ABOUT TO WATCH LAST TWO EPS OF WALKING DEAD

OMG!

my emotions! my emotions!


i am so worried about my Rickle Pickle and his recent unsavory behavior.

NEVER GO FULL SHANE! C'mon man, everybody knows that.

And what's with this hyper convenient plot about an abusive husband?

i miss my beardo

ME SEE GIRL ME LIKE...ME TAKE

NO RICK NO!*

I hold you to a higher standard than that. You're better than that. Please be better than that.

Carol: the most lethal of the group, hands down.
Sascha: My girl is having bad PTSD, but she's got legit reasons
Daryl: Aw--he made a friend.Who must be a good guy if Daryl trusts him. He motherfucking better be. I'm watching you, Aarong.

SO MANY FEELINGS

and so to view


*though mgmt cannot explain why the shot of rick talking about "just taking" alexandria was so stupidly sexy. such is the power of rickle pickle.

It's The Most Magical Time Of The Year

I'm thousands of miles from my family. My roomies have headed out for the holiday. It could be a sad story.

But . . . 

My leetle seester sent gifts that arrived back in early Dec.

Both my brothers sent me cards. One put in a ridiculous cash gift. 

I got home and my roomies had left a pile of brightly wrapped gifts on my bed: all in Crazy Christmas Red.

Two care packages arrived from my Moo. So now I'm listening to my very own Christmas CD while I assemble my new Charlie Brown Christmas Tree--my little brother's idea.

My room is wrecked because I had to make room for unpacking and putting out the presents. That's a pretty good problem to have.

I don't give a shit about presents. But this year I have been reminded of the awesome power of physical tokens of remembrance. I've also been reminded of the importance of human connection.

And that's how you end up feeling loved from across a continent. I've got music, I've got decorating duties, and I've got the knowledge that people out there have been thinking about me.

Gotta go, Johnny Mathis is singing.

What I Love About Bruce Springsteen Is. . .

. . . How he can write a sharp political protest song and still make me giggle like ze leetle girl.

Bruuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuce!

Living In The Future
Magic
Bruce Springsteen, officially
Bruce Springsteen & The E Street Band, in reality

My God It's Beautiful Outside Right Now

I woke at 4 am with a headache. My stomach is sour. My eyes are killing me. I feel like shite.

But it rained last night through this morning in the city of angels. The sun has risen and golden light is peeking through a smattering of grey clouds and low, lazy, white drifts. It's still soft outside and nothing is brilliant yet.

The air is cool and damp and wonderful. It's the first real chill of the season.

I will always love Autumn. It is the coolth of a gentle cloth on my fevered brow; it is the soothing breath; it is the cleansing balm of my soul.

Rando: Going Through The Photos On Your Phone

It's sort of a combination of CSI and Christmas. There are all these photos I don't remember taking and I get to reconstruct what the fandango I was thinking at the time, or why the photo even exists. It's mostly a surprise, with a few "Oh yeaaaaahs" thrown in there.

I write you this with an S-Video cable tied around my neck, my electronics box open and spread across the floor, "borrowed" batteries in one of my remotes, and cable boxes, vcrs, and wiring spread across my floor.

Yes, I have been trying to get my tv to work. Old cable box gave up the ghost. New one not faring much better. I've applied my limited (read: none) electronics acumen to the problem. We have reached the Technician Required phase.

My theory: supply coax cable has gone squicky. Or Time Warner has suddenly stopped supporting my old ass TV.

Gee, I wonder which one?

Anyhoodle, I'm supposed to be filling out a job application right now. So I'm posting instead. (Don't yell, I am going to apply. I just need to express myself a bit before I descend into resume hell so I can just be rejected. Again. Bleh.)

So, here are some pix from my cross country trip:

Houston.

Tejas.

El Paso at sunset.

Makes me desperately long for my old camera.

I don't know how I ended up taking a picture of a beam of light or wtf I was trying to capture. But it's pretty cool.

