Jeff—Saturday
It's been one hell of an interesting week. Perhaps one day soon I'll get to tell you all about it. But for now there's no way I dare put pen (or fingers) to paper (or keyboard) lest my current state of mind has me jumping the gun, running amuck, or any number of more literate analogies to counting chickens before they're hatched. So, instead I offer you this take on where my mind is at the moment...whether I want it to be, or not to be. [Did you catch that cutesy little word play (so to speak)? But that's from Hamlet's soliloquy in Act 3, Scene 1 of his eponymous tragedy, and this parody is based upon Macbeth's soliloquy in Act 2, Scene 1 of the play bearing his name.]
So, with apologies to The Bard (and Caro), I give you the King of Scotland describing my life at the moment:
Is this a blank page which I see before me,
The blog thought toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To writing as to sight? Or art thou but
A blogpost of the mind, a false creation,
Proceeding from the late-night pressèd brain?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I write.
Thou deceived me the way that I was going,
With such inspiration I was to use.
Mine blog is made the fool o' th' other ones done,
Or else worth all the rest. I see thee still,
And on thy screen and laptop gouts of blood,
Which was not so before. There’s no blog here.
It is the bloody press to write which informs
Thus to mine eyes. Now o'er the one half-world
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
The curtained sleep. Witchcraft celebrates
Pale god Poe’s offerings, and withered murder,
Alarmed by his sentinel, the wolf,
Whose howl’s his watch, thus with his stealthy pace,
With deadline’s ravishing strides, towards some design
Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth,
Hear not my words, which way they speak, for fear
my very stories prate of my runamuck,
And take the present offer from the time,
Which now sits on me. Whiles I write, MIE lives.
Words to the heat of reads too bold breath gives.
And now the original...
Is this a dagger which I see before me,
The handle toward my hand? Come, let me clutch thee.
I have thee not, and yet I see thee still.
Art thou not, fatal vision, sensible
To feeling as to sight? Or art thou but
A dagger of the mind, a false creation,
Proceeding from the heat-oppressèd brain?
I see thee yet, in form as palpable
As this which now I draw.
Thou marshall’st me the way that I was going,
And such an instrument I was to use.
Mine eyes are made the fools o' th' other senses,
Or else worth all the rest. I see thee still,
And on thy blade and dudgeon gouts of blood,
Which was not so before. There’s no such thing.
It is the bloody business which informs
Thus to mine eyes. Now o'er the one half-world
Nature seems dead, and wicked dreams abuse
The curtained sleep. Witchcraft celebrates
Pale Hecate’s offerings, and withered murder,
Alarumed by his sentinel, the wolf,
Whose howl’s his watch, thus with his stealthy pace,
With Tarquin’s ravishing strides, towards his design
Moves like a ghost. Thou sure and firm-set earth,
Hear not my steps, which way they walk, for fear
Thy very stones prate of my whereabout,
And take the present horror from the time,
Which now suits with it. Whiles I threat, he lives.
Words to the heat of deeds too cold breath gives.
–Jeff
I always say that running amuck is far better than running in muck. Also, muddy waters is better than muddy shoes. Just sayin'...
ReplyDeleteNot to be a disagreeing muckraker, dear EvKa, but for me, Muddy Waters always brings on the Blues.:) https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bSfqNEvykv0
ReplyDelete:-))) I was wondering if you'd pick up on that one. I guess you're still a sharp cookie. :-)
DeleteOf the oatmeal raisin' hell variety. :) J
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