I only think of others, not of me. It makes me sick, quite frankly. For kindness sake, don’t do as I do: On Christmas Eve please think of you. Fraser Sutherland
Regardless of your vices and virtues during this festive time of year, we at "In Other Words" send you, Dear Free-Ranger IOWerZ and Intrepid Reg Readers, our finest greets and newsical treats from both our prose and poetry beats. Salut to you! May 2012 prove itself a breakthrough year for each and all of us, too . . . Or else!
Many individuals despise Christmas, despise its gimme-gimme-gotta-get-that-gadgeteer angle and various related greedy peers a jingle-jangle. Not moi. I love this time of year, primarily because it signals the fact it's over, it's beginning, it's a clean slate, a fresh fate better than fate, all because the calendar arbitrarily dictates same.
S'Okay. I stand with the greatest country musician of all time, Merle Haggard, when he soulfully and razza-ma-jazza-ma-tazzically intones that, "If we make it through December / We'll be fine . . ."); plus, if you must know, I actually do ensure that, on the final day of each year at "four in the morning," I pen someone near and dear a single line simply because I, too, wish "to see if they're better" (Leonard Cohen, Famous Blue Raincoat).
Last year? The Dalai Lama replied in the affirmative. The year before that natural high? Gordon Lightfoot turned up epistolarily missing, most likely because, for all his talk and tonnes of toonage, his love of music and the art of making it, he really doesn't care all that much for the PR side of the dirtiest of bizthnesses, natch (and, really, who can blame him?).
This year? A toss-up between top-notching poet, Maxine Gadd, or Dr. Thomas Dilworth, father of Molly (named after U know who), the exquisitely gifted and multi-talented artist whose work never fails to astonish, instruct and delight (despite the raw yet righteous and rare medium she chooses to bless with her passel of preternatural proclivities), middle-child Molly, a remarkably shy, imaginative and utterly unusual young woman — still cannot stand to sit around in one place too long.
Constantly on the global go snap-shooting world-whacked or cryptically creepsy baby dolls while simultaneously ponder-wondering what gives or who shamelessly takes advantage of the blindness of intimate strangers, Dilworth recently returned to her rawesome roots — Windsor, Ont, CA, ready, willing and raring to go (or, as the restless rambler — Flâneurettino? — recently confided to yours truly:
"Right now, I'm living, working and, I hope, flourishing here, at least in my own mind . . . for now)."
S'True. By the time Dilworth's pic and brief portrait appear atop "In Other Words," five will get you 10 said prototypical WanderLuster may well be sipping green tea on the other side of the planet, somewhere in the vicinity of Tokyo, Shanghai or, closer to home, the UK's surfers paradise traditionally known as Devon, England.
Still, for now, the peripatetic wayfarer graciously sent us the link to her kind-of Christmessy YouTube video created when she ventured her first tentative steps towards conquering the field of animation (among her current aural and visually artistic passions). In its subtle simplicity — not to mention its encharming and captivating narrative — the guileless girl could not believe I wanted to share "The Baddies" with you.
Floored, I'd say; but, once you view it, I remain convinced you'll feel the same way, too.
On that note, a lovely high one, thus concludes my contributions to "In Other Words" until we return from holidaze (or High Holy Days); at that time, I'll report on all the newz Fitz to Print, including the T.S. Eliot Poetry Prize brouhahaggle (or what I've taken to calling the putrid palaver in a pisspot) showcasing Rob Carrick's take on the mass mess, the Helen Vendler / Rita Dove kerfluffle, the introduction of our Take-Ten feature with John Donlan kicking the series off, the latest on what shall happen during NaPoMo, the Big George Bowering Baseball Quiz, several exclusive interviews with a number of our our finest poets; and, of course, a few in-depth portraits of the most recent and highly lauded versifiers, period.
Merry Christmas and, O, Lord, please hear our pleas that Leo Bloom fully recovers, that this planet doesn't self-destruct, and, most importantly, that 2012 proves itself to be the best year of our lives, better even than Robert Kroetsch's <*angel*> beauteous bees' knees.
(Fedora doffs: Elissa Janca, AccessCopyright, Nancy & Dale Wice, Peter Scowen, Bruce Elder, Vicki Tyler and Mitch Belanger.)
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