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Office Sounds
Mar. 18th, 2008 | 07:07 pm
Yesterday as I was plowing through my emails, a couple of the readers were rehearsing for an upcoming reading in the room next door. There was much discussion and rustling of papers, then:
“DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT,
OLD AGE SHOULD BURN AND RAVE AT CLOSE OF DAY…”
The voice boomed through the open door, down the hallway, bouncing against the walls and echoing on the tiled floor. There was no escaping it. It was a raw-throated, baritone, drunk-with-art bully of a voice, tearing around corners and beating at office doors. I pictured the players in the Chess Room looking up unhappily from their boards, realizing it’s coming from our department, and shaking their heads, resigned. It’s poetry, and there’s not much anyone can do about that.
“…RAGE, RAGE AGAINST THE DYING OF THE LIGHT..” he roared. I got up, peeked around the door into the other room and recognized the reader. A local writer and actor with a wonderful tough-guy face. He’d read at Bloomsday last year and looked every bit the hard-drinking Dubliner.
“…DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT…”
I returned to my work, then a stanza later became conscious that someone was standing in the doorway of the office. One of the members, a lady in her sixties, smiled shyly at me.
“…GRAVE MEN, NEAR DEATH, WHO SEE WITH BLINDING SIGHT
BLIND EYES COULD BLAZE LIKE METEORS AND BE GAY…”
“Do you think they would mind if I just sat in the hallway and listened?” she asked in a sibilant whisper that managed to cut through all the Dylan Thomas.
“I don’t see why it would be a problem.”
She withdrew.
“…CURSE, BLESS, ME NOW WITH YOUR FIERCE TEARS, I PRAY.
DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT.
RAGE, RAGE AGAINST THE DYING OF THE LIGHT.”
Silence fell for a moment. There was more murmured discussion, more rustling. Then:
“HOLY! HOLY! HOLY! HOLY! HOLY! HOLY! HOLY! HOLY! HOLY!
HOLY! HOLY! HOLY! HOLY! HOLY! HOLY!...”
He’d launched into Allen Ginsberg’s “Footnote to Howl.”
“THE WORLD IS HOLY! THE SOUL IS HOLY! THE SKIN IS HOLY!
THE NOSE IS HOLY! THE TONGUE AND COCK AND HAND…”
I got up again and this time glanced down the hall. She was sitting there on the hall bench, still smiling.
God, I love my job.
“DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT,
OLD AGE SHOULD BURN AND RAVE AT CLOSE OF DAY…”
The voice boomed through the open door, down the hallway, bouncing against the walls and echoing on the tiled floor. There was no escaping it. It was a raw-throated, baritone, drunk-with-art bully of a voice, tearing around corners and beating at office doors. I pictured the players in the Chess Room looking up unhappily from their boards, realizing it’s coming from our department, and shaking their heads, resigned. It’s poetry, and there’s not much anyone can do about that.
“…RAGE, RAGE AGAINST THE DYING OF THE LIGHT..” he roared. I got up, peeked around the door into the other room and recognized the reader. A local writer and actor with a wonderful tough-guy face. He’d read at Bloomsday last year and looked every bit the hard-drinking Dubliner.
“…DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT…”
I returned to my work, then a stanza later became conscious that someone was standing in the doorway of the office. One of the members, a lady in her sixties, smiled shyly at me.
“…GRAVE MEN, NEAR DEATH, WHO SEE WITH BLINDING SIGHT
BLIND EYES COULD BLAZE LIKE METEORS AND BE GAY…”
“Do you think they would mind if I just sat in the hallway and listened?” she asked in a sibilant whisper that managed to cut through all the Dylan Thomas.
“I don’t see why it would be a problem.”
She withdrew.
“…CURSE, BLESS, ME NOW WITH YOUR FIERCE TEARS, I PRAY.
DO NOT GO GENTLE INTO THAT GOOD NIGHT.
RAGE, RAGE AGAINST THE DYING OF THE LIGHT.”
Silence fell for a moment. There was more murmured discussion, more rustling. Then:
“HOLY! HOLY! HOLY! HOLY! HOLY! HOLY! HOLY! HOLY! HOLY!
HOLY! HOLY! HOLY! HOLY! HOLY! HOLY!...”
He’d launched into Allen Ginsberg’s “Footnote to Howl.”
“THE WORLD IS HOLY! THE SOUL IS HOLY! THE SKIN IS HOLY!
THE NOSE IS HOLY! THE TONGUE AND COCK AND HAND…”
I got up again and this time glanced down the hall. She was sitting there on the hall bench, still smiling.
God, I love my job.