Too Many Voices

Just plagued with indecision and with doubt enough for partial paralyses, not catatonia this time. Fear enough not to do, though. "What if. . . ?" I think, and then the imagined derision. You know what I'm talking about. You've been there, too. The question then is how to proceed. I think that I will do, just push on through all the stuff bad and good, though I needn't do it so publicly. Yesterday's transfers didn't go so well. They worked, but when I looked at them, I got a shiver. "I'll put these on velvet and sell them at the corner gas station," I thought. As if it made any difference.

But let me turn to one of the greatest self-doubters of all time and let him weigh in on the subject.

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 win reverse.

(from "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock," T. S. Eliot)

I've probably listened to too much talking of Michelangelo. Maybe I'll just try getting skinny.