 1999.
The first time I wrote the word architecturism was 30 January 2001 within personal notes, and the first time I wrote architecturism publicly was 28 October 2001. I may not be the first person to use this word, however, as a google search indicates a couple other people using this term, also in 2001.
It has long been my intention to compose an e-book entitled Reenactionary Architecturism. So far, I have compiled lots of material.
Here's something I read for the first time today--I'm not kidding. It was (ghost)written/published in 1913 by (Maude Mary Chester Ffoulkes) Marie Larisch, a second cousin of Ludwig and Otto:
Herrenchiemsee was a miniature Versailles, and it was here, in the Galerie des Glaces, that the King gave his ghostly dinner parties, one of which he afterwards described to my aunt, who in turn narrated the incidents and the conversations to me, although not literally in the words which follow:
Shortly before midnight, the wonderful "Galerie" glowed with the soft light of many candles which turned the crystal candelabra into chains of glittering diamonds. The dinner-table, which was decorated with gold plate and exquisite glass and flowers, was laid for thirteen guests, and at five minutes before midnight King Ludwig entered the room to await their arrival.
When the clock struck twelve, the great doors were flung open, and the Groom of the Chambers announced--Queen Marie Antoinette. Ludwig came forward to receive her, and what did he see? A beautiful woman dressed in delicate satin, her powdered hair entwined with pearls and roses, and round her neck a thin blood-red line; for the King imagined that at his bidding the Queen's spirit resumed the earthly aspect which she wore during the gorgeous days at Versailles, together with the cruel mark of the guillotine.
Louis XIV, with flowing wig and suit of stiff gold-encrusted brocade came mincingly forward on high red heels to be welcomed by his host; then Mary, Queen of Scots, lovely in black velvet, with the crimson kiss of death on her neck, looked deep into the King's eyes and enthralled his soul.
Catherine the Great, resplendent in her gorgeous robes, brought with her the taint of blood and desire, and the romantic troubadour Wolfram von Eschenbach, who followed the august lady, shivered as his sleeve inadvertently brushed her arm.
Julius Caesar, whose bald head was encircled with a laurel wreath, entered with the all-conquering Alexander, and the Emperor Constantine followed them absorbed by his vision of the Cross.
Hamlet, Prince of Denmark and the cross-grained cynic Diogenes seemed entirely out of place in that lovely glittering room, and so did the Emperor Barbarossa as he roughly acknowledged Ludwig's salutation. A solemn monk was the next arrival, and then the King looked anxious, for one guest was late, but at last the Spirit of the Mountains drifted lightly into the room. She was fair as the dawn which is only seen to perfection in the lonely places of the world, and her eyes were the deep blue of the quiet lakes. From beneath a crown of icicles her long fair hair fell over her white shoulders, and her transparent draperies were adorned with flowers and moss.
The King smiled at the Fairy, who kissed him with cold sweet lips that whispered of the purity of life far from the haunts of men; then she placed her hand upon his brow and bade him think of the forests, and the wild creatures which he loved and whose lives he held sacred.
Dinner was served, and thirteen servants waited on the guests, whose conversation was varied and often brilliant, as befitted such a gathering of the Great Ones of all Ages. But the Mountain Fairy sat by the King, and spoke of her distant home where the streams flowed swiftly over the emerald water weeds; she told him the secret which the wind tells the pine-trees in the dreary winter days, and how their resinous tears in summer are shed by the dryads imprisoned in their hearts. She made him smell the perfume of the flower-starred moss which she wore, and the enchanted King paid little attention to Marie Antoinette, who was talking trivialities about the Trianon and the Fountains of Versailles.
Finally Ludwig pledged his guests, and when the hands of the great gilt clock marked the hour of one he shattered his glass so that it could never be used to drink less noble toasts. Then silently and swiftly the ghostly diners disappeared, followed by the King.
Ludwig firmly imagined that this dinner was really attended by the illustrious dead, and his servants heightened the illusion by devouring the courses as soon as they were removed; so when the King passed through the serving room and saw that the food had really been consumed, he was more than ever convinced of the truth of his delusion.
"Ludwig occupied Herrenchimsee Palace on one occasion only: for ten nights [7 September to 16 September] in the autumn of 1885."--Wilfrid Blunt, The Dream King. Ludwig was declared insane and subsequently soon died 13 June 1886.
Reenactment is as reenactment does?
Kahn and Matta-Clark have lately been discussing architecture and cut-outs (and cut-up books). And the ghost-writer John the Baptist Piranesi has taken over Encyclopedia Ichnographica, the project initiated at Quondam.
Did you know Ludwig is close friends with T.S. Eliot?

