A great writer is the friend and benefactor of his readers. - Macaulay Spinisterines! Velocity Girl and Aunt Sadie - I hope that you'll forgive me for writing in such a public forum where usually only posts to Sinisterines as a whole are welcomed. As I have told you in earlier correspondence, I was emulating the poet Milton by spending my youth in seclusion, medication, and study in order to perfect my craft of writing as he did; the world's cataclysmic intemperance has thrust me into the world in the most cavalier manner; my system in is still in a state of flux. It is my only hope that my public post will somehow strike a chord with someone who is desperately in need of my wisdom which might prove to be, naturally, everyone. As I was wearing the soles of my New Balances down to a mere silver of crepe rubber on the old flagstone banquettes of the streets of a small western town in western Carolina my fevered attempt to wrest a living from an unthinking and uncaring society, I was hailed by a cherished old acquaintance (deviate). A few minutes of conversation in which I established most easily my moral superiority over this degenerate, I found myself pondering once more the crises of our times. My mentality, uncontrollable and wanton as always, whispered to me a scheme so magnificent and daring that I shrank from the very thought I was hearing. "Stop!" I cried imploringly to my godlike mind. "This is madness." But still I listened to the counsel of my brain. It was offering me the opportunity to save the world from it's degeneracy. However, it involves Cupid. La Cupid still keeps his own counsel, thereby proving himself even wiser than we had originally thought upon kidnapping him eight months ago - especially since he discovered the oven in the dungeon and is baking up some of the most excellent chocolate macaroon cookies you've ever sunk your teeth into (unless you're Aunt Sadie and then it's lost your teeth in). I hate to lose him (the cookies so soft and chewy) but I suppose if it's for the world it can be managed. There will be more details forthcoming. I find, dear Spinisterines, that I have grown accustomed to the hectic pace of a single bookshop girl and blooming into the picture perfect old maid (though, at the moment, sans cats), an adjustment which I had no doubt I could make. Of course, it is true that in my brief career at the bookshop, I have succeeded in initiating several work-saving methods. Those of you who are fellow bookshop girls and find yourselves reading this incisive journal during a coffee break or such might take note of one or two of my innovations. I direct these observations to officers and tycoons, also. I have taken to arriving at the office one hour later than I am expected. Therefore, I am far more rested and refreshed when I do arrive, and I avoid that bleak first hour of the working day during which my still sluggish senses and body make every chore a penance. I find that in arriving later, the work which I do perform is of a much higher quality. My innovation in connection with the Romance section of the store must remain a secret for the moment, for it is rather revolutionary, and I shall have to see how it works out. In theory the innovation is magnificent. However, I will say that the brittle and yellowing papers in the Harlequins constitute a fire hazard. A more special aspect that may not apply in all sections is that Romance novels seem to attract ladies who obviously should be spending their time on other things instead of dreaming of that which will never happen. Or that which I hope will never happen to them for their sakes. It's a bit like porn - who wants to be out there thinking, "Where's my really ugly guy from New Jersey with a hairy back and a bizarrely large penis?" I might have to also implement this plan (you would like it - it involves fire) with the wedding planners as well. A young lady just came into the store to purchase one and she was beaming disgustingly. Oh they say that women glow when they're in love or about to have children but they would also glow if exposed to large amounts of radiation and about to birth three headed phreaks as well so I'm not one to mark this as a positive thing. Other than developing plans to save the world and the bookshop, I've been involved with autumn roadtrips. I just finished giving Hubris (my stalwart steed) his yearly bath. He's quite picky about them and always complains that he'll just become dirty again so I usually only make him let me wash him every so often. He's a wise automobile. However, I find that his gratitude to me is superiorly lacking. I love him tenderly and he finds the need to decide that he would much rather spend more time in upper state New York than I originally had planned. (He obviously doesn't realize that as southerners that we're in enemy territory). After six miles of walking, eight hours of waiting in a mechanic's shop, and several minutes trying to explain to the mechanic that when I said "I would like a water pump for my car" that "That sounds like a fair exchange" wasn't the response for which I was hoping - we