The transmission tower and the forest. And finally an unrelated picture.
Yesterday I learned that one of the guys I spent my summer with fell from a tower that he was climbing for sport and died from the fall…. Markus was an experienced climber, having climbed in Peru and Nepal in the past so he knew what he was doing.
They just “want to die”.So when Yusuf Sweitat, who had no prior connection with Palestinian militants, drove to the Israeli town of Hadera on 28 October 2001, and shot dead four Israeli women at a bus stop before being gunned down himself by Israeli police, that was nothing to do with the fact that ten days earlier he had watched twelve-year-old Riham Ward bleed to death in his arms after being struck by an IDF tank shell as she sat at her school desk at the Ibrahimiya Elementary School in Jenin…. And it was entirely coincidental that seven days after the IDF shot dead 15-year-old stone-thrower Amjad Al-Masri, and six days after the IDF fired upon Amjad’s funeral procession, killing his cousin Mohammed, Amjad’s 17-year-old brother Iyad blew himself up in Ginsafut near Qalqilya.It is increasingly hard to see the difference in kind between the Nazi regime and what is practiced in Israel today. Expropriation. Misuse of the laws and power organs of the state to oppress a group on racial and religious grounds. What has to happen to end this persecution and our endorsement, both tacit and explicit of it? The weblog from which this excerpt is taken is an incredibly detailed and informed look at the Israeli-Palestine conflict. The resource list alone is especially useful, as it is both comprehensive and well-annotated. The more you know, the worse it becomes:
In the far back corner of the large courtyard…. Only six large transparent tubes hang from the ceiling.
The taste of Anna and red wine.So lovely to drink and drink. Somehow without her sweet nectar the wine is not so fine.So without wine now I swim onpool water a poor substitutefor past Dionysian revels,future promises in every stroke.
To me the show seemed like straight provocation, exploitation of Lisbeth Gruwez and the audience, taking us to another level of dance – back to its earliest origins in earthy sexuality…. Not to have seen the show – for if you are not offended by the naked and sexual female human body, you will rarely see a more pure display – but that at the end of the path, Fabre leads us holding nothing but those wild impressions.
No Jane Austen heroines for meall prose and no poetry,reason and norm insistentin every dawn anda faultless sense of society,infallible propriety.I’ll dally to ventilatethe tight sphincter which crampsher every breathin hope to release the emotionsstifled so long below.Hopeless though, these women -function of their most intimate organsgoverned so strongly from the headand not the heart. One pure breath of unfiltered emotion, more, sadlythan six months of stifling devotion.
A darkened section of Vienna. Just off the ring but nothing but blackness and the massive wood and iron doors of old warehouses. A voice rises tormented and beautiful into the night. A futuristic baroque. It must be here.
You push the heavy wood door, peer inside. An almost black space. People wander randomly in the distance. It doesn’t look like a dance show at all. You enter and pass a small table where you give your credentials.
The voice sings insistently, beautifully fragmented.