CHAPTER I: Down The Rabbit Hole

cf. photograph by Nik Shuliahin via Unsplash (edit)

Down, down, down. Would the fall never come to an end! “I wonder how many miles I’ve fallen by this time?” she said aloud. “I must be getting somewhere near the center of the earth…”

— Lewis Carroll, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland

I Don’t Understand

The Auroras of Autumn

cf. photograph by Lefty Kasdaglis via Unsplash (edit)

Farewell to an idea . . .
A darkness gathers though it does not fall
And the whiteness grows less vivid on the wall.

— Wallace Stevens, The Auroras of Autumn (excerpt)

One Of These Things First

“What is wrong with woollen gloves?”

cf. photograph by Joshua Coleman via Unsplash (edit)

The possibility of having [Ulysses] published in a more regular way came up again in June 1918, when Roger Fry suggested Miss Weaver call on Leonard and Virginia Woolf to induce them to publish the book at their new Hogarth Press. Virginia Woolf noted in her diary the incongruous appearance of Miss Weaver as the ‘buttoned-up’ and woollen-gloved missionary for a book that ‘reeled with indecency.’*

*Miss Weaver, when the passage was quoted to her, demanded with acerbity, ‘What is wrong with woollen gloves?’

— Richard Ellmann, James Joyce
 

“(Shine Your) Light Love Hope” by Bob Mould

Flat Tire (The Truth)

cf. LIFE, 1972

“…For you to wait like that was stupid and quite impermissible. But you aren’t angry with me, are you, because you waited in vain?”

“Well, it was rather hard, Clavdia, even for a man with detached passions — hard on me and hard-hearted of you to come back with him, because of course you knew from Behrens that I was still here, waiting for you. But I’ve told you that I think of that night simply as a dream, our dream…”

— Thomas Mann, The Magic Mountain
 

Flat Tire (The Truth) by Athenaeum

Donna, donna, dark

cf. video by Coverr-Free-Footage via Pixabay (detail) (edit)

Donna, donna, dark,
Stooping in indigo gown
And cloudy constellations,
Conceal yourself or disclose
Fewest things to the lover —
A hand that bears a thick-leaved fruit,
A pungent bloom against your shade.

— Wallace Stevens, O Florida, Venereal Soil (excerpt)

Hot Cherie

One Art

cf. Gustave Caillebotte, “Interior, Woman at the Window” (detail) (1880) and photograph via unsplash (edit)

The art of losing isn’t hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster…

— Elizabeth Bishop, One Art

“Life Goes On Without You” — Jill Sobule

“Now Close the Windows”

Le feu follet (1963)

Now close the windows and hush all the fields;
If the trees must, let them silently toss;
No bird is singing now, and if there is,
Be it my loss.

It will be long ere the marshes resume,
It will be long ere the earliest bird:
So close the windows and not hear the wind,
But see all wind-stirred.

— Robert Frost

“It Wouldn’t Have Made Any Difference” — Alison Krauss

The Calling

edited composite video: live action + Pudding Lane Productions

—It is this hour of a day in mid June, Stephen said, begging with a swift glance their hearing. The flag is up on the playhouse by the bankside… Canvasclimbers who sailed with Drake chew their sausages among the groundlings…

—Shakespeare has left the huguenot’s house in Silver street and walks by the swanmews along the riverbank. But he does not stay to feed the pen chivying her game of cygnets towards the rushes. The swan of Avon has other thoughts…

— Joyce, Ulysses

“The Calling” — Mary Chapin Carpenter

“open tuning (august, 1981)”

cf. photograph by Genessa Panainte via Unsplash (edit)

open tuning (august, 1981)

under the proscenium arch
seeming you near me
staccato heartbeats
inspired and altered
what chord is that?
and I answered
I don’t
even
really
know

—J.S.

“Cinnamon Girl” — Neil Young

I come in last night about half past ten…

cf. Library of Congress Prints and Photographs Division, “Man sitting with dog on front porch as woman looks through door…” (between 1860 and 1930)

“Move It On Over” — George Thorogood and the Destroyers

“I’ve long wanted to ask you one thing.”

“Ah! I’ve scribbled all over the table!” she said, and, laying down the chalk, she made a movement as though to get up.

