flicker blam pow

Yeats Infection

Dublin, 1924.

The moon, tarnished with cigarette stains, had no verve in its cloudy fullness.
William Butler Yeats and I sat by the large window of an inebriated pub. We were discussing mysticism, theosophy, and Neo-Platonic ideas. Actually, I mostly listened. His esoteric knowledge was overwhelming and astounding.
"When were you born, boy?" the poet asked, his deep, sonorous Irish tenor rumbling the table and vibrating the glasses in front of us.
"Technically, I won't be born until 1970," I replied.
"Well, when was the last time you were born?" he asked more forcefully, the power pushing me back into my chair. Even if he whispered, the sound would have reverberated against the walls, shaking picture frames and rattling glasses on the bar.
"Umm...I think it was in 17th century France," I answered, sitting back up straight. "I was a musical prodigy. I played the violin and harpsicord."
Yeats' eyes gazed at me intensely.
"You know, history goes in cycles," he said in low, cavernous tone. "We had 'The Troubles' here a few years ago. They've eased a bit. You've read my poem 'The Second Coming'?"
"Yes, I have," I solemnly affirmed.
"Read it again in eighty years. It will prove more prophetic than ever, I think."
"Alright," was all I could say. This man commanded awe.
Silence fell on us for a moment. I was then abruptly snapped back by his titanic voice.
"Do you put much stock into mediums?" he asked, staring into his pint of ale.
"Well, William..." I began.
"No need to be so formal. Call me W.B."
"W.B. That's the name of a television network," I informed him.
"Television?"
I proceeded to explain what television was, who invented it, how it progressed, and what programs were shown.
"Fascinating!" he exclaimed with honest enthusiasm. He seemed particularly intrigued by the Penthouse Pets episode of "Fear Factor". He liked the idea of barely clothed chicks doing dangerous stunts for money.
"Reminds me of Maud," he sighed wistfully. A bittersweet look appeared on his face.
"She would never do something trivial like that for money," I suggested.
"Ah! That's a load of shite! She'd do it for fooking fifty grand!"
"She was a revolutionary. She would never..."
"For fook's sake!" he bellowed. "Are you a fooking tosser or what?" His voice erupted so loudly, it shattered whiskey bottles and knocked a chap off his stool at the far end of the bar.
"Alright! Forget it!" I snapped back, my voice a squeaking mouse to his lion's roar.
He looked at me and smiled through his big, bushy white beard.
"I'm sorry, lad," he said, resigned.
"No need to be so informal," I quipped. "Call me Joe."
Yeats just gazed up at the dirty moon, now being consumed completely by clouds.
"No Second Troy," he muttered under his breath.