tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-14602000953963980082024-03-07T08:25:16.340+00:00Half-heard in the Stillness'We are reaching into the silence.
Are we the music, whilst the music plays?
Between the un-being and the being,
sounds a hollow rumbling of wings...
Am I here, or there, or elsewhere?'
(With My apologies to T.S. Eliot)Half-heard in the Stillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01840301617199033576noreply@blogger.comBlogger132125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460200095396398008.post-61582002268287703972019-04-20T14:49:00.000+01:002019-04-20T14:55:05.793+01:00<div>
Easter Saturday today, I have been missing from this place for such an age. </div>
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I wish I could find a photograph of the 'Big House' as we called it. I've searched all Flickr and other internet places and the nearest I could come to it, is a photograph of the corner shop that was opposite but up a bit. It was nice to see that, but I keep straining all the time trying to see to the right and across the road.... well it doesn't work like that does it? Directly opposite that shop...in the photo, when I was about 4 I spotted a girl called Elspeth in the distance coming towards me, and turning to run away I went 'SMACK' into a lamp-post. I didn't like Elspeth you see, she'd taken me out for a walk once and somehow we ended up at a frightening place called, Mode-Wheel. It was down on the docks, the Manchester Ship Canal Docks, hammer-drill noises and acrid smells and humungous ships and oily slicked water and a very dangerous place for small children, it scared me a whole lot. After the lamp-post came out of nowhere and hit me right in the eye, I had a black-eye for weeks. My Mum laughed when I told her I been running from Elspeth, she didn't understand why. Even at such a young age I instinctively knew that girl would have been in big trouble for taking me to such a dangerous place.</div>
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Half-heard in the Stillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01840301617199033576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460200095396398008.post-55038442130314910332018-09-18T13:53:00.000+01:002018-09-18T13:53:35.507+01:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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'Time stands still best in moments that look suspiciously like ordinary life'</div>
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Well I jumped the gun way back there when I did that last post! I've been incapacitated off and on the whole time unfortunately. Mostly inside the house and very occasionally visiting the supermarket as a treat. However.... I have had TWO grandchildren born during the time I've been away, so that's been cause for great excitement!</div>
<br />Half-heard in the Stillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01840301617199033576noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460200095396398008.post-53251298479148669782017-04-15T14:58:00.000+01:002017-04-15T15:05:16.272+01:00<blockquote class="tr_bq">
There are some feelings that fill you up, that dig their roots into your skin and never let go. They swell and blow over you like wind and waves.</blockquote>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Unknown source-</span><br />
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At last I'm feeling more human again!<br />
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Hugs everybody,</div>
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Jane :)<span style="font-size: xx-small;"></span></div>
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</span>Half-heard in the Stillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01840301617199033576noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460200095396398008.post-44319341085602524002016-11-21T15:12:00.000+00:002016-11-21T15:12:37.377+00:00All downhill....(no, not me, now ;)The other day I was investigating on the internet to see if I could find my Grandmothers house, (the one who was a teacher), and surprised myself in a big way. I found the house and it looks exactly the same. Even down to the colour of the front woodwork and the black paint on the garage doors. I can't believe it, it must be 57 years since I last saw it! I was expecting to see the windows all changed and extensions etc after such a long long time. But there it was, and I was transfixed just gazing at it. I had actually begun my search to see if I could trace a pathway I used to ride through the fields when I was ten and allowed sometimes to borrow my Aunt's bicycle.<br />
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Can you remember when you were ten and coasting down a hill on your bike?....<br />
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I'm pretty sure this is the track I was looking for. In the summer those bushes closed over the top and formed a kind of tunnel, mysterious, yet kind of foreboding, exciting. Trees were festooned with Oak-apples, and the sun would dance about like a flash-light being switched on, then off, off then on, as you whizzed past ever downwards into the increasingly inky black darkness awaiting to engulf you at the bottom.<br />
