Friblahday

I'm at work. Obviously. I'm posting.

I was sitting here thinking about yet another stupid client and the long list of things I had to do. Then suddenly, I wasn't thinking about that anymore.

I love the way my brain just goes off on it's own little tangents when it knows I'm too tired to keep it focused. It makes life so much more entertaining.

Anyway, suddenly, I'm remembering the first time I read T.S. Eliot. I was with my Gramma as she was visiting a friend of hers. I was about 12 at the time, in grade 7. This lady's son had just moved to England to become a director at one of the theaters there. Knowing how much I loved reading she let me look through assorted books she was packing up to send on to him. In that stack of books I decided to amuse myself with a large tome of poetry.

I can vividly picture her apartment. I remember the way the textured carpet felt as I sat crosslegged, reading. I remember randomly opening the book and reading "The Hollow Men" for the first time. Sometimes when I read Eliot, or Pound, I still get that feeling. That little frisson. The feeling that you have found something that is yours, even a part of you, but at the same time something wholly foreign. Like when you get a sunburn, and your skin peels. You can peel off this piece of yourself and look at all the cells that make it what it is. It's you, but it's also this entire little universe in and of itself. It's parts are yours but you were mostly unaware of their existence. (At least in the sense that you don't regularly acknowledge the presence of the molecules of your skin just because your insides are still in).

I'm not sure that I'm making sense. I'm just at a loss of how to better express the feeling of being shown your inner knowledge and whisperings in poetry written years before your birth. It's like reading the last line in One Hundred Years Of Solitude.