cab_sav sabbie and she sat in a poets_corner sipping her cab_sav enjoying the full bodied flavour (as advertised) and doodling on the tablecloth with her texta 020105 ... fyn gula and when copello came over to introduce himself and comment on the fascinating qualities of the the doodles, was there a bit of cab sav left to share? and i'm curious, what were the doodlings? 020105 ... sabbie there are two bottles of cab sav, just on the off chance. please, sit down (i would be honoured) and choose a glass. now, will you have the engraved silver goblet with the scratches inside from the steel wool washing delema, or the faced glass goblet, the only of of the triple let after time and slipery soap got the better of the other two? or the large bulbous glass goblet that has love endelibly imprinted on it even after all these years. grab a vessel, grab a texta and enjoy the ambience. the doodles were actually poems that evolved into fantastic swirls and intricate pictures of only some particular worth. please, feel free to contrbute your own work to the cloth. maybe we will get to take it home at the end of the night 020105 ... fyn gula copello, fascinated by the kaleidoscopic effect of poems and imagery, lingered in silence, wondering about "their particular worth." and he thought to himself that they were worth a certain value to him. he would pay vast sums of kemulyan coinage or colored paper, yet without asking, he realized no monetary value could be placed on a soul's breath. and when he introduced himself and discovered who it was sitting at poets_corner, and was offered his own bottle of cab_sav with his choice of implement, he chuckled to himself that he had ever considered requesting the possession of the tablecloth, especially as synoin rolled a texta in his direction. "first things first," he said, and he looked over the vessels. the large, bulbous glass that had love etched on it was the first one he reached for, yet he had another use for it. from the inside pocket of his grandfather's merino coat, he removed a leather esconced flask of turquiose liquid and like a magician with the deft moves of sleight of hand, he lifted the cork. for one brief moment, a small cloud of a hint of flowers glittered, leaving behind the fragrance of spring giving way to the unparalleled richness of summer. then he poured, and the thick, syrupy liquid seemed weightless in its volume, swirling about the glass, its legs clinging to the sides forming images of cities bathed in blue-green light begging one to leave all behind for a dream. when the glass was full, copello corked the flask and slid it back into his pocket. when he brought his hands out, he set them before her, both tight-fisted. in his eyes, she could see he wanted her to pick one. she chose left, and he smiled in pleasant acknowledgement for she had chosen correctly. he unfolded his calloused hand one finger at a time, revealing a small silver object, that she immediately recognized. a silver fish. what she did not notice was a small hole in the side where the gills would be. when he lifted it to his lips, she drew in her breath, for she knew what he was about to do. the sound that came forth was music before there was definition. when muses looked for humans to guide, when gods turned their heads in our direction, when maris den cieans shook hands and we touched their wings in wonder. she closed her eyes without being asked for it was what seemed natural and when she opened them, her butterfly with daisy wings sat delicately on the rim of the glass sipping the turquiose liquid, slowly balancing with languorous movements. when it drank deeply and was satiated, it fluttered to the tablecloth and with solemn consideration, deciphered the swirling words and imagery, revealing startling truths to synoin. with her texta, she wrote the butterfly's thoughts down on the blank space before her. it kissed her then, and she noticed it's fragile breath carried the light fragrance of new zealand honey, seafoam, watermelon juice from applecups, and a small trace of water from the yarra river. off it went then, but she did not miss it, for she knew it would return. while she was saying her goodbyes, copello reached for the face-glass goblet, the one of three yet remaining, and into this he poured the cab_sav. but, not for himself. "you never know who may want to join us," he said, smiling. he slid it to one side of the tablecloth and it rested on top of the word, "solus". and then he took the last avaliable vessel, the silver goblet with the scratches inside for himself, she asked him why he picked this one and he told her the scratches were beautiful. they reminded him of lines needing words. and the cab-sav danced into the goblet poured for him by a faerie of hollyendontool, who appeared at the table walking so slightly that they were both a bit startled by her presence. she barely reached the top of the table and it was a great effort for to exeute this bit of work. copello could see she was on tiptoe straining, but when she finished, she seemed glad to oblige them. before she curtsied and skittered off, she touched synoin with her wand made from an oak twig with a dangling acorn. "grace for your most excellent journey," the faerie said, and her voice sounded like a child playing a toy piano. it was then that the acorn dropped off the end of the wand and plopped into her drink. copello raised one eyebrow. "how fortunate," he said, and he lifted his goblet in a toast. "to your most excellent adventure." synoin lifted her glass and the two clinked, the sound of renewed friendship. copello drank and the cab_sav was liquid happiness, if that was possible, and he knew it was, for in kemulya, anything was. it was then he set his glass down, took up the texta and wrote far into the evening. 