The treacherous path to The Thing!

That light pole really vexed me.

Before I left to drive back West, I mentioned to my bro that my washer fluid line has been broken for a while and I haven't been able to fix it myself. He went out back and liberated a rake tine to "jam it in there" and fix it. At the time I saw no way to do it, but far be it from me to turn away a piece of machine metal. You just never know.

Well, guess what? That tine came in handy when I needed to brace my antenna to stop it from whomping the bejesus out of my rear windshield. You can't tell much from the pic, but that is a rake tine, some electrical tape, and some of my sweat from repairing that in 100 degree weather at an Arizona gas station. I had to stand on the back seat and streeeeeeeetch. It's still in place.

I'm a little scared to test this in a car wash.

When I got back West, turns out Handy J's tv had gone kaput. The replacement part is no longer made. Figures. So we donated the monster to a crafty minded friend of his.

This tv is bigger than me. So was the replacement.

And now for the WTF pic. I have no idea how I ended up researching this. I'm guessing random button hitting. At any rate, it looks like the closest I can get to a soulmate is Peter O' Toole.

I don't think that really requires further comment.

Does this mean Richard Harris would like me?

Keeping It Real In The LBC

Prepare for randomness.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

House/cat sitting for some friends in a ridiculous house in a ridiculous location. I am one house back from what is technically a public, but essentially a private, beach. I am unsure about my commas in that preceding sentence.

This place is stupid. Will update with pix later. My guest bedroom has an ocean view. So does the side porch. Unreal.

~~~

It's not always about money. Only mostly. Individual taste rules all. This is an awesome  house, but I wouldn't have purchased it. For the $$$, I would have liked something altogether different. But then again, I've owned approx 0 homes to date. Maybe a house like this is something you grow into?

~~~

As I have a place to myself, I am naturally not taking care of any business and am instead marathoning stuff on Netflix. Oh, Netflix, the destroyer of all good intentions.

Watching some episodic television and I come across That Actor With The Glasgow Smile. He's playing a Scot in this one. Scottish mobster. Surprise. You know the guy? I'm gonna bet his name is Tommy something. And I'm going to bet he's Irish. Let's find out together, shall we?

Survey says: Tommy Flanagan!

This guy has done a shit ton of work. You may remember him best from Sin City, Gladiator, or a little movie called Braveheart.

Everybody remembers this scene. Primae Noctis--worst wedding gift ever.

Now brace yourselves, because I know everybody relies on Braveheart for its stunning historical accuracy, but jus primae noctis might not ever have been an actual practice.

This just in: if a white guy is telling the story, remember there's a reason it's called history.

And apparently I don't know shit (today is just full of bombshells). Msr. Flanagan was born in Glasgow, it seems. See, I thought he was Irish because his Scottish accent was so good.

Too good. I could understand him. This led me to believe it was put on, rather than natural. Perhaps it is just his Scottish-American accent. Did you know he's on Sons of Anarchy? I didn't till just now.

~~~~

Long Hair Tip #17:

If you are housesitting and wearing something just horrible because it's laundry day and ALL your necessary garments are in the wash because Hey-Noone-Will-Knock and then somebody DOES KNOCK. . .

. . . you can drape your hair over your shoulders to hide your sketchy wardrobe as well as camoflauging the fact that you have no support garments on. Which is good, because it turns out there is a construction worker convention in the courtyard.

Just saying.

~~~~

I had lots more stuff to say, but I have fallen down a hole. It started with finding that Craig Ferguson reaction gif up there.

So this is Craig's last season on The Late, Late Show. Boo. Hiss. We are losing a national treasure. (No really, he's ours. He got his citizenship and everything).

How can anyone not love Craig Ferguson? He's gorgeous and silly and All That Is Light And Good In This World. He's just a few rungs below babby kittehs. He's that amazing.

Classy.

After you've watched craigyferg for a while, you can kinda tell what voice he's using just by his facial expressions.

