It’s a still life watercolor
Of a now-late afternoon
As the sun shines through the curtain lace
And shadows wash the room
And we sit and drink our coffee
Couched in our indifference, like shells upon the shore
You can hear the ocean roar
In the dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs
The borders of our lives
—Paul Simon
* * *
I used to think dangling conversations were regrettable. Now I realize they’re the only kind. Sure we might wish our conversation would end on a decisive meaningful note—just in case that was the last with a particular friend—but conversations never finish. They’re abandoned. They dangle.
Long time no see. Same. How are you? Good. And you? Good. Kids? Good. Grandkids? Good. Yours? Good. You’re looking good. You too. Whatcha been up to? Nothing really. A few doctor appointments. Me too. Aging sucks. True that. But it beats the alternative. For sure. I’m watching The Pitt on HBO. Things could be worse. Speaking of The Pitt, did I tell you I saw the Pittsburgh Pirates at spring training? Cool. I wonder if there’ll be an MLB work stoppage. Don’t know. Actually, I’m more worried about gas prices. That damn war’s not helping. That guy gets away with murder. Cuba’s next. Speaking of Cuba, did you see that the Venezuela baseball team beat the US in the World Baseball Classic? Didn’t see that, but I did watch the Oscars. I miss Paul Newman. I miss Diane Keaton. Man, we’re old. Do you think the theater’s really dead? Lots of empty seats.
Hey guys. What’s up? The usual. Inflation. Unemployment. Blood pressures. I heard your son lost his job. Yes. Sad. Oops. Hate to leave on that grim note, but Tony’s waving at me over there.
And so it goes. Conversations flit about like hummingbirds or squirrels.
Out of the blue last week, Paul Simon’s “The Dangling Conversation” popped into my head. Strange. But these things happen. Repeatedly.
While musing on dangling conversations, “dangling prepositions” popped into my head, and then just like that, an oldie but goodie popped in too:
A West Virginian arrives for his first year at Harvard. He asks an upperclassman: Excuse me. Can you tell me where the library’s at?
Listen up, pal, said the upperclassman. Here at Harvard we speak proper English. We do not end a sentence or a question with a dangling preposition!
So sorry, replied the West Virginian. Let me rephrase that. Can you tell me where the library’s at, asshole?
And that’s the way this post ends. Abandoned, not finished. Dangling.
