4.12.2022 – in my beginning

in my beginning
is my end, across the field
now the light falls

Adapted from Four Quartets Part II: East Coker by T.S. Eliot.

The passage seemed to fit my day.

I got up to start my day and I was thinking how much I hate having to wait for things to boot up.

Turn on a light and its on.

Turn on the TV and its on (well mostly)

Open a book and start to read.

But tablets?

Laptops?

Turn them on and … wait.

I used to have a routine when I worked in an office where I turned on all my machines then went and got water or coffee or something and when I came back, everything on.

Today I turned on my laptop and got my tablet and a cup of coffee and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

I started working the problem to arrive at wi-fi was out.

So stated that process.

Technical issue with our account caused it be turned off by accident.

No worries.

No problems.

They could turn it back on from there.

I would have to wait though.

And here I am.

Waiting.

You know what you call a web designer who works from home but has no connectivity?

Really frustrated is what you call that person.

Lifting heavy feet in clumsy shoes for sure.

The digital age my butt.

As Mr. Frank Lloyd Wright might say, “there you are.”

Here is the complete 1st part of East Croker, which is the 2nd part of Four Quartets.

In my beginning is my end. In succession
Houses rise and fall, crumble, are extended,
Are removed, destroyed, restored, or in their place
Is an open field, or a factory, or a by-pass.
Old stone to new building, old timber to new fires,
Old fires to ashes, and ashes to the earth
Which is already flesh, fur, and faeces,
Bone of man and beast, cornstalk and leaf.
Houses live and die: there is a time for building
And a time for living and for generation
And a time for the wind to break the loosened pane
And to shake the wainscot where the field mouse trots
And to shake the tattered arras woven with a silent motto.

In my beginning is my end. Now the light falls
Across the open field, leaving the deep lane
Shuttered with branches, dark in the afternoon,
Where you lean against a bank while a van passes,
And the deep lane insists on the direction
Into the village, in the electric heat
Hypnotized. In a warm haze the sultry light
Is absorbed, not reflected, by grey stone.
The dahlias sleep in the empty silence.
Wait for the early owl.
In that open field
If you do not come too close, if you do not come too close,
On a summer midnight, you can hear the music
Of the weak pipe and the little drum
And see them dancing around the bonfire
The association of man and woman
In daunsinge, signifying matrimonie—
A dignified and commodiois sacrament.
Two and two, necessarye coniunction,
Holding eche other by the hand or the arm
Whiche betokeneth concorde. Round and round the fire
Leaping through the flames, or joined in circles,
Rustically solemn or in rustic laughter
Lifting heavy feet in clumsy shoes,
Earth feet, loam feet, lifted in country mirth
Mirth of those long since under earth
Nourishing the corn. Keeping time,
Keeping the rhythm in their dancing
As in their living in the living seasons
The time of the seasons and the constellations
The time of milking and the time of harvest
The time of the coupling of man and woman
And that of beasts. Feet rising and falling.
Eating and drinking. Dung and death.
Dawn points, and another day
Prepares for heat and silence. Out at sea the dawn wind
Wrinkles and slides. I am here
Or there, or elsewhere. In my beginning.

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