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Sometimes at night now when I've gone to bed and lie in the darkness I'm riding the bike again. But instead of going down the hill path I've taken a right turn, skirting the corn and barley fields, and I've reached the unmanned level-crossing for the goods train. In the dead of night I used to hear the mournful tooting of the little train as it approached the crossing whenever I stayed with Nannie. STOP. LOOK. LISTEN. Warned the black and white sign beside the line, encouraging all to stay alive. How swiftly I'd run across wondering how it might be possible to miss anything as large and loud on such a straight stretch of line. But then I'd cycle slowly onward through the sleepy summer afternoon quiet, between hedges where blue butterfly's fluttered and Lords and Ladies nestled in the long grass verge like jewelled fairies,startlingly red, and somehow a kind of hush and stillness descended, when all that could be heard would be the trembling rise of the skylark high up, a black dot amongst the sunny clouds, and the rustling of the leaves, and opening up beside me to the right, there was the farmyard.<br />
A moment.......<br />
An awareness of time-slipping. The farm dog sleeping in his old kennel, his chain rattling slightly against the wood, all the hens and ducks out together in the yard, lazy clouds of summer grey dust disturbed by their feet. The farmhouse door stands ajar. Inside the sound of someone moving, a flash of white and then nothing. It's as though I have slipped through a hole in time. Everything around suspended. A strange ethereal feeling. Then suddenly the sound of a woman singing. The notes rising and falling, dancing across the sunlit fields and lanes.<br />
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'Lean out of the window</div>
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Goldenhair</div>
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For I heard you singing </div>
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a merry air</div>
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My book is closed;</div>
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I read no more,</div>
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Watching the fire dance</div>
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On the floor.</div>
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I have left my book;</div>
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I have left my room,</div>
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For I heard you singing </div>
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Through the gloom.</div>
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Singing and singing</div>
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A merry air,</div>
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Lean out of the window,</div>
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Goldenhair.</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">James Joyce</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">(Sincere apologies to whomever these photographs belong...The only references I can find is Panoramio, and eddie.g4ppb.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">I will remove the said photos immediately if you require me too. In the meantime, a "Big Thank" you for taking them in the first place and enabling me to return to that precipitous pathway)</span></div>
Half-heard in the Stillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01840301617199033576noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460200095396398008.post-80597298918099766742016-11-20T16:01:00.000+00:002016-11-20T16:01:20.038+00:00Trouble at the mill!Sorry to be away so long everyone.. be back really soon.Half-heard in the Stillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01840301617199033576noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460200095396398008.post-65603136338314058872016-08-06T13:08:00.002+01:002016-08-06T13:08:35.908+01:00An escape.I'm still recovering very slowly and had a back-slide recently. I suppose it was inevitable really, the nature of M.E. is that in some totally mysterious way your body doesn't seem to re-act immediately to episodes like the appendectomy, but kind of lulls you into a false sense of you having escaped the dratted M.E. symptoms this time. And along you waltz merrily, doing more than you really should. Kidding yourself...Ha Ha I've managed to slip through the net. Then double whammy! Back it bombs with vengeance, after over 20 years you'd think I'd have learned by now.<br />
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But it's reminded me of another escape......<br />
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The train stopped. Halted for some unknown reason. The other side of the railway tracks a combine- harvester reaps the corn. Threshing, leaving acres of stubble behind, until only one small square is left to be cut, and at that moment a deep red fox darts out from the last corn square, he's about to be cut through. Anxious and dashing. Meanwhile there is a swell of sound. A swollen gush, billowing down the whole side of the train, like a huge sigh, God-like in it's hugeness. All those brains and eyes all seeing the same drama played out before us. It was a moment suspended. A joining.<br />
