In a dim but also fading room, they met: they were several and... vivacious. walls were there; to listen in: how many years, are precious? Brains and bodies; hands and glowing eyes: they met and they were several. Gradually the fading stopped for the words exchanged were Elemental. The siphon of time meets living: Living produces a giving of the light... consequently the room was dim no longer; 'though it was the middle of the night. I appreciate that as you read this these words have been transcribed to E-mail format but, as it is, paper and ink are located upon a rock by the northwestern highlands coast of Scotland. I'm taking advantage of the fact that the sun has broken through a squall, 'though the wind is still up. Ahead of me, the shallows are turquoise: lapping black ripplets over the golden seaweed like some undiscovered Hermes print on silk. The horizon is striated by this low-tide. Beyond is Skye. To the left is Eigg; closer than the rising and gloomy mass of Rhum. Last night I stayed in a lodge which was formerly a secret enclave of the Special Operations Executive in WWII. Its current owner knows more than I dared ask about people I've only read; or read of. There were two peacocks in the garden, and fairylights in the dining room. The scenario was entirely charming. I am smitten. Their collie dog curled up to my leg by the fireplace and, the following morning its young owner [the daughter of the daughter; about 7 or 8 years old] quizzed me: 'what is it's name?' 'I call it dog' 'I own it, and I call it 'seal' because it likes to swim.' 'Maybe it wants a swim then; not a walk' mother- "the sea is too cold" I shrug and sign the bill; the tip being a half bottle of vintage chablis left in their fridge. It's heart-wrenchingly beautiful up here: even the sheep don't run away at the sight of a person: they stop and stare. A single cloud of some ten miles radius is depositing its arc of rain upon the cliffs on the southern tip of Skye. The wind threatens to draw the airborne water in my direction. Waves gallop white over the rocky outshores and I'm shivering. Time to button up the jacket; turn the collar up but, with an approaching wind the ensemble and its adjustments are of scant use. I'm so at home here: it's the least lonely place I know... conversations with more than one person who knew what I was alluding to specifically. When people run out, there is a presence of nature. Sea reflects the mood of the air and those who behold it; the rocks: a defiant architecture of sanctuary for birds like as sea-birds are apt to be; the cold depths the baskings of a shark and the lamprey which is somewhat horrific in that it bites into the dumb shark-flesh: the shark is unaware of this intrusion and 'though our squeamishness may preclude not facts, but conceptions: say; not stabbing but liposuction? All in the descriptive frame, you see. An oystercatcher zooms headfirst towards a runway of wet sand and brakes with its wings before performing a staggering vertical landing from the altitude of approximately one inch; orange undercarriage aglow. Does a reccie of the foreshore. The sun is out. The sea-side plants I remember from my grannie's garden lilt in a breeze. Scotland makes sense from here: life makes sense from here: if it is but a temporary respite; if it should become a bore... it does not enter my head now and I would not request its prescence. A gull rises on a warm uplift then lands to waddle into the waves. A low arc of rainbow bridges the Sound of Sleat to the north: in the vapour is hope; in the ..... Gordon *the extract goes as follows, and apologies for the lack of accentuating marks: Sinibh, tairnib's lubaibh, Na gallain liagh-leobhar ghiuthais 'S deanaibh uidhe troimh shutraibh an usaile. Cliath ramb air gach taobh dhith Masgadh fairge le saothair, Dol 'na still ann an aodan na bairlinn i.e. Stretch, pull and bend The slim-bladed pine saplings And make a way through the oceans' currents. Bank of oars on each side of her Stirring ocean with toil, Dashing in the face of the tempest _ from Clanranald's Galley, written by Alaisdair, mac Mhaighstir Alasdair, who is anonymously buried in the kirkyard of Arisaig... d. 1707 'the greatest gaelic poet' +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+ +---+ 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. WWW: http://www.missprint.org/sinister +-+ "sinsietr is a bit freaky" - stuart david, looper +-+ +-+ "legion of bedroom saddo devotees" "peculiarly deranged fanbase" +-+ +-+ "pasty-faced vegan geeks... and we LOST!" - NME April 2000 +-+ +-+ "frighteningly named Sinister List organisation" - NME May 2000 +-+ +-+ "sick posse of f**ked in the head psycho-fans" - NME June 2001 +-+ +-+ Nee, nee mun pish, chan pai dee kwa +-+ +-------------------------------------------------------------------------+