Willy Prufrock

Originally Posted Wednesday, October 2, 2013

I have pictures of models I've never even shown, it seems. There was a time I was shooting so much that I couldn't keep up.  I've had hard drives crash and lost entire albums of shoots because I hadn't backed them up yet.  I learned a lesson there.  But the magnitude of the thing is only now occurring to me.  It was a mania, I guess, from which I have fallen.  Now. . . I won't call it depression.  It is too depressing to call it that.  But I have my moment of doubt. 

Every night there is a three a.m. of the soul.  Literally.  I wake then full of. . . worry, I guess.  Prufrockian horror. 

"I grow old. . . I grow old
Shall I wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled?" 

I am just the type to wear trousers, too.  I read the poem long ago, of course, and tried not to live like Prufrock.  I've lived, at times, with a faster fury. 

But what happens to all the old adventurers and thrill seekers? 

Well. . . some have their ashes shot out of a big canon with a big crowd of people in attendance.   Such a thing. 

I've read "Death of a Salesman" also.  Too many times.  I am more like Willy than Prufrock, perhaps, introspective in a more proletarian way.  And at three o'clock, my nightmares may be Willy's.  To be remembered. . . .

O.K.  I'm out of time.  I got a phone call that lasted half an hour.  Now. . . I'll leave you with this.  It might go with Lisa's Sangria recipe. 

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