patrick.net

Actually I wasn't talking about the Ohs but I like how you found your own meaning in it. Heh. Interpretation and all.

No, I didn't mean to imply that you talk in circles or about yourself. But now your saying that implies that I talk about myself all the time, LOL. It's all about ME! Urk, I do, don't I? So I'm the self-centered one. Um, I don't think you talk about yourself that much. If I thought you were boring I wouldn't be here.

Now we're talking in circles about talking in circles. If we're not careful that never-ending mirror effect with infect our conversations.

Shaft. Heh.

Don't let me hold you up here! I'm not worth it! I'm wasting your time!

Should I make up an excuse to leave so you won't feel guilty about leaving?

"I just went into that because I think I really do! You dont. I do. But you think you do and I think I do but you dont think I do and I dont think you do. So we both dont but think we do. But we might."

Um, wow.

No, I did my work, I"m done. All I can really do now is goof off on the computer while I' m outside.

Speaking of outside, the desert is a great place to be creative. You asked me how it is a long time ago, and I never gave you a real answer. it's very wide open and inspiring. Perfect for building your own universe. And the sky is so amazing at night I don't know how anyone could not love it here.

How do you get up that early? Are you one of those sick morning people?

And of course I think Jack is not boring. He's brilliant since we share a brain, or because we share a brain, or something. Ha. You really are brilliant, Jack. Really, I'm not joking.

And SQT is a babe. Hi SQT! We are suffering for our art.

Huh makes us bleed.

He can't help but like me, because I control his thoughts. It's the never-ending mirror effect. Or something. Heh.

We did speak fondly of you and your hair,SQT. And the fantasy of it.

Well, Jack, do YOU have Farrah hair? SQT is brilliant too.

Oh SQT, we will try not to hold out high hopes for your hair. I know it's one of those hair dos that won't do what you want if you really want it to. It takes a bit of detachment to get it just perfect. I don't have a hair do, I'm hair do-less. I rarely brush it. That makes me sound unkempt. I"m a pony tail girl most days.

Heh. Sorry had to go do a kiddy thing. I KNOW how Jack is. No need for a shovel.

Hi newsfreak.

Yes, Jack, I think I understand you. But then you are a guy. Completely foreign to me in some ways. I can think, but maybe I can't know.

You are a totally CHEAP DATE SQT!

Just don't let it go to your, uh, head, Jack.

Have fun, SQT! Bye!

"It already went to my head Jamie. I am dangerous now. "

Oh?

I do one lightning-fast click and drag to get to the bottom. Takes a nanosecond. No calluses.

I guess Peter P could make it all disappear for us. I wonder if it's easy to delete 3000 posts.

I don't do pity posts.

LOL, it's true. Half the time I have no idea what you're talking about newsfreak. And then all of a sudden, enlightenment! You're like TS Eliot.

Now the neighbor is outside waiting for me to talk. I have to go be social and stuff. And then make dinner. Ciao my peeps.

YES!

Do I dare post the entire text of TS Eliot's The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock here? It seems appropriate, given our dear newsfreak, and um, Jack. Best Poem Ever (sorry, the line numbers are funky, and also, note the claws, heh heh):

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.

I'm not sure there's anything to say about Eliot. But I also believe that about art in general. I just like to feel lit. Not discuss it.

LMAO, feel IT, not LIT. What a lovely typo though.

I just thought it was appropo of something, or nothing. It has lots of parallels with stuff here.

But Prufrock is not so different from some discussions here. You of all people should notice that.

Don't think too hard about it though Mr Oh.

And weren't the claws kind of funny. Wasn't it just a little bit cool that I found a poem with claw references in it?

What? It's that bad?

Yes, a bonus.

Why not? Because I just ruined it for you with etherised skies and stuff?

Or was the neon signs poem the pinnacle?

Hmmmm...

Oh crap this thread is loading too slowly to post a single Hmmmmm... So I have to think of something else to say. I could go back and pick out the parts of that poem that were supposed to be meaningful but the that would eliminate all the round-about-ness of it all.

Hmm, well, that's how I feel about art. I don't like to talk about it because I"ll just sound stupid. I just like to look at it.

I don't really like to talk about poetry either. I was joking about that formal analysis thing.

"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"