Here are snapshots 32 correction, with the loss of two ampersands from Christine's poem, and with the addition of Arni's late snap (but not _amazingly_ late) Best, Rebecca I cracked it into ghost sleep in a corridor a broken hour I had to slap up morning a lame johnny that I am I just disappearing into the sweet grey rain and rain and anything the heart touches rib roar jostling a wing dream on inbetween catching up with the joke in the day results leaders questions what I cannot get a grip or it stops beating an old drum dancing dissonance its art as fatalist Jill Jones 12.37pm 3 December 2003 unsettling as it may be clouds and their kind-- the flecks of moon blurred it may or may not snow a harsh wind or not-- the way I live through it West Irondequoit, New York, 12:37 AM 12/03/03 Jerry Schwartz * * . s . * sn * . sna . snap . snaps * . * snapsh . * snapsho . * snapshot * . snapshots I ***********************************************. ****snapshots**well seasons greetings* early*thanks all**** ******patrick mc* raynespark uk* wednesday deco3****** a penchant for war forewarned is four armed forces gone into the dark a pen chants for peace for warned is for ward ing off look toward the light Douglas Barbour Edmonton 07:40 December 5/03 obfuscation works the air is full of string a yawn, a yarn, the mumbled head bandaged in knives cannot but outcry if it cries, a bit of string, a silver thread, the I of the needle is blind Rebecca Seiferle 8:16 am Farmington NMLorry rain fine and dusty Sunrise grey and the road a pale black that does not return but continues into smoke and the absence of light. Liz Kirby Stoke-on-Trent UK 8.05am MADNESS ... the murderous couple, victims of an all consuming amour fou that drives their passions to extremes.--comment on The Postman Always Rings Twice with Lana Turner and John Garfield. Big deal. This is what love is: ébats amoureux is amour fou, Read: fluidic carnage, kimchi for sure, nutritious and rank. How many hotel rooms have needed fumigation or been outright condemned? The stuff of Medieval theory, that passionate love is a disease, it sweeps through families, destroys them, is unavoidable like a plague or death or even love. KTW, 12/3/03, Princeton, NJ the finished book: maybe you have a tendency to keenly feel the cold, the loss of voice in seasons that follow the gathering of the fallen feathers of poems, of white-dry stories hard work pressed between the skins the sheets of revered trees the stain of ink and scar the well-meaning lives of industrious poets suddenly out in the cold and wondering if they will ever recover Deborah stretched out on the couch Grafton Ave, Newark, NJ 7:06 pm WYLER: ROMAN HOLIDAY You could come listen: everything is so wholesome-- relations, roses, or not. I don’t want much. No thank you. And buried needs? Happy? Never carry money. One thirty. I must get dressed and go live in a place like this. I must go do some of the things I always wanted to do. You do it. Barry Alpert / Silver Spring MD USA / 11-29, 12-1, 12-3 (11:54 PM) A good-hearted American paparazzi in Rome lets Audrey Hepburn (in her first starring role) escape with her reputation unscathed. Subtle filmic treatment of paparazzi shoots & stills. Seven years later, Fellini's attitude toward Roman paparazzi in La Dolce Vita is much different. Every word in my text exited the mouth of Audrey Hepburn, perhaps first written by the scenarist Dalton Trumbo. There are shades you can only touch Years ago I walked Eyelessly through a black mountain The sky shimmered like a knife Poised to cut my breast in two I remember the men in white How they loomed over their instruments And doors which opened and closed I wondered if darkness was soft Or if it felt like a collision I wondered if I would wake up Locked inside my death With hands as formless as gravel Unable to say my name The last thing I remember Is the colour of kindness My heart floating warm and strange Through the chilling veils of my flesh When someone took my hand and held it And led me like a child Into the dark Alison Croggon, Williamstown, 4.04 pm Thursday that one?--cruel as hangnails, or these dry browning curls of pine-needles on the walkway-- do I love your wavy love, in winter we are smoking to look around the grind of a backhoe always climbing for more mud a backbone a man-made mountain a noon hello to rebuild after some (ever-accidental) fire wipes out a power plant: it happened to me, you say, here. I know under the anorexic sun, a pool of basic lettering sunlit twig crisp warm as cheek skin: our words & a little well of breast warming for everyone: women know how he drives wild his own irony: true, women smoke over him more, so many more cigarettes compose him in memory & even he finds women so sidewalk-lucky after him now that infernal backhoe toddles over another round mound it wants to be a train chugging up a wonder of women-- are you reactionary?-- as if whatever rude glue he spent is not already full of a crush some pink melon the labial curious tender chris murray 04 Dec 03 12:55 a.m. Dallas, Texas U.S. SNAPSHOT 32 if time has colour it is the musky colour of this insignificant day where everything threatens to turn brown if time has sound it is the sound of this empty house on this musky day where everything threatens to turn brown recalling the fitting odour a tap discreetly leaking cringing at the sound of each drop as it shatters in the kitchen sink the near silent moan of a floorboard imagining it's turning turning in its sleep casting a furtive glance at the other floorboards sleeping soundly alongside it on the floor silently wishing it could join their common floorboard dreams not realizing it was woken by the tired complaint of the rafters that no one's noticed since the house was built if time has a face it is the face in the faded faded mirror on this musky day where everything threatens to turn brown árni ibsen 11:15 pm dec 3 2003 stekkjarkinn 19 hafnarfjördur iceland