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Pastimes : Let's Talk About Our Feelings!!! -- Ignore unavailable to you. Want to Upgrade?

To: Carol who wrote (17806)	2/24/1998 3:43:00 PM
From: Grainne	Respond to of 108807

Hey, Carol, is there anything wrong with being heart-shaped? It's one of my very favorite shapes, for sure. Thanks a lot for singing happy birthday to me and everything. Now I am just plain old forty-nine, and I can tell you it sucks. I have scrubbed the floor and washed all the towels and stuff, and no one particularly cares or thinks I am at all special today. I was watching a PBS news analysis of the Olympics, and the commentator stated that your CBC had very good coverage, unlike our CBS, which was boring and untimely, to say the least. I thought the Nagano Olympics were really beautiful, though, especially the sort of zen part of the concept. And I loved the reduced emphasis on competition for its own sake, and the idea of groups of Japanese school children being assigned to each team in each sport, so everyone would have someone cheering them on. Our last Olympics in Atlanta were so commercialized that they were a turn-off for many people. Have you heard the allegations about the Olympics being sort of a cult, incidentally? I really didn't understand that. Chrissy

To: Carol who wrote (17806)	2/25/1998 3:59:00 PM
From: Grainne	Read Replies (1) \| Respond to of 108807

Speaking of beautiful poems, Carol, I was reading a journal called Poetry Flash today, and found one I really like. I have been thinking seriously of taking a beginning poetry writing course, just for fun, because I love to write, and it seems effortlessly graceful when it is done well. Anyway, this is DEFINITELY a love poem, and it won first prize in the 1996 National League of American Pen Women/San Francisco poetry competition. Sonnet: Blue You remember now why the sky is blue, something to do with water refracting light. You took your first pictures expecting snow to be white, but got back an echo of the sky--everything a vessel, you and your whole life like those painted nesting dolls, nothing pure self, everything formed long ago. And a cup's a cup even when emptied, holds the thought of water while it waits to be filled. You feel him whether he's there or not, sleep facing the unoccupied half of the bed, an armful of blue quilts curled into the shape of your desire. Robin Jacobson