Monthly Archives: May 2012

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Ah, House, and Mr. Laurie… I love this show. But farewell!

TVLine

House Series FinaleIf you have yet to watch tonight’s House series finale, run — don’t walk — to the nearest exit. Everyone else, read on…

Holy smokes.

The series finale of House found the cantankerous doc arguing with his subconscious – tricked out with several familiar faces — about why it was time for him to leave the land of the living. (Perhaps you thought selfish House was going to let Wilson steal the mortality spotlight for another episode?) As flames slowly consumed the abandoned building where he lay, it looked very much like the end of the series was going to double as the fiery end of its main character — rather fitting for a man who used his scorched earth policy as a calling card for eight seasons. But a switcheroo in the final act, no matter how unlikely, allowed the ultimate episode to be all things to all people:…

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Elegy for Prospero

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Written in about May, 1990, after my father died on April 25, 1990.

I speak here as Miranda, returning to “the magic isle” to see the place once more, and to seek for the magic her father renounced, hoping to find in it a sign of him.

Elegy for Prospero 
 
Miranda.
The landscape is without its central figure:
No gleam of silver hair
Nor laughter in the grove.  Gone is the wizard.
Singing birds move among the trees,
The sun is hot and rich, but he is gone.
I land my yellow boat upon the shore
And pull it in. Fish splash in reed and lily cluster
Round my bare feet in clear, still water.
Climbing the sandy path, I brush
An ancient, silvered stump which long ago
Served me for castle. Acorn kings dwelt there:
They, too, have gone.
This lush and tropic afternoon
A thousand-memoried scent
Emits from tiny budding figs
Which he’ll no longer taste.

Whitest of white...

Flower at Quarry Hill, summer 2010

The ivy vine he raised around his window
Curls: abundant, and untroubled by his death.
                                    II.
Prospero, you are gone. Your absence
Permeates all. This red clay road, the stars,
The water– filled with your presence,
Filled with your absence.
Forlorn now the owl’s cry:
´There was lived here so vast, so powerful a life
That they who journeyed to our strange abode
Lingered, enchanted and amazed.
Yea, in this magic place,
A thousand spells were cast, a thousand dramas played,
Here miracles were wrought,
Here human and spirit did cavort,
But our revels now are ended.’
Unto this mysterious island I now return in wonder:
Into the silence, into the singing of birds
I inquire. The sky is deepening, empty.
Prospero, whence does that magic go
When the conjurer has renounced it?
Has it gone hence with he
Who stirred the storms?
Pine forest and memory answer:
“It yet awaits. It is in you.”
The whippoorwill begins its evening incantation.
–Isabella Fiske McFarlin