And the dancing. My god, the dancing.

Who's at the door? Secretariat!?!?!

I could write a whole sonnet about these damn puppets.

What's not to love.

No, seriously, what? He is adorable. I'm totally getting lost in this image search.

Then it happened.

OKAY THAT IS FRIGGING IT I HAVE HAD IT WITH THE INTERNETS WHAT THE SAM HILL IS HAPPENING HERE HOLY CRAP CRAIGYFERG IS QUOTING..

..ACK...

HE'S QUOTING...

..KAFF...WHEEZE....

HE'S PULLING A MR. PILKINGTON!!!

I CANNOT EVEN WITH THIS HOW THE EFF DID THIS HAPPEN HOLY CRAP WE ARE AT DEFCON 1 STALKER ALERT I DONT UNDERSTAND ITS LIKE HE'S INSIDE MY BRAAAAAAAAAIN

yeah, okay.

that's pretty much it.

i quit, internet. 

you win.

My Epiphanies Are Your Inanities

We've had it wrong the whole time.
Always assuming that evil, though charming,
Will still be recognizably evil.

Creating explanations;
maybe we like bad boys because they are forbidden.

But the devil doesn't walk as Loki
Nor offer a Port salut across a room as Dr. Lecter
Nor sneer, nor jibe, nor scorn, nor jeer
Nor offer secret danger lurking near

Evil is Cary Grant. Evil is the Ideal made Real. It doesn't require negotiations or hesitations, twists and secrets before giving you Everything You Need. No translator needed. Straight line no exchange and gooooooo.

 He's Cary Grant. He's there with your martini, ready to rub your feet. He is beautiful and strong and suave and competent. He is kind but also challenges you. He makes you laugh.

Oh, that whole Evil part, darling. Can't be helped. In my blood you know. Love you.

And you actually want to believe it's that simple. If he's not really such a bad guy, just has this one flaw.

and OF COURSE you are thinking this,
because this is C.ary F.ucking G.rant
Are you kidding me?
Who wouldn't think about this?
Are you feeling okay? Do you know where you are?
Because that is Cary Grant, right there,
so. . . what were you saying? Because, you know, Cary Grant over there.
Are arguments are invalid because Cary Grant.

Because Cary Grant, that's why.

And that's why we gotta wake up. We thought the devil was Gabriel Byrne.
It's so much worse than we feared.

THE ICE IS GONNA BREAK!

Happiness in a link:

http://www.lifebuzz.com/christopher-walken/

Is It Something In The Air?

I think I'm in a really weird mood right now.

This is one of those "I've heard this song a million times but today it struck a nerve" moments. It may seem trite, but I know this person and I know this feeling and it hurts in a horrible way. Aches. Twinges. Grieving for something you have yet to lose.

Music is so powerful. You have to be careful how much you let it influence you.

Step one, you say, We need to talk
He walks, you say, Sit down, it's just a talk
He smiles politely back at you
You stare politely right on through

Some sort of window to your right
As he goes left and you stay right
Between the lines of fear and blame
You begin to wonder why you came

Where did I go wrong? I lost a friend
Somewhere along in the bitterness
And I would have stayed up with you all night
Had I known how to save a life

Let him know that you know best
Cause after all, you do know best
Try to slip past his defense
Without granting innocence

Lay down a list of what is wrong
The things you've told him all along
And pray to God he hears you
And pray to God he hears you

As he begins to raise his voice
You lower yours and grant him one last choice
Drive until you lose the road
Or break with the ones you've followed

He will do one of two things
He will admit to everything
Or he'll say he's just not the same
And you'll begin to wonder why you came

Where did I go wrong? I lost a friend
Somewhere along in the bitterness
And I would have stayed up with you all night
Had I known how to save a life

I know better than to be so melancholy. Fortunately, "Sledgehammer" just came on. So I'm sure I'll be bouncing about it a bit. I'm such a twit. Peter Gabriel is so wonderfully direct about his dirtiness. :)

This is the new stuff. . . We go dancing in

Romantic Poetry

I just read and enjoyed all of these for the first time. bon appetit.



