“Wire-to-Win” is a healthy discipline, but so is confession.

Would Trump or Brad Pitt or Oprah ever identify with Prufrock? Do you?

The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock T.S.Eliot edited (yes) by Jonathon

Let us go then, you and I, When the evening is spread out against the sky Like a patient etherised upon a table; Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets, The muttering retreats Streets that follow like a tedious argument Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question… Oh, do not ask, ‘ What is it? ‘ Let us go and make our visit.

In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo.

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes, The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes, Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening, Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains, Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys, Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap, And seeing that it was a soft October night, Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

And indeed there will be time To wonder, ‘ Do I care? ‘ and, ‘ Do I dare? ‘ Time to turn back and descend the stair, Do I dare Disturb the universe?

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons; How should I presume? I have known the eyes already, known them all– The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase, And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin, When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall, Then how should I begin?

(I should have been a pair of ragged claws Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.)

Should I, after tea and cakes and ices, Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?

I have seen my head brought in upon a platter.

I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker, I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker, And in short, I was afraid.

After the cups, the marmalade, the tea, Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me, Would it have been worth while, To have bitten off the matter with a smile, To have squeezed the universe into a ball To roll it towards some overwhelming question, To say: ‘ I am Lazarus, come from the dead, Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all’–

            *       *       *       *       * 

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be; Am an attendant lord, one that will do To swell a progress, start a scene or two, Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool, Deferential, glad to be of use, Politic, cautious, and meticulous; Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse; At times, indeed, almost ridiculous– Almost, at times, the Fool.

I grow old…I grow old… I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled. Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach? I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.

I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each. I do not think that they will sing to me.

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves Combing the white hair of the waves blown back. We have lingered in the chambers of the sea wreathed with seaweed red and brown Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

Should I affix a print of this to poles where night-clubbers wait to get in? Soloists would read it. Would it rob them of the thrill of the night, or give them permission to be more real, more free?

Caregivers, do you feel you can’t yet invite people into your home or into your life? Could you make your home “party central”? Can you enjoy home so much that it becomes a place people want to come?

Compare: And thus the native hue of resolution is sicklied o’er with the pale cast of thought. (Hamlet – To be or not to be)

3 from the Beatles: Dear Prudence, won’t you come out to play?

I can see them laugh at me, and I hear them say-ay-ay, Hey, you’ve got to hide your love away.

Ah, look at all the lonely people. … All the lonely people, where do they all come from?

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