[5263] in Central_America
New quotes for Sun Jan 16
daemon@ATHENA.MIT.EDU (Central America)
Sun Jan 16 06:11:30 1994
Date: Sun, 16 Jan 1994 06:11:05 -0500
From: Central America <root@charon.MIT.EDU>
To: ca-mtg@charon.MIT.EDU
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amarcin (Bret Aarden):
{from system: This user's .plan file is not world-readable}
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dollette (Cori Dollette Peele):
{from system: This user's .plan file is a directory!?!?}
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mukul (Mukul Kumar):
" Magical Marxism : one half reason, one half passion and one half mystery."
-Eduardo Galeano
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nsanders (Nathan Sanders):
{from system: This user's .plan file is not world-readable}
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sorokin (Jessie Stickgold-Sarah):
Here is what she loves deeply
her work she drives into with the sun
polishing wet roads to chrome,
her son who waits, feigning sleep
in his crib until he can caress her face,
her golden-haired, blue-eyed, hell-bent,
anti-authoritarian daughter who says
shit at the right time,
her husband who has left her
here is what she loves, but once removed
her men with tongues, who put their mouths on hers,
who make her laugh deeply in the night, who take her
to bed during sesame street, who take her children
to school, or haven't met her children, or never
met a child at all, her men who juggle, who paint
day after day landscapes that have never left the mind,
who walk her on winter beaches, and fly her into
the chambers of coral reefs.
here is what she likes with an embarrassing relish
the luminescent stars and comets she's stuck on her
ceiling, the thought of toads in her husband's lover's
bed, her bell bird clanging a pottery sea bell sound,
her shells, colored powders, beach stones, sheep bones,
ropes of feathers, long Indian skirts, filmy violet scarves,
snow over the lakes to ski on, her children's bare bodies,
summer with a wind in the moors, the stitching of night
with the loon's pointed sound.
here is what she needs and keeps her
a net of women so strong that when she falls
from the tightrope she walks day after day
sometimes with easy precision, sometimes
with wire cutting her feet into bands,
sometimes with a fatigue so great
her dreams have to hold her, that when she falls,
her women friends tighten their almost
invisible web, and she bounces and breathes,
bounces and weaves every fiber of their strength
into her own body, bounces and is free in a way
that will let her bounce against them again,
she bounces and sours, a dark bird
against the stadium lights, swoops to the crowd
and is off, a speck in the cranberry dawn.
Judith W. Steinbergh
--- End of Central America ---
