A late beginning:the pieces
<p>
Right here on this page:
<p><table width=70%><tr><td>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</td><td>
The thought is already complete at the beginning of the sentence.
<br></td></tr></table><p>&nbsp;
That's William James.  But it's getting too dark to read.  I put William down on
the side table, beside my glass of tea.  I call it tea, but it's stronger than
that.  The veranda doors are open.  The first cool breeze of evening wanders in
and out the open doors.  The heat of this Mexican day, lounging here beside me,
fidgets as the shadows fall.  It gets up, starts to leave, sits back down.  It
doesn't know what to do.  I can understand that.

<p>
How can William know the end is already there in the beginning?  I may know
where I'm going when I open my mouth.  But I can't know what it will mean when I
get there.  And I am as reluctant to speak, or even to stand up and get moving,
as the heat seems to be.

<p>
First breath of the night's Gulf whispers through the weave of my wicker chair
and carries off perspiration from my shirt.  I take another sip of tea and
melted ice; it burns a little on the way down.

<p>
The torches flicker on the poles, far down along the beach.  American women,
silent and almost naked all the day beneath the sun, flicker down there too --
much louder now and fully dressed, beneath the rising moon.  They pass brightly,
accompanied by their brash men, into bars where you can get just enough shrimp
and fruit salad to keep yourself drinking indefinitely.

<p>
I used to drink like that.  With women like that.  Now, I just sip my tea, more
or less alone.

<p>
There's that verse--
<p><table width=70%><tr><td>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</td><td>
In my end is my beginning
<br></td></tr></table><p>&nbsp;
Or was it--
<p><table width=70%><tr><td>&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;</td><td>
--our beginnings never know our ends!
<br></td></tr></table><p>&nbsp;
Something like that.  Tess Eliot.  

<p>
So what is the difference between an end in the beginning and my beginning in
the end?  William James divided by T. S. Eliot?  The remainder of Prufrock in
American Religious Experience?  Or just too much to drink.

<p>
Ready or not, I go ahead and stand up.  Sometimes I get dizzy when I do this but
this time I'm okay.  I button my white embroidered shirt.  Run my hand through
thinning hair; a full head, but thin with all the underbrush burned out.  It's
hair that still looks good at a distance, like the rest of me.

<p>
Those American women are loud tonight, like sirens.  And there's no one here to
tie me to the mast, or stuff my ears with wax.  So I'll leave the rest of my tea
where it is, go find my sandals, and surrender to their call.  There's no
danger; I've already broken up on their rocks.

<p>
Do I know what I mean to say?  Yes, I think I do.