finally emerged out of autohell and escaped home. Too bad I can't do it again sooner. After two years in Sinister, I'm meeting my first person from this fair village when they come to stay with me for a couple of weeks. This is what I get for e-mailing someone to tell them they write wonderful posts. They seem to be exquisitely lovely but then again when you're thousands of miles away - even I seem to be charming. Sucker. I shan't tell you their name just in case they annoy me and I have to kill them. After the cupid incident, the police are suspicious of me. There isn't much to do around here and so my plans for entertainment are narrow. Naturally, I shall take him to the local post office so he can see the man with the frosted mullet. That's always a highpoint of visiting here. Of course, I also plan a poetry recital during that time period to practice for Halloween when I shall be Isadora Quagmire (http://www.lemonysnicket.com/tc_isadora.html and yes, I plan to do that exact expression for the entire day) and speak only in couplets. On that dark night of poetry, I'm hoping that the only other member of my audience will be some desperately lonely old male librarian who saw a light in the window of the lecture hall and hopefully came in to escape the cold and the horrors of his personal hell (realizing years before that bookshops were superior but being too proud to admit to it so he kept being transferred from branch to brooklyn branch and becoming so desperate at times that he even considered moving to Iowa). There in the hall, his stooped figured sitting alone before the podium, sinister visitor trying to quietly sneak out the door, my squeaky voice echoing among the empty chairs and hammering boredom, confusion, and sexual reference deeper and deeper in the the poor wretchs' skulls until they're confounded to the point of hysteria. It will be delightful and I'm sorry that you can't make it. Vel, thank you very kindly for you poem about autumn. In exchange, here lies my favorite e.e. cummings poem in honor of his birthday which according to Raucous Rich was yesterday. It seems to be the week, nay I say month, of many a great one's birthday - Bill Harris & Starfire Davey whose birthdays are this week and to Brier, Jeremy, Tom Y, and someone else obvious who I'm forgetting whose birthdays are later this month. Somewhere I have never traveled gladly beyond any experience, your eyes have their silence: in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which I cannot touch because they are too near your slightest look easily will enclose me though I have closed myself as fingers, you open always petal by petal myself as Spring opens (touching skillfully, mysteriously) her first rose or if your wish be to close me, I and my life will shut very beautifully, suddenly, as when the heart of this flower imagines the snow carefully everywhere descending; nothing which we are to perceive in this world equals the power of your intense fragility: whose texture compels me with the color of its' countries, rendering death and forever with each breathing (I do not know what it is about you that closes and opens; only something in me understands the voice of your eyes is deeper than all roses) nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands. "Nobody, not even the rain, has such small hands" is a line akin to Parker's "lips that taste of tears, they say, are the best for kissing" (not that I do any) in that I often find myself curled up with it late in the night. I have found that if you don't have enough time to read all of the sinister posts that just getting to Rachel the Fruitloops will give you all the highlights - a bit like just glancing at the top of post office mullet boy's head. Your working girl, Laura Llew PS - As you can tell, I'm still enamored with John Kennedy Toole but there's no reason to fret since I seriously doubt even if he was resurrected anytime soon that he would now be heterosexual. PPS - I've also now fallen in love with Carson McCullers. However, there is also no doubt that she will be resurrected and discover she is homosexual. PPPS - The Humberta Humberta in me has also fallen for that little minxette Junie B. Jones. With sums of her tales in her trysts with fruitcake that read as "Junie B. wins the Cake Walk, she chooses the bestest cake of all - the one wrapped in sparkly aluminum foil. How was she to know it was a lethal weapon?" it was hard for me to resist. PPPPS - I'm also in love with Duncan Quagmire (http://www.lemonysnicket.com/tc_duncan.html) but as I will be playing his sister for Halloween - the ardor is currently being kept under tabs PPPPPS - Pecan pie will do for now. _________________________________________________________________ Get your FREE download of MSN Explorer at http://explorer.msn.com/intl.asp +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the Sinister mailing list +---+ To send to the list mail sinister@missprint.org. To unsubscribe send "unsubscribe sinister" or "unsubscribe sinister-digest" to majordomo@missprint.org. 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