When  the  so called “good” fall into  sin
And contemplate the idiot shades of grey
What is there to lose and what to win
When   past belief is thrown into the bin;
When there is no clear cut path or way
So painfully we wonder where to go?
How   endure the skinless feel of  day
As long the seconds stretch and love goes slow?
Is silence best, as what words could one say?
Who could begin?

Art by Katherine

By Katherine

Small rain in summer
Pools on large green leaves,
Makes all birds dumber
Silently they weave.

Wrens fly to and fro
Nesting near the house.
They know where to go
With nestlings and spouse.

Simple life of green
Hiding in lush leaves.
A space to be unseen
Humans only grieve.

Where is our safe space,
Where can we live well?
As anguish veils the face
In green thoughts I dwell.

The earth has its own gravity and grace
Perception will develop as we grow
Maintain the sacredness of this dear space

When we live we need to find our place
The process may be long and very slow
The earth has its own gravity and grace

The good and bad both need to be embraced
Grace comes easiest to those who’re low.
Maintain the sacredness of this dear space

Good and bad make patterns as in lace
And through the gaps, the living waters flow
The earth has its own gravity and grace

Life must grow at its own steady pace
By our intuition ,we will know
Maintain the sacredness of this dear space

Of the fruits of earth, the living taste.
Admire the flying birds from thrush to crow
The earth has its own gravity and grace
Maintain the sacredness of this dear space

Home Office contractors ‘cuffed detained migrants’ inside coach on fire

Immigration detainees disclose to Guardian that staff refused to to let panicking people out

Eric Allison and Simon Hattenstone

Wed 21 Feb 2018 18.09 GMTLast modified on Wed 21 Feb 2018 18.21 GMT

607

My sister did this,2018

If politics is black and white
Then opposition  cannot teach
When we wonder what is right
And wake up shivering in the night
When naught for comfort could be reached
Missionaries filled with doubt
As Jesus blood forever leaked
On Nazi guards and Polish louts
We have to fight

With leaders who bring out our scorn
With high ambition in  the worst
I’d favour  those with egos shorn
Characters both cold and warm
But do we wonder if we’re cursed
When music and good art seem gone?
And what is bad and what is worse
Seem to puzzle everyone,
Defer  the clear  and love the terse.
And genius mourn

http://www.math.utah.edu/~honigs/Grothendieck.pdf

c Katrina Honigs
September 27, 2015
I met Alexander Grothendieck on January 2, 2012. As I made my way to
a car rental center in the outskirts of Toulouse that morning, with the sky still
dark, the displays on passing buses flashed between their numbers and “Bonne
Ann´ee”.
I was halfway into my third year of graduate school and had read a bit
of Alexander Grothendieck’s mathematical work and felt a sense of connection
with it. I found his writing to be generally very clear, and I liked his approach
to algebraic geometry. In my own career, I was at a point where I was not
only not making progress on solving any problems, but miserably unengaged by
my work. But despite the burnout, Grothendieck’s work remained an island of
enjoyment in an otherwise featureless sea. Grothendieck is unquestionably one
of the most influential mathematicians of the 20th century, and to a graduate
student all the way in California, his exit to live the life of a hermit, location
unknown somewhere in the Pyrenees of France or Andorra, rendered him a
practically mythical figure.
But I am driven to demystify – it is part of what motivates me to be a
mathematician – and when we tell ourselves and others that our heroes are
inhuman and on a pedestal that is not just high but unattainable, we are actually
pushing ourselves down rather than climbing. And so, following a decision to
attend a conference in France, some emails, a lesson driving with a manual
transmission, a session of studying maps, and a long conversation at the rental
car center made difficult by my limited French, that brisk but mild winter
morning found me driving through rural France, wildly hoping for a conversation
about mathematics, or that I might at least see that it was truly a real person
who did all the work with the name Grothendieck on it.
Lasserre is small and remote, but Grothendieck’s house is by no means the
isolated cabin in a dark forest that I had imagined when I first heard about
him. That area of the Pyrenees is lovely, and the drive through a rolling landscape
down lanes lined with sycamore trees featured views of fallow winter
fields and blue mountains swelling along the horizon that reminded me very
strongly of where I grew up in the foothills of the Appalachians. The town
is so small that the houses do not have numbers, which, judging by the dubious
looks and patient explanations that addresses really should have numbers
that French postal workers gave me when I handed them my letters addressed
to Grothendieck, is relatively uncommon. Since I didn’t know which house in
Lasserre was Grothendieck’s, I chose to park in a convenient small gravel lot. I
was faced with a very finite number of possible houses since Lasserre consists of
1
the intersection of a few roads, and figured I would find my way after knocking
on some doors and inquiring where I might find the person who proved the
representability of the Quot functor. However, it wasn’t necessary to make inquiries

My sister came when I was two years old
Born into a winter famed as cold
Her little face was full of  fun and joy
As we played with dolls and  small stuffed toys.

