Thursdays?

I opened up my little T.S. Eliot reader for the first time in about half a year and found that at some point I dangerously vandalized The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, which has always been a favorite of mine, with a thick black gel pen. The thing that hit me as I read my boldfaced notes is that in the few years that it's been since I wrote those notes, I managed to forget all my ideas and the dot-dot-dot's that I wrote assuming I'd remember where they led. My favorite is "other men with 'butt-ends'"...yeah.

Reading T.S. Eliot is a cold weather thing--but even though it's January, I am drinking iced tea at my favorite table at my old coffee shop (the table about which I wrote an essay on a standardized test which asked for a description of a "special place", for a which I received an inexplicable minimum passing score) because it is a million degrees here in the afternoon and the sun is fading the colors on my new coat, which spends the days in the backseat of my car and now only gets out at night.

Going to Farmer's Market tonight for yellow raspberries and middle-aged cover bands. I wonder if Prufrock will be there, leaning against the alley wall of a closed bank, smoking his pipe...