I once had a girl, or should I say, she once had me…
She showed me her room, isn’t it good, norwegian wood? She asked me to stay and she told me to sit anywhere,
So I looked around and I noticed there wasn’t a chair.
I sat on a rug, biding my time, drinking her wine
We talked until two and then she said, “It’s time for bed”
She told me she worked in the morning and started to laugh.
I told her I didn’t and crawled off to sleep in the bath
And when I awoke, I was alone, this bird had flown
So I lit a fire, isn’t it good, norwegian wood.
Life’s been pretty standard with the reports, though with some fun off-the-cuff conversations with GS sprinkled with French and thoughts about whether cream should go with carbonara and whether I really like Frances Gall, or garters, after all (I do). And Irving sending me strange random messages like “Don’t leave the rabbits in charge of the lettuce!” which got me thinking of rabbits’ pink floppy ears. (GS> I still don’t think it is important that I understand my songs).
I’m now reading Arthur Conan Doyle’s Tales of Terror and Mystery and I just love the little threads of monkey paw like suspense. It actually reads like HG Wells, which is rather nice. This is the End of the World, there is a 16th Dimension of falling heads and strange aeronautical dimensions.
My insomnia is cured and I am now having peculiarly nice dreams. I don’t remember what I am dreaming about, but I remember that they belong to another life and for that reason I am happy to get that shut-eye to forget what goes on in the present one.
I am currently learning linear regression. The formulas are terrible. I don’t know if I will emerge remembering anything. I think I will just finish all the questions and hope for the best. I am optimistic. I can learn anything, even if it is f and t statistics and all these (n-2) figures will one day stick to my mind like a large pink elephant.
When you miss someone, he probably doesn’t know.
I read Eliot one of the nights on the way home. Eliot under my breath, in the warm, sticky air, thinking of cats on a lonely dark street. Eliot, to keep my soul, and love alive. Cause living here, like this, runs me dry. Time runs all of us dry.
“You let it flow from you, you let it flow, And youth is cruel, and has no remorse And smiles at situations which it cannot see.” I smile, of course, And go on drinking tea. “Yet with these April sunsets, that somehow recall My buried life, and Paris in the Spring, I feel immeasurably at peace, and find the world to be wonderful and youthful, after all.”
“The winter evening settles down With smell of steaks in passageways. Six o’clock. The burnt-out ends of smoky days. And now a gusty shower wraps The grimy scraps Of withered leaves about your feet And newspapers from vacant lots; The showers beat On broken blinds and chimney-pots, And at the corner of the street A lonely cab-horse steams and stamps. And then the lighting of the lamps.”
“Particularly I remark An English countess goes upon the stage. A Greek was murdered at a Polish dance, Another bank defaulter has confessed. I keep my countenance, I remain self-possessed Except when a street piano, mechanical and tired Reiterates some worn-out common song With the smell of hyacinths across the garden Recalling things that other people have desired. Are these ideas right or wrong?”
“Half-past two, The street lamp said, “Remark the cat which flattens itself in the gutter, Slips out its tongue And devours a morsel of rancid butter.”
To Eliot, it is never just another cat, just as it is never just another sunset.