“What! shall I be left alone—without her?” he thought with horror, and he took the chalk. “Wait a minute,” he said, sitting down to the table. “I’ve long wanted to ask you one thing.”

He looked straight into her caressing, though frightened eyes.

“Please, ask it.”

“Here,” he said; and he wrote the initial letters, w. y. t. m. i. c. n. b. d. t. m. n. o. t.?

Leo Tolstoy, Anna Karenina (Part IV, Chapter 13) (Tr. Constance Garnett)

Vanessa Williams – “Save The Best For Last”

A Modern Aeneid

cf. photograph by Gabriel Laroche (edit) via Unsplash

Muse, tell me why, for what attaint of her deity, or in what vexation, did the Queen of heaven drive one so excellent in goodness to circle through so many afflictions, to face so many toils? Is anger so fierce in celestial spirits?

— Virgil, Aeneid
 

“Carry On My Wayward Son” by Samantha Loren

Meanwhile across town…

cf. Edward Hopper, “Nighthawks” (detail) (1942) and Paul Gauguin, “The Siesta” (detail) (ca. 1892–94)

Poor Wisdom’s chance
Against a glance
Is now as weak as ever.

— Thomas Moore, “The Time Iʼve Lost in Wooing” (excerpt)

“Black Cow” – Steely Dan

impressionism

cf. Jane Reece, “Interior” (edit) (ca. 1922)

but the rain
Is full of ghosts tonight, that tap and sigh
Upon the glass and listen for reply,
And in my heart there stirs a quiet pain

— Edna St. Vincent Millay, “What lips my lips have kissed, and where, and why” (excerpt)

“Only A Memory” – The Smithereens

reverie

cf. “Reflections”, after Bayard Jones (edit) (ca. 1903)

I held a jewel in my fingers
And went to sleep.
The day was warm, and winds were prosy;
I said: “’T will keep.”

I woke and chid my honest fingers,—
The gem was gone;
And now an amethyst remembrance
Is all I own.

—Emily Dickinson

“I’m Turning Around” – Gentle Giant

Ode to a Nightingale

cf. Eugene Aizelin, “Mignon” (photograph by S. Almquist, ca. 1921) and
John H. Stocksdale, “Margaret” (ca. 1920)

Was it a vision, or a waking dream?
Fled is that music:—Do I wake or sleep?

— Keats, Ode to a Nightingale

“Never Here” – Elastica

“the bends”

cf. photograph by Sam Soffes via Unsplash (edit)

the bends

under
fog of fluorescence
this watch said
5:07
Wednesday
26
November
1986
grey noises
office
voices
footsteps
windows
already dark
radiating winter
compressioned
and
descending

—J.S.
 

Patty Griffin – “Rain”

As You Like It

cf. LIFE, 1972

PHOEBE:
Good shepherd, tell this youth what ’tis to love.

SILVIUS:
It is to be all made of sighs and tears,
It is to be all made of faith and service,
It is to be all made of fantasy,
All made of passion and all made of wishes,
All adoration, duty, and observance,
All humbleness, all patience and impatience,
All purity, all trial, all observance…

As You Like It
 

“Unforgettable” by Nat King Cole

CHAPTER 2

cf. video by Coverr-Free-Footage via Pixabay

The remote power of that voice, those old eyes full of tears, that noble and ruined face, had affected her extraordinarily she said. But perhaps what affected her was the shadow, the still living shadow of a great passion in the man’s heart.

Allegre remarked to her calmly: “He has been a little mad all his life.”

—Joseph Conrad, The Arrow of Gold

The Rubinoos – “The Girl”

Barter

cf. LIFE, 1968 and Vincent van Gogh, “Self-Portrait with a Straw Hat” (1887)

Spend all you have for loveliness,
Buy it and never count the cost;
For one white singing hour of peace
Count many a year of strife well lost,
And for a breath of ecstasy
Give all you have been, or could be.

