Sunday, June 26, 2011
a handful of dust
What are the roots that clutch, what branches grow
Out of this stony rubbish? Son of man,
You cannot say, or guess, for you know only
A heap of broken images, where the sun beats,
And the dead tree gives no shelter, the cricket no relief,
And the dry stone no sound of water. Only
There is shadow under this red rock,
(Come in under the shadow of this red rock),
And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
"The Waste Land," T. S. Eliot
[Chicago Avenue At Damen Avenue]
- comic complication
- an only child above the measured thunder of the ca...
- anybody live here?
- in a good mood
- a handful of dust
- the shunting of trains far away in the freight yar...
- the pub crawl that stops, looks and listens
- ingen blandade allt annat än whisky och öl på tug ...
- we don't get tornados in these parts
- puerco, pollo, queso
- two parallel red lines
- a city filled with streets and sewers
- willingness to be happy
- often silly
- urban falconry
- the new chicago style
- hence the horizon's blade
- his aim is true-ish
- some girls never learn
- ▼ June (20)
- ► 2010 (115)
- ► 2009 (279)