We lined up all our dolls in rows by size
The large ones at the back had blinking eyes
We played with an old dog on little wheels
It had no fur  but still held great appeal

Dad lifted her and  held her to the sky
Eily ,allanah, I’ll love you till I die
All too soon the family was sad.
Mother was not Mother without Dad

We survive to love and live our very  best
If there is a heaven,we’ ll be blessed.

 

 

It’s true that owls are hunting birds
That God made eagles and vultures
But if I redesigned the world
And with power my knowledge hurled
I’d wreck the Universe and more
For I don’t see the whole picture

For Yakov with gratitude

http://www.bartleby.com/113/1126.html

 

Emily Dickinson (1830–86).  Complete Poems.  1924.

Part One: LifeCXXVI

THE BRAIN is wider than the sky,
For, put them side by side,
The one the other will include
With ease, and you beside.
The brain is deeper than the sea,	5
For, hold them, blue to blue,
The one the other will absorb,
As sponges, buckets do.
The brain is just the weight of God,
For, lift them, pound for pound,	10
And they will differ, if they do,
As syllable from sound.

The English language is so deep and very rich
Obscenity shows  your grasp of it is poor
Is that why you said I am a bitch?
Well, now I’m going to show you my front door

When Lady Chatterley was tried and won
No-one thought we drown in worlds like “Fuck”
But now politeness too has  been and gone
Our culture sinks into primeval muck.

Oh, can’t you learn by reading  our good books
Or watching Shakespeare on the TV screen
Seems all we care about is how we look
Whilst from our lips we let fall words obscene

There may be moments when we need to swear
But  little children should not have to hear.

https://www.theguardian.com/uk-news/2018/jan/06/australian-flu-spread-prompts-handshake-ban-in-northern-ireland-churches

 

Beware of drinking vessels! God does not stop us catching viruses from the Chalice nor the coffee cup

I am sorry you did not desire my glove nor my cart.I have no whore to give
I am sorry you did not bite my letters for me or sell  me a letter wife
I regret criticising your faux setter curds
I beg your pardon and ask you to deceive my apologies as soon as you feel noble.
I ask you to remain an end forever.Until the day you lie here again.
I beseech you to turn me up  and hem me like a taylor
I don’t know how I got it  flung; please accept my  severe demonologies as soon as maybe.

So what is it to you if my English sounds like Yiddish.My mother was  friendly with some Jews who spoke  anguish.She converted them  to our ways and  they raised me as a Catholic Jew who believed Jesus was an emission from a nuclear God particle or wave called El. [ I can’t say more]
I studied Dirac until I went green  but I don’t  blame that mirror he invented.They are everywhere
What’s it got to do with you if I have a little Chutzpah? Jesus  must have had it and he’s god enough for me.
No,I don’t understand either.But it’s  only for  nerds.

The artist and activist tells how investigating schoolchildren’s deaths in the Sichuan earthquake of 2008 spawned his mammoth installation, Remembering

https://www.theguardian.com/artanddesign/audio/2018/feb/15/ai-weiwei-on-project-political-voice-sichuan-earthquake-the-start-podcast?utm_source=eml&utm_medium=emlf&utm_campaign=MB_NS_na_Newsletter_ROUK_Paid_200218&CMP_TU=mrtn&CMP_BUNIT=mem&att5

Mary stood at the bus stop in her chocolate wool winter coat which Stan had always loved.It hangs so well,he had told her.The  optional imitation fur collar had been removed as she preferred natural garments made from wool with no ostentation.As a matter of fact she has one of Stan’s woollen vests on under her gold silk top.Her hair fell in light blonde curls around her pensive face and her eyes looked as if she were seeing a vision of the Matterhorn in midwinter while naked

Suddenly she realised the bus was there and she put her card up to the machine before looking for a seat.The bus was rather full so she sat down next to a wiry youth with an i phone hanging from his hand.Suddenly it rang.His chosen theme was, Please release me, sung by Tom Jones.Mary smiled as, if she were near Tom Jones she would need no invitation to free him.The youth began to speak rather louder than normal.

