August 25, 2009
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Twenty-Three-Metre Whiskers
The self-absorption of others is beginning to wear on my soul. I am perpetually indignant and somewhat akin to a melting ice cream cone. The only thing left to do is recite Shakespeare.
From “The Tempest”, Ariel’s Monologue:
“You Fools! I and my fellows
Are ministers of Fate. The elements
Of whom your swords are tempered may as well
Wound the loud winds, or with besmocked-at stabs
Kill the still-closing waters, as diminish
One dowl that’s in my plume. My fellow ministers
Are like invulnerable. If you could hurt,
You swords are now too massy for your strengths
And will not be uplifted.
But remember-
For that’s my business to you – that you three
From Milan did supplant good Prospero;
Exposed unto the sea, which hath requit it,
Him and his innocent child; for which foubleed
The powers, delaying, not forgetting, have
Incensed the seas and shores, yea, all the creatures,
Against your peace. Thee of thy son, Alonso,
They have bereft; and do pronounce by me
Lingering perdition, worse than any death
Can be at once, shall step by step attend
You and your ways; whose wraths to guard you from-
Which here, in this most desolate isle, else falls
Upon your heads – is nothing but heart’s sorrow
And a clear life ensuing.
Comments (1)
Not sure when you’ll see this, but I think I’ll add the likes of you as well..
Catch you on the flip side, home skillet.