From: owner-eda-thoughts-digest@smoe.org (eda-thoughts-digest) To: eda-thoughts-digest@smoe.org Subject: eda-thoughts-digest V1 #315 Reply-To: eda-thoughts@smoe.org Sender: owner-eda-thoughts-digest@smoe.org Errors-To: owner-eda-thoughts-digest@smoe.org Precedence: bulk eda-thoughts-digest Thursday, December 17 1998 Volume 01 : Number 315 * If you ever wish to unsubscribe, send an email to * eda-thoughts-digest-request@smoe.org with ONLY * the word unsubscribe in the body of the email * . * PLEASE :) when you reply to this digest to send a post TO the list, * change the subject to reflect what your post is about. A subject * of Re: eda-thoughts-digest V1 #xxx or the like gives readers no clue * as to what your message is about. Today's Subjects: ----------------- ET: sam returns to the consciousness! ...er, the world..? [moonsong@ix.n] ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Date: Wed, 16 Dec 1998 11:19:06 -0800 From: moonsong@ix.netcom.com (Charlie, Andalite, & The Goddess) Subject: ET: sam returns to the consciousness! ...er, the world..? Heya mi amigos y amigas, Well tis Sam here, entering back again into the world of ...DUM DEE DUM DUM... the EDT list. Hehe. Umm, Naomi...very good stuff as always! Geez! No way can I compete with that. (Especially since I haven't written anything.) So what's up with me? Umm, I'm busy as all hell. And the wind is like...REALLY STRONG lately and driving me crazy. It's soo totally drying. So I seem to remember a few days ago someone (who was it?) mentioning that me, Naomi and Kat (and others), the ol' reg's, had been, like, absent from the list. YAAY! SOMEONE NOTICED! I'm so happy now. :) :) :) La la la... So. Oh I know! I did write something. But it's not a poem. You guys might like it though...I don't know. I'll send it anyway. Ok so um, like, what is up with these forwards! I get enough forwards from my sister and my friend's weird boyfriend. =) Yeah. What do you guys think of this Saddam/Impeachment stuff? I think Clinton planned it. Of course, Saddam isn't cooperating again, so oh me oh my! We're postponing the impeachment stuff. Which, by the way, I think is a total ridiculous waste of time and an embarrassment to the entire country, but that's another issue. This government is like...so f-ed up. Okay, you guys - actually, you girls - I'm gonna do something and I think it's a stupid thing to do, but what can I say? I want to. So... DON'T, and I mean, DO NOT think this is like...retarded or something. I don't know why, but I'm gonna share a teeny something I wrote in my diary thing yesterday... (Guys...you might find this slightly entertaining....) Ok, here goes. "Isn't it just like totally torturous looking at the guy you like & thinking, "does he like me? Does he like me?" & though you're happy, cause things can probably only progress, it's kind of sad, in a tragic, typical sort of way. 'Cause when you're not around him, you miss him. & it's like, "why should I miss him? I like him, I don't love him, right.." But you do miss him, & things are just so, so, so...oh, good, and...like, too fu*king suspenseful. Every little moment...you remember it. "Anyway. Do you ever stand by someone you like, & you're doing something completely outwardly normal, (like looking at a display case,) but you're really aware/thinking about them, or what they might be thinking? It's like maintaining two seperate thoughts at once. & do you ever wonder if maybe - probably - they're doing the same thing?" Yeah. So that's my little weirdness for the day. Umm, was I gonna say something else...I don't know. My zine stuff's going ok, I'll send it out in Jan. I'm kinda freaking, like, lots of people are sending stuff, lots are saying they'll subscribe, some already have, but I'm like - what if they DON'T? And what if this is a MISTAKE? What if I wear out? (Then I'll quit, duh.) But still...ahh. I'll do it. It'll be fun. I'm just not really doing anything with it right now. I can't wait to go back to dance - in January. I'll be a returning student. :) Yahoo! I'm a dan-cer, dan-cer... Okay, I'll put my story thing at the end of this letter. Love ya guys, I'll write poems n stuff soon. If you wana comment on any of my lil letter here, go ahead... Sam the ? angel THE PIANO In the time of day when summertime fades into fall, she sat down on a flowered bench at the piano and looked at the white keys that lay before her. Together, they were like a long, smooth quilt that brought forth the lovliest heavenly sounds-when played correctly. There