Go, Lovely Rose" by Edmund Waller

Go, lovely Rose,—
Tell her that wastes her time and me,
     That now she knows,
When I resemble her to thee,
How sweet and fair she seems to be.

     Tell her that's young,
And shuns to have her graces spied,
     That hadst thou sprung
In deserts where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.

     Small is the worth
Of beauty from the light retir'd:
     Bid her come forth,
Suffer herself to be desir'd,
And not blush so to be admir'd.

     Then die, that she
The common fate of all things rare
     May read in thee;
How small a part of time they share,
That are so wondrous sweet and fair.


"A Noiseless Patient Spider" by Walt Whitman

A noiseless patient spider,
I mark'd where on a little promontory it stood isolated,
Mark'd how to explore the vacant vast surrounding,
It launch'd forth filament, filament, filament, out of itself,
Ever unreeling them, ever tirelessly speeding them.

And you O my soul where you stand,
Surrounded, detached, in measureless oceans of space,
Ceaselessly musing, venturing, throwing, seeking the spheres to connect them,
Till the bridge you will need be form'd, till the ductile anchor hold,
Till the gossamer thread you fling catch somewhere, O my soul.


"Non sum qualis eram bonae sub regno Cynarae" by Ernest Dowson

"I am not as I was under the reign of the good Cynara"—Horace

Last night, ah, yesternight, betwixt her lips and mine
There fell thy shadow, Cynara! thy breath was shed
Upon my soul between the kisses and the wine;
And I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, I was desolate and bowed my head:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

All night upon mine heart I felt her warm heart beat,
Night-long within mine arms in love and sleep she lay;
Surely the kisses of her bought red mouth were sweet;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
When I awoke and found the dawn was gray:
I have been faithful to you, Cynara! in my fashion.

I have forgot much, Cynara! gone with the wind,
Flung roses, roses riotously with the throng,
Dancing, to put thy pale, lost lilies out of mind;
But I was desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, all the time, because the dance was long;
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

I cried for madder music and for stronger wine,
But when the feast is finished and the lamps expire,
Then falls thy shadow, Cynara! the night is thine;
And I am desolate and sick of an old passion,
Yea, hungry for the lips of my desire:
I have been faithful to thee, Cynara! in my fashion.

He's Still Beautiful, I Still Love Him

This man has had a profound effect upon my life. I ever meet him, I hope I have the presence of mind to kiss him soundly in thanks.

My subconscious is playing tricks on me again, this song appearing in my head before I could even reason why.

Drink up, dreamers, you're running dry

Post True Detective Finale: Open Letter To Nic Pizzolatto and the Cast & Crew

Dear Nic P,

You clever thing. You told me how it was going to end. I knew how it was going to end. Somehow you wrung surprise out of a foregone conclusion. Few things are more delicious in story listening than realizing your expectancy of the narrative has been both right and wrong at the same time.

Thanks for the wild ride. Thanks for not sucker punching us. Thanks for only breaking our hearts as much as was necessary. And thanks for the unexpected hope.

Cast & Crew,

You kick ass. Directing, set design, wardrobe, lighting, sound, that little acting part--what a first class production.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

This series has been a phenomenal experience. I now have to blather to assuage my feels.

The thematic balance has been incredible. They spend the shows telling you exactly how to watch the shows and what's coming next. Time is a flat circle. We've been here before and we will be here again.

Rust Cohle didn't just stare into the abyss, he saw what the Monsters see when they stare.

Woody Harrelson being tearfully "all right" was amazing. I thought we had lost him to Carcosa for a minute there.

What was it about Rust's experience in the void that comforted him? Was it the memory of love, that he carried that feeling with him? Was he ready to die, but the love of his daughter made him want to live? Was it knowing that the last thing he felt was love, and this made all the bad shit a lot more understandable? Was it knowing that his daughter must have felt the same love when she died?

