“Love blurs your vision; but after it recedes, you can see more clearly than ever. It’s like the tide going out, revealing whatever’s been thrown away and sunk: broken bottles, old gloves, rusting pop cans, nibbled fishbodies, bones. This is the kind of thing you see if you sit in the darkness with open eyes, not knowing the future. The ruin you’ve made.”—Margaret Atwood (via thresca) (via hydrogen) (via suzywire)
Garden Gnome Liberation Front The first and most predominant gnome liberating force is the Garden Gnome Liberation Front (also known as the Front for the Liberation of Garden Gnomes—le Front pour la Libération des Nains de Jardin (FLNJ)). The Garden Gnome Liberation Front was introduced to the French public in 1997. Over the course of a year, the Front stole over 150 garden gnomes, contending that garden gnomes deserved the same freedoms they were blessed with. The leader of that group was charged in absentia with stealing over 150 garden gnomes over a period of several years. The Front’s leader was given a suspended prison sentence and fined for the 150 stolen gnomes.
In 1998 there was another strike that has been attributed to the Garden Gnome Liberation Front. This strike was known as the “mass suicide.” In Briey, a small city in eastern France, citizens woke up to find 11 garden gnomes hanging from a bridge with nooses around their necks. A nearby note stated: “When you read these few words we will no longer be part of your selfish world, where we serve merely as pretty decorations.”
For two years following the “mass suicide,” the Garden Gnome Liberation Front was relatively silent. No major noteworthy acts were recorded until 2000 when a garden show in Paris displayed 2,000 garden gnomes. In a nighttime raid, the Front “liberated” 20 gnomes from the garden show. The Garden Gnome Liberation Front claimed responsibility, demanding that the Garden Gnomes be released into their natural habitat, and not be ridiculed as cheap garden decorations.
The Front gained media attention again in 2006 when 80 gnomes were stolen in the central Limousin region of France.
I’m standing on ice, a flight of geese fleeing the moon, skimming the roof, dampens the air. Seven quiet birds. I have been saying their names so long and now I can’t remember what their sudden rising means. They call on the chill air and let me be. When I slept, I hoped never to wake and write these poems. I’m not the man for this. I wanted fire whispering over pages, glowing in cloud. Instead, I have spent my life as a man ice-fishing. My line jigs down a hole and sometimes in winter dawn I draw up one freezing fish, and I’m surprised holding it out, my glasses fogged like Dad’s under the small brim of his hat on mornings he tightened our skates. Can you remember anything from childhood? I only know how ordinary we were, sliding on the snow. All night I kept these words beside my head, white faces of skaters, a few haunted birds.
Bolt’s warning about the crime rates of Lebanese Muslims and so on was likely an incomplete list of those from countries Bolt considers backwards. He warns that we may be “importing problems we don’t need”. Such rhetoric makes me think of Australia in the 1930s. At the 1938 Evian Conference held in France, in response to the rising number of Jews fleeing Nazi persecution, Australia explained why it would not take in Jewish refugees, saying, “as we have no real racial problems, we are not desirous of importing one”.
It is time that we tell people like Bolt that all communities are equally human. We all produce our own criminals. For example, there is a community of people in Australia, let us call them Community X. Community X produces far more rapists and woman-beaters than the rest of Australia. Not only this, they have a marked tendency to get off scot-free when they commit crimes, at least partially due to their influence and domination of the judicial system. Community X has also consistently blocked the necessary funding to stop violence against women.
If the group I am talking about were Muslims, Bolt would presumably advocate we send them back to wherever they come from. But Community X is, in fact, men.
Some men are beautifully dysfunctional when you first know them; the loss of youth, integrity, or wife clear in each lovely unsure gesture you mistake for tenderness
but taking flight from you: look how sure and purposeful in every part: their smooth machinery moving efficiently away as if engineered by Leonardo or a god who gave the octopus, not you, its obscuring spurt and perfect whirl of gears, its three hearts running
But what of her womb, tender core of her being, what of her breasts’ stiff hearts, and her dense eggs, what if she falls in love? Maybe to know sex fully one has to risk being destroyed by it. Maybe only ruin could take its full measure,as death stands in the balance with birth, and ignorance with love.
“He’s our generation’s J.D. Salinger," says Smith, whose film "Dogma" shows its heroes, Jay and Silent Bob, on a pilgrimage to Shermer, Ill., a mythical town that only exists in Hughes’ films. "He touched a generation and then the dude checked out. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be doing what I do. Basically my stuff is just John Hughes films with four-letter words.”—John Hughes’ imprint remains - Los Angeles Times
That does not keep me from having a terrible need of—shall I say the word—religion. Then I got out at night to paint the stars. —Vincent Van Gogh in a letter to his brother
The town does not exist except where one black-haired tree slips up like a drowned woman into the hot sky. The town is silent. The night boils with eleven stars. Oh starry starry night! This is how I want to die.
It moves. They are all alive. Even the moon bulges in its orange irons to push children, like a god, from its eye. The old unseen serpent swallows up the stars. Oh starry starry night! This is how I want to die:
into that rushing beast of the night, sucked up by that great dragon, to split from my life with no flag, no belly, no cry.