2004.04.14 22:25
Re: "Revivalist..."
"Ludwig did not set out to copy the entire Palace of Versailles; in fact, he conceived Herrenchiemsee as something of a shell, in which only two rooms were of consequence--the State Bedroom and the Hall of Mirrors. He commissioned architect Georg Dollmann and, later, Julius Hofmann, to faithfully duplicate the center block and side wings, He eventually wished to include to longer auxiliary wings containing the chapel and court theater, but money ran short before these schemes could be executed. The king never intended that all the rooms should be completed: From the beginning, Herrenchiemsee was to be a set piece into which certain rooms were to be introduced. Their bare plaster walls, bricked up windows, and vaulted stone ceilings only served to fill out the space behind the palace's facade, providing an eerie contrast to the extravagant rooms of the piano nobile. By the fall of 1885, the palace was ready for a royal visit."
--Greg King, The Mad King: A Biography of Ludwig II of Bavaria, pp. 241-2
Earlier today, while driving to the local post office (which is within a large local shopping center, which years ago was the site of Heinz Manufacturing), I passed by what until a year or two ago was a K-Mart. For some reason the entrance to this place was wide open, and inside was an enormous, cavernous space. I thought to myself, "Gosh, the interiors of these stores are so ephemeral." Then I thought, might it not be interesting if homes were treated/designed like BIG BOX stores. Now, thinking of Herrenchiemsee, why can't all BIG BOXES look like Versailles on the outside and empty shells on the inside? Or, is that what is kind of already happening, and Ludwig was a "dreamer" just a head of his time?
I haven't been able to confirm this story yet, but, according to an older cousin of mine, what turned out to be the beginnings of NASA was in a building once within the Heinz Manufacturing complex. Sometime in the 1940s, she got a government secretarial job (because she was fluent in German) working for a Dr. Schuster (or some German name like that), who was a rocket scientist or something. She was sworn to secrecy at the time. Now, my cousin has been known to embellish things, so I really don't know how 'secret' or related to the future NASA this place was, but, it did exist, and she did work there.

2004.04.15 13:00
Re: What contemporary art will give me the best return on my investment?
Last time I was at the Trump Taj Mahal in Atlantic City was early May 2002. I took an Australian relation who was visiting me on his trip around the world (of sex). When we arrived, Simon said, "Steve, you know I was at the real Taj Mahal just over a month ago, and this hardly compares." We both laughed. Inside, I was surprised to see the place populated by lots of Sub-Continentals.
As to advise on art investment, follow Gertrude Stein--buy it when it's cheap!
And Donald when are you going to fire your hairdresser?!?
ps Do you remember the painting of the Sugar Factory on the Delaware River in Philadelphia (which building you looked at maybe buying in the early 1990s when riverboat gambling was a local topic of discussion) that I proposed selling to you (when I owned and operated venue)? I still have your 'thanks but no thanks' reply letter. I think this letter just shot way up in value. Do you want to buy it???

2004.04.15 18:27
Re: What contemporary art will give me the best return on my investment?

Little Jeff Cocoons behind Readymade in Japan with Laser Print on Transparency

2004.04.16 15:20
Re: living democracy
Just heard on the news that one of the two US soldiers that went missing a few days ago showed up on a video tape alive and speaking, but also as a hostage.
This morning I finished reading My Past by Marie Larisch. This is the book where the excerpt of Ludwig II's imaginary dinner party comes from. I found out about this book via another book about T.S. Eliot's The Waste Land. Apparently the Marie mentioned in The Waste Land is Marie Larisch, and there are other imageries in Eliot's poem that refer to Ludwig's death and southern Bavaria. My Past ends with Marie revealing what really happened regarding the assassination of Rudolph, the Crown Prince of the Austro-Hungarian Empire, and his young and brief mistress Mary Vetsera. Marie was sort of like an aristocrat un-finking Linda Tripp, and Rudolph and Mary slightly resemble Clinton and Lewinsky. Rudolph was assassinated [actually, it turns it the official reason for the death of Rudolph and Mary was their suicide pact] because he partook of a scheme to overthrow his own father, the Emperor Franz-Josef. The scandal was seen as the beginning of the end of 19th century Europe with its old aristocratic political system, an end which culminated with World War I.
What interests me here is how My Past may have influenced, or even inspired Eliot to write The Waste Land (especially because of the title of the epic poem).]
Have I these days also been reading The Waste Land II or the geography of .WL?