Me: Ah! They're flipping each other the bird again. That's true love, right there.

My Brother: Uh, I think you might have a weird definition of true love.

Loved all the Jesus-ish touches with Rust from the showdown to the hospital. It wasn't too pointed, just lovely suggestions, visual wisps.

McMatt managed to get a shirt partially off. I have no objections to this.

I was reminded tonight that my visual perceptions and conclusions about life and my experiences ARE NOT everybody else's. And that mine might seem really weird to some people. I just forget that, sometimes.

It's 1 am. I need to stop thinking about all this. I need to go to bed.

Today was a good day.

Prior To The True Detective Finale

This has been an awesome ride. I feel good enough to venture two predictions:

1. Nothing that happens in this episode can diminish my admiration and appreciation of this show.

2. Rev. Rust, in the Library, with The LoneStar Beercan-Man
-- but really

• Carcosa is the promise of life after death, or defying death. It's an idea, not the formal name of a physical location or object. LMM may refer to his den as Carcosa, but I think it's a much bigger idea than that.
• Yellow King is not a person. An idea. A religious idea.
• Audrey Hart saw, at least, a video tape of one of the cult's pedophilic rituals.
• Audrey Hart was exposed to this media via her maternal Grandfather. He had something on hand that she saw. Don't feel like's he's a cult member, but I don't have much else to theorize about it. Unless he's a lawyer.
• There will be no final justice. There will be no great public scandal. Rust and Marty will set in motion the wheels that expose more people, but those involved are too powerful and nobody wants the bad PR. So some people might have some real early retirements and maybe some "other" minor convictions. But the evil at the root of these crimes will not be wholly eradicated.
• Rust will die. Marty will die.
• Rust will live. Marty will live. 
• Both. Time is a flat circle.
• And Maggie is not part of the goddamn cult, ffs. 

See you guys on the other side of Carcosa.

The McConnaisance Is Killing Me

And I haven't even seen Dallas Buyers Club yet.

Though it might very well be that my real problem is True Detective.

ETA: I know these pics are oversized. Bear with me as I try to figure the right specs to hard code them. The "Large" option just isn't big enough to do these babies justice.

Got dayum. Got dayum. Got dayum.

There is a lot of Texas in this picture.

A moment of intimate domestic violence, both expressed and implied.

Okay, so the McConnaisance is somewhat a factor.

The South. It's all growth amidst decay.

This on of the intro credit images that strikes me every time.

This one hurts my heart sometimes. I don't know why.

Smartasses of the world, unite.

Fukunaga and his goddamn opulent sparseness.

Many of the most consistent iconographies seem to be Baroque. This could be Catholic, Santeria, or Rock N Roll.

This is just an amazing image.

I'm Dangerously In Love With True Detective

How could you see it and not be similarly moved?

Edited to add:

Episode 7 just ended. Fuck me running.

And now Christoph Waltz is presenting at the Oscars.

There is great and terrible beauty in this world.

"True Detective" Is The Best Television Since "Deadwood"

HBO knocked another one out of the park with True Detective.

POSSIBLE SPOILERS TO FOLLOW - just my thoughts and theories on S1 to date.

Just watched S1E3 and I'm all a jumble. This work speaks to me on so many levels. I know that's cheezy to say, but it's true.

Having lived in the Southeast US for quite a spell, I've never been really interested in romanticizing it. Not a lot to get nostalgic about, I thought. But then I started seeing interpretations of the South and Southern culture in media. I visited different places, developed an appreciation for the for the feel of each place. Even with my limited experience, I could pick up on some themes, some similarities.

(It probably all started with a trip to Savannah, but that's another story. It might even be another lifetime).

True Detective is capturing something true about the South. There's lots of facets, lots of modes to the region. This is the one about desert without sand, scrublands, rigs in the distance and squalor all around. Miles and miles of nothing but miles and miles. How the empty highway at night haunts you, even during the day.

