Your Inch

[ternechto]

I'd surrender emo status since I think you're a cool lot and avoid rejection by not posting this but Anton LeGay's avatar sig got me thinking about this quote from a more favorable moment in V for vendetta.

"It seems strange that my life should end in such a terrible place, but for three years I had roses and apologized to no one. I shall die here. Every inch of me shall perish. Every inch, but one. An inch. It is small and it is fragile and it is the only thing in the world worth having. We must never lose it or give it away. We must NEVER let them take it from us. I hope that whoever you are, you escape this place. I hope that the worlds turns, and that things get better. But what I hope most of all is that you understand what I mean when I tell you that, even though I do not know you, and even though I may never meet you, laugh with you, cry with you, or kiss you, I love you. With all my heart, I love you. Valerie."

So I was just wondering what you considered your inch.

My inch has been stretched to roughly the breadth of Jupiter. It covers any hint or suggestion of knowing myself better than myself knows myself being suggested by another; mostly. Which invariably leads to some follow up berating my self worth as though it could be done. It's plainly annoying. Something like Michael Corleone's "Don't lie to me, it insults my intelligence." Unless of course that knowledge carries an effect = feelings of wellness.

Anton's sig - "You do not exist" is not an example. Just got me thinking in this direction. Should someone take it that way.

[Manta Obscura]

So I was just wondering what you considered your inch.

My knee-jerk was to be insincere and juvenile, saying something like "booze" in response to your question. However, I realize that that wouldn't be fair to you, since you seem to have put so much honest emotional effort into making this post.

My "inch" . . . I'm not sure I can really, fully grasp the metaphorical meaning of that, whether it is the part of me that no one can ever take from me, the thing in my life that drives me forward and gives me hope, or what. If it's talking about the former, then I suppose it would be my unique perceptions on life and love. If the latter, then I cannot express it better than by quoting Philip Larkin, who wrote,

"Only an attitude remains:

Time has transfigured them into
Untruth.  The stone fidelity
They hardly meant has come to be
Their final blazon, and to prove
Our almost-instinct almost true:
What will survive of us is love."

-Philip Larkin, "An Arundel Tomb"

[Brotep]

So I was just wondering what you considered your inch.

Actually, it's more like eight inches.

My knee-jerk was to be insincere and juvenile, saying something like "booze" in response to your question.

There's hope for you yet.

ternechto, not totally clear on what you mean, so I'm gonna guess.


I am uncertain anything is that immutable, and certain that in the end it will all be gone.

I'm okay with ultimately leaving nothing behind, as long as I live my life with an aesthetic.  Temporary does not mean pointless; if only permanent things could be meaningful, life itself would be meaningless.

btw, that line "You do not exist" is one of my most effective mindfucks.  Use it only for good (and lulz).

[ternechto]

So I was just wondering what you considered your inch.

Actually, it's more like eight inches.

My knee-jerk was to be insincere and juvenile, saying something like "booze" in response to your question.

I am uncertain anything is that immutable, and certain that in the end it will all be gone.

I'm changing my inch to this.

[Brotep]

I remember when I met Carl Martin,
It must have been a dozen years ago.

This wise old gent was gray and bent,
But his eyes had a fiery glow.

He was born April Fools Day, 1906,
Near Big Stone Gap, VA.

He could play a little fiddle and some blues guitar
That he'd picked up along the way.

But once he put his hands on a mandolin,
He lit up just like a Christmas tree.

Along with Ted Bogan and Howard Armstrong
They were the best string band you ever did see.

For fifty odd years they played rent parties,
Road houses, concerts and festivals too.

At the drop of a hat these three black cats
Would play ya every song they knew.

It was 'Lady Be Good' and 'The Barnyard Dance"
And "The Ice Cream Freezer Blues".

They'd trot the oldest chestnuts out
And make every one sound brand new.

And little white boys with their shiny guitars,
Would follow right along at their heels.