—Sara Teasdale, Barter (excerpt)
 

“Crazy Crazy Nights” by Kiss

Hyperion Summer

cf. Thomas A. Morgan, “After The Dip” (edit) (ca. 1904)

And all those acts which Deity supreme
Doth ease its heart of love in.—I am gone
Away from my own bosom: I have left
My strong identity, my real self,
Somewhere between the throne, and where I sit
Here on this spot of earth. Search, Thea, search!
Open thine eyes eterne, and sphere them round
Upon all space: space starr’d, and lorn of light;
Space region’d with life-air; and barren void;
Spaces of fire, and all the yawn of hell.—
Search, Thea, search! and tell me, if thou seest
A certain shape or shadow, making way
With wings or chariot fierce to repossess
A heaven he lost erewhile…

—John Keats, Hyperion
 

“Missing” by Everything But The Girl

CHAPTER I: Arrival

cf. John Adams Whipple, “Cornelius Conway Felton with His Hat and Coat” (detail) (ca. 1850) and
video by Activedia via Pixabay

An unassuming young man was travelling, in midsummer, from his native city of Hamburg to Davos-Platz in the Canton of the Grisons, on a three weeks’ visit.

From Hamburg to Davos is a long journey — too long, indeed, for so brief a stay…

—Thomas Mann, The Magic Mountain
 

“Point Of Know Return” by Kansas

“back issue (june, 1981)”

cf. photograph by Tyler Springhetti via Unsplash

back issue (june, 1981)

on the prudential tower escalator
the wind
and your smile
blithe spirits
moving beyond me

—J.S.
 

“I’d Really Love To See You Tonight” by England Dan & J.F. Coley

They Shut Me Up In Prose

cf. Jean Antoine Houdon, “Bather” (1782) and video by Vimeo-Free-Videos via Pixabay

They shut me up in Prose –
As when a little Girl
They put me in the Closet –
Because they liked me “still” –

Still! Could themself have peeped –
And seen my Brain – go round –
They might as wise have lodged a Bird
For Treason – in the Pound –

Himself has but to will
And easy as a Star
Abolish his Captivity –
And laugh – No more have I –

—Emily Dickinson
 

Aretha Franklin – “Respect”

Wallflower

cf. video by Ventus17 via Pixabay

Why, look you now, how unworthy a thing you make of me!
You would play upon me;
You would seem to know my stops;
You would pluck out the heart of my mystery;
You would sound me from my lowest note to the top of my compass;
and there is much music, excellent voice, in this little organ;
Yet cannot you make it speak…

Hamlet

“Wallflower” – Splender

“returner”

cf. photographs by Noel Y. C., Artful Dioramas of North American Mammals at the American Museum of Natural History and Warren Wong via unsplash

returner

into the diorama
quickly by the buffalo
down the mountain
along the freeway
I flag down the driver
of a 1965 ford fairlane

—J.S.
 

“The Middle Ages” by Mary Chapin Carpenter

“fluorescence”

cf. Finnish Museum of Photography, “Osuusliike Mäki-Matin uuden liikekeskuksen ravintolasali.” (1958)

fluorescence

a long time ago
someone told me
reflected light waves travel out into space
eternally
if you turn around
from someplace far away
you will see
the past
again
eternally
now
I understand

—J.S.

“Sweet Baby” – George Duke / Stanley Clarke

“errata”

cf. UL Digital Library, “Interior of Foundation Building”

errata

so much milk spilled
so much bridged water
so much greener grass
so much silver lining
so much unglittered gold—
so much unsaid
so much unsaid,
even now

–J.S.

Ringo Starr – “Photograph”

The Voice

cf. photographs via Unsplash and video (rain) by Vimeo-Free-Videos via Pixabay

Or is it only the breeze, in its listlessness
Travelling across the wet mead to me here,
You being ever dissolved to wan wistlessness,
Heard no more again far or near?

Thomas Hardy, The Voice (excerpt)

Watermark

cf. Antoine-Émile Bourdelle, “Irene Millet” (1917) and Edouard Manet, A Bar at the Folies-Bergère (1882)

Yet diaries do, indirectly, lay claim to a certain kind of immortality, projecting a voice beyond the grave. Alice James’s diary was her dialogue with the future. It gave form to her sense of ironic detachment. And it created a communion in her lonely life…

—Jean Strouse, Alice James: A Biography

“Watermark” – Art Garfunkel

Love Won’t Let Me Wait

cf. Pompeo Batoni, “Portrait of a Young Man” (ca. 1760–65) and
image by Clker-Free-Vector-Images via Pixabay and
video by Felix_Broennimann (“Star, Long Exposure”) via Pixabay and
video by InspiredImages (“Lava Lamp”) via Pixabay

 

“Love Won’t Let Me Wait” by Major Harris

A Turning Point

cf. Photograph by The Creative Exchange via Unsplash

One sound is saying, ‘You are not worth tuppence,
But neither is anybody. Watch it! Be severe.’
The other says, ‘Go with it! Give and swerve.
You are everything you feel beside the river.’

