From: owner-eda-thoughts-digest@smoe.org (eda-thoughts-digest) To: eda-thoughts-digest@smoe.org Subject: eda-thoughts-digest V2 #356 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 Wednesday, December 15 1999 Volume 02 : Number 356 * 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 V2 #xxx or the like gives readers no clue * as to what your message is about. Today's Subjects: ----------------- ET: Christmas meeting...a ghost story ["Claudia" ] ET: Live McCartney webcast from Cavern Club TODAY! (Beatles birthplace) [] ET: Please forgive me(poem) [Seth Fulmer ] ET: ~seeking solace in the keys~ [shivergirl ] ET: longer poem [Courtney M Gordon ] ET: I couldn't sleep last night, resting [kara garbe Subject: ET: Christmas meeting...a ghost story Hi everybody...i am listening to "Joy", yes...it's the new cd of Jewel that i just got (thank you my love...kiss)...and i am really in a good mood, i can actually feel the real Christmas atmosphere so i thought i'd type this tale i found in my old English litterature book. It's a ghost story by Rosemary Timperley. I know it's very long to type and to read but i really liked it and i hope you will enjoy it too. If you are too busy with Christmas shopping to read this long story...well, i understand! I don't mean to bore you! Well...here is the story! Take care Love Claudia **************************************************************************** *************************************************** Christmas Meeting by Rosemary Timperley I have never spent Christmas alone before. It gives me an uncanny feeling, sitting alone in my "furnished room", with my head full of ghosts, and the room full of voices of the past. It's a drowing feeling -all the Christmases of the past coming back in a mad jumble: the childish Christmas, with a house full of relations, a tree in the window, sixpences in the pudding, and the delicious, crinckly stocking in the dark morning: the adolescent Christmas, with mother and father, the war and the bitter cold, and the letters from abroad; the first really grow-up Christmas, with a lover -the snow and the enchantment, red wine and kisses, and the walk in the dark before midnight, with the grounds so white, and the stars diamond bright in a black sky -so many Christmases through the years. And, now the first Christmas alone. But not quite loneliness. A feeling of companionship with all the other people who are spending Chritmas alone -millions of them -past and present. A feeling that if i close my eyes, there will be no past or future, only an endless present which is time, because it is all we ever have. Yes, however cynical you are, however irreligious, it makes you feel queer to be alone at Christmas time. So i'm absurdly relieved when the young man walks in. There's nothing romantic about it - i'm a woman of nearly fifty, a spinster schoolma' am with grim, dark hair, and myopic eyes that once were beautiful, and he's a kid of twenty, rather unconventionally dressed with a flowing wine-colored tie and black velvet jacket, and brown curls which could do with a taste of the barber's scissors. The effeminacy of his dress is belied by his features -narrow, piercing, blue eyes, and arrogant, jutting nose and chin. Not that he looks strong. The skin is fine-drawn over the prominent features, and he is very white. He bursts in without knocking, then pauses, says: "I'm sorry. I thought this was my room." He begins to go out, then hesitates and says:" Are you alone?" "Yes." "It's - queer, being alone at Christmas, isn't it? May i stay and talk?" "I'd be glad if you would." He comes right in, and sits down by the fire. "I hope you don't think i came in here on purpose. I really did think it was my room," he explains. "I'm glad you made the mistake. But you're a very young person to be alone at Christmas time." "I wouldn't go back to the country to my family. It would hold up my work. I'm a writer." "I see." I can't help smiling a little. That explains his rather unusual dress. And he takes himself so seriously, this young man! "Of course, you mustn't waste a precious moment of writing," i say with a twinkle. "No, not a moment! That's what my family won't see. They don't appreciate urgency." "Families are never appreciative of the artistic nature." "No, they aren't," he agrees seriously. "What are you writing?" "Poetry and a diary combined. It's called "My poems and I", by Francis Randel. That's my name. My family say there's no point in my writing, that i'm too young. But i don't feel young. Sometimes i feel like an old man, with too much to do before he dies." "Revolving faster and faster on the wheel of creativeness." "Yes! Yes, exactly! You understand! You must read my work some time. Please