excerpt from My Past
One of my most interesting experiences as a young girl was my first meeting with Richard Wagner, who, as is well known, owed his ultimate recognition as a genius to the kindness and patronage of Ludwig II. The King, who was very fond of papa, one day asked him whether his fiancée, my aunt Princess Sophie of Bavaria, could meet Wagner at our house. Papa, of course, assented, and a meeting was arranged, but owing to some contretemps everybody excepting myself was out when the great man arrived. I had devoted my solitude to ransacking my mother's wardrobe to "dress up," so when I had tried on her largest crinoline, her silk dress, and her hat and jacket, I seized a small green silk-fringed umbrella, and pirouetted complacently in front of the long mirror.
Suddenly the bell rang, and conjecturing the arrival was my governess, I made for the door, opened it, and came face to face with Wagner, although I did not then know who he was. I remember him so well as a little man with a big nose who said politely, in a broad Saxon accent, "Is it here that the Duke of Bavaria lives?" I bowed, and said gravely, "Please to come in."
Wagner seemed rather nervous, and no wonder, for I looked extraordinary in my huge crinoline, and clothes which were far too large for me; but perhaps he reflected, that as our family was famed for its eccentricities, he had chanced to meet one of the "odd" members, so he followed me meekly into the drawing-room, where I left him.
An hour passed, and when my governess returned I informed her that papa's tailor was sitting in the salon, but she merely replied, "Let him wait," and directed her energies to scolding me for dressing up and telling me to "get on with my lessons."
There was no sound from where Wagner sat possessing his soul in patience, but when my mother came back and I imparted the interesting news to her that "Papa's tailor was in the salon," she straightway went to see for herself and nearly expired when she recognised Richard Wagner. Mamma was really distressed to think that he had been treated in such an offhand manner, and was profusely apologetic. Wagner, however, was highly amused, and remarked, "Some one told me to wait, and I have waited, you see."
Soon afterwards my aunt arrived with her lady-in-waiting, and I believe a very pleasant interview took place. I was not allowed to renew my acquaintance with Wagner, and in the outer darkness of my schoolroom I writhed under the maternal anger, but I have a shrewd suspicion that it was the fact of my "dressing up" which annoyed my mother most, and that Wagner's long wait was as nothing compared to her creased gown and roughly handled crinoline.
Countess Marie Larisch, My Past

The Waste Land

April is the cruellest month, breeding
Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing
Memory and desire, stirring
Dull roots with spring rain.
Winter kept us warm, covering
Earth in forgetful snow, feeding
A little life with dried tubers.
Summer surprised us, coming over the Starnbergersee
With a shower of rain; we stopped in the colonnade,
And went on in sunlight, into the Hofgarten,
And drank coffee, and talked for an hour.
Bin gar keine Russin, stamm' aus Litauen, echt deutsch.
And when we were children, staying at the archduke's,
My cousin's, he took me out on a sled,
And I was frightened. He said, Marie,
Marie, hold on tight. And down we went.
In the mountains, there you feel free.
I read, much of the night, and go south in the winter.

What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
Frisch weht der Wind
Der Heimat zu.
Mein Irisch Kind,
Wo weilest du?

'You gave me hyacinths first a year ago;
'They called me the hyacinth girl.'
—Yet when we came back, late, from the Hyacinth garden,
Your arms full, and your hair wet, I could not
Speak, and my eyes failed, I was neither
Living nor dead, and I knew nothing,
Looking into the heart of light, the silence.
Od' und leer das Meer.