—Seamus Heaney, Casting and Gathering (excerpt)

On Revisiting the Banks of the Wye

cf. Provincial Archives of Alberta, “Vermilion Agricultural and Vocational College” (1970)

For thou art with me here upon the banks
Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend,
My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch
The language of my former heart, and read
My former pleasures in the shooting lights
Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while
May I behold in thee what I was once…

—William Wordsworth, Lines Composed a Few Miles above Tintern Abbey…

Part One: Life

cf. Library Company of Philadelphia, “Frankford Creek and Vicinity, Winter” (ca. late 19th century) and
photograph by Peter Gonzalez via Unsplash

Ashes denote that fire was;
Respect the grayest pile
For the departed creature’s sake
That hovered there awhile.

Fire exists the first in light,
And then consolidates,—
Only the chemist can disclose
Into what carbonates.

Emily Dickinson

Another Lycidas

One hand she press’d upon that aching spot
Where beats the human heart, as if just there,
Though an immortal, she felt cruel pain…

Keats, “The Fall of Hyperion”


cf. Antonio Gai, “Meleager” (1735) and Mathew Brady’s studio, “Unidentified Man” (ca. 1860)

Part III: It is the autumnal mood with a difference.

cf. Katsushika Hokusai, “Under the Wave off Kanagawa…” (ca. 1830–32)

Oh, never this whelming east wind swells
But it seems like the sea’s return
To the ancient lands where it left the shells
Before the age of the fern;
And it seems like the time when after doubt
Our love came back amain.
Oh, come forth into the storm and rout
And be my love in the rain.

—Robert Frost, “A Line-storm Song” (excerpt)

“With me?” I said, “With me?”

cf. photograph (musician) by Andrew Robles via Unsplash

I showed her heights she never saw—
“Wouldst climb?” I said,
She said “Not so”—
“With me?” I said, “With me?”

—Emily Dickinson
 

“Shadows of the Night” (Live) by Pat Benatar

“Keats, walk a hundred yards over the rim”

cf. photograph by Felix Russell-Saw via Unsplash

“Keats, walk a hundred yards over the rim”

Keats,
leave the Piazza di Spagna
walk a hundred yards over the rim
I have your penicillin
I won’t let you go
there are more poems to write
and she is still waiting for you

—J.S.
(cf. “The Twilight Zone”, Season 2, Episode 23, 1961)

Hyperion

cf. Alfred Stieglitz, “An Icy Night” (1898) and video by CAMERAGE via Pixabay

Deep in the shady sadness of a vale
Far sunken from the healthy breath of morn,
Far from the fiery noon, and eve’s one star,
Sat gray-hair’d Saturn, quiet as a stone,
Still as the silence round about his lair;
Forest on forest hung about his head
Like cloud on cloud. No stir of air was there,
Not so much life as on a summer’s day
Robs not one light seed from the feather’d grass,
But where the dead leaf fell, there did it rest.
A stream went voiceless by, still deadened more
By reason of his fallen divinity
Spreading a shade: the Naiad ‘mid her reeds
Press’d her cold finger closer to her lips…

—Keats, Hyperion (excerpt)

Panic Station

cf. photograph by Andy Beales via Unsplash (edited)

It was very early in the morning, the streets were clean and deserted, I was on my way to the train station. When I compared the time on a clock tower with that on my pocket watch and realized that it was already much later than I thought, I really had to rush, the shock at this discovery made me suddenly uncertain as to the right direction, I didn’t yet know my way all that well in this city…

— Franz Kafka, “Give It Up!”

The White Carnelian

cf. piano photograph by Free-Photos via Pixabay

Frequently he held in his hand a little present that Fanny Brawne had given him — a small, oval, white carnelian. It was the only tangible thing left to remind him of their engagement; for he would still not have her letters opened. Words struck home to him too powerfully.

