Busy packing for a work-related trip to Bonn. First time in Germany, despite all the time I've spent learning the language, so that should be fun.
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
At the same time I'm packing out my office, since Bonn marks the beginning of a new position, and I have to move things out. And for some reason, that moment of hesitation - that moment just before you are about to take action, to transfer thought into movement - always makes me think of "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock".

Looking at all the things I've accumulated, just amassed ascatter across my increasingly barren cubicle, how should I begin to spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?


Jon said…
...though I would see you and your blogging skills more fit for the role of Hamlet, rather than Polonius, to whom Prufrock compares himself ('attendant lord,' l. 112).

But, alas, I digress. (Isn't it quite the aphoristic little poem? -- something about modernists like Eliot and cummings I guess.)

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