Argh...I'm sick with some nasty bug and I've had insomnia the last few nights. As in: no sleep of any real quality for about three days. My xmas was spent in a Nyquil haze while watching my two-year-old cousin repeatedly 
into a paper plate. But otherwise, it was all right! I mean, aside from my being sick and exhausted it was nice to spend time with the family and all. I haven't had a lot of energy to spend on sg recently or to update this, but I hope everyone's holidays have been treating them well...now onward w/part 3.
THE BARDO, Part 3
The house lights were instantly turned up, and all of the rooms ghosts cowered underneath this sudden bare harshness, and instantly I saw every flaw and crevice and rot on every one of us--Maude's face was no longer quite as beautiful: it contained blemishes, lines, imperfections, and a hollowness all set above and below a sickly gray tone. Yeats looked even worse, like a wax rendition of a corpse, the surface of him a freakish, brackish, scaly nightmare, as though he was partially marine, a dead fossil dredged up from the bottom of the sea.
He looked at me once more, his eyes looming above heavy, dark twin bags.
"When you are old and gray and full of sleep," he suddenly croaked at me, his voice sounding nothing like it had just a moment ago, "And nodding by the fire, take down this book, and slowly read, and dream of the soft look, your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; how many loved your moments of glad grace, and loved your beauty with love false or true, but one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, and loved the sorrows of your changing face..."
Then he turned away once more, dropping his head to gaze down at his drink, his body slumping into a graceless reverie.
"Will you buy me another drink?" Maude asked me. "I don't feel like leaving just yet."
"Neither do I," I replied. And it was true--I had a feeling that the night had just begun.
Maude ordered another Guinness and enthusiastically downed it in a hurry. Once the lights had come up in the barroom, its inhabitants had almost instantly scurried off like kitchen roaches fleeing under the cabinets from a freshly switched-on overhead light. After Maude consumed the last drop of her beer, she slammed the glass down on the bar, got up, and began to walk through the nearly empty tavern, leaving both Yeats and I sitting alone. I quickly got up and followed her, catching up to her right before the door.
Where are you going? I asked her. She turned to face me as she began to push the door open.
Well, we cant stay here, now, can we? she replied. Its closing time.
But what about Yeats? I said, gesturing over to the poor man, who was still slumped over his drink, seemingly unaware that either one of us had even stood up.
Oh, hell follow me, she answered. And then she disappeared outside through the bars front door. I turned back to look at Yeats, and she was right, he had already teetered up from his stool and was staggering towards the door. He had surprising speed for such a frail-looking man, and he brushed past me on his rush to the exit. He looked desperate, mad.
Maude, I heard him whisper as he pushed open the door. I followed him outside. The chill of the night air shocked me. It was obviously winter, and I was dressed only lightly in a thin coat and sweater. I pulled these garments closer to my body and saw Maude standing on the corner, smoking another cigarette, the frost of her breath mixing with the cigarette smoke in a translucent cloud that enveloped her face. Yeats saw her too, and stumbled a few yards closer to her, and then stopped, slouching pitifully against the exterior wall of the bar. He watched her with a wanton expression. It was as though the thoughts in his head were crude and festering, swarming uncontrollably inside him like a nest of angered wasps, and nothing he could say or write any longer could make his desire beautifulI could see that he had long ago lost his ability to turn this pain into gold. He was now utterly consumed. I felt these emotions radiate from him like waves from a heat lamp, and pity rise up in my heart for him. I wondered how much longer he could take this, how much longer he could go on with this burden. But where else could he go? He was already dead.
to be continued...
into a paper plate. But otherwise, it was all right! I mean, aside from my being sick and exhausted it was nice to spend time with the family and all. I haven't had a lot of energy to spend on sg recently or to update this, but I hope everyone's holidays have been treating them well...now onward w/part 3.
THE BARDO, Part 3
The house lights were instantly turned up, and all of the rooms ghosts cowered underneath this sudden bare harshness, and instantly I saw every flaw and crevice and rot on every one of us--Maude's face was no longer quite as beautiful: it contained blemishes, lines, imperfections, and a hollowness all set above and below a sickly gray tone. Yeats looked even worse, like a wax rendition of a corpse, the surface of him a freakish, brackish, scaly nightmare, as though he was partially marine, a dead fossil dredged up from the bottom of the sea.
He looked at me once more, his eyes looming above heavy, dark twin bags.
"When you are old and gray and full of sleep," he suddenly croaked at me, his voice sounding nothing like it had just a moment ago, "And nodding by the fire, take down this book, and slowly read, and dream of the soft look, your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep; how many loved your moments of glad grace, and loved your beauty with love false or true, but one man loved the pilgrim soul in you, and loved the sorrows of your changing face..."
Then he turned away once more, dropping his head to gaze down at his drink, his body slumping into a graceless reverie.
"Will you buy me another drink?" Maude asked me. "I don't feel like leaving just yet."
"Neither do I," I replied. And it was true--I had a feeling that the night had just begun.
Maude ordered another Guinness and enthusiastically downed it in a hurry. Once the lights had come up in the barroom, its inhabitants had almost instantly scurried off like kitchen roaches fleeing under the cabinets from a freshly switched-on overhead light. After Maude consumed the last drop of her beer, she slammed the glass down on the bar, got up, and began to walk through the nearly empty tavern, leaving both Yeats and I sitting alone. I quickly got up and followed her, catching up to her right before the door.
Where are you going? I asked her. She turned to face me as she began to push the door open.
Well, we cant stay here, now, can we? she replied. Its closing time.
But what about Yeats? I said, gesturing over to the poor man, who was still slumped over his drink, seemingly unaware that either one of us had even stood up.
Oh, hell follow me, she answered. And then she disappeared outside through the bars front door. I turned back to look at Yeats, and she was right, he had already teetered up from his stool and was staggering towards the door. He had surprising speed for such a frail-looking man, and he brushed past me on his rush to the exit. He looked desperate, mad.
Maude, I heard him whisper as he pushed open the door. I followed him outside. The chill of the night air shocked me. It was obviously winter, and I was dressed only lightly in a thin coat and sweater. I pulled these garments closer to my body and saw Maude standing on the corner, smoking another cigarette, the frost of her breath mixing with the cigarette smoke in a translucent cloud that enveloped her face. Yeats saw her too, and stumbled a few yards closer to her, and then stopped, slouching pitifully against the exterior wall of the bar. He watched her with a wanton expression. It was as though the thoughts in his head were crude and festering, swarming uncontrollably inside him like a nest of angered wasps, and nothing he could say or write any longer could make his desire beautifulI could see that he had long ago lost his ability to turn this pain into gold. He was now utterly consumed. I felt these emotions radiate from him like waves from a heat lamp, and pity rise up in my heart for him. I wondered how much longer he could take this, how much longer he could go on with this burden. But where else could he go? He was already dead.
to be continued...
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[Edited on Dec 27, 2002]