A word if you will, to Mr. Prufrock, as he lingers by the sea: please Sir, dare to be something other than a pair of ragged claws, grasping for the life you missed because you feared to presume.

Presume! Those ladies in the room, the ones that come and go like ghosts through the corners of your mind, the braceleted, the shawled, the ones that pin you to those walls with a single searching glance - I tell you Sir, they’re waiting for that chance.

They’re done with the tea, and the cakes, they’re tired of the poetically limp excuses that you make. If you want someone to sing for you, sing yourself alive. Shake the yellow fog from your mind. Shout from the street, Mr. Prufrock, as you climb the stairs. Tell the universe that you dare.

Just a little something blue to contrast the last posting’s pink. Don’t let this image fool you - the ocean that evening, at the edge of the Strait of Juan de Fuca, was loud and fierce. This is a longer exposure made with my Hasselblad 500 C/M.

The references in the poem stem from T.S. Eliot’s The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, which has always been one of my favorite pieces of poetry.