read my work! Read my work!" A note of desperation in his voice, a look of fear in his eyes makes me say : "We're both getting much too solemn for Christmas Day. I'm going to make you some coffe. And i have plum cake." I move about, clattering cups, spooning coffee into my percolator. But i must have offended him, for, when i look around, i found his has left me. I am absurdly disappointed. I finish making coffe, however, then turn to the bookshelf in the room. It is piled high with volumes, for which the landlady has apologized profusly :"Hope you don't mind the books, Miss, but my husband won't part with them, and there's nowhere to put them. We charge a bit less for the room for that reason." "I don't mind," I said. "Books are good friends." But these aren't very friendly-looking books. I take one at random. Or does some strange fate guide my hand? Sipping my coffee, inhaling my cigarette smoke, i begin to read the battered little book, published, i see, in Spring, 1852. It's mainly poetry - immature stuff, but vivid. Then there's a kind of diary. More realistic, less affected. Out of curiosity, to see if there are any amusing comparisons, i turn to the entry for Christams Day, 1851. I read: "My first Christmas alone. I had rather an odd experience. When i went back to my lodgings after a walk, there was a middle-aged woman in my room. I thought ,at first, i'd walked into the wrong room, but this was not so, and after a pleasant talk, she -disappeared. I suppose she was a ghost. But i wasn't frightened. I liked her. But i do not feel well tonight. Not at all well. I have never felt ill at Christmas before." A publisher's note followed the last entry: Francis Randel died from a sudden heart attack on the night of Christmas Day 1851. The woman mentioned in this finaly entry in his diary was the last person to see him alive. In spite of requests for her to come forward, she never did so. Her identity remains a mystery. **************************************************************************** *************************************************** ------------------------------ Date: Tue, 14 Dec 1999 13:25:36 -0500 From: Mike Connell Subject: ET: Live McCartney webcast from Cavern Club TODAY! (Beatles birthplace) For those into nostalgia, in a couple of hours (3pm ET), Paul McCartney will be having a live web cast from the very club the Beatles were born in. www.msn.co.uk/cavern The USA Today says: Paul McCartney is going home tonight. The singer returns to Liverpool's tiny Cavern Club, where the legend of the Beatles was born more than 40 years ago. Only 300 fans, most chosen by raffle, will watch the show in person. {snip} McCartney first played the Cavern on January 24, 1958 with his band, The Quarrymen, which also featured John Lennon and George Harrison. Mike :-) ------------------------------ Date: Tue, 14 Dec 1999 16:10:00 -0500 (EST) From: Seth Fulmer Subject: ET: Please forgive me(poem) Hey all :o) As some of you know, I write some poems from imaginary viewpoints(i.e..when I haven't experienced it personally). This is another one of those. As always, comments and questions are welcome, but not necessary and if you don't want to receive my poems anymore, then just state it and I won't send them to you. Well, Enjoy!!! :o) -Seth ============================ Please forgive me by Seth D. Fulmer 12/14/99 Lover I am in the mood sitting silently by the door reading my book, watching the window waiting for you would forgive me Why is it that we can't be friends? I love you, always have, always will You say I cheated; You say I lied I say you're mistaken for I wasn't around That guy that you think of every night in bed Does he make you happy, comfort you when you're sad? Does he warm you chocolate milk when it's cold and you can't sleep? Does he give you backrubs when your muscles are about to creak? Why can't I ever please you dear? You're all I ever wanted Heaven would not be good enough nor Hell but you, you're love Hell is but one torture that I would endure forever if enduring would grant me your favor for even 1 second or moment So here is my heart and my soul My love and my pure essence I fully confess all that I've done and ask for all your forgiveness. ------------------------------ Date: Tue, 14 Dec 1999 16:19:06 -0500 From: shivergirl Subject: ET: ~seeking solace in the keys~ as always, comments, suggestions, whatevers welcome welcome welcome. :) love&hugz, *shiv* ~ my polite delivery/sexy letter-carrier/landing on the/sun-drenched rock/you never/felt heavier/i remember/elegance/in between/the blades/of grass/beside the/other side/of the brook/i could look/far/i could fly/high/ascending and above/the dull edges/overtop/the nightmares/below ~ can