Madame Sosostris, famous clairvoyante,
Had a bad cold, nevertheless
Is known to be the wisest woman in Europe,
With a wicked pack of cards. Here, said she,
Is your card, the drowned Phoenician Sailor,
(Those are pearls that were his eyes. Look!)
Here is Belladonna, the Lady of the Rocks,
The lady of situations.
Here is the man with three staves, and here the Wheel,
And here is the one-eyed merchant, and this card,
Which is blank, is something he carries on his back,
Which I am forbidden to see. I do not find
The Hanged Man. Fear death by water.
I see crowds of people, walking round in a ring.
Thank you. If you see dear Mrs. Equitone,
Tell her I bring the horoscope myself:
One must be so careful these days.

Unreal City,
Under the brown fog of a winter dawn,
A crowd flowed over London Bridge, so many,
I had not thought death had undone so many.
Sighs, short and infrequent, were exhaled,
And each man fixed his eyes before his feet.
Flowed up the hill and down King William Street,
To where Saint Mary Woolnoth kept the hours
With a dead sound on the final stroke of nine.
There I saw one I knew, and stopped him, crying 'Stetson!
'You who were with me in the ships at Mylae!
'That corpse you planted last year in your garden,
'Has it begun to sprout? Will it bloom this year?
'Or has the sudden frost disturbed its bed?
'Oh keep the Dog far hence, that's friend to men,
'Or with his nails he'll dig it up again!
'You! hypocrite lecteur!—mon semblable,—mon frère!'

The Chair she sat in, like a burnished throne,
Glowed on the marble, where the glass
Held up by standards wrought with fruited vines
From which a golden Cupidon peeped out
(Another hid his eyes behind his wing)
Doubled the flames of sevenbranched candelabra
Reflecting light upon the table as
The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it,
From satin cases poured in rich profusion;
In vials of ivory and coloured glass
Unstoppered, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes,
Unguent, powdered, or liquid—troubled, confused
And drowned the sense in odours; stirred by the air
That freshened from the window, these ascended
In fattening the prolonged candle-flames,
Flung their smoke into the laquearia,
Stirring the pattern on the coffered ceiling.
Huge sea-wood fed with copper
Burned green and orange, framed by the coloured stone,
In which sad light a carvèd dolphin swam.
Above the antique mantel was displayed
As though a window gave upon the sylvan scene
The change of Philomel, by the barbarous king
So rudely forced; yet there the nightingale
Filled all the desert with inviolable voice
And still she cried, and still the world pursues,
'Jug Jug' to dirty ears.
And other withered stumps of time
Were told upon the walls; staring forms
Leaned out, leaning, hushing the room enclosed.
Footsteps shuffled on the stair.
Under the firelight, under the brush, her hair
Spread out in fiery points
Glowed into words, then would be savagely still.

'My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.
'Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak.
'What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?
'I never know what you are thinking. Think.'

I think we are in rats' alley
Where the dead men lost their bones.

'What is that noise?'
The wind under the door.
'What is that noise now? What is the wind doing?'
Nothing again nothing.
'You know nothing? Do you see nothing? Do you remember
I remember
Those are pearls that were his eyes.
'Are you alive, or not? Is there nothing in your head?'
O O O O that Shakespeherian Rag—
It's so elegant
So intelligent
'What shall I do now? What shall I do?'
'I shall rush out as I am, and walk the street
'With my hair down, so. What shall we do to-morrow?
'What shall we ever do?'
The hot water at ten.
And if it rains, a closed car at four.
And we shall play a game of chess,
Pressing lidless eyes and waiting for a knock upon the door.

When Lil's husband got demobbed, I said—
I didn't mince my words, I said to her myself,
Now Albert's coming back, make yourself a bit smart.
He'll want to know what you done with that money he gave you
To get yourself some teeth. He did, I was there.
You have them all out, Lil, and get a nice set,
He said, I swear, I can't bear to look at you.
And no more can't I, I said, and think of poor Albert,
He's been in the army four years, he wants a good time,
And if you don't give it him, there's others will, I said.
Oh is there, she said. Something o' that, I said.
Then I'll know who to thank, she said, and give me a straight look.
If you don't like it you can get on with it, I said.
Others can pick and choose if you can't.
But if Albert makes off, it won't be for lack of telling.
You ought to be ashamed, I said, to look so antique.
(And her only thirty-one.)
I can't help it, she said, pulling a long face,
It's them pills I took, to bring it off, she said.
(She's had five already, and nearly died of young George.)
The chemist said it would be alright, but I've never been the same.
You are a proper fool, I said.
Well, if Albert won't leave you alone, there it is, I said,
What you get married for if you don't want children?
Well, that Sunday Albert was home, they had a hot gammon,
And they asked me in to dinner, to get the beauty of it hot—
Goonight Bill. Goonight Lou. Goonight May. Goonight.
Ta ta. Goonight. Goonight.
Good night, ladies, good night, sweet ladies, good night, good night.