They learned the words and they learned the chords
But they never did learn how it feels.


One day I asked Carl where he got the fire.
He said, 'Steve, you've got to understand,

You want to be someone, you'd better have some fun,
So you better get it while you can.'

(CHORUS)

You better get it while you can,
You better get it while you can.

If you wait too long, it'll all be gone
And you'll be sorry then.

It doesn't matter if you're rich or poor,
It's the same for a woman or a man.

From the cradle to the crypt
It's a mighty short trip,

So you better get it while you can.


Now Carl always had a way to make the good times roll
When the rest of us weren't so sure.

He'd just pick out the prettiest woman in the room
And sing every song to her.

One night back East when the gig was done
There was an all night blow-out jam.

We played and we sang and we drank for hours,
Until the sun came up again.

It was blues and ballads, Ragtime, Dixieland, Swing,
Some old time show tunes.

And Carl Martin sang some songs nobody else knew
And some I haven't heard since then.

Right before dawn he did two more songs
Just to separate the strong from the faint.

It was a red-hot rendition of "The Old Pine Tree"
And a double-time version of 'The Saints'.  (with the mandolin behind his head)

When he was done, those of us who could still breathe
Took off our hats to that man.

Carl played everybody under the table that night
And he said, 'You better get it while you can'.


(REPEAT CHORUS)


You know Carl and his buddies never got too far,
When he died Martin didn't have a dime.

He was a little behind on his payments
And a little bit ahead of his time.

Last week a group of us so-called musicians
Sat up real late and burned one down.

The liquor kept coming and we kept strumming
Till a minute or two before dawn.

There were some who stayed and some who faded,
Till soon I was left all alone.

I don't believe in ghosts - but I could swear
I heard Carl Martin sing one more song.

(REPEAT CHORUS)

[ternechto]

 

This needs to be remixed http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SibThAg6E9k

[ternechto]

So I was just wondering what you considered your inch.

My knee-jerk was to be insincere and juvenile, saying something like "booze" in response to your question. However, I realize that that wouldn't be fair to you, since you seem to have put so much honest emotional effort into making this post.

My "inch" . . . I'm not sure I can really, fully grasp the metaphorical meaning of that, whether it is the part of me that no one can ever take from me, the thing in my life that drives me forward and gives me hope, or what. If it's talking about the former, then I suppose it would be my unique perceptions on life and love. If the latter, then I cannot express it better than by quoting Philip Larkin, who wrote,

"Only an attitude remains:

Time has transfigured them into
Untruth.  The stone fidelity
They hardly meant has come to be
Their final blazon, and to prove
Our almost-instinct almost true:
What will survive of us is love."

-Philip Larkin, "An Arundel Tomb"

E.g. ^^

Or I'll go cry in a corner alone. I'm not kidding around here. I'll do it.

[Brotep]

The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

S'io credesse che mia risposta fosse
   A persona che mai tornasse al mondo,
   Questa fiamma staria senza piu scosse.
   Ma perciocche giammai di questo fondo
   Non torno vivo alcun, s'i'odo il vero,
   Senza tema d'infamia ti rispondo.


LET us go then, you and I,   
When the evening is spread out against the sky   
Like a patient etherised upon a table;   
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,   
The muttering retreats           5
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels   
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:   
Streets that follow like a tedious argument   
Of insidious intent   
To lead you to an overwhelming question ...           10
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"   
Let us go and make our visit.   

In the room the women come and go   
Talking of Michelangelo.   

The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes,           15
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes   
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening,   
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,   
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,   
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,           20
And seeing that it was a soft October night,   
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.   

And indeed there will be time   
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,   
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;           25
There will be time, there will be time   
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;   
There will be time to murder and create,   
And time for all the works and days of hands   
That lift and drop a question on your plate;           30
Time for you and time for me,   
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,   
And for a hundred visions and revisions,   
Before the taking of a toast and tea.   