We were all as one....and the fox lived to hunt another day.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo: Naturesdoorways.tumblr.com</span>Half-heard in the Stillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01840301617199033576noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460200095396398008.post-91708513868928331512016-07-05T15:34:00.000+01:002016-07-05T15:34:25.458+01:00Wow that was long time away....!<br />
I have a good reason though, I suddenly had to have my appendix out, and I've been recovering<br />
v......e...r....yyyyy slowly unfortunately. It does seem to take a lot longer to recover from anything when you have M.E. The disappointing thing is that I actually came though the operation and just after really well and was discharged home after only two days, my G.P. couldn't believe how good I seemed and when I walked past him he said,"My word you're walking like a teenager!" But it's gone downhill steadily since then, and last week I did my back in as well. Ah well, C'est la vie!<br />
Just thought I'd let you all in on where I've been all that time, and hope to be back blogging again very soon.<br />
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<br />Half-heard in the Stillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01840301617199033576noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460200095396398008.post-40394168764880402742016-01-28T15:27:00.001+00:002016-01-28T15:27:55.392+00:00Dust. Dust lingers everywhere in our house. I keep thinking shortly I will resemble Miss Havisham in Great Expectations. However I'm not dressed in an aging mildewed wedding-dress, neither do I have an decaying wedding-cake on the dining table, but cobwebs abound however. Funnily enough I've read Great Expectations more than a few times. In my growing-up it seemed to follow me. At the age of ten it was the first Charles Dickens novel we read in class in our last year at Primary school, it was exciting and spooky; I was <i>there</i> in the Kentish graveyard with orphaned Pip and Magwitch the scary, scary convict. We read on,each picturing the grim and dilapidated ruins of Satis House and the ghostly visage of Miss Havisham, bitter almost to the last, cruelly taunting Pip to fall in love with Estelle. A Gothic novel of twists and turns, peppered with those marvelous names Dickens was a master at inventing. Mr Jaggers the lawyer, Bentley Drummie, Pip's rival in love,Startop, Dolge Orlick and the churlish Compeyson, Magwitch's nemisis. I took it all in and loved it. However upon reaching High school what should be the set book for the next three years... you guessed it, Great Expectations and they even screened the film to us all as an end of school treat at the end of third year. Fourth year loomed and we had to choose Options, I chose English Literature, and what do you think was the set book?<br />
Aggh! By this time I was well over it. You'd have thought I would have passed with flying colours. I ought to have been able to ramble verbatim practically, not so, on reflection I think only two of us from a class of thirty-two scraped through. I wonder what went wrong? We were probably just so sick of it that we'd long ago switched off, preferring to focus on the latest Jilly Cooper novel or Lord of the Flies. Actually I understand Lord of the Flies has actually been a set book on the curriculum in some schools these days. How times change?<br />
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Half-heard in the Stillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01840301617199033576noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460200095396398008.post-27462474640711347302016-01-10T13:07:00.000+00:002016-01-10T13:07:04.259+00:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Happy New Year all my blogging-friends.......<br />
Thought we all might be in need of a laugh!<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo- from Pinterest.</span><br />
<br />Half-heard in the Stillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01840301617199033576noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460200095396398008.post-41075924524958138032015-08-31T15:38:00.000+01:002015-08-31T15:38:13.994+01:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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The planes go over our house on busy times like this weekend, a bank holiday in England. The flight path is changed I presume for the abundance of extra excursion planes joining a holding pattern. As they go over the house they are gradually loosing height and banking over to the right. In the distance, their wing lights twinkle and the sound of their engines alters, each time it puts me into the aircraft amongst the passengers. Strapped into our seats anticipating the landing, some of us looking forward to sleeping in our own beds, meeting up once more with relatives and friends perhaps waiting for us now in the arrival hall, others sad that their holiday is over and they must return to the daily grind. At that moment cabin lights dim, a few nervous coughs join the murmur of voices, the cry of an infant wails out as air-pressure pains our ears, there is the rumble and roar and rush of air outside as the pilot throttles back, engines roaring as we hurtle along the runway. That optimum moment when just for a split second I would think,<br />