THE river's tent is broken: the last fingers of leaf
Clutch and sink into the wet bank. The wind
Crosses the brown land, unheard. The nymphs are departed.
Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.
The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,
Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends
Or other testimony of summer nights. The nymphs are departed.
And their friends, the loitering heirs of city directors;
Departed, have left no addresses.
By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept...
Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,
Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.
But at my back in a cold blast I hear
The rattle of the bones, and chuckle spread from ear to ear.

A rat crept softly through the vegetation
Dragging its slimy belly on the bank
While I was fishing in the dull canal
On a winter evening round behind the gashouse
Musing upon the king my brother's wreck
And on the king my father's death before him.
White bodies naked on the low damp ground
And bones cast in a little low dry garret,
Rattled by the rat's foot only, year to year.
But at my back from time to time I hear
The sound of horns and motors, which shall bring
Sweeney to Mrs. Porter in the spring.
O the moon shone bright on Mrs. Porter
And on her daughter
They wash their feet in soda water
Et, O ces voix d'enfants, chantant dans la coupole!

Twit twit twit
Jug jug jug jug jug jug
So rudely forc'd.

Unreal City
Under the brown fog of a winter noon
Mr. Eugenides, the Smyrna merchant
Unshaven, with a pocket full of currants
C.i.f. London: documents at sight,
Asked me in demotic French
To luncheon at the Cannon Street Hotel
Followed by a weekend at the Metropole.

At the violet hour, when the eyes and back
Turn upward from the desk, when the human engine waits
Like a taxi throbbing waiting,
I Tiresias, though blind, throbbing between two lives,
Old man with wrinkled female breasts, can see
At the violet hour, the evening hour that strives
Homeward, and brings the sailor home from sea,
The typist home at teatime, clears her breakfast, lights
Her stove, and lays out food in tins.
Out of the window perilously spread
Her drying combinations touched by the sun's last rays,
On the divan are piled (at night her bed)
Stockings, slippers, camisoles, and stays.
I Tiresias, old man with wrinkled dugs
Perceived the scene, and foretold the rest—
I too awaited the expected guest.
He, the young man carbuncular, arrives,
A small house agent's clerk, with one bold stare,
One of the low on whom assurance sits
As a silk hat on a Bradford millionaire.
The time is now propitious, as he guesses,
The meal is ended, she is bored and tired,
Endeavours to engage her in caresses
Which still are unreproved, if undesired.
Flushed and decided, he assaults at once;
Exploring hands encounter no defence;
His vanity requires no response,
And makes a welcome of indifference.
(And I Tiresias have foresuffered all
Enacted on this same divan or bed;
I who have sat by Thebes below the wall
And walked among the lowest of the dead.)
Bestows on final patronising kiss,
And gropes his way, finding the stairs unlit...

She turns and looks a moment in the glass,
Hardly aware of her departed lover;
Her brain allows one half-formed thought to pass:
'Well now that's done: and I'm glad it's over.'
When lovely woman stoops to folly and
Paces about her room again, alone,
She smoothes her hair with automatic hand,
And puts a record on the gramophone.

'This music crept by me upon the waters'
And along the Strand, up Queen Victoria Street.
O City city, I can sometimes hear
Beside a public bar in Lower Thames Street,
The pleasant whining of a mandoline
And a clatter and a chatter from within
Where fishmen lounge at noon: where the walls
Of Magnus Martyr hold
Inexplicable splendour of Ionian white and gold.

The river sweats
Oil and tar
The barges drift
With the turning tide
Red sails
To leeward, swing on the heavy spar.
The barges wash
Drifting logs
Down Greenwich reach
Past the Isle of Dogs.
Weialala leia
Wallala leialala

Elizabeth and Leicester
Beating oars
The stern was formed
A gilded shell
Red and gold
The brisk swell
Rippled both shores
Southwest wind
Carried down stream
The peal of bells
White towers
Weialala leia
Wallala leialala

'Trams and dusty trees.
Highbury bore me. Richmond and Kew
Undid me. By Richmond I raised my knees
Supine on the floor of a narrow canoe.'
'My feet are at Moorgate, and my heart
Under my feet. After the event
He wept. He promised "a new start".
I made no comment. What should I resent?'
'On Margate Sands.
I can connect
Nothing with nothing.
The broken fingernails of dirty hands.
My people humble people who expect
la la

To Carthage then I came

Burning burning burning burning
O Lord Thou pluckest me out
O Lord Thou pluckest


PHLEBAS the Phoenician, a fortnight dead,
Forgot the cry of gulls, and the deep seas swell
And the profit and loss.
A current under sea
Picked his bones in whispers. As he rose and fell
He passed the stages of his age and youth
Entering the whirlpool.
Gentile or Jew
O you who turn the wheel and look to windward,
Consider Phlebas, who was once handsome and tall as you.

AFTER the torchlight red on sweaty faces
After the frosty silence in the gardens
After the agony in stony places
The shouting and the crying
Prison and place and reverberation
Of thunder of spring over distant mountains
He who was living is now dead
We who were living are now dying
With a little patience

Here is no water but only rock
Rock and no water and the sandy road
The road winding above among the mountains
Which are mountains of rock without water
If there were water we should stop and drink
Amongst the rock one cannot stop or think
Sweat is dry and feet are in the sand
If there were only water amongst the rock
Dead mountain mouth of carious teeth that cannot spit
Here one can neither stand nor lie nor sit
There is not even silence in the mountains
But dry sterile thunder without rain
There is not even solitude in the mountains
But red sullen faces sneer and snarl
From doors of mudcracked houses If there were water
And no rock
If there were rock
And also water
And water
A spring
A pool among the rock
If there were the sound of water only
Not the cicada
And dry grass singing
But sound of water over a rock
Where the hermit-thrush sings in the pine trees
Drip drop drip drop drop drop drop
But there is no water

Who is the third who walks always beside you?
When I count, there are only you and I together
But when I look ahead up the white road
There is always another one walking beside you
Gliding wrapt in a brown mantle, hooded
I do not know whether a man or a woman
—But who is that on the other side of you?

What is that sound high in the air
Murmur of maternal lamentation
Who are those hooded hordes swarming
Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth
Ringed by the flat horizon only
What is the city over the mountains
Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air
Falling towers
Jerusalem Athens Alexandria
Vienna London

A woman drew her long black hair out tight
And fiddled whisper music on those strings
And bats with baby faces in the violet light
Whistled, and beat their wings
And crawled head downward down a blackened wall
And upside down in air were towers
Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours
And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.

In this decayed hole among the mountains
In the faint moonlight, the grass is singing
Over the tumbled graves, about the chapel
There is the empty chapel, only the wind's home.
It has no windows, and the door swings,
Dry bones can harm no one.
Only a cock stood on the rooftree
Co co rico co co rico
In a flash of lightning. Then a damp gust
Bringing rain

Ganga was sunken, and the limp leaves
Waited for rain, while the black clouds
Gathered far distant, over Himavant.
The jungle crouched, humped in silence.
Then spoke the thunder
Datta: what have we given?
My friend, blood shaking my heart
The awful daring of a moment's surrender
Which an age of prudence can never retract
By this, and this only, we have existed
Which is not to be found in our obituaries
Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider
Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor
In our empty rooms
Dayadhvam: I have heard the key
Turn in the door once and turn once only
We think of the key, each in his prison
Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison
Only at nightfall, aetherial rumours
Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus
Damyata: The boat responded
Gaily, to the hand expert with sail and oar
The sea was calm, your heart would have responded
Gaily, when invited, beating obedient
To controlling hands

I sat upon the shore
Fishing, with the arid plain behind me
Shall I at least set my lands in order?

London Bridge is falling down falling down falling down

Poi s'ascose nel foco che gli affina
Quando fiam ceu chelidon
—O swallow swallow
Le Prince d'Aquitaine à la tour abolie
These fragments I have shored against my ruins
Why then Ile fit you. Hieronymo's mad againe.
Datta. Dayadhvam. Damyata.

Shantih shantih shantih

T. S. Eliot



Stephen Lauf © 2020.09.18