i get to your place/now/that you know/i exist/i miss/anonymity/how you could/judge me/now/even though/we're both still/witnesses/to the same/mess/but i must/confess/everything i've seen/i'm moving/baby feet/but i can glimpse/your house/in the border-town/distance/full of controlled fire/long-forgotten ire/my favourite vowel/still/adorns/the walls/unpadded yet safe/haven ~ the same feeling swelled up again like that time i was talking to you on the phone in my living room after watching tori on conan o'brien and i knew i loved you because i wanted what was best for you addictions to past letters in the undulating cosmic soup i knew you could take my love and put it away in your pocket like loose change carelessly not counting its worth but a reassurance just the same to feel it weighing you down when someone better came along but it's still tucked inside the lining of lies of he says/she says pseudo half-truths of perspective it moves like changing cyber-signatures as time waves good-bye to youth ~ she can rule my psyche so easily i crumble in my cell complete with pristine sink to wash away any semblance pretense of confidence civility only behind locked doors hopes draining down the pipe innocence spilled all over the floor stretch out to full foetal position but she's not listening to her own sins whispering like demons keening inside my silent repetitive tears all these years that would presume lucidity of reason which doesn't exist just isn't there never a care where non-sexual sadism struts cloaked in intimidation the manipulation threat of emotional infanticide is so cold in here ~ maybe if i try my hand at poetry her emotional blackmail will fail utterly and completely not make me detest this pull lull in perfect union bliss i've found the greatest only love of my life tonight who cares if it sounds trite it's my right to combat swing the bat right back at her lame excuses at the literary besides she's already fed enough heartache to make her very fat to feed all africa's children twice and boy does it feel nice to see my own name for a change once in a while i'd forgotten what it looked like love with all her poison hogging all the type ~ you could fit a meteor/inside this shower/i seek/the clean/always homeless/where it counts/numbering my favourites/on one hand/they can't stand/the compliment/it seems/it reeks of scary/permanency/what's with/this complacency/thing/can't i mean/everything/to someone/just once/please ~ to break your heart/such an unknown power/to decide to part/now i'm feelin heady/almost ready/to taste the scent/of the avenged/i have to/open my legs/to remember/not to welcome/my friends/the bends/back ------------------------------ Date: Tue, 14 Dec 1999 19:25:18 -0600 From: Courtney M Gordon Subject: ET: longer poem Out Like A Lion Those were the days I would look at you Hearing birds signing and think i could never in a thousand dynasties deserve you ...And I was probably right... But even if i had the chance i wouldn't take it. I wouldn't know how I can't help but think anything and everything I've ever looked for in a person is in your eyes and I can't help but feel you are the reason i keep breathing. But you'll never know it And yet, standing here in this tiny room with you, I notice the birds, have suddenly stopped singing. ~~~~ comments welcomed with open arms! Courtney ___________________________________________________________________ Why pay more to get Web access? Try Juno for FREE -- then it's just $9.95/month if you act NOW! Get your free software today: http://dl.www.juno.com/dynoget/tagj. ------------------------------ Date: Tue, 14 Dec 1999 23:07:50 -0500 (Eastern Standard Time) From: kara garbe Subject: ET: I couldn't sleep last night, resting I couldn't sleep last night, resting my head on your chest, hair curling at your neck, filling the hollow in your throat. I could feel your heartbeat as it echoed through my head, slowly falling into a rhythm with my own. Your body jerked as you fell asleep, waking you up to kiss my dark head and sleepily ask why I am still awake. I was listening to your heart, I say, composing poetry in my head because sometimes we all need to feel the pulse of another, a heart thudding to break free beneath skin that does not belong to us. You put a finger to my lips, silencing me, saying Tell me in the morning. And I do not remember falling asleep, I only remember your heartbeat, rapid, and my own saying to yours, Slowly now heart, rest, the soft rhythm of another body is lending its shelter to your own. - ---------------- 12.14.99 kara garbe garbe@virginia.edu (comments much appreciated) ------------------------------ End of eda-thoughts-digest V2 #356 **********************************