But it's not arid. It's a humid, fecund environment. So when it's not breeding green, what is it growing?

Casting Harrelson and McConaughey in these parts is genius. Dead bang on. They sell every moment, every line. They are not just inhabiting these characters, they are the dreams these characters have about themselves.  They are simulteneously inside the character and standing outside the character, offering subtle critiques, hints, and clues.

The dialogue is superb. It's melodic and lyrical without being oratory or intonated. There's speechifying, but the kind you do when you want to hear yourself talk, maybe trying to convince yourself of something. Maybe it's the soundtrack of the constant conversation in your mind that you never reveal to others. It does not strike one false note.

Presented with Cohle and Hart, two seemingly disparate men, I can't help but feel they are the same man. This whole series could be one man's existential crisis in reconciling his two natures. In their personal philosophies, neither man is wrong. Neither one is entirely right. But I adore that they haven't made Hart a thoughtless rube to Cohle's moody nihilism. Pessimism, while rational, does not equal higher intellectual capability. Outlook is a choice you make based on the information you ingest.

And back to the dialogue again. It's technical in all the right places, but there's plenty of context that allows for interpretation and understanding. Took me most of the episode to realize that "DBs" stood for "dead bodies." But when they rattled off putting out an APB and looking for "KAs", I instantly knew that meant "known associates." It takes really good writing to go into lingo without losing your audience. 

And tonight's episode. The tent revival preacher who sounds almost Buddhist in his sermon. The fact that you knew, you just knew, that Cohle had braced the suspect and caused him to shit his pants. Before he even said those almost exact words, the line had already popped in your mind.

McM was fantastic in the date/dance scene. Look at his hands as he's leading, he even holds his fingers rigid in an attempt to avoid contact, intimacy. His whole body is screaming that he wants to be far, far away. He can't even hold eye contact with anyone.

Except Mrs. Hart, played by the fearless and awesome Michelle Monaghan. I called it first ep---Cohle and Mrs. H are gonna have an interesting relationship, if not a straight up affair. It won't end well. But nothing in Cohle's universe ever does.

And they got the wrong guy for the murders. I'm pretty sure they put down a pretty bad man, but he wasn't the one. And Cohle knows it. I suspect Hart does too, but has lied to himself for so long that he might have forgotten.

I could ramble on for quite some time. If you are not watching it, you should be.

In Hart and Cohle's exchanges I find myself cleaved perfectly in two, feeling that each character is speaking for me. How often does that happen?

"We know what we want. And we don't mind being alone."

You Got To Be A Stupid MoFo To Get Hired On Your Day Off

When I rolled into town for some holiday visiting, I had no idea I would end up with a legit job. It's beyond legit, it's ridiculously tailored to my state of affairs, health, etc.

My help is desired, but my presence in not required. Not yet anyways. You can't ask for much more than that.

And I owe a debt of gratitude to my awesome big brother and leetle sister, who have made it possible for me to stay somewhere for free.

The strangest part is that where I'm staying is my old apartment, in my old room, with my bro as a roommate. Just like before I moved.

There is still my box of dusty painting supplies stored over the washing machine. There's still some wrapping paper I used to use.

Even if something is new or moved to a different place, I can find it in just a few moments.

I've never gotten the chance to return to a place I've lived in and find it still intact. I have driven by houses with new occupants, down streets that had changed.

I've stood in the woods and looked at the 2x4 beams jutting up from the ground, the wreckage of what was once a home. Now another spot among the trees, with random pieces jutting up from the ground, slowly losing the fight against nature.

So to come here, this unlikely little apartment, and see all the things I left behind. Tis passing strange, indeed.

I don't belong here anymore. That's what the familiarity makes me realize. There is no space I fit. But I can navigate it. I can tread water here, maybe I can even ride a current or two.

