From: owner-eda-thoughts-digest@smoe.org (eda-thoughts-digest) To: eda-thoughts-digest@smoe.org Subject: eda-thoughts-digest V3 #371 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 Saturday, November 4 2000 Volume 03 : Number 371 * 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 V3 #xxx or the like gives readers no clue * as to what your message is about. Today's Subjects: ----------------- ET: Wrong to not trust without a reason(poem) ["Seth D. Fulmer" ] ET: around in circles [DrkShadws85@aol.com] ET: I am... [RJonthego@aol.com] ET: i will miss [RJonthego@aol.com] ET: powems [RJonthego@aol.com] ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Date: Fri, 03 Nov 2000 08:20:07 -0500 From: "Seth D. Fulmer" Subject: ET: Wrong to not trust without a reason(poem) Hi again :) I wrote this yesterday in my Economics class cuz well, to be perfectly honest...it's boring and who ever says "Pizza cost X and Videos cost Y and X Subject: ET: Poem Hi, You might remember me, I was on this list about a year ago. I had to leave because I can only get e-mail on the computers at college and I was away on a work experience placement. Anyway, I'm back now. For those who don't know me, my name is Robert Foster, I live in Edinburgh, Scotland, I'm 21 years old and I am currently on my 4th and final year studying Information Management. This poem I'm sending actually comes from being on the Information Management course because I find it so boring and depressing. I think the course is wrong for me, I hardly have any time to think and I am becoming increasingly disillusioned. I wrote this poem quickly, on the back of a college handout, during my lunch while I was trying to put some feelings onto paper in an attempt to clear my head. I haven't written anything of my own in ages so any comments are more than welcome. Confusion, Nothing new Rarely so strong I feel so empty I can hardly think It seems so worthless I want to scream Because something inside is dying. Best wishes, Robert. ------------------------------ Date: Fri, 3 Nov 2000 16:34:46 EST From: DrkShadws85@aol.com Subject: ET: around in circles ~~Hit and Run~~ I hear someones gentle voice encouraging me but I can't bring myself to believe what it says I stand here saying I can hold my own apparently I can't, Im falling let me bend over and tie your show for you dear don't worry mommy I can take care of myself considering you're never around and I never see you that night when one of your ex's chased me down in his car you know I didn't want to come back just wanted to stay under the protection of the metal slide because when i came home he was sleeping in your bed you never would believe the fact that he would do what he did if it was "such a thing of the past" why can't I stop thinking about it? things just stick in your mind when a girl like me was alone in a house with someone she's afraid of stuff like that can shatter dreams mommy wasnt there to save me; I didn't know how to save myself did what I could, hit and ran. ------------------------------ Date: Fri, 3 Nov 2000 21:02:30 EST From: RJonthego@aol.com Subject: ET: I am... the following is a writing warm-up-thing i did before a writing marathon with a friend.. meant to be totally random and stream-of-consciousness-y. ok, i'm tired. i'm going in big for the made up words. lol.anyhow, here it is i am walking in a cloud. i have rings on my fingers that make me feel like a gypsy queen. i am wearing a green cloak that swirls, and the villagers make crosses in front of their scared eyes when they see me. there is no one here that doesn't understand except me. i am walking in more of a fog. every step i take hums, a little. when i run, i sing. when i walk with a bounce, a bell tinkles. i am music. i am voices. i go in one ear and out the other. i swirl around inside of your head for a few minutes, and you wonder what that tickling feeling is. then i pinch, and out i go. i fly inside that fog. i am on a beach. i am wearing camoflauge and i have 11 piercings in my ears. i am smiling at a camera, and i love that goofy look on my face. i am the clock i am a tiger i am a book i am a dream i am a quest i am a friend i am a machine made up of words and sentences and the oil of laughter is my lubricant that helps me along. i creak when i am alone. i am stumbling right now, the fog is getting thicker. i have a hard hat on, with a flashlight attached, a rope, a backpack, a canteine and an ice pick strapped to me. the fog is solidifying, and i'm not sure what treasure i will find inside. i might find fools gold, which is the best kind of gold. only a fool can appreciate something that glitters. i am fools gold. and i am a fool. i am gold. i am a treasure lost beneath the sea for centuries. i am green with oxidation i am rusty with time. when i speak, bubbles issue forth. the fish are my only audience. i am lonely. i miss applause. eels don't clap well. i miss the music on board the ship before it went down. i miss leaning over the edge of the railing, that look of sheer ecstasy on my face. i am a bird. a falcon. a hawk. i am the sea foam that sprays you in the face, the wind that traps your laughter and wears it in a shell around my neck. i am that chain that holds it there. i am all pauses. when you breathe. i am the dryness of your lips. when you speak. i am the saliva you try to desperately swallow. when you kiss. i am the wind your closing eyelashes make. i am noses tingling in the cold, i am the softness of mittens and of bleached hair rustling. i am walking in a sea of fog that turns my hair green. roya ------------------------------ Date: Fri, 3 Nov 2000 21:03:54 EST From: RJonthego@aol.com Subject: ET: i will miss this is another writing excercise i did just now... 10 minutes of typing away. i will miss frizzy hair when i die. no really. it's that little thing that worries me every time i pass a mirror, every time