O from the depths of lurkdom I come. First to say this: I forget, always, the feeling of my nostrils freezing until I return to New England in December and breathe when I'm outside. Not something I miss, I must say, although the snow was a nice touch for the holiday season. Pleased as punch I am, though, to be back in San Francisco, where January means you can sit outside while eating your lunch, and the sun will land warm on your cheeks, and the green gold around you will obliterate any memory of the wind in Boston that was so cold it made you cry. I cannot shut up already about the weather, although it's been nearly all I've been chattering on about since I returned. Moving on. Next to say this: while home for the holly-days, I dug out my high school-era mix tapes and had a bit of a listen. Amazing, sort of, how you manage to remember all the words to songs you've not heard in years. Or perhaps that's just the way *my* mind works, clinging like mad to relatively useless info like song lyrics while maintaining obstinately that it hasn't a bit of space for things like grammar rules or the names of world leaders. All relative, I suppose. Anyway, I'll end this blathering soon, but not before this: because I really liked it, and because it was the source of what became one of my favorite poems (Richard Hugo's Degrees of Grey in Philipsburg), and just because I wanna, I shall hereby attempt to revive the tradition of the Poetry Parrot. Come now, comrades! Let us welcome our winged friend back into our midst! Let us learn what he has to teach us! Let us not keep him locked up in the closest, accompanied only by old stuffed animals who are missing various eyes and ears! Right, then. Here he is now: Sonnet 20 Mindful of you the sodden earth in spring, And all the flowers that in the springtime grow, And dusty roads, and thistles, and the slow Rising of the round moon, all throats that sing The summer through, and each departing wing, And all the nests that the bared branches show, And all winds that in any weather blow, And all the storms that the four seasons bring. You go no more on your exultant feet Up paths that only mist and morning knew, Or watch the wind, or listen to the beat Of a bird's wings too high in air to view,-- But you were something more than young and sweet And fair,--and the long year remembers you. --Enda St. Vincent Millay I send him on his way to Laura Llew, given her lliterary lleanings. Incidentally, should my attempted revival fail, I shall follow Greg's lead and hang myself from a tree (although probably oak rather than beech). Either that or I'll sit and sulk for a while and then get on with it. But I've taken up more than enough of your time, no? So I shall be on my way. 2001 loves you all, Emily +----------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ Brought to you by the undead 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. WWW: http://www.missprint.org/sinister +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "tech-heads and students" +-+ +-+ "the cardie wearing biscuit nibbling belle & sebastian list" +-+ +-+ "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper +-+ +-+ "pasty-faced vegan geeks... and we LOST!" - NME April 2000 +-+ +-+ "peculiarly deranged fanbase" "frighteningly named +-+ +-+ Sinister List organisation" - NME May 2000 +-+ +----------------------------------------------------------------------+