Oooo...school has released me from its vice-like grip for a whole 6 weeks...It's nice to be done with it for awhile so I can get some real writing (and some other stuff that's been on the back burner) completed. Meanwhile, here is part deux of the Bardo...
THE BARDO Part 2
"That's really--Yeats?" I asked her. I leaned forward to get a better look at him. He did sort of resemble the man I had always seen in old photographs and paintings. But he was so small and tired looking--beaten down, weary. Sad. Used up. I would have pegged him for just another old barfly, some pathetic, decrepit drunk.
"He'll talk to you if you want," Maude said to me. "But be ready to get an earful," she sighed.
"Why is he here?" I asked.
"He can't leave me, even in death," she took out a cigarette from a small ornate case. "Or he just won't, anyway. Do you have a light?"
"Yeah," I fumbled around in my pockets for my lighter and finally found it. I lit her cigarette, trying to keep my hands steady, as suddenly my heart was racing. Yeats? Yeats himself was sitting not six feet away from me? What would I say to him? I couldn't think of a thing. Hell, I could hardly think of a word to say to Maude either. Finally, I turned back to her.
"Maude," I blurted out. "Why didn't you ever return Yeats's affections?"
She rolled her eyes at me. "There would have been no Yeats if I had," she said, her voice sounding like she had said these words a thousand times. "And there would have been no *me* either," she continued, taking a long drag from her cigarette. Suddenly, I knew what to ask Yeats. I turned over to look at him.
"Mr. Yeats?" I said. He didn't look up from his drink. "Uh, Mr. Yeats?" I tried again.
Maude sighed long and deeply. "William!" she called out, her voice long and deep and sultry with her cigarette smoke. It cut through the din of the bar and almost hurt my eardrums. Not because it was loud, but because its tone was so weighted, ancient, exasperated, and accepting. It was calling a name with a force that only it alone could muster--something about her tongue shaping that name made it into the most perfect sound in the world.
He instantly looked up at her. His eyes were watery and unsteady. I noticed then that his hands were trembling as well, gently rattling the ice in the drink he was tightly gripping on to.
"Mr. Yeats?' I continued.
"Yes?" he almost whispered, his voice cracking and hoarse.
"What islove?" I asked him. I already knew what his answer would be, but to hear it uttered from his own mouth would be sublime...I was waiting. I heard Maude sigh again.
Yeats was silent for several moments, staring at me long and hard, until I began to feel uneasy, and I couldn't look at him anymore, it was too much to bear. But just as I glanced away, I heard him say:
"Love is...the quarrel of the sparrow in the eaves, the full round moon and the star-laden sky, and the loud song of the ever-singing leaves,
had hid away earth's old and weary cry," he said, his voice distant and languid. Then he paused. I looked back at him, and I could see that he was staring now at Maude, with the same quavering and glittering eyes. He continued, "And then you came with those red mournful lips, and with you came the whole of the world's tears, and all the sorrows of her labouring ships, and all the burden of her myriad years..."
Suddenly, he was interrupted. "LAST CALL!" the bartender shouted out, shattering everything.
to be continued...
THE BARDO Part 2
"That's really--Yeats?" I asked her. I leaned forward to get a better look at him. He did sort of resemble the man I had always seen in old photographs and paintings. But he was so small and tired looking--beaten down, weary. Sad. Used up. I would have pegged him for just another old barfly, some pathetic, decrepit drunk.
"He'll talk to you if you want," Maude said to me. "But be ready to get an earful," she sighed.
"Why is he here?" I asked.
"He can't leave me, even in death," she took out a cigarette from a small ornate case. "Or he just won't, anyway. Do you have a light?"
"Yeah," I fumbled around in my pockets for my lighter and finally found it. I lit her cigarette, trying to keep my hands steady, as suddenly my heart was racing. Yeats? Yeats himself was sitting not six feet away from me? What would I say to him? I couldn't think of a thing. Hell, I could hardly think of a word to say to Maude either. Finally, I turned back to her.
"Maude," I blurted out. "Why didn't you ever return Yeats's affections?"
She rolled her eyes at me. "There would have been no Yeats if I had," she said, her voice sounding like she had said these words a thousand times. "And there would have been no *me* either," she continued, taking a long drag from her cigarette. Suddenly, I knew what to ask Yeats. I turned over to look at him.
"Mr. Yeats?" I said. He didn't look up from his drink. "Uh, Mr. Yeats?" I tried again.
Maude sighed long and deeply. "William!" she called out, her voice long and deep and sultry with her cigarette smoke. It cut through the din of the bar and almost hurt my eardrums. Not because it was loud, but because its tone was so weighted, ancient, exasperated, and accepting. It was calling a name with a force that only it alone could muster--something about her tongue shaping that name made it into the most perfect sound in the world.
He instantly looked up at her. His eyes were watery and unsteady. I noticed then that his hands were trembling as well, gently rattling the ice in the drink he was tightly gripping on to.
"Mr. Yeats?' I continued.
"Yes?" he almost whispered, his voice cracking and hoarse.
"What islove?" I asked him. I already knew what his answer would be, but to hear it uttered from his own mouth would be sublime...I was waiting. I heard Maude sigh again.
Yeats was silent for several moments, staring at me long and hard, until I began to feel uneasy, and I couldn't look at him anymore, it was too much to bear. But just as I glanced away, I heard him say:
"Love is...the quarrel of the sparrow in the eaves, the full round moon and the star-laden sky, and the loud song of the ever-singing leaves,
had hid away earth's old and weary cry," he said, his voice distant and languid. Then he paused. I looked back at him, and I could see that he was staring now at Maude, with the same quavering and glittering eyes. He continued, "And then you came with those red mournful lips, and with you came the whole of the world's tears, and all the sorrows of her labouring ships, and all the burden of her myriad years..."
Suddenly, he was interrupted. "LAST CALL!" the bartender shouted out, shattering everything.
to be continued...
VIEW 17 of 17 COMMENTS
suoda:
Merry Christmas. Hope the holidays treat you well.
stuffed_primate:
happy holidays! skruff...