Mary tried not listen but it was impossible.She was too hot.Wearing Stan’s vest was a mistake as the bus was overheated.She turned pink like sunrise over ICI in Billingham as the pollution has a beautifying affect.
I’m sorry I wore your vest,she told Stan.I should have given them away but I was trying to save money on heating.Still I will be home soon.
Where is your microphone, the youth demanded.It must be one of those new tiny ones.
A microphone? Mary said curiously.
Yeah, he cried.I assume your phone is in your pocket.

Actually it’s in a pocket in my knickers,she informed h0m in a manner resembling that of a mildly crazy scientist.We used to wear these knickers in the gym at school
Did you not wear a top? he enquired,his eyes running over her hourglass figure like water falling off High Force in Teesdale.
Well.I didn’t have a bra until I got my grant to attend  university,she told him sensitively.
Well,that’s news to me,he said.So you had to wear a bra at University? That was before feminism,of course.Did you burn it later?
Certainly not,said Mary.I’d been longing for one but my mother didn’t seem to notice my development which was her way of coping with adolescent girls.Of course my  older brothers may have noticed but they were  too nervous to tell Mother I needed support.We were all so shy and afraid..Anyway be quiet now,I want to speak to my husband
Have you had your phone on all this time? he asked  anxiously.
No,I don’t need it to talk to him,she responded.
Why,where is he? the youth enquired sardonically.
He’s on my knee,Mary informed him.In this bag.She pointed to her hessian shopping bag.I have just been to the Coop  Funeral Home for him.I ought to have got a cab as he is quite heavy
Jesus Christ,cried  the youth,hastily pressing the bell before leaping off the bus into a small pond that had been created b y Hurricane Desmond.He swam away into the cold  night.
Well. that shut him up,Mary said to Stan.
Mary, don’t become less gentle and kind,Stan said in her ear.
I can’t be gentle now,she said.It’s a nasty tough world without you to help me and  tell me what you think of Jeremy Corbyn .And do I need to have a roast dinner at Xmas or just some toad in the hole?
I am sorry, sweetheart he murmured.Maybe you need assertiveness training.
I’ll just get more aggressive,she replied.Micro-aggressive perhaps.
You’ll need more than micro in this era,he continued.
Mary forgot to get off the bus and found herself in the Leisure Centre by the River Trent.
What about the river,Stan, she asked.
Would you like me to throw  you in.A policeman standing near by ran over.
Madam, is it suicide or murder, he asked her.
No,it’s a life sentence,she said humorously as she put her hand up her skirt to get her phone.
That’s a stupid place to keep a  phone he said.
Anyway don’t call a cab,I can run you home in my car.Have you got any China tea?I could kill for a hot drink.
I have some lapsang souchong,she told him.Do you fancy that? I do, called Stan from the bag.The policeman passed out.
I told you not to get a boyfriend yet,Stan continued to Mary.
I’ll do whatever I feel like,she said rudely.I could use  a comforting arm around me.
Stan sobbed.
She said,quickly don’t worry.I’ll get Emile to sit on my knee.Goodbye for now
Goodbye  whispered Stan faintly.Good bye
Good bye,my love,Good bye

If looking at a  phone would comfort me
If earphones  could/would still my thudding heart
I’d have phones hanging off me like a tree

Unlike a vessel in the coastal sea
There is no lifeboat in these foreign parts
So looking at a  phone can’t comfort me

For some feel lonely,others feel they’re free
Without the pain of lover’s cruel darts
I feel grief  like the leaves  ripped off a  tree

I am beyond your pity or your reach
Within my mind the sorrow  has no chart
So looking at a  phone can’t comfort me

What has human suffering  got to teach?
That we are apes and clever but not smart?
I feel grief  like the leaves  ripped off a  tree

With wicked thoughts,with evil I won’t flirt
I’d rather lie down in the dust and  dirt
If looking at a  phone would comfort me
I’d have them ringing like a bell rings free

I floundered slowly as a pen
That writes the lies and  steals my pills
When all  at once I saw a friend
A host  who sold me clothes with frills.

Harmonious were the waves of love
As were the letters writ by hand
From so below to well above
I saw a sight not understood.

Trembling in the Western Wind
Were Alfred Deller and  a lute
So  we conferred but never sinned
Though he had a magic flute.

As my pen leaked ink and blood
Among the purses and the keys
My mother said I never should
Play with cowboys in the seas.

Where is my ship that takes me home?
And where’s my lover,write me soon?
I’ll do my hair with a toothcomb
Before I visit and resume.