Nothing much new to report, I guess. Dede gave her a good massage, but most of the day was spent resting.
She's still here sometimes, but spending more time somewhere else.
...our scenario surrounding the big C.
Welcome!
This weblog began as a way to keep loved ones informed as we learned about our diagnosis in March 2007.
"the sCenario" has evolved into a journal, a photo display, an historic record, a scrapbook, an inspiration, a place for loved ones to gather.
We hope you enjoy your visit!
--Kevin and Diana
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April
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6 comments:
She drifted in and out of my house this afternoon. Thanks for the update.
Dede, there may be something to this massage thing. Everyone else has to sit and talk. You actually get to do something tangible.
My dad used to quote Eliot:
Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table. . . .
I actually just read that poem again and it certainly reads differently from the vantage of middle age.
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock
S’io credesse che mia risposta fosse
A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
Non torno vivo alcun, s’i’odo il vero,
Senza tema d’infamia ti rispondo.
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
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
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
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.
In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.
And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “Do I dare?” and, “Do I dare?”
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—
[They will say: “How his hair is growing thin!”]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: “But how his arms and legs are thin!”]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.
For I have known them all already, known them all:—
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
So how should I presume?
And 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
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?
And how should I presume?
And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
It is perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
And should I then presume?
And how should I begin?
. . . . .
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?…
I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
. . . . .
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep … tired … or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet—and here’s no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.
And would it have been worth it, after all,
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 toward some overwhelming question,
To say: “I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all”—
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
Should say: “That is not what I meant at all.
That is not it, at all.”
And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
“That is not it at all,
That is not what I meant, at 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
When the wind blows the water white and black.
We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.
The formatting on this is probably bolloxed, but there you go.
If D.P. deserves anythinng, its a good massage. This is A.J. checking in/ updating you on my trip. DP, there aren't really words to describe how I feel typing this, but the best way to put it is by saying I love you and that I wish I could have seen you one last time. That being said, I've been told that you are very curious about how my time in Spain has been. I returned from Portugal a week ago and had a wonderful time. Lisbon is an absolutely beautiful city. It's built on a group of hills, and around a bay. There is an old castle on the highest hill that is not only a lot of fun by itself, but offers some breathtaking views of the city. After 3 days in Lisbon, I went to the southern part of the country, which has some incredible beaches that were lined with cliffs. Unfortunately, the water was too shallow to do any cliff diving. Before the week with my parents, I spent a 2 nights and a day in Brussels, which was not enough time. In addition to the awesome waffles and beer, Brussels is just a really cool city. Not to mention the fact that a befriended a group of very pretty young Irish girls staying at my hostel. I am making plans to visit them once the school year's over. The other noteworthy trip I've been on was a four day visit to the Canary Islands, which are absolutely beautiful, though the beaches have great waves and a lot of rocks were sand meets water and are not for the faint of heart. My feet had a few bruises where the rocks hit my feet. I am going up north this weekend to hopefully do some surfing if the weather permits, but I will be thinking of you. Kevin, give DP a huge hug for me, and give one to Ri as well.
Love, A.J.
Sam,
How ironic that my daughter, Lauren, just wrote a 3000 word essay on that very poem. She is making the trek to da woods after school today, arriving around 6:00ish. Will you be there?
Colleen
Thoughts & prayers are with you from the Peyer branch of the Reedsburg Curtin Clan...Know you are in our hearts!
Not sure. I have to pick up my stranded wife at the airport. I play to drop by Tuesday evening for sure.
Bit of a long poem to dump on a blog, but what the heck. It fits.
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