"We're not going to stop!"<br />
Everything green and concrete rushing past at incredible speed, until the feeling of gravity thrusts in and the plane cruises to a gradual halt. Cabin lights flicker up and one of the crew presses the intercom ping and a voice reminds us all, to,<br />
'Please remain seated until the plane comes to a stop.'<br />
How many times have I been there in the past?<br />
Returning to Manchester where it would invariably elicit a comment over the intercom from the pilot, his voice brighter, more free now that the danger of the landing is over, telling us the air temperature outside and almost always adding...."And it's raining!".Half-heard in the Stillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01840301617199033576noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460200095396398008.post-3926107783276986682015-08-08T13:52:00.000+01:002015-08-08T13:52:40.382+01:00It's drizzly in the North today, wet roofs and pavements.. what's new? It's Manchester in August in the suburbs. Well, we're all used to it I suppose, some would say resigned, to wearing woollies in the summer and having an umbrella somewhere handy. I'm struggling with withdrawal symptoms from a recently prescribed pill that my body decided it didn't like one little bit, so threw a big wobbly. The GP said stop taking it. Just like that, when on the instruction blurb it said, 'On no account stop taking this pill, <i>always</i> taper off over a series of weeks.' However she said, to go on taking it means certain death..... Cheery thought that!<br />
I think of myself now as being like a typewriter. Well to be specific, my best friend's typewriter, back in the days well before computers, when we used to type spreadsheets on great big hulking machines in the office where we worked. Her machine was totally temperamental, it knew when someone other than S was using it and it would go out of alignment, every time. So I think of myself as 'out of alignment' presently.<br />
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Half-heard in the Stillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01840301617199033576noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460200095396398008.post-3840499361373948372015-06-09T14:01:00.001+01:002015-06-09T14:01:51.718+01:00Hello everyone, I'm really sorry not to have posted for ages now, it's just that I've not been at all well. However I am keeping positive and I do hope to be back<br />
reading your lovely blogs once more very soon!<br />
I hope you won't run off anywhere before that day arrives! :))<br />
<br />
Love and hugs,<br />
JaneHalf-heard in the Stillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01840301617199033576noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460200095396398008.post-50744154489100063622015-03-31T13:57:00.000+01:002015-03-31T13:57:14.319+01:00As some of you already know I don't go out very often now, so my mind often turns to memories and remembrances.<br />
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When my eldest daughter was small we lived in Scotland in a huge white painted farmhouse called Yonderton at the top of a long tree-lined lane. To the left of the house stood a byre where the farmer who rented Yonderton to us kept a special cow or two. They looked like Jersey cows to me, because their faces were soft and expressive and their hide was that wonderful honey brown shade, but being a city-bred person I probably guessed incorrectly, maybe they were just being fattened for market, a horrid thought. 'S' and I visited them often because they didn't seem to be put out into the fields, spending long days in the cowshed with only the light from the wedged open doorway and the tall sash window which was permenantly dropped open, the top over the bottom leaving a big opening to capture the sweet Scottish airs. One morning we made our usual visit and my attention was quickly caught by a small blue fluttering bird trapped in the crevice between the two window panes. It was too high to reach from the inside of the shed so we made our way around the front to see if I could reach it from there. I didn't have a ladder and I'm not sure what I must have used to stand on after all the years spanning between then and now, but somehow I managed to climb up precariously, and reach down between the two panes to rescue what I now realised was a baby swallow. This tiny blue-blue beating heart settled for a few seconds upon my outstretched palm before suddenly taking flight up up and away. This then became my regular rescue-mission throughout the summer, as the swallow babies learnt to navigate through the opening without first having to stop on that dangerous perch atop the two sashes. I remember I felt so privileged to be able to hold those feathers of midnight-blue lightening for a second or two, before they took off to practise more aerial gymnastics throughout those days of summer skies long gone.