Sinister: pieces of eight

[Stankin' Cooter]

Ahoy, me hearties!

I’m sorry; I don’t know what came over me just now. I think having this 
blasted parrot about the place has affected me somewhat.

Miss Madeleine of Leicester said:

“Now, I set the parrot free and send him on his way across a million miles 
of ocean to Sir David of Stankin Cooter (apologies to slang-sensitive 
Americans out there). Sir D, the parrot is all yours. Stick him in a pie and 
eat him for all I care :)”

It was a long flight for the poetry parrot, but he did eventually arrive, 
albeit in a foul temper. Given his initially truculent demeanour, I was 
tempted to stick him in a pie, but frankly, I didn’t like the look of him 
too much. Besides which, I’m yet to figure out how my oven works, despite 
the fact that I moved in months ago.

I’m almost tempted to figure it out, though, as this parrot has taken to 
perching on my shoulder and repeating rude things to people’s faces that 
I’ve said about them when their backs were safely turned. I think he might 
be related to Aunt Sadie.

And Miss Madeleine, don’t you know that I’m afraid of birds? I get a little 
shiver every time I see their twitchy head-movements, and their sharp beaks 
and beady eyes make me feel all soft and vulnerable. A friend of mine once 
touched a duck, and then touched my beer, and I refused to finish it, for 
fear that I’d catch something horrible. Feathers may as well be custom 
designed to collect germs. Oh yes, I’m afraid of germs as well.

And birds are directly descended from dinosaurs, you know! And if television 
has taught me anything, it’s that Dinosaurs are pure evil, and crave human 
flesh. Except for that really cool one in the Herculoids that shot rocks out 
of his horn, or whatever it was.

In any case, I’ve almost gotten used to having this parrot around; an 
increasing tendency to launch into an extremely unconvincing pirate schtick 
is about the only negative side effect I’ve noticed.

Oh, and I’ve a posted a number of times already, but I never really did the 
whole introduction thing, so now might be as good a time as any to get that 
out of the way. My name’s David, as Miss Madeleine rightly points out, 
although I’m not a real ‘Sir’. I’m also not a real ‘Werther’, though there 
are listees that choose to call me that, for reasons best known to 
themselves. I live in Adelaide, and design videogames for a living, which 
isn’t very twee. I’m sorry. I drink too many gin and tonics, and talk 
altogether too much nonsense. I also spend perhaps a little too much time in 
#sinister, so you should come and visit me there, if we’ve not already met.

There. That’s a bit of a relief, actually; at least I’ll not have to sign 
off these emails as ‘Stankin’ anymore.

There’s a story behind that email address, though it’s a very long and 
uninteresting one, that I’ll not bore you with here. I will, however, add my 
apologies to those of the lovely Miss Madeleine to any slang-sensitive 
American listees. It’s not an email address I ever intended to send mail 
from. On top of which, I was originally told that this was a far more 
obscure slang term than I’m now, more reliably, informed that it is. Please 
let me know if you’re REALLY offended; I can always go through the nursery 
again, and come back with a more suitable identity.

Will Porter said:

“OOh speaking of bands, do you all love Call and Response?  You ought to.”

Call and Response are the poo, and I’d very much like to second Will’s 
recommendation. The album is currently jostling for position in the ranks of 
the best few albums I’ve purchased all year. I’ve not played it to anyone 
who hasn’t loved it. It’s jaunty, swoon-inducing, driving-with-the-roof-down 
music that’s sure to float your boat.

While on the subject of music, I had the good fortune to see Simpatico and 
Sodastream play on Friday night, and I loved both acts unreservedly. I 
suspect that many of you would too.

Simpatico (who is Jason Sweeney, of Pretty Boy Crossover and Sweet William 
fame) played some new material from his forthcoming record, which sounded 
absolutely top-hole. He finished his set with a cover of Puff the Magic 
Dragon, which was an inspired choice, and at least twice as good as you’re 
imagining.

Sodastream were breathtaking, and also have a new record that I think they 
said would be out this week – I’ve not heard it yet, but if the songs they 
played live (or the three songs that were on the free sampler they were 
giving out) are any indication, it’ll be an absolute corker.

Jenowl said:

“When I read peoples posts out in my head I read them in a scottish voice. 
Does that mean that someone reads out my post in their head in a different 
voice?”

Now that’s grand. I’ve got an oddly mixed accent myself, but I don’t read 
other people’s posts in it, I read each post with a made up accent, that I 
imagine the poster would have. I’m not very good with accents, so I’m almost 
certainly pretty far wide of the mark in all cases, but it amuses me 
greatly. Whoever it was that had Ken Chu down as Mojo Jojo is a genius. I 
never read Ken’s posts like that before, but I will from now on.

I couldn’t possibly be more down with the cartoon character = listee 
equation, though: I always hear Laura Llew’s posts as if they were read by 
Penelope Pitstop.

Now, how about that poem, parrot? I’ve had it explained to me that the 
current state of the archives has had something of an effect on the 
long-term memory of this bird, and he can’t remember where he’s been, or 
what poems he’s squawked. Given that this is the case, he’s asked me to pass 
on a pre-emptive apology if he’s already shared this one with you. He may 
have, as it’s probably one of the more obvious choices, given that it 
features a fox in the snow. It’s one of his favourites, though, and is a 
lovely, tight little poem about being visited by the Muse.

The Thought Fox

I imagine this midnight moment's forest:
Something else is alive
Besides the clock's loneliness
And this blank page where my fingers move.

Through the window I see no star:
Something more near
Though deeper within darkness
Is entering the loneliness:

Cold, delicately as the dark snow,
A fox's nose touches twig, leaf;
Two eyes serve a movement, that now
And again now, and now, and now

Sets neat prints into the snow
Between trees, and warily a lame
Shadow lags by stump and in hollow
Of a body that is bold to come

Across clearings, an eye,
A widening deepening greenness,
Brilliantly, concentratedly,
Coming about its own business

Till, with sudden sharp hot stink of fox
It enters the dark hole of the head.
The window is starless still; the clock ticks,
The page is printed.

-Ted Hughes

There, now get out of here, and go and crap on someone else’s carpet for a 
bit.

I think I’ll send you off in the direction of the inimitable and very lovely 
Miss Julie of Cyberglam. Apologies if you’ve been there already, but if you 
can’t remember, you’ve got no one to blame but yourself, you daft bird.

I’ll forego my customary apology for the length of this post, and instead 
insist that each and every one of you takes nothing but the very best of 
care. Stay indulgent but guilt-free.

Bulk love,
     -David.

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