Big, big news for my friends at Groove Networks–they have just announced that they are to be acquired by Microsoft.
Congrats you guys!
The new issue of edifice WRECKED features many excellent writings by writers, including brilliant new work by one of my favorites: Six Months by Kathy Fish–I can’t stop thinking about this flash actually. I love the bit where she notices that her waistband has left a mark on her stomach–such a sign of growing up. Her body’s changing, her clothes aren’t fitting–such subtle wonderfulness from the divine Mrs. Fish.
also, don’t miss the radLIBS contest
Special thanks to Kat for the notice that this new issue was live.
I should never have opened my mouth (or my keyboard) and let fly that spring felt near. NEVER.
The mother of all storms has been upon us all day. Started with rain, which was fine because it was melting the snow. Then turned to snow. Then sleet. Then back to snow. And wind, wind, wind.
We are supposed to get between 5-10 inches when all is said and done.
So much for spring.
Well, it’s a sad day today. Ink Pot, where I have worked as an editor for the past couple of years, is ceasing publication with the release of our Issue #7 in October 2005. It is not through the lack of hard work or talent that this has come to pass, rather a twist of fate–a sponsor pulling out.
With that said, there is much to celebrate: Ink Pot is a gorgeous journal filled with the work of many talented writers and artists. And so if you have ever considered submitting your work, please do so now because I suspect we will be filling up our final issue rather quickly (in fact, we’re already full for poetry!).
Finally, if you have a few pennies to spare we are humbly accepting donations via PayPal for our final issue.
Okay. That’s all. Thanks.
In case you didn’t know, today is International Women’s Day. One way you might mark the day is by donating to Women for Women International.
The multi-talented Jordan Rosenfeld has an absolutely beautiful new piece in The St. Petersburg Times. Read it here: Unseen Hands.
There are brown patches of leafy ground revealed now. Snow melting at the edges. Puddles where once there was ice. The earth is softening up. Winter ends in less than two weeks and it will not return again for another nine months.
Today I believe that is possible. That winter will end this year. Yes, it will snow again for sure. It is even snowing now—lightly, unobtrusively—but I will let it be.
The shift is in my mood, too. I walk instead of trudge. I look up, instead of down in fear of slipping on ice.
All night, chunks of snow and ice slid off the roof with a clunk and thump. I thought of the lake in spring—much later than now, April? May?—and how as it softened it would moan. Expanding and contracting, the sun, the warmth was too much for the ice. It fought well but it had to melt. At night you would hear the cracks and the rips and the screams of the ice, coming together and falling apart. The whole became parts, floes, white and then translucent and then gone.
My sister would wager a bet: who will be the first to go swimming? She would always win. Fearless, she took the water when there were still visible chunks moving shoreward. She would get to her knees, her waist, her shoulders, her long hair fanning out behind her on the dark water. She would submerge her head and come up again, breathing out hard, triumphant, the ice behind her inching imperceptibly toward shore.
Two weeks and it ends, nine months and it returns. This is the way. And in between are days of tree branches tinged pink, then green. Forsythia breathing to life its yellowness against a gray, sodden lawn. Crocus and then daffodils, dotting the snow. And finally the tulips and lilacs, the trees with bright new leaves.
In two weeks it is spring. I believe that now.
When I went downstairs for my coffee this morning, Allen handed me the paper open to the Op Ed section and said, “Read this.”
This dog’s life is story about love. A perfect story about love. A love story:
But personally (and everything that matters comes down to the personal), we believe that she is too full of love now for death to have an early grip. She craves exactly what she has finally found. Why is this unrealistic? Love has brought her to life, and love will keep her alive.
Holy crap! This is going to provide me with hours of fun: The Museum of Bad Album Covers.
Thanks to my pal Kieran for the link.
myfanwy collins 