Dead

Poetry, music, I have loved, and yet
Because of those new dead
That come into my soul and escape
Confusion of the bed,
Or those begotten or unbegotten
Perning in a band
I bend my body to the spade
Or grope with dirty hand.

Or those begotten or unbegotten.
For I would not recall
Some that being unbegotten
Are not individual,
But copy some one action
Mouding it of dust or sand
I bend my body to the spade
Or grope with dirty hand.

An old ghosts thoughts are lightning
To follow is to die;
Poetry and music I have banished,
But the stupidity
Of root, shoot, blossom or clay
Makes no demand.
I bend my body to the spade
Or grope with dirty hand.

W.B. Yeats, “The Spirit Medium”

I feel totally baked. I hadn’t intended to take a hiatus, but circumstances sort of dictated it. One more research paper to write tomorrow, on a subject I care nothing about, and then I can breathe again. I normally get a little depressed in the holiday season, but this time it seems a little worse. It’s mostly because of the ideas there wasn’t time to explore. Too many obligations and too few reflective thoughts to match the deep chasms I leapt across.

I wish I could take back the 14,000 or so words I’ve written this past week. They seem hopelessly confused and ill-structured. But underneath, there are might be something of worth. Unfortunately they are quickly becoming ghosts in my mind buried under endless busywork. For some reason, today I missed poetry. I decided to read some Yeats. It is far more interesting than thrilling topics like academic portal design.

There is a skeleton somewhere in this dirt. As soon as my head stops spinning, maybe I can reconstruct the bones. But maybe it is best to just face forward, and leave these thoughts alone. Christmas is no time for a séance.