Hi all, An amended snapshot 28, with Harriet's snap now added, delayed due to computer difficulties. Best, Rebecca Rebecca Seiferle www.thedrunkenboat.com Snapshot In the meantime music out of time no music Oh, words, where are you so absent in the song Harriet Zinnes sky is cleared of doubt clouds fall out of noon tendencies and charms are crossed the cool stays in the stone ants heave up orange ground the saxophone is full time is being stretched out it has the tongue to tell hammer noises dancing wind moves warm on hot stops the path with dust and flushes out the street arches are the atmosphere branches drop their down ecstatic blue is brief prepared for leaving then Jill Jones 1.45pm, Surry Hills, 5 November 2003 IT SAID PRUNE! it said prune! cut back hard! after leafdrop! and suddenly he felt threatened felt vulnerable felt exposed had his leaves dropped? and he rushed back to her for reassurance and for comfort. pmcmanus 8am raynes park uk After the funeral, the toddler we were minding, while his mother grieved among the chief mourners, ran round the back of the church and found an overgrown sandpit, capsized rusting yellow bulldozers. Rescue begins...resurrection? Why not save this one¹s life? Toddler and minder are quietly walking to the road when the vicar, farewelling the very last mourners, intervenes. Oh no, the toys are still needed there. Sorry, vicar, sorry. What should we have said? Forgive us our trespasses? Suffer the little children? Charity begins somewhere near hereŠ 8.00pm Wednesday 5 November 2003 Max Richards, North Balwyn, Melbourne AND ATTERCOP SAT SMILING ALL THE WHILE ... For some reason I remembered attercop ... 1. A spider. c1000 Sax. Leechd. I. 92 Wiþ attorcoppan bite. 2. fig. Applied to a venomous malignant person. 3. Misapplied to: A spider's web. Oh, well, tomorrow's from Basin Street to Broadway at the Town Hall. And yesterday I picked-up a CD of Blind Willie McTell at the cornershop. So now I know why the laid lady laid upon Dylan's big brass bed. I wish I could work-out how to sell this stuff ... Somewhere, there *has* to be a rich&hungry grad student who'd sell his eye-teeth for a line on how the final version of Bembo's speech in book four of The Courtier draws on Pico's commentary on Benivienni's Canzone, not Ficino ... My Italian is so useless ... Maybe I should advertise on ebay: For Sale -- germinal phids, offers invited. Or maybe not. Tomorrow I decorate the hall. It's always tomorrow, isn't it? If it's not yesterday, so far away. Robin Hamilton 9.20am Loughborough Held under the spell of the late Joseph Cornell, I built a box about the size of a man: solid mahogany, varnished, gold taps, and lined with pure white Malayan silk. Truth be told, I stole it from an old folk's home and 'lost' its occupant in the Thames on the way back to my Notting Hill muse. I was not so much interested in 'assemblage' as in a form of human 'decoupage'. I invited a few of my tattooed cronies for a pyjama party of PCP and drinkie-poos. After a smoke or two they were much easier - in their state of 'dissociative anesthesia' - to receive the gentle caress of the flensing knife. So I divested slivers of their epidermal chef d'oeurves: dragons, snakes, 'wino forever', 'love and hate', and glued them with Copydex onto my man-size mahogany death-box. I spattered ox-blood and semen across the smooth interior like a demon Jackson Pollock and then filled the cavity with statues of Ganesh, Jesus, the Virgin Mary, added cow heads, butterflies and the laudenum I'd fingered on my travels to various London museums and art galleries. It became central to my first one-man show at the ICA. The critics raged. I found it all faintly risible and called it: 'The Ineluctable Modality of the Visible'. AB 05/11/03 Thread-safety involves a few precautions, incantations before entering the fray. Inside the critical section it is cold- er than we're used to, with dreadful sounds of cracking and splitting all around: an ossified rainforest brocaded with black ice. The thread-pool is an oily lagoon seething with electric eels: its profile multi- dimensional, spooling prodigiously over the table with its neat flow-diagrams. Once they get into the pipes, there's no getting the little feckers out. Dominic Fox, Northampton 05/11/03 14:52pm now waiting to hear the Minister of Community Services share his other life singing the song he wrote a singer-songwriter! just like Tom Thumb's Blues but his government attacks all such wastrels (wastrels! yup, they'd use such terms, we know these people they rule us now in every country state province I still can't figure why) & trying to decide if I'll go to the trouble of turning off the radio before I hear him wail while more homeless sing their own blues on the corner covered in snow uncovered by the recent cuts always already made Douglas Barbour Edmonton November 5.03 08:22 mollusk fog lulling unswept in circles swamp willows bathed all ecstatic wet 4:24 PM, West Irondequoit, New York, United States Gerald Schwartz following yellow shades a day compares to life-in cold twilight the colors of leaves almost painfully patched now at night a soft-warm tangible scattered still mass new date on the immaculate page lyn leon dandelion over the dome Barthes’ Punktum’s hard to strike read and write (the malignant regard of the girl punished in her dyed purple pride awakens busy silly bees and the dust sizzles alive) contemplation contempt on