<span style="font-size: x-small; text-align: justify;"> </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Swallows. by Leonora Speyrt, from:- 'A Canopic Jar' Illustration: Hector Giacomelli,'With the Birds' via: archive.org</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">They dip their wings in the sunset,</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">They dash against the air </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">As if to break themselves upon its stillness:</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">In every movement, too swift to count,</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Is a revelry of indecision, </span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">A furtive delight in trees they do not desire</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">And in grasses that shall not know their weight.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">They hover and lean toward the meadow</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">With little edged cries;</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">And then,</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">As if frightened at the earth's nearness,</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">They seek the high austerity</span><span style="font-size: x-small;"> of evening sky</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">And swirl into its depth.</span></div>
Half-heard in the Stillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01840301617199033576noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460200095396398008.post-7464113250019335332015-02-19T13:20:00.000+00:002015-02-19T13:20:11.998+00:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"> You are the future, the red sky before sunrise over the fields of time.....</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Helvetica Neue, Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif; font-size: x-small;"> -Rainer Maria Rilke-</span>Half-heard in the Stillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01840301617199033576noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460200095396398008.post-77703903694462840002015-01-24T16:04:00.001+00:002015-01-24T16:15:50.953+00:00It's actually sunny today. A weak winter sunshine but damp and cold . In the suburbs the roads and roofs still wet, glisten, and drivers scrabble overhead to pull down sun-visors against dazzling beams slanting low in the sky. Saturday afternoon is quiet here, apart from the dog living next door who barks in his boredom, having been left behind. The postman delivered his letters and the dog hates the postman. If I look through the side windows of our house I can just see into the bay of the semi next door. There sits the dog on the sofa neatly pushed into the recess of the window, his shiny black nose pushed up against the glass and the offending letter lately delivered lies crumpled on the back of the window ledge, I hope they discover it.<br />
The radio plays in our sunny conservatory here, Beethoven's, Fur Elize.<br />
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I was 23 when my Dad died. He was five years younger than I am now, 42 years have gone by I think of him nearly every day, I have a photograph of him next to me here, by the computer. When I was very small my Nannie, Dad's mother lived in a house about an hour away in a different Northern town. I think I mentioned before somewhere she was a teacher and the house was full of books. There were soft carpets and oak doors with brass handles, a big clock that chimed the hours and a piano. One afternoon I was allowed to sit on the piano stool and tinkle-plonk the keys. There <i>had </i>been a piano at home, in the big house, but when we moved to a smaller terraced property following the collapse of my Grand-dad's business there wasn't any room for it, so it was hacked to pieces and the beautiful wood made into a bookcase. There was only me and my Dad in the room that afternoon, the others were busy in the kitchen from whence came delicious smells, my Nannie probably basting the leg of lamb for dinner. He sat quietly reading the paper, a broadsheet. Always a broadsheet, so big that he had to hold his arms high to read it.<br />
"Can <i>you</i> play the piano properly Daddie?"<br />
The newspaper rustled and cracked as he neatly folded it down, and he looked across at me and smiled. Rising he moved to sit beside me on the stool and softly began to play ever so quietly Fur Elize. No music sheet, he must have memorized it.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Painting: Poul Friis Nybo (1869-1929) Danish painter studied at the Royal Danish Academy of Fine Arts, Copenhagen.</span>Half-heard in the Stillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01840301617199033576noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460200095396398008.post-85251982363701613002014-12-29T16:03:00.002+00:002014-12-29T16:03:45.781+00:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo found on: 'pentydeval.tumblr.com</span><br />
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Wishing my lovely blogging friends, all of whom are VERY dear to me, a Very Happy Christmas and just the BEST EVER New Year!!<br />
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Much love to you all.<br />
Hugs,<br />