—Walter Jackson Bate, John Keats
 

Elton John – “Love Lies Bleeding”

“What seest thou else in the dark backward and abysm of time?”

cf. LIFE, 1968

MIRANDA:
‘Tis far off
And rather like a dream than an assurance
That my remembrance warrants. Had I not
Four or five women once that tended me?

PROSPERO:
Thou hadst, and more, Miranda. But how is it
That this lives in thy mind? What seest thou else
In the dark backward and abysm of time?

—Shakespeare, The Tempest

The Cocktail Party

cf. LIFE, 1964

UNIDENTIFIED GUEST: Your wife has left you?

EDWARD: Without warning, of course;
Just when she’d arranged a cocktail party.
She’d gone when I came in, this afternoon.
She left a note to say that she was leaving me;
But I don’t know where she’s gone…

—T.S. Eliot, The Cocktail Party

“My wearied fancy turns for ease to thee…”

cf. video by Coverr-Free-Footage via Pixabay

And now, my Marian, from its shackles free,
My wearied fancy turns for ease to thee;
To thee, my compass through life’s varied stream,
My constant object, and unfailing theme…

—Warren Hastings, “Ode to his Wife” (Written in Patna, 1784)

Washington Square

cf. Corson Hirschfeld, “Sporting Life” (Cincinnati Magazine, 1977)

Morris looked vaguely round him, and gave a deep sigh. “Well, I was in hopes that we might still have been friends.”

“I meant to tell you, by my aunt, in answer to your message — if you had waited for an answer — that it was unnecessary for you to come in that hope.”

—Henry James, Washington Square

Chapter 9

cf. Art Hanson, “Student at Work at Senior High School…” (ca. 1975)

And as I sat there brooding on the old, unknown world, I thought of Gatsby’s wonder when he first picked out the green light at the end of Daisy’s dock…

—F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

Chapter 4

cf. photograph by Josh Felise via Unsplash

When I came opposite her house that morning her white roadster was beside the curb, and she was sitting in it with a lieutenant I had never seen before. They were so engrossed in each other that she didn’t see me until I was five feet away…

—F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

“Love like a shadow flies when substance love pursues; pursuing that that flies, and flying what pursues.”

cf. David Vinckboons, “A Young Man Pursuing His Beloved into the Woods” (ca. 1621)

The Box Tops – “Cry Like a Baby”                                             Utopia – “Crybaby”

Chapter 6 (Continued)

cf. photograph by Peter Mason via Unsplash

What was it up there in the song that seemed to be calling her back inside? What would happen now in the dim, incalculable hours?

—F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby
 

“Because The Night” – Patti Smith

“How is it that the clouds still hang on you?”

cf. J. Craig Annan, “Au Jardin” (ca. 1899)

A crowd will gather, and not know it walks the very street
Whereon a thing once walked that seemed a burning cloud.

—Yeats, Fallen Majesty (excerpt)

She’s a cloud
That hangs above my world…

“Tarry, delight, so seldom met”

cf. LIFE, 1971

Tarry, delight, so seldom met,
So sure to perish, tarry still;
Forbear to cease or languish yet,
Though soon you must and will.

By Sestos town, in Hero’s tower,
On Hero’s heart Leander lies;
The signal torch has burned its hour
And sputters as it dies.

Beneath him, in the nighted firth,
Between two continents complain
The seas he swam from earth to earth
And he must swim again.

—A. E. Housman

“I refute it THUS.”

cf. Paul Stang, “Group portrait at Lushågen” (ca. 1910)

After we came out of the church, we stood talking for some time together of Bishop Berkeley’s ingenious sophistry to prove the non-existence of matter, and that every thing in the universe is merely ideal. I observed, that though we are satisfied his doctrine is not true, it is impossible to refute it. I never shall forget the alacrity with which Johnson answered, striking his foot with mighty force against a large stone, till he rebounded from it, “I refute it THUS.”

Boswell’s Life Of Johnson

Save It For A Rainy Day

cf. “Stencil” (Japan, 19th century)

“It’s stopped raining.”

“Has it?” When he realized what I was talking about, that there were twinkle-bells of sunshine in the room, he smiled like a weather man, like an ecstatic patron of recurrent light, and repeated the news to Daisy. “What do you think of that? It’s stopped raining.”

“I’m glad, Jay.” Her throat, full of aching, grieving beauty, told only of her unexpected joy.

