freecounterpoint: Sistiana Bay

Wednesday, November 15, 2006

Sistiana Bay

6 comments:

Mr roT said...: AI, you owe this guy a bottle of VCP, man.; 11/15/2006 1:33 AM
Arelcao Akleos said...: Italy is so so ugly; 11/15/2006 9:10 PM
Mr roT said...: Agreed. New England! Now that's paradise. We're in for a week straight of rain.; 11/15/2006 10:15 PM
Arelcao Akleos said...: Ah, rain, cool wet endless rain. Rain above the mountains, between the mountains, below the mountains, perpetual stinging sheets of rain icy and bone-cutting, swelling rivers, drowning lakes, surging seas. Rain not for a day, nor a week, nor a month, nor even a season. Rain, relentless, and remorseless, flagging seemingly forever the November in our soul. Rain whose drum beats us all into madness and despair....Puget Sound Rain.
Let's see New England top that, JJ; 11/15/2006 11:11 PM
Mr roT said...: AA, you're not Joyce: Generous tears filled Gabriel's eyes. He had never felt like that himself towards any woman, but he knew that such a feeling must be love. The tears gathered more thickly in his eyes and in the partial darkness he imagined he saw the form of a young man standing under a dripping tree. Other forms were near. His soul had approached that region where dwell the vast hosts of the dead. He was conscious of, but could not apprehend, their wayward and flickering existence. His own identity was fading out into a grey impalpable world: the solid world itself, which these dead had one time reared and lived in, was dissolving and dwindling.

A few light taps upon the pane made him turn to the window. It had begun to snow again. He watched sleepily the flakes, silver and dark, falling obliquely against the lamplight. The time had come for him to set out on his journey westward. Yes, the newspapers were right: snow was general all over Ireland. It was falling on every part of the dark central plain, on the treeless hills, falling softly upon the Bog of Allen and, farther westward, softly falling into the dark mutinous Shannon waves. It was falling, too, upon every part of the lonely churchyard on the hill where Michael Furey lay buried. It lay thickly drifted on the crooked crosses and headstones, on the spears of the little gate, on the barren thorns. His soul swooned slowly as he heard the snow falling faintly through the universe and faintly falling, like the descent of their last end, upon all the living and the dead.; 11/16/2006 1:26 PM
Tecumseh said...: Rain getting you down? Cheer up, guys! It gotta stop any day now.

And, by the way -- I heard before all this stuff about endless rain in the NW, but every time I went there, be it Portland, OR, or Vancouver, it was, like, gorgeous sunshine.; 11/17/2006 7:42 PM

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