020106 ... sabbie synoin, like a little girl in her batcave, was eager to show copello the jewels of the cloth's decoration. see here? this little picture between verses? and here? this four word poem? and look... well, this is where i spilled some cabsav but see how i could incorporate it into this drawing here? i had to stretch it out a little, but i like how it ended up... synoin grinned and from the very depths of her bag she drew a tin pencil case, opened the lid and emptied it out on the table. out came tumbling 23 different coloured textas and a little glow.in.the.dark god. synoin rubbed the god's hair affectionately and put it back into the case. the textas she left, fallen where they would for she subscribed to the serenely chaotic way of life. a figure appeared at their table, a wispy smokish, foglike creature who held a harmonica of purest green. he bowed to our participants and then played a single song, a specialised rendition of 'clown' by switchblade symphony that was magical. at the end of the song, he bowed again, produced a bunch of purple and white dahlias from somewhere and presented them with a flourish of his own to copello. synoin grinned at this. it seemed flourishes were all the rage at the moment. a voice echoed in her head 'i'll have a faux fur flourish thank you very much' and she laughed out loud. the smoky figure wandered off to entertain someone else as synoin and copello both reached for textas (hers a maryish green, his november pink) and started on the tablecloth again. synoin watched copello create on the canvas cloth, a little line appearing between his brows as the concentrated on a particular phrase. she sipped her cab sav, marvelling that of all the poets_corners in all the worlds... synoin smiled. from there her thoughts wandered to a moment. a morn. a day. that day she broke her own heart by walking away. when copello raised his head to ask her a question about one of the drawings that had caught his eye as he wrote a spiral poem, he saw that synoin was off with her own thoughts, distractedly chewing on one of her dreads that, judging from its ragged appearance (copello thought wryly) was not a one off event. as he watched, synoin removed her put.upon dread, pressed her lips together and nodded her head once, decisively. she looked back towards copello and asked to borrow the little fish. he fished it out of his pocket and held it out, curious. synoin took it reverently, cradling it gently in her hand for a moment. she closed her eyes... then, opening them, placed the fish on the tender flesh of her wrist, laying its head on her upright palm. she took a bright blue napkin and wrapped the fish, alm and wrist together, holding her hand out to copello to tie the knot. copello did so, and synoin might have seen his eyes clear in understanding, has she not been concentrating so fiercely on her wrist. she clasped her other palm to the napkin and softly whispered a... poem? a prayer? copello watched her lips carefully but could not decipher it. all the same, he felt there was a familiar ring to the words he could not catch. after a moment, synoin looked up and smiled. copying a gesture from copello himself not five minutes ago, she removed the napkin with a flourish and plucked the fish from her wrist. there, underneath, was a perfect copy of copellos little fish pressed into the skin like a flattened silver shadow or a tattoo. synoin smiled. 'so that every time i deal with someone in the future i will remember the two lessons of this little fish. the one about etiquette and the desperate importance of being nice to every other being who inhabits all these worlds, and (and here synoins eyes, one still brown and one still purple, filled with tears) the newer lesson, of boundless forgiveness, of endless grace. i will wear it proudly, my friend.' synoin put her hand out to shake copellos, wanting him to be the first recipient of her fish. he took it solemnly and the moment was framed by their grins. but throughout the happiness of the last hour synoin kept glancing over her shoulder at the door. copello had noticed some time ago and thought now was the time to bring it up 'are you expecting someone?' 'no' sighed synoin, glancing around once again 'but i was jsut kinda vaguely hoping...' 020107 ... farmfish wondering if he was invited i heard about poets_corner back in the fall it seemed, i could be wrong, i usually is (so they say, whadjoo-say?), it was this butterfly with da funkiest wings, flittin' 'bout my head all crazy, then sittin' on one of my 1oooo poiple cone fleurs that have abskalutchely threatened to overtake the st.francis garden at robin hill. but dose wings (hand to mouth), like out of a seventie's advert, or more so mind you, like the backside of mrs. mcgruder's potting shed before the tornado leveled it. she painted all these bright daisies on the weathered barnwood. tasha tudor would have been proud, david browne would have fotoed it and guess what? we have a piece of it made as a table top to set all those yummy fromage dishes upon, perfect with any cab_sav or shiraz or merlot or mermaid or skimmmily jack. now, about the apparel, meesta frAnk, or is it fRank, fraNk, FranK, fRank? erm, baggy pants? erm, at least i have more than three changes, wanka, and docs are much cheapa in oxford, bought me a pair a few daze ago, so...