—F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

“Memory, hither come”

cf. photograph by Eric Nopanen via Unsplash

Memory, hither come,
And tune your merry notes;
And, while upon the wind,
Your music floats,
I’ll pore upon the stream,
Where sighing lovers dream,
And fish for fancies as they pass
Within the watery glass.

I’ll drink of the clear stream,
And hear the linnet’s song;
And there I’ll lie and dream
The day along:
And, when night comes, I’ll go
To places fit for woe,
Walking along the darken’d valley,
With silent Melancholy.

—William Blake

“You have a soul in you of rare quality, an artist’s nature; never let it starve for lack of what it needs.”

cf. photograph by Alice Moore via Unsplash

“You have a soul in you of rare quality, an artist’s nature; never let it starve for lack of what it needs.”

—Proust, Swann’s Way

“It seemed on one March afternoon that I had lost every single thing I wanted…”

cf. Erik Calonius, “…Subway Car” (1973)

The first time was twenty years ago, when I left Princeton in junior year with a complaint diagnosed as malaria. It transpired, through an X-ray taken a dozen years later, that it had been tuberculosis—a mild case, and after a few months of rest I went back to college… To me college would never be the same. There were to be no badges of pride, no medals, after all. It seemed on one March afternoon that I had lost every single thing I wanted… A man does not recover from such jolts—he becomes a different person, and, eventually, the new person finds new things to care about…

— F. Scott Fitzgerald, “Pasting It Together”

Think Of Laura

cf. Photograph by Annie Spratt via Unsplash

“Laura, illustrious by her own virtues, and long celebrated by my verses, I beheld for the first time, in my early youth, on the 6th of April, 1327, about the first hour of the day, in the church of Saint Claire in Avignon: and in the same city, in the same month of April, the same day and hour, in the year 1348, this light of my life was withdrawn from the world while I was at Verona, ignorant, alas! of what had befallen me.”

—Petrarch’s inscription in his copy of Virgil
 

“Think Of Laura” by Christopher Cross

‘Tis almost morning; I would have thee gone…

cf. Photograph by Arnel Hasanovic via Unsplash

‘Tis almost morning; I would have thee gone…

Romeo and Juliet

Dance you into daylight…

 

“Rock With You” • The Reflex Re√ision by The Reflex

“Some woman, who knows what that self was, in whom it still lives a little.”

cf. photograph by Yoann Boyer via Unsplash

“…the situation of the man of genius who, in some accursed hour of his youth, has bartered away the fondest vision of that youth and lives ever afterwards in the shadow of the bitterness of the regret…the fancy of his recovering a little of the lost joy, of the Dead Self, in his intercourse with some person, some woman, who knows what that self was, in whom it still lives a little.”

The Notebooks of Henry James

“His heart is a lute strung tight; As soon as one touches it, it resounds.”

cf. LIFE, 1969

“Son coeur est un luth suspendu;
Sitôt qu’on le touche il résonne.”
–de Béranger.

–epigraph from Edgar Allan Poe, The Fall of the House of Usher
 

“Presto in F Major” by Silvius Leopold Weiss performed by John H. Schneiderman on a baroque lute

Blues

cf. Edward Fletcher Stevens, “The American hospital of the twentieth century…” (1918) and
treetreeplant, Vancouver rainstorm August 29 2013 – YouTube

Blues

I sat on the edge of the bed

in the dark

spotlight sheet of rain traveling down the street

I remembered another night

when I looked at the rain

a long time ago

at home

–J.S.

You can’t get off this wheel of karma

cf. D.A. Sigerist, “Two men and a woman dancing three hand reel” (ca. 1905)

LAVINIA: Stop! I want you to explain the telegram.

JULIA: Explain the telegram? What do you think, Alex?

ALEX: No, Julia, we can’t explain the telegram.