the platform of a plantation with content palpitation template the common plate of action Anny Ballardini - 10.42pm - South Tyrolean Bozen not that kind of low pressure system the jade buddha man played a cheap skate- board video game til 5 ayem when the temp dropped 10 60/50 in half an hour no tornado though she says looking so bored her Red Stripe shaves 2 inches tipped close to gloss lip & hummed outkast songs sinking all this to her background deep girl heaven Chris Murray 10:08 p.m. Dallas, Texas the fact she reminds me of my sister on a good day the fact that she shares the same sorts of genetic endowments academic associations, the pus color rage i can see under skin that barely contains such living between pileups of shoulds and oughts the disenfranchised loneliness a mother with alzheimer’s all of this, any of this in common makes it complicated to fire her today when after an initial relief a rush of adrenaline before the how is lost in a search for the dust-covered face of authority the untangling of procedures of separation, of letting go cutting losses in structures organized for redemption this is not family, i remind myself she is not my sister Deborah Newark, NJ begun at 4:55 am Deborah L. Humphreys Through The Valley In whispered sigh, the wind lifts a sleeve of cedar The doves lift their voices and wings in sudden flight In upsweeps of clouds, on the horizon, neither Twilight nor dawn breaks away from the dark of night The doves lift their voices and wings in sudden flight An ambered light filters through the valley and trees Twilight nor dawn breaks away from the dark of night The memory lifts in a misty shape of leaves An ambered light filters through the valley and trees Silence follows her dreams across mountainous land The memory lifts in a misty shape of leaves To form a melody in movements of her hand Silence follows her dreams across mountainous land Hope dispels in rivulets of image and peace To form a melody in movements of her hand When poetry comes quietly within the reach Hope dispels in rivulets of image and peace A red tail hawk circles in dreamscape atmosphere When poetry comes quietly within the reach One writes a new arousal in the eyes and ear A red tail hawk circles in dreamscape atmosphere In upsweeps of clouds, on the horizon, neither One writes a new arousal in the eyes and ear In whispered sigh, the wind lifts a sleeve of cedar Deborah Russell, 8:55 am, 11-05-03 Baltimore, Maryland GRANDFATHER Not yet I'm not--but last night, suddenly, thought it might be fun, though both my sons seem disinclined to marry, understandable given family history, still, accidents happen, and I thought then how nice I'd have it, bouncing the (literal) little bastard on my knee, singing to him (even though everyone in the house would tell me to shut up, Verdi scares the kid) even volunteering to change his diaper, a skill I learned and mastered with the same sons who've grown to be the fathers of these mind-children. Later, because he's still a mental creature, I could take him for walks through my imagination-- or maybe not: I'd probably scare us both to death. KTW/11-5-03, Princeton, NJ SNAPSHOT 28 in a theatrical context time is the fourth dimension the one that's beside ourselves the rich bonus gained by journeying through the piece chance on the other hand let alone sheer coincidence has to be an attribute a hidden agenda capsuled within time or buried deep inside one of its secret pockets one of which has to be that flight attendant's breast pocket from which he pulled that curious copy of dostoyevsky´s the double identical to the one i had intended to take with me on the flight to read en route but inadvertently left behind on my bedside table and surely another secret pocket must have vomited that other man with whom i brushed shoulders in dublin all those years ago and startled by our resemblance did a double take before he disappeared in the crowd árni ibsen midnight november 6 2003 hafnarfjördur iceland ANOTHER WEDNESDAY "And that one which is death to hide does not lie with you useless..." Did I ever tell you I was taught by Ernst Honigman at Glasgow in the sixties? Briefly, tangentially, he was on his way up and out to a chair at Newcastle. Later, he shafted me over a grad application to Newcastle which turned on Donne's Spanish authors and he zapped me as I didn't read Spanish. ... which was more than mildly lunatic as Donne was reading his Spanish Authors in Latin, which i knew but Ernst apparently didn't. Like an old lag who complains because he was fitted-up for the one burglary he *didn't* do, that annoyed the hell out of me. Ernst was a real tight-assed bastard, but he said one thing that always stuck in my mind, vis a oddly enough vis the sonnet you reference -- "A disagreement over the punctuation of a Milton sonnet is quite enough to justify terminating a friendship." I was maybe eighteen at the time, and it struck me as more than somewhat mad. Little did I know ... I do so wish you'd get off Milton-L. Jeezus that list has to be the pits, American noyau hierarchy. If you want a scholarly one, try Ficino, the haunt of recidivist Neolatinists. There simply aren't enough Neolatinists in the universe to create a hierarchy. Or if you can stand the heat, SHAKSPER -- deeply take-no-hostages. Ho hum my watch tells me it's 7.20, but whether at night or in the morning ... Whatever, it's black outside. Robin Hamilton Loughborough 19.35