Meet Me At The Cemetery Gates
I hope you guys bought a 6-49 ticket yesterday, or at least threw some money at the ponies. Friday we hit the Mittenstringer Trifecta, as Simmons, Berger, and 2008-2016 MOTY Damien Cox all produced intelligent, interesting pieces. All gave welcome insight into what may be the final paradox of the most bizarre Leafs campaign in recent memory - management and team pulling in two completely different directions, as one group plays for jobs and pride and a doomed run at the playoffs, while the other tries somehow to start the necessary rebuild. It's enough to make a man reach for the consolations of literature:
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
Blake lacks all conviction, while the Tucker and Mats
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
When a vast image out of the AHL
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That four decades of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a modest hot streak,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bay Street to be born?
I dunno Billy, but we're not getting him till 13th overall at this rate.
And "Moving its slow thighs" while shadows reel all around? Who knew Yeats's apocalyptic beast was none other than the Woz? Beware the Ides of March, or something.
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The falcon cannot hear the falconer;
Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned;
Blake lacks all conviction, while the Tucker and Mats
Are full of passionate intensity.
Surely some revelation is at hand;
When a vast image out of the AHL
Troubles my sight: somewhere in sands of the desert
A shape with lion body and the head of a man,
A gaze blank and pitiless as the sun,
Is moving its slow thighs, while all about it
Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds.
The darkness drops again; but now I know
That four decades of stony sleep
Were vexed to nightmare by a modest hot streak,
And what rough beast, its hour come round at last,
Slouches towards Bay Street to be born?
I dunno Billy, but we're not getting him till 13th overall at this rate.
And "Moving its slow thighs" while shadows reel all around? Who knew Yeats's apocalyptic beast was none other than the Woz? Beware the Ides of March, or something.
I don't know if it's bothering anyone else but your inconsistency with fonts is slowly driving me(and Joe Morgan) mad.
Best Regards
Ciri Jrha
I've never really liked Yeats, but I could never put my finger on exactly why. I'm not sure sure if I even actually know what makes me feel this way, but I have always been uncomfortable with the way he never really comes out and says what he means, hiding behind all these symbols and images. Yeats also seemed to know all the Irish lingo pretty well, and I always got the feeling that he wrote those poems while toiling away in Clery's Department Store, staring at William Martin Murphy and thinking about what a dick he was.
Just my thoughts.