Jane xxHalf-heard in the Stillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01840301617199033576noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460200095396398008.post-71845713511048338462014-09-02T15:03:00.000+01:002014-09-11T14:48:24.883+01:00Me again mes amies.....I can tell Autumn is slowly arriving now. The sunlight, even at mid-day is softer where we are in the North.<br />
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I do hope you are all still there, way out there across the miles and continents?<br />
<br />
I always get to this point in the year and try to decide, do I like Autumn best...or Spring? Not a hope of deciding outright, but I still spare a thought each year. The birds outside are singing beautifully today, did I simply not hear them before this September morning? Were they there yesterday or was it that I simply hadn't tuned in enough? Tuning out sometimes has to be a necessity when you have M.E. when even the sound of a cup being placed upon a table sounds as loud as a clap of thunder.<br />
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My son was married during the Bank holiday just gone, they had a wonderful day in spite of the clouds and rain threatening, and I managed to be there after several unexpected episodes designed to throw spanners and clogs in the works. The burglar alarm started to blare just as we were getting dressed, which was definitely odd....it was switched off! So by the time <i>that</i> was sorted out we were over half an hour late setting off to the venue. Then we got lost. Twice. When we finally found our way to the entrance of the stately-mansion and found a parking place it was spot-on the time for the wedding to begin, at which point I was faced with a <i>very</i> long steep driveway to climb. A drive that must have been a 1 in 8 incline <i>and</i> stepped. I got almost half way up and my legs refused to do any more. By this time I was more than mildly distressed as you can imagine. My husband telephoned the cavalry. Two daughters dressed to the nines arrived one either side to yank (crank...more like!) me up the rest of the drive. Thankfully the bride, as is the custom was delayed and <i>I</i> fortified with a brandy was safely placed in my seat for the ceremony which went off without a hitch and was liberally sprinkled with tears all round.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;"> 'The Register' by Edmund Blair Leighton. 1852-1922.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Painting held in The Bristol Museum and Art Gallery.</span>Half-heard in the Stillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01840301617199033576noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460200095396398008.post-77388340935707763742014-07-11T17:09:00.002+01:002014-07-11T17:09:54.373+01:00Thank you so much for leaving me lovely words all of you, they mean a huge amount to me.<br />
Back as soon as I can, I hope you won't forget me!<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Illustration from Pinterest, via - Sandy Sauter. Called 'Hugs', attributed to - cs.infospace.com</span>Half-heard in the Stillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01840301617199033576noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460200095396398008.post-86405832416069658552014-06-26T12:24:00.000+01:002014-06-26T12:24:22.740+01:00So sorry everyone......<br />
<br />
Normal service will most certainly be resumed soon...ish. Not been at all well recently, M.E. and migraine etc.<br />
<br />
'Being happy doesn't mean everything is perfect. It means you have decided to look beyond the imperfections.' -Unknown-<br />
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Half-heard in the Stillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01840301617199033576noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460200095396398008.post-63921298874312451192014-04-08T17:29:00.000+01:002014-04-08T17:29:19.240+01:00We finally arrived....<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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After many wrong turns we finally arrived in the small town of Litvinov in the north-west of Czechoslovakia. My memory tugs and jostles me to a modern 1975 style building of apartments run by the state, facing the tram terminus and opposite a supermarket shop. Every hour of the day and night the thrumming sound of the trams setting off or coming to a stop accompanied our days, they would ring their bell each time, presumably to warn folk to get out of the way. The tinkling sound became to be part of our lives along with the loudspeaker broadcasts blaring around the town several times a day. As we didn't speak Czech we had no way of knowing what the speaker's were saying although each time the anthem was played so consequently we guessed that the words were meant to be encouraging the Czech workers. Everywhere there flew long red flags. Massive, 8-10 feet tall but narrow, not like the usual rectangular flag shape and solid bright bright red, catching the wind flapping and snatching and no doubt once more intended to remind the lovely Czech people of the Soviet presence.<br />
