Poe! Poe! Come back! 'Bye, Poe.

A very young woman with multicolored hair clipped my own salt and pepper locks today. To make conversation she said that her friends had told her to watch Westerns in order to understand men. I told her that I thought movies in that genre differed as wildly from each other as any other type of film in Hollywood, trying to insinuate that men differed just as wildly. I suggested jokingly that the Italians had captured the essence of the Western better than the Americans had with films like The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly. I also suggested that maybe what the young woman's friends were seeing in these Westerns of theirs was not what men were but, maybe, what some men aspired to be: the iconic strong silent reluctant hero like Shane or any number of characters played by Clint Eastwood, or the hard working homesteader pulling himself up out of the soil and muck by his own bootstraps. My twenty something barber said that her friends were thinking of John Wayne and Bonanza. Understand men by watching John Wayne? Maybe if they're gay. After that our conversation drifted to what Westerns we had seen but, because I have hardly any hair at all, the discussion was soon over. Still, best time I've had getting a haircut in awhile.


And now, for no other reason than that Poe is still on my mind a week after visiting his grave, his poem, Spirits of the Dead

Thy soul shall find itself alone
'Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone;
Not one, of all the crowd, to pry
Into thine hour of secrecy.

Be silent in that solitude,
Which is not loneliness–for then
The spirits of the dead, who stood
In life before thee, are again
In death around thee, and their will
Shall overshadow thee; be still.

The night, though clear, shall frown,
And the stars shall not look down
From their high thrones in the Heaven
With light like hope to mortals given,
But their red orbs, without beam,
To thy weariness shall seem
As a burning and a fever
Which would cling to thee for ever.

Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish,
Now are visions ne'er to vanish;
From thy spirit shall they pass
No more, like dew-drop from the grass.

The breeze, the breath of God, is still,
And the mist upon the hill
Shadowy, shadowy, yet unbroken,
Is a symbol and a token.
How it hangs upon the trees,
A mystery of mysteries!
  • Current Mood: poe-ish
Thank you for a funny visit to your barber!

Having grown up with a Texan father who was raised on the plains, a man who wore a Stetson hat until he died, I know that such men can also like opera and be architects. Funny.

Dad loved Westerns. He'd be perfectly happy while Mother took us shopping if he could go into the drugstore and pick up the latest Louis La'Amore book on the rack.

That was a fun conversation to overhear...thanks!
Thanks for the Poe post. I can't wait for the next episode of 'Poe & Friends'.

Your hairdresser sounds quite interesting. I too have a hairdresser that provides intriguing conversations, mine also has multi colored hair but is 41 and she covers my salt & pepper so my hair appointments are hours long allowing for long, long talks.