Yesterday would have been my brother-in-law's 90th birthday if he hadn't died when he was 84. Two days before that would have been my mother-in-law's 114th birthday if she hadn't died when she was 79. Earlier this month would have been my step-sister's 80th birthday if she hadn't died when she was 62 (I think). I miss them all.
All I'm really saying, I think, is Time Marches On. One by one we shuffle off this mortal coil, we strut and fret our hour upon the stage and then are heard no more, to quote from a couple of Master Will's works.
To complete that last fragment, life is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.
I don't know whether I'm waxing eloquent or I'm mired in depression. Possibly both. But Someone Else (not Master Will) said I give unto them eternal life and they shall never perish, so there's that.
This kind of rambling in blogging is the "stream of consciousness" style of writing that James Joyce was so fond of. It came almost automatically to Gertrude Stein, rose is a rose is a rose; a sparrow in the grass, alas; and so forth.
All but my most loyal readers might be put off by all this folderol, but if you come here, it goes with the territory.
More proof of my advancing decline, I suppose. I get more like the late, lamented Putz every day. Most of you don't know who I'm referring to. I don't actually know if he is late, but he is very much lamented in these parts, him with his odd spelling and innovative punctuation.
I must close now as the men in white coats are coming. I feel it in my bones. <<< >>> <<< >>>
Showing posts with label Shakespeare. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Shakespeare. Show all posts
Friday, June 18, 2021
Wednesday, February 5, 2020
Madame Speaker, I yield the remainder of my time to the gentleman from Stratford-upon-Avon
It is too early in the morning to think straight, my mind is not yet fully alert and running on all cylinders, and Graham Edwards who lives on the Isle of Lewis in the Outer Hebrides in the remotest part of Scotland called my last post arcane.
ARCANE.
Therefore, today I am letting another aspiring writer have the floor. From the site Mental Floss, here is a delightfully informative article:
21 Phrases You Use Without Realizing You're Quoting Shakespeare
Enjoy!
I shall be resting in the drawing room all day so that the healing virtue of silence can renew my befuddled and frenzied mind, because I am of the wrong gender to get me to a nunnery.
ARCANE.
Therefore, today I am letting another aspiring writer have the floor. From the site Mental Floss, here is a delightfully informative article:
21 Phrases You Use Without Realizing You're Quoting Shakespeare
Enjoy!
I shall be resting in the drawing room all day so that the healing virtue of silence can renew my befuddled and frenzied mind, because I am of the wrong gender to get me to a nunnery.
Monday, March 18, 2013
Like sand through the hourglass, so are the days of our lives, or Thoughts On My Seventy-second Birthday
1, 2, 3, 4, 5...
...14, 15, 16, 17...
...25, 26, 27, 28, 29...
...38, 39, 40, 41, 42...
(yawn)...
...59, 60, 61, 62, 63...
...71, 72.
Seventy-two.
SEVENTY-TWO???!!
It can’t be!
Where did the time go?
It seems like just yesterday I graduated from high school.
It seems like just yesterday I got married.
It seems like just yesterday I watched my children playing.
It seems like just yesterday I became a grandfather.
My oldest grandson is now six feet, two inches tall and 17 years old.
Where did the time go?
It went where it always goes. It marches on.
And there’s not one blessed thing we can do about it.
Shakespeare talked about the seven ages of man in As You Like It, Act Two, scene seven. You know, the infant mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms and so forth all the way to second childishness and mere oblivion, sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. I know the drill; I figure I’m at about stage six out of the seven, which I’ll let you look up for yourself, and it’s no comfort, let me tell you.
Dylan Thomas told us, “Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
That is definitely one approach. But I think F. Scott Fitzgerald said it best at the end of The Great Gatsby:
“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”
It’s not that I’m raging against the dying of the light or that I enjoy being borne back ceaselessly into the past particularly, it’s just that I can’t believe how soon this life is all over. I may live another 20 or 30 years, but still:
The doctor is IN. I recommend reading Psalm 103 every single day.
I also like to read Neil Theasby’s poem over there in my sidebar occasionally of an evening.
[Editor’s aside to Neil: You definitely now owe me. I have included you in an auspicious group that includes William Shakespeare, Dylan Thomas, and F. Scott Fitzgerald. --RWP]
...14, 15, 16, 17...
...25, 26, 27, 28, 29...
...38, 39, 40, 41, 42...
(yawn)...
...59, 60, 61, 62, 63...
...71, 72.
Seventy-two.
SEVENTY-TWO???!!
It can’t be!
Where did the time go?
It seems like just yesterday I graduated from high school.
It seems like just yesterday I got married.
It seems like just yesterday I watched my children playing.
It seems like just yesterday I became a grandfather.
My oldest grandson is now six feet, two inches tall and 17 years old.
Where did the time go?
It went where it always goes. It marches on.
And there’s not one blessed thing we can do about it.
Shakespeare talked about the seven ages of man in As You Like It, Act Two, scene seven. You know, the infant mewling and puking in the nurse’s arms and so forth all the way to second childishness and mere oblivion, sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything. I know the drill; I figure I’m at about stage six out of the seven, which I’ll let you look up for yourself, and it’s no comfort, let me tell you.
Dylan Thomas told us, “Do not go gentle into that good night, Old age should burn and rave at close of day; Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”
That is definitely one approach. But I think F. Scott Fitzgerald said it best at the end of The Great Gatsby:
“So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”
It’s not that I’m raging against the dying of the light or that I enjoy being borne back ceaselessly into the past particularly, it’s just that I can’t believe how soon this life is all over. I may live another 20 or 30 years, but still:
The doctor is IN. I recommend reading Psalm 103 every single day.
I also like to read Neil Theasby’s poem over there in my sidebar occasionally of an evening.
[Editor’s aside to Neil: You definitely now owe me. I have included you in an auspicious group that includes William Shakespeare, Dylan Thomas, and F. Scott Fitzgerald. --RWP]
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