In the room the women come and go           35
Talking of Michelangelo.   

And indeed there will be time   
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"   
Time to turn back and descend the stair,   
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—           40
[They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!"]   
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,   
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—   
[They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"]   
Do I dare           45
Disturb the universe?   
In a minute there is time   
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.   

For I have known them all already, known them all:—   
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,           50
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;   
I know the voices dying with a dying fall   
Beneath the music from a farther room.   
  So how should I presume?   

And I have known the eyes already, known them all—           55
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,   
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,   
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,   
Then how should I begin   
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?           60
  And how should I presume?   

And I have known the arms already, known them all—   
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare   
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]   
It is perfume from a dress           65
That makes me so digress?   
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.   
  And should I then presume?   
  And how should I begin?
      .      .      .      .      .   
Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets           70
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes   
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows?...   

I should have been a pair of ragged claws   
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
      .      .      .      .      .   
And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!           75
Smoothed by long fingers,   
Asleep ... tired ... or it malingers,   
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.   
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,   
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?           80
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,   
Though I have seen my head [grown slightly bald] brought in upon a platter,   
I am no prophet—and here's no great matter;   
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,   
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,           85
And in short, I was afraid.   

And would it have been worth it, after all,   
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,   
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,   
Would it have been worth while,           90
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,   
To have squeezed the universe into a ball   
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,   
To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,   
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"—           95
If one, settling a pillow by her head,   
  Should say: "That is not what I meant at all.   
  That is not it, at all."   

And would it have been worth it, after all,   
Would it have been worth while,           100
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,   
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—   
And this, and so much more?—   
It is impossible to say just what I mean!   
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:           105
Would it have been worth while   
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,   
And turning toward the window, should say:   
  "That is not it at all,   
  That is not what I meant, at all."
      .      .      .      .      .           110
No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;   
Am an attendant lord, one that will do   
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,   
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,   
Deferential, glad to be of use,           115
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;   
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;   
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—   
Almost, at times, the Fool.   

I grow old ... I grow old ...           120
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.   

Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?   
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.   
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.   

I do not think that they will sing to me.           125

I have seen them riding seaward on the waves   
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back   
When the wind blows the water white and black.   

We have lingered in the chambers of the sea   
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown           130
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.

[ternechto]

Ok, ok....I love spam you too butDONE.

[Brotep]

Oh, it's not spam.  It's highly pertinent content that happens to be quoted and really freakin' long.

[ternechto]

In that case I'll intently give it a read tomorrow when the medication's worn off. Provided I'm still interested in the subject. Thankya

[bds]

So I was just wondering what you considered your inch.

Actually, it's more like eight inches.

CURSE YUO STEALING MAH JOEKS!

[Manta Obscura]

So I was just wondering what you considered your inch.

My knee-jerk was to be insincere and juvenile, saying something like "booze" in response to your question. However, I realize that that wouldn't be fair to you, since you seem to have put so much honest emotional effort into making this post.

My "inch" . . . I'm not sure I can really, fully grasp the metaphorical meaning of that, whether it is the part of me that no one can ever take from me, the thing in my life that drives me forward and gives me hope, or what. If it's talking about the former, then I suppose it would be my unique perceptions on life and love. If the latter, then I cannot express it better than by quoting Philip Larkin, who wrote,

"Only an attitude remains:

Time has transfigured them into
Untruth.  The stone fidelity
They hardly meant has come to be
Their final blazon, and to prove
Our almost-instinct almost true:
What will survive of us is love."

-Philip Larkin, "An Arundel Tomb"

E.g. ^^

Or I'll go cry in a corner alone. I'm not kidding around here. I'll do it.

wut

[ternechto]

It's a plea for similar responses. So, it's a thank you. So, thank you.

[Manta Obscura]

It's a plea for similar responses. So, it's a thank you. So, thank you.

Oh. You're welcome.