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Fifty years ago well after my baptism my first holy communion & my confirmation I would have likely said – practising Catholic. Most friday nights back then I’d find myself with Father kneeling before him on the carpeted step of the confessional box my little red face pressed upwards to the grille.
Children need to walk together, arm in arm with strangers, wear badges of hope and T-shirts with lifelines, sing words of wisdom and history, chant choric responses of camaraderie in a mass movement of human voices. Understand the justice of causes and the constant need for change.
At times the music holds him still, and a jonquil light beams through two pinholes in his brain, singing of a caged soul.
The hands which pressed triggers, wielded knives at innocent throats, were once the gentle sons of others playing in sand pits, shadowed from scorching winds, while I ferried my own to schoolyard bunkers and safe horizons.
With fresh blood in your mouth you are no longer cat, house-trained to please. Now you kill wantonly, revel in the fear you invoke in others. Man was created, just like you, to run free in the killing-fields ... Is this what God meant you to be? To revert to what you once were?
When I last saw you, still horizontal, interrogating the floor, you'd begun reversing Kafka — a slow transformation from beetle to vertical human. Powered by a new locomotion, you steer yourself towards the stereo; music erupts into your world, is taken entirely for granted.
She would be aghast, at the weeping litany of my sins... From the moment the apron string is cut, we are free to be. And to bring, make or undo, whatever the hell we want to.
This woman is omnipotent. A working mother with dark shadowed eyes. She offers nothing more than serving drinks and mopping up the mess men leave behind, working stoical hands planted on the bar ready for action, ready for anything.
No good deed goes unplagiarised; no noteworthy scheme leaves the department unharvested. Lack the intellectual capital to spend on an informed decision? Set multiple minions to work then cherry pick the outcomes, signing off with your own trotter.
Part memoir, part travelogue, and part apologia, Exposure is also the diary of a young man suffering from a form of obsessive-compulsive disorder which manifests in excruciating symptoms. More interesting, and more agonising, is his driven response to poverty and to suffering when he encounters it.
Some volcanoes are dead bigtime .. Be careful: Don't go near them .. They spit
In Rembrandt's painting, the risen Christ .. wears a jaunty hat ... So roguish! .. So impious! Impish, even! .. He has come to greet his girlfriend .. Mary Magdalene
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