(sticks tongue out) "pllllllll!" anyways, thanx, sabbie, for the invite, i hope, i think...wouldn't that be funny now if i wasn't the one? hmmmmm. well now. um settin' here no matta what, wyred sista. i'll pour this blue water out if i have to...butterfly cooties and all. and first let me pour a little wine on the table cloth to see what kind of pixcher it makes...oooooh lookie here! a heart, iike always i guess. i want to be where it's going on and if wild flourishes are all the rage...stand back. (he opens his 193o's suitcase, pulls out a ukulele, strums a bit and begins to sing, rather badly, sorry. where's the ghost with the green harmonica when ya need 'im?) 020107 ... fyn gula copello was powerfully intrigued by the silver impression on synoin's wrist. he was very touched, humbled, happy. friendship, he realized, noticing the approach of nimbia, is a sincere work of subtle art. it is as intricately involved as the epic poem, the patient drying of windsor&newton oils, the magical development of kodachrome. he marveled at the contrast of reality and imagination how it really was all the same, only hidden behind veils and layers and thoughts full of concentrated effort. dreams vibrantly rich with fragrance, texture, tangible wonder. more than once he remembered waking with tears running down his cheeks and he had to think if he was crying or whether it was more involuntary like drooling. "yes, they dissolve upon waking," he mused, but how fun its soporific effect on the rest of the day, becomes this guide between worlds, explaining, deciphering, interpreting." his november pink testa stopped on the tablecloth, like an auto waiting for the cirque train to pass, clowns waving, lions roaring, monkeys running about the tops of the bright colored cars. he was temporarily lost in this certain feeling, like a child staring, waiting to be approached. he had been scribing a spiral poem, not quite finished, it read: "i needed to make a sheet of glass into a mirror as tall as me. on my knees i worked, smoothing edges of bright foil as if i thought the sun were leakage i could stop." he admired synoin. that much was evident. the dahlias(little tubers yielding such ingenious beauty), the appropiate musical selection (how he loved that song and the band), and now that nimbia sat down, he was delirious with a peaceful mirth. and it was not only from the cab_sav, for he had taken only his initial sip to stir the senses. this unexpected encounter with the wayward daughter of mal and mauvis was thrilling beyond description. nimbia seemed wary, a bit downcast. "cheers," copello said, looking down at the heart that appeared when nimbia intentionally spilled the wine. "we love what we do." 020108 ... sabbie synoin was thrilled. before she had come to poets_corner she had passed a wishing pool, staffed by flying foxes who, although a little flighty, have the imagination for this kind of job. synoin had stopped and from a pocket removed (at this time without a florish (one does not like to use them too often in mixed company. its terribly wearing on the carpet)) 3 twenty cent pieces. one by one she wished on them and dropped them into the pool. each platypus had winked at her as they swum away and synoin felt a warm fuzz surround her. the fuzzing from the pool had joined with the fuzzing from her wings to create the kind of noise that a church picnic of bees in the sunshine would make before lunch but during the dancing. then synoin had wandered on down the street. it was a grand street, it had a museum, an art gallery, a park, a tiny junk store packed to the rafters with treasues lost and treasure waiting to be found and of course poets_corner. synoin had spent quite some time in the little junk shop earlier today and was now pleased with the time spent searching the shelves and boxes. she glanced at nimbia, who was still singing his song, and pulled out of her omni.present bag a little green glass bottle with a yellow tin lid. she unscrewed the lid and pulled it out of the bottle. connected to the underside was a little wire shape on a stick. synoin dipped once, twice then blew gently through the wire. out came a managery of little bubbles all shaped like different animals. pigs and snakes and hippopotomuses and zebras and hedghogs and sheep all floated and spun gently around nimbias head, all squealing and hissing with joy at his song. synoin dipped and blew again, this time at the table and another round of animals, this time more solid, more coloured than before headed straight for the cloth to dance around the poems and drawings like bacchante around the bonfire. little birds flew, little dear sproinged, little crocs waved their jaws in joy and a bandicoot, overfilled with pandmoanimic happiness danced himself right off the table and into a puddle of beer. copello, laughing, rescued the little animal (who licked his thumb in gratitude) dried him off on synoins napkin and offered him to nimbia. 020109 what's it to you? who go blather from