i pass a shiny window, every time i get out of the shower... frizzy hair. sounds pretty awful. but today i saw a show where they show dead people - 6 to 8 of them just sitting there, on their stools in the blue light. forgetting. and one in the center, the young bride, who just died, who was angry and defiant and was hanging on to her twelth birthday, her husband, the white fence... she had frizzy hair, escaping her bun. how much did it worry her? it was the little things she missed, the way her mother brought in the milk bottles and picked peas, and... i'll miss the way he says 'bye.' kind of softly, lingering. the way you melt away from clay after you've centered it. like a good hug. i'll miss the sound of his phone number -the way i don't have to look at the numbers but can tell if it's wrong by the tone. i'll miss scatting. the little headrush i get when i stand up to do a solo. the sound of everybody clapping when my hand shot up first. the scraping sound that a music stand makes when you bring it uuupp and dowwwn. the way that our stage looks so scuffed up when you're standing on it, but how shiny it looks from the house. i'll miss being able to play that *one song* on the guitar, over and over again. the way my voice, the guitar, everything kind of melts into one and i can't remember which verse i'm on. i'll miss scorning pineapple on pizza. i'll miss hating bellpeppers. i'll miss asking for ranch dressing with my french fries. i'll miss the feeling of getting up close and personal with my camera, the feeling that happens when he takes my camera to take a picture of me. i'll miss blushing. i'll miss my shoe laces with flames, my 4 dollar boots, my yellow hat that i have so many pictures of. i'll miss the sound of the bugle from the base every summer evening at 5pm. the sound of fireworks from disneyland every night at 9:15. i'll miss the sound of my mom typing at the computer at 8:30 in the morning, miss my dad whistling when he gets home from work, the way he jingles his keys, just like every other father getting home at 6 o'clock 5 days a week. the sound of the trashcan rolling and scraping it's way out to the curb, bumping into the basketball hoop, barely escaping a collisiion with the car. i'll miss taking a pillow - one of the soft, green ones - from the couch and lying on the floor watching movies with my family. roxana gets the couch. rosie and my mom share the blue chair, and baba gets the orange one. the one that my mom used to nurse me in. i'll miss the way it still fits me perfectly when i sit cross legged. i'll miss getting woken up by light shining through my window - and going to bed with the light of our neighbors bathroom shining in my eyes. i'll miss waving to people i know walking around campus. i'll miss the big front staircase in the humanities building, where you can smell smoke from the raku kiln's all the way from there. i'll miss getting ink all over my fingers whenever i write with my quill, just like jo from little women. i'll miss finding pieces of myself in books, in a character in a play, or in a movie. i'll miss the looks i got when i had pink hair. i'll miss the sound of his laugh and the way he tells me, in his own way, how "roya" that was. i'll miss getting online and talking to 15 people at once. i'll miss rolling down sand dunes at seal beach with my eyes and mouth shut so tight. i will always, always miss the taste of plums, miss the way i climbed into our plum tree and ate 20 at a time. the way i could sit in the top of the jungle gym, and watch my dad label seed packets. the rainbow pencil on his little table with the pink eraser that left smudges. i'll miss making daisy chains, and feeling like the queen of the woods with bergundy hair. i'll miss biting my nails before a performance, before a phone call. getting nervous even after years of sunday night talks. i think i'll miss paper cuts even. roya ------------------------------ Date: Fri, 3 Nov 2000 21:05:13 EST From: RJonthego@aol.com Subject: ET: powems when i watch you leaning out of the window i thought you would fall and i could close my eyes and sit by your hospital bed and hold your hand and watch and wait while the instruments gleamed and machines beeped and forced by the thought of never talking to me again, you would tell me everything i want to hear. which would be, of course, that you love the way your hands run through my hair and the curve of my eyebrows and the backward glance i give you when i'm running away from being tickled and the way i massage your neck just right and how fun it is to jump on the tramopline at ten o'clock when the moon is out and then i will lean out of my window and lean on my hand thinking about your window and that i am falling further than you did. ~~~ so much for beautiful metaphors- tell me what you saw, what i should look for when you wanted to spend that time with me because now we are the best of friends but i don't get that feeling of being special anymore i am sick of writing love poems in the margins of papers you will never see and i am sick of poems like this that make my head ache i don't want to be just like them. staring at the screen for hours despite the warm ups and intro's you used to tell me how you loved me and now i have to press for why you stopped but that makes my stomach hurt and i'd like to leave those sores alone. but there's something about a cut barely scabbed over that makes me want to pick it till you bleed. ~~~ write a poem, now, girl, get it out spit your venom from your fangs before you bite if only i could continute a train of thought like that i might make something of these words, might make you notice that every time i speak your name is on my tongue do i really want you to know that my fangs are blunt and couldn't hurt a mouse? ~~~ roya ------------------------------ End of eda-thoughts-digest V3 #371 **********************************