On the ground floor of the apartments in the foyer was an old desk behind which sat a large portly woman dressed in an apron of washed-out material that crossed over her ample bosom and fastened at the back. To say she was unwelcoming would be a gross understatement, her manner was strict, curt and harsh, demanding our papers by signing and one or two words of English, we came to recognise her as simply,'the Pani'. She was presumably a loyal party member, possibly even secret-police. Her power within this building was severe and absolute. We eventually found our allotted flat on the third floor, along a wide empty corridor with tall windows either end the key echoed in the lock resounding off the bare walls and concrete floor, there was no-one else around. The door swung open into a tiny hall. To the right a cramped toilet, a separate bathroom with a door either end one from the hall the other leading into a cupboard-like kitchen with no windows in any of the spaces. One wall of the hall was a cupboard and opposite a door led into a small bedroom containing a flat bench with three cushions as a mattress, nothing else. The last opening showed into the living-room, containing two more flat cushioned benches a kind of cheap dresser and a really old television. All the partitions were grey-mottled plastic coated metal, but the saving grace was a balcony that looked out over a square grassed and flowered area towards the supermarket and a building that later turned out to be a pub.<br />
We were still standing out on the balcony when a key went into the door and the Pani pushed inside without knocking. She carried a pile of linen which she threw down onto one of the benches speaking Czech she lifted one of cushions to reveal a duvet stowed beneath and gesturing she indicated she had brought covers for our bedding. With that she slewed her slippered feet out of the door leaving it standing wide.<br />
The kitchen had two gas rings and a minute oven, the tiny fridge was empty. All in all it seemed exceedingly stark and drab.<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">(Still more to follow should you find this of interest)</span>Half-heard in the Stillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01840301617199033576noreply@blogger.com11tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460200095396398008.post-68339877606695395802014-02-16T16:36:00.003+00:002014-02-16T16:37:12.120+00:00Continued.....Long lost night in Czechoslovakia.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisWlQXr6ue83HbuEFV0jDX_0-YjhXIwKJTkwmnipVio4SufW4eEpvgTvLy8LXEeU4EIvZtkZEswxOLAIewhV_XX1enF_qON0I8Fm51A90JJq2VWUaLlc71dKqMnJadETYvWE8uSfMQ8kg/s1600/John+Atkinson+Grimshaw.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisWlQXr6ue83HbuEFV0jDX_0-YjhXIwKJTkwmnipVio4SufW4eEpvgTvLy8LXEeU4EIvZtkZEswxOLAIewhV_XX1enF_qON0I8Fm51A90JJq2VWUaLlc71dKqMnJadETYvWE8uSfMQ8kg/s1600/John+Atkinson+Grimshaw.jpg" height="320" width="253" /></a></div>
I wish I'd had a camera back then....but 'digital' gadgets weren't around yet and I don't think my husband even took his film-camera with us, most probably because well, quite honestly we were probably scared of being arrested. You had to be extremely careful not to photograph anything that could even remotely be thought of as 'spying'. Be careful to whom you spoke, even what you said. This was only 7 years since The Prague Spring when in that following August, Eastern Bloc countries invaded Czechoslovakia and Dubcek the First Secretary of the Communist Party was taken into custody. Two hundred thousand troops and two thousand tanks entered the country and although eventually they retreated, they remained along the borders and it was common to see young Russian soldiers strolling about the streets or boarding the trams. Thus followed a long period of 'Normalization' which was well established by that night my husband, daughter and I drove across the border from East Germany.<br />
During the invasion there was resistance in the streets and road signs in towns were removed or painted over leaving only the ones pointing the way to Moscow, succeeding in confusing the invaders. Whilst early in 1969 three young men, students, Jan Palach, Jan Zajic and Evzen Plocek died after setting themselves on fire to demonstrate their protest heroically at the demoralization abounding and the suppression of Free Speech.<br />
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In the midnight dark of that long night in 1975 we drove blind almost. We had a map but stupidly no compass so it was literally driving by the light of the stars and the moon, and I truly don't know how we found our way eventually. It must have been around 2:30 am. that we started to climb. The Reliant Scimitar car we were driving snaking up the mountain road, negotiating pot-holes and stray boulders at the sides of the track. On the point of turning back we came suddenly to a plateau and rolled into a mountain village. It was <i>very</i> dark, the moon having retreated behind the clouds and although there were houses either side not a light in sight. However, slowly the grey billowing clouds slid past the moon and the whole village slunk into view bathed in a terrible platinum steely blue light. Mist clouded the fir trees of the surrounding forest and curled up from the rough hewn fences around the houses. Did you ever see that film, Deliverance with Burt Reynolds? This village reminded us both of that film instantly. Even though there were no lights anywhere there were still one or two individuals about, dark tousled figures whose eyