18 February 99
Quite a few years ago now, Bru's Mom gave me a nice boxed copy of The Oxford Book of English Verse. As an overview of English verse, I find the collection limited, but, the book is kept in the case by my bed, and, from time to time, I open it at random to see if anyone will speak to me.
Today: a dull, cold-- though not bitterly so-- damp, February day. A day conducive to introspection, resluting in a little light depression. Opening the book, I found these on adjacent pages:
We've trod the maze of error round,
Now, 'tis our boast that we can quell
--George Crabbe (1754-1832)
It's the not getting too excited about anything that makes me feel horribly aged. I hope I haven't spent all my passion yet. That frightens me. I remember reading All Passion Spent by Sackville-West because I found the title so morbidly fascinating. I've known great passions in my life, passions of all kinds. I've had passions that have truly burned in me. But those passions burned out. They burned hot and completely until nothing was left. The emptiness is what frightens me. I keep thinking that eventually I'll burn all of my insides out. Then what will I be?
To the Muses
Whether on Ida's shady brow
Whether in heaven ye wander fair,
Whether on crystal rocks ye rove,
How have you left the ancient love
-- William Blake (1757-1827)
My writing has been going badly-- who am I kidding? It hasn't been "going" at all! I hope the Muses come back from wherever it is they've gone-- Aruba? St. Bart's?-- because I'm stuck here in this February weather and not likely to be traveling soon. Rats. But, if you can get away, Rolling Stone's last issue (the one with Jennifer Aniston on the cover) had a list of sites:
Be sure to send me a postcard!
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