The children are EVERYTHING. We can start by protecting them, by making them holy, and seeing them as precious, untouchable. I happen to believe human life in general is so, but I understand it is harder to apply this principle to adults, especially troublesome, “evil” ones. But the children, it doesn’t matter whose child they are, it doesn’t matter where they came from, they are invaluable, precious, and a hurt or dead child is a crime against nature of the most heinous kind. And when you don’t care about the children in the postcode after yours, or a country outside of yours, you’re a part of that too. Indifference kills.
I had someone come around on behalf of our landlady to evaluate the house.
We walked around and I noticed he wanted me to stick by him rather than let him get on with his thing.
I told him how in Italy all the wood and sturdiness of the house would add to its value (it turned out I was wrong, but whatever) and he said, nah, not in England. After a while he asked, so where are you from? I had come to dread that question because England has changed, it is no longer the happy open place it used to be, intolerance towards foreigners has grown to include Europeans (not that it was fair before, but before I could defend Non-Europeans, now I need English people to defend me!).
Here, however, everyone has been very nice about us being Italians so I said “We’re from Italy
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I asked Paul if he wanted to make a statement and he told me to use what he has in his profile:
MICHEAL’S WORD PAINTING
By Artist Unknown
“It carries a certain up-right deportment, wouldn’t you say?” They had sat down on a bench that faced the artwork. Vanessa studied the reflection in a glass partition, ten or so feet to the right. It was this ability to view the pieces from alternate perceptions that they loved when coming to this museum; well, that and the third floor utility closet.
Shem continuously ignited her ambivalence, blowing it to smithereenies and opening wide swaths of ‘territoire d’imagination’.
“Given the elasticity of the lines,” she turns frontwards and leaning over to her right, right up next to Shem, so as he can see it also, runs a pointed finger in the air; a kind of semi-arc, “neither there,” she swings her arm back and forth, “nor there.” She starts to hum, while still gently flowing her waved motion, to and fro, hum a hum, hum hum, to… and… hum de… hum… and… fro…
Shem turns his mouth to her ear and whispers, “Like a silence of the winds, the deepening response turned casual?”
Vanessa’s ‘la dee da’, nonchalance is dripping into radiant, little, glass puddles on the floor.
Shem continues in a soft, measured voice,”Seven veils quintessential to the very core, in a slow, simmering ash, billowing hence?”
Her glistening tempora is swathed and bundled abound.
“Causes…” He holds the ‘ess’ sound; slithering, slipping, sizzling, “effects?,” Again he lingers the ‘ess’; silent, soothing, seismic.
Paul is a long-suffering Aston Villa FC supporter.
Leaving On A Jet Plane
Who’s Shooting Who?
McClaren (a collaboration with Beth Rosengard)
A Room Full of Mirrors
…and it was written in the heavens
V for Victory
St. Vladimir was a Dancing Man (…or so it was said)
TumbleWorld: The Naiveté of Homageable Immanence
Hoop It Up