The sunset cast a deep, true pink across the dappled clouds. Blending into the softest grey that was almost white. The breeze was almost undetectable. The dog barked and stopped to watch me watch the sky.

It has been so lovely to see the stars again. So lovely to see the moon. I look up and my constant companions are above me.

A Rare Moment

Today started early and got interesting just before lunch, when the following exchange took place:

N: What are you up to?

H: Not much.

N: Let's get weird.

H: I'm already there. Let's do this thing!

What followed was a lovely trip along scenic beachfront down to the ridiculously priced but astoundingly lovely beach village. Wondering through overpriced shops, eating just enough overpriced food, and enjoying the lovely, cool weather.

It was easy and fun. Driving back to town, I turned on the radio to catch some bad local stations and I felt something I haven't felt in a long time.

I felt content.

I wanted for nothing. I cared not what lay ahead. I rued not what lay behind. No headache, not too tired, not too nervous. Like the third bowl of porridge, I was just right.

An unfettered Hawk is a happy Hawk. Nice change of pace.

But Daddy Long Legs I Feel That I'm Finally Growing Weary

Of waiting to be consumed by you.

Had an absolutely lovely lunch with an old friend yesterday. Then a lovely evening with my lil sis and friends.

Majorly chilling with my three furry boyfriends right now. Got a lot to do, but trying to keep it mellow and give the bare minimum of fucks.

And this is just amazing. I guess that this is snooker, and that snooker rules are something like 9 Ball. What I know is that snooker pockets are hella narrow--it takes some real finesse to sink those balls. Imagine basketball hoops without the backboard.

This is beautiful. Impressive. And nary a "bad miss" to be seen.

I Have Loved The Stars Too Fondly To Be Fearful Of The Night

Sometimes a person's life is just full of shite. But that doesn't mean you have to spread it around.


The Old Astronomer
Sarah Williams

Reach me down my Tycho Brahé, -- I would know him when we meet,
When I share my later science, sitting humbly at his feet;
He may know the law of all things, yet be ignorant of how
We are working to completion, working on from then to now.

Pray remember that I leave you all my theory complete,
Lacking only certain data for your adding, as is meet,
And remember men will scorn it, 'tis original and true,
And the obloquy of newness may fall bitterly on you.

But, my pupil, as my pupil you have learned the worth of scorn,
You have laughed with me at pity, we have joyed to be forlorn,
What for us are all distractions of men's fellowship and wiles;
What for us the Goddess Pleasure with her meretricious smiles.

You may tell that German College that their honor comes too late,
But they must not waste repentance on the grizzly savant's fate.
Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light;
I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.

What, my boy, you are not weeping? You should save your eyes for sight;
You will need them, mine observer, yet for many another night.
I leave none but you, my pupil, unto whom my plans are known.
You "have none but me," you murmur, and I "leave you quite alone"?

Well then, kiss me, -- since my mother left her blessing on my brow,
There has been a something wanting in my nature until now;
I can dimly comprehend it, -- that I might have been more kind,
Might have cherished you more wisely, as the one I leave behind.

I "have never failed in kindness"? No, we lived too high for strife,--
Calmest coldness was the error which has crept into our life;
But your spirit is untainted, I can dedicate you still
To the service of our science: you will further it? you will!

There are certain calculations I should like to make with you,
To be sure that your deductions will be logical and true;
And remember, "Patience, Patience," is the watchword of a sage,
Not to-day nor yet to-morrow can complete a perfect age.

I have sown, like Tycho Brahé, that a greater man may reap;
But if none should do my reaping, 'twill disturb me in my sleep
So be careful and be faithful, though, like me, you leave no name;
See, my boy, that nothing turn you to the mere pursuit of fame.

I must say Good-bye, my pupil, for I cannot longer speak;
Draw the curtain back for Venus, ere my vision grows too weak:
It is strange the pearly planet should look red as fiery Mars,--
God will mercifully guide me on my way amongst the stars.