was a breeze blowing through the nearby half-open window; it carried the afternoon sun into the room and scattered it across the ground in patterns of fragmented light. A faint shadow from the outside white birch trees breezed gently back and forth across the floor. She placed her fingers on the keys, hesitated, and squinted at the music, or rather, at the lack thereof. She had long ago given up the sheets, ever since her mother had asked her to play and had noticed that she was doing so without looking at the music. Still, she instinctively glanced often at the polished wood prop where the music usually lay-where it lay before she had unconsciously begun to play from her memory rather than notes. In her memory she heard melodies...melodies from past pianists and performances, music trailing into the haze of centuries past, when ladies wore layers of skirts and gentlemen wore wigs. It seemed that at almost all times, no matter what the circumstances were, music played faintly in her mind; it came crashing out of the seemingly-nowhere when something loud and enormous happened, and it trickled sweetly like a stream in the back of her consciousness when she studied or gazed absent-minded at the sky. She was always surrounded by music in some sense-it made up her being, it was the fiber that held her together, it was woven throughout her with her veins. In her mind, somewhere, she heard other melodies-songs drifting back again through time, back to the present, where the dust lingered and hung in the air, glinting like jewelled sand in the streaming sun. She heard melodies of her mother, playing, playing...so beautifully, her mother's fingers flying with ease like wings across the smooth cold white keys, one of the few places that her mother embraced so lovingly; her mother's hair and eyes and soul blending into the music until it vibrated and floated, consumed the entire room, house, neighborhood, ...world. And filling all of her. How she longed to play like her mother. And when she sat down on the bench afterwards, and put her fingers on the keys, the keys were warm, no longer cold, and seemed to almost glow with musical radiance-that is, until she touched them. Then when she tried to play, the keys seemed to stare blankly up at her and cast back her fingers disgustedly; and she would sit there for a long time, while the sky grew to dusk; she would sit, until the keys had grown long past cold. But now the keys were neutral, awaiting a simple touch to float with music-she knew she was silly for thinking that they had ever been anything but that: simply piano keys, and nothing more. So now, she placed her fingers on the keys, face still as stone, and began a timid scatter of notes. She tried to clear her mind, to let her spirit go and let it loose upon the waves of sound as it did for her mother, as it had for millions of people in the past-oh why, why, why couldn't she get it right! She fumbled, and her fingers fell, and she tried again and again and again to let her soul loose. She pictured images in her mind to go with each piece; a flower floating down on the breeze from somewhere high above, a cackling storm, a ballerina turning and turning and twisting and turning in turmoilt and desperation, around and around and around. But she was spinning, and her mind was the ballerina, her fingers the unwilling feet, and the more she tried the more she failed. As she played on she felt that she could never get it right-no matter what she could not do the one thing that meant the most to her: she couldn't play music. But she was determined, and she played faster and faster, and as she played her face began to soften and her eyes melted into pools and then streams of tears. Her fingers were flying and her mind was nearly insane. And as the waters of oceans and dreams flooded down her unwilling cheeks, her mind knew nothing else but the strength it desired, until it at last knew nothing at all; and her soul churned and flooded and pounded and demanded to be let free; and her fingers flew across the piano until they were a blur; and she cried more hushed than snow but louder than generations of loss and thunder; and as her fingers flew and she knew not anymore what the piano sang, sobbing without limits and almost without knowing or caring, she unleashed, at last, a single, pure stream of music in the dwindling yellow setting sun. by SM moonsong@ix.netcom.com ------------------------------ End of eda-thoughts-digest V1 #315 **********************************