Happy Halloween

for the record, the pea has a little red riding hood costume, and she's not afraid to use it.

that must explain all of mp's huffing and puffing.

yeah.

that's exactly what i tell myself to get through the night.

Poetry We Love

"The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock"
--T.S Eliot

S'io credessi che mia risposta fosse
a persona che mai tomasse al mundo,

questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.

Ma per cio che giammai di questo fondo

non torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero,

senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.

--[Epigraph]

LET us go then, you and I,

When the evening is spread out against the sky

Like a patient etherised upon a table;

Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,

The muttering retreats

Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels

And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:

Streets that follow like a tedious argument

Of insidious intent

To lead you to an overwhelming question...

Oh, do not ask, ' What is it? '

Let us go and make our visit.



In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.



The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,

The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes,

Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,

Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,

Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,

Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,

And seeing that it was a soft October night,

Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.



And indeed there will be time

For the yellow smoke that slides along the street

Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;

There will be time, there will be time

To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;

There will be time to murder and create,

And time for all the works and days of hands

That lift and drop a question on your plate;

Time for you and time for me,

And time yet for a hundred indecisions,

And for a hundred visions and revisions,

Before the taking of a toast and tea.



In the room the women come and go

Talking of Michelangelo.



And indeed there will be time

To wonder, ' Do I care? ' and, ' Do I dare? '

Time to turn back and descend the stair,

With a bald spot in the middle of my hair--

(They will say: ' How his hair is growing
thin! ')

My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,

My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin--

(They will say: ' But how his arms and legs are thin! ')

Do I dare

Disturb the universe?

In a minute there is time

For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.



For I have known them all already, known them all--

Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;

I know the voices dying with a dying fall

Beneath the music from a farther room.

So how should I presume?



And I have known the eyes already, known them all--

The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,

And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,

When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,

Then how should I begin

To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?

And how should I presume?



And I have known the arms already, known them all--

Arms that are braceleted and white and bare

(But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!)

Is it perfume from a dress

That makes me so digress?

Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.

And should I then presume?

And how should I begin?



* * * * *



Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets

And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes

Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?...



I should have been a pair of ragged claws

Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.



* * * * *



And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!

Smoothed by long fingers,

Asleep...tired...or it malingers,

Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.

Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,

Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?

But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,

Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,

I am no prophet--and here's no great matter;

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,

I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,

And in short, I was afraid.



And would it have been worth it, after all,

After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,

Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,

Would it have been worth while,

To have bitten off the matter with a smile,

To have squeezed the universe into a ball

To roll it towards some overwhelming question,

To say: ' I am Lazarus, come from the dead,

Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you
all'--

If one, settling a pillow by her head,

Should say: ' That is not what I meant at all.

That is not it at all. '



And would it have been worth it, after all,

Would it have been worth while,

After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,

After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along

the floor---

And this, and so much more?--

It is impossible to say just what I mean!

But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen;

Would it have been worth while

If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,

And turning toward the window, should say,

' That is not it at all,

That is not what I meant at all. '



* * * * *



No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;

Am an attendant lord, one that will do

To swell a progress, start a scene or two,

Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,

Deferential, glad to be of use,

Politic, cautious, and meticulous;

Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;

At times, indeed, almost ridiculous--

Almost, at times, the Fool.



I grow old...I grow old...

I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.



Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?

I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.



I do not think that they will sing to me.



I have seen them riding seaward on the waves

Combing the white hair of the waves blown back

When the wind blows the water white and black.



We have lingered in the chambers of the sea

By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown

Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

Keep it Simple...

CHP: Whatcha doing?

MP: Sleeping.

CHP: No you're not! Your eyes are open. And you're talking.

MP: Can't get anything by you.

CHP: So whatcha doing?

MP: Waiting to see the clock change numbers.

CHP: Oh, my god. You've been waiting for that? Why? You never know how long that will take.

she carries a gun, people.

mp insists that the girl was just really tired, but...

wow.

Puppy Love

The 1st Layer

mp is all kinds of excited about taking the pea to their first hockey game of the year tomorrow. apparently the pea is excited, too, because after mp told her to dress in layers, she sent this:



"does this count as a layer?"

Evolution

Hef It Out

mp was poking around some old clothes and found a robe that was bought about 3 years ago but was never worn. damn thing still had the tags on it. unfortunately, it was a size s/m. unless s/m means the robe liked to be smacked around a little and have the belt knotted extra tight, mp knew it would never fit. i, being a wise puppy, suggested she see if it was at least close....

it fits! in fact, if it was any bigger, there wouldn't be anywhere to put the extra wrap. of course, mp is now wearing the robe around the house, wondering where all the servants and her smoking jacket went. clearly the butler stole it; butlers are known for that kind of thing. that's right, she got all hugh hefner on me.

except the robe is yellow, and she looks like big bird.

Oh, Sammy

we need you!

Dave, Ziggy, and John

mp's birfday hollywood bowl bash was awesome.
dmb played a great set and celebrated the end of the tour by having john mayer and ziggy marley come out to play. a side note: mp wants to take back anything negative she has ever said about mayer; the guy can rock a guitar like a comet.

A Dream So Real
Two Step
#27
Crush
#34 (really!)
The Idea Of You
Don't Drink the Water
Corn Bread
You Might Die Trying
Eh Hee
Lie In Our Graves
Shotgun
#41 (w/ john mayer)
Warehouse
Exodus (w/ ziggy and stephen marley)
Stay
Encore:
American Baby Intro >
Grey Street

there's a few things missing from the set list, like a really mellow versin of "everyday" that segued into something else, but it's not on the band site, and mp was too lit to be able to place it in context. the set for the night before was spectacular-- and we have a little dmb-envy-- but there's something special about catching the last night of a summer tour.

the pea was relaxed and happy, and didn't mind: taking the bowl shuttle so that the sangria could be free flowing (though, god knows, not free), mp's dancing (which apparently isn't that bad), sneaking into the lower seats, making new friends on the shuttle home, making new friends in the stands, or making out when mp decided that the intro to "american baby" was "obtaining the highest levels of awesomeness and beauty" (see the sangria reference above).

and she gave mp the bestest birfday gifts ever.

What Does $1.67 Buy?

mp has learned that $1.67 can buy happiness.
well, it buys 14 donut holes at winchell's...
which, at 4pm, can induce a sense of attentiveness in seven 10 year old boys...
which makes them more likely to stay on task...
which allows mp to get through her session quickly.
which earns the boys 2 donut holes each...
which signals the end of the session...
which means mp gets to go home...
which leaves the parents with the resulting sugar rush.

$1.67 can, indeed, buy true happiness.