Is there for honest Poverty
That hings his head, an' a' that;
The coward slave-we pass him by,
We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, an' a' that.
Our toils obscure an' a' that,
The rank is but the guinea's stamp,
The Man's the gowd for a' that.
What though on hamely fare we dine,
Wear hoddin grey, an' a that;
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine;
A Man's a Man for a' that:
For a' that, and a' that,
Their tinsel show, an' a' that;
The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor,
Is king o' men for a' that.
Ye see yon birkie, ca'd a lord,
Wha struts, an' stares, an' a' that;
Tho' hundreds worship at his word,
He's but a coof for a' that:
For a' that, an' a' that,
His ribband, star, an' a' that:
The man o' independent mind
He looks an' laughs at a' that.
A prince can mak a belted knight,
A marquis, duke, an' a' that;
But an honest man's abon his might,
Gude faith, he maunna fa' that!
For a' that, an' a' that,
Their dignities an' a' that;
The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth,
Are higher rank than a' that.
Then let us pray that come it may,
(As come it will for a' that,)
That Sense and Worth, o'er a' the earth,
Shall bear the gree, an' a' that.
For a' that, an' a' that,
It's coming yet for a' that,
That Man to Man, the world o'er,
Shall brothers be for a' that.
Robert Burns.
— `phfina analysis:
Oh, to be a man, and to laugh at princes, and titles, and what comes what may, and still to be a man, for a' tha'.
But to be a woman. To be me. When what comes what may, but what is left to fall back on?
It's Christmas season, when Santa makes his list, and checks it twice, and all good little girls and all good little boys think about game consoles, bicycles, with training wheels, and maybe a pony.
And `phfina's thoughts, traditionally, turn to suicide.
I caught myself. Thinking that, and all that, and I just went right there, spiraling down into the circle of despair.
And then I said: no.
I said no. I am not determined by ... by anything, Ladies and Gentles. I am not determined by my chemical composition, by the faux-festive 'holi'day season ('Buy more! On sale!'), by other people and what they do, or don't do, to, on, around, or near me.
And so, I was riding home on the bus, and I cranked it, my ghetto iPod. You know that loud music Bella Swan was listening to as she was figuring it all out in
Twilight? For legal reasons, Steph couldn't mention it in the book, but she's given interviews saying it was Linkin Park's
Meteora. So, it worked for Bella Swan, so I cranked that puppy, got off the bus, and screamed out the lyrics as I
ran home, full tilt.
Heh, must of been funny, for oncoming traffic to see this, what?, this little banshee just running, and screaming and smiling so hard, so full of joy. I may have it bad, but not as bad as those guys, with all their millions (of fans) (and dollars), and a' tha' spewing their lyrics of self-hate:
"It's easier to run
Replacing this pain with something more.
It's so much easier to go
Than face all this pain here all alone.
Something has been taken from deep inside of me.
The secret I've kept locked away, no one can ever see.
Wounds so deep they never show, they ever go away,
Like moving pictures in my head for years and years they play.
If I could change, I would. Take back the pain, I would.
Retrace every wrong move that I made, I would.
If I could stand up and take the blame, I would.
If I could take all the shame to the grave, I would."
Linkin Park, Meteora, "It's easier to run" © ™ ® ... don't sue me, it'll cost you way more money to do it than you'll ever get out of me, anyway.
But check the vid (and, yes, do I
ever check more than a few vids) of them making the album, there they are, these kids, about my age? older? younger? with a graffiti artist with their wives and babies and fan girls and production team. Happy, active, creative. Being. Doing what they are doing because they are following their vocation.
I mean,
Meteora, right? It came right out of Heaven into our hands, and there it was, perfection, from beginning to end, for every goth grrl with combat boots and a convincing snarl ...
(... which I am
so not ... there was just such a girl on the bus ride home: big, tall, black nail polish matching her black combat boots and black leather jacket, and henna in her hair, and little me was more than a little fearful of yon warrioress) ...
And for everyone who listens to that album for whatever reason.
And then there's Gorillaz
Plastic Beach and, of course, being Gorillaz, it's ... 'alternative' and ... 'experimental' ... and perfect, coming down from Heaven in a pristine jewel case right into my ear buds.
But then, looking at the making of
Plastic Beach vid (again, `phfina, watching vids ... yes, I am a perv, and thank you for sharing), you see
how hard it was.
How hard it was.
See,
we have
Plastic Beach to listen to and to admire.
Gorillaz? They had to make it. Just like Linkin Park had to make
Meteora.
And what did they make it from?
Watch the vids.
They made it from absolutely nothing.
They had nothing to start with. Nothing at all. And they struggled, and fought, and discussed, and revised, and threw away a ton of stuff, that they kept trying and trying and trying to make it just right and just perfect starting from absolutely nowhere and not having a clue of where they were going with all this.
And.
I mean, it's not enough, the terror of the blank page staring at you, my dear authoresses, even though that is enough to kill more than 90% of us, and with that figure I'm being generous ... or conservative, ... or whatever.
No, it's not just that, the absolute terror of emptiness that creativity faces when it stares at the blank page or canvas or staff.
Although it's more than enough to kill us, right, Vincent? Seymour?
No, what's worse is that there is all that. All that.
A man's a man, for a' tha'.
But there is a' tha'.
A man, or even a little girl like me, has to face a' tha'. Linkin Park had
[Hybrid Theory] and then the even more awesome
[Reanimation] and in the face of all that success and expectation they had to create
Meteora (without the brackets). Gorillaz, omg, Gorillaz with album after album of success and praise, and they had to throw it all out,
all of it, and then they had to create
Plastic Beach.Men. All of them. And one little girl named Noodle, facing all that, all that expectation (which translates as: if you don't measure up, we will be disappointed, and you are worthless and should just kill yourself),
and the blank page.
And creating.
And when I say, 'creating,' I mean 'creating.'
Do you know what I mean?
No, you don't. Because you're stuck in your life being a human being. "What can one person do?" you justify.
Creating. Doing something other than what the already almost certain future contains for you. Seeing your past, clearly, for what it is, and what it isn't, and putting the past into the past, and seeing the future for what it is ... not.
Because the future? It doesn't exist until you create it. It truly is really 'not'. But then you create it, and then it is: and right now. And, ladies and gentles, make no mistake, you create your future, every second of every day. You choose to continue doing what you've always been doing, living the life you've always been living, or you choose to step out, on faith.
Into the abyss of the new.
Scary there. I know.
... sometimes.
And the new? Funny thing about the new. It's right here. It's right here in front of you.
All you have to do, is to see it. And it's there.
Even in a' tha' ... even in the every day humdrum. It's there. The new.
The time is now 1:34 am. I'm going to go to bed. And then I'm going to wake up tomorrow, and do exactly what I did yesterday, and the day before, and the day before that. And so are you.
Or.
Or I'm going to surprise myself, and wake up, and do the same-old, and then, when I settle in/down/for, I'm going to perk up and say, 'hey, I'm going to ...'
And surprise myself. And be. And live. And see things, really, for the first time in my life.
And so can you.