LAVINIA: I am sure that you could explain the telegram.
I don’t know why. But it seems to me that yesterday
I started some machine, that goes on working,
And I cannot stop it; no, it’s not like a machine—
Or if it’s a machine, someone else is running it.
But who? Somebody is always interfering …
I don’t feel free … and yet I started it …

–T. S. Eliot, The Cocktail Party

Time Passes (To The Lighthouse)

cf. Jody Claborn, “Lover of Light…” (2016 ) and Robb Hannawacker, “NW Storm” (2014)

Time Passes

“Well, we must wait for the future to show,” said Mr. Bankes, coming in from the terrace.
“It’s almost too dark to see,” said Andrew, coming up from the beach.
“One can hardly tell which is the sea and which is the land,” said Prue.
“Do we leave that light burning?” said Lily as they took their coats off indoors.
“No,” said Prue, “not if every one’s in.”
“Andrew,” she called back, “just put out the light in the hall.”
One by one the lamps were all extinguished, except that Mr. Carmichael, who liked to lie awake a little reading Virgil, kept his candle burning rather longer than the rest.

So with the lamps all put out, the moon sunk, and a thin rain drumming on the roof a downpouring of immense darkness began. Nothing, it seemed, could survive the flood, the profusion of darkness which, creeping in at keyholes and crevices, stole round window blinds, came into bedrooms, swallowed up here a jug and basin, there a bowl of red and yellow dahlias, there the sharp edges and firm bulk of a chest of drawers. Not only was furniture confounded; there was scarcely anything left of body or mind by which one could say, “This is he” or “This is she.” Sometimes a hand was raised as if to clutch something or ward off something, or somebody groaned, or somebody laughed aloud as if sharing a joke with nothingness.

—Virginia Woolf, To the Lighthouse
 

Chorus sine nomine: Samuel Barber – Agnus Dei (Adagio for Strings)

When I Get My Plane

cf. Patricia D. Duncan, “Former Home of Aviatrix Amelia Earhart…” (1974)

You cannot put a fire out;
A thing that can ignite
Can go, itself, without a fan
Upon the slowest night…

–Emily Dickinson
 

Nazz – “When I Get My Plane”

“I have of late turned my thoughts with a very useless earnestness upon past incidents.”

cf. Cincinnati Magazine, 1989 and Lightning : Calvin Company

“My mind is unsettled and my memory confused. I have of late turned my thoughts with a very useless earnestness upon past incidents. I have yet got no command over my thoughts; an unpleasing incident is almost certain to hinder my rest…”

—Johnson’s diary quoted in Boswell’s Life of Johnson

Ghosts appear and fade away…

 

Colin Hay – “Overkill”

#9 Dream

cf. 1977 TV Commercial

…at night, if I succeeded in going to sleep, then it was as though the memory of Albertine had been the drug that had procured my sleep, whereas the cessation of its influence would awaken me. I thought all the time of Albertine while I was asleep. It was a special sleep of her own that she gave me, and one in which, moreover, I should no longer have been at liberty, as when awake, to think of other things. Sleep and the memory of her were the two substances which I must mix together and take at one draught in order to put myself to sleep.

—Marcel Proust, In Search of Lost Time

“Her eye discourses; I will answer it…”

cf. Gustav Kalhammer, “View from Café Heinrichhof…” (1911)

Her eye discourses; I will answer it.
I am too bold, ’tis not to me she speaks:
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do entreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres till they return.
What if her eyes were there, they in her head?
The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,
As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven
Would through the airy region stream so bright
That birds would sing and think it were not night.
See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
O, that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek!

Romeo and Juliet

“Between midnight and dawn, when the past is all deception…”

cf. Home Movie PA 000111 and photograph by Kevin Lee via Unsplash

Between midnight and dawn, when the past is all deception,
The future futureless, before the morning watch
When time stops and time is never ending…

–T.S. Eliot, The Dry Salvages

“Open, unlidded eye of golden day! O marching light…”

CHORUS:
Now the long blade of the sun, lying
Level east to west, touches with glory
Thebes of the Seven Gates. Open, unlidded
Eye of golden day! O marching light…

—Sophocles, Antigone (Tr. by Dudley Fitts and Robert Fitzgerald)

Traveling down the sandy track
Compass in hand, guitar on my back…

 


cf. photograph by Ben White (edit) via Unsplash

“His life had been confused and disordered since then…”

cf. photograph by Henrique Félix via Unsplash

He talked a lot about the past and I gathered that he wanted to recover something, some idea of himself perhaps, that had gone into loving Daisy. His life had been confused and disordered since then, but if he could once return to a certain starting place and go over it all slowly, he could find out what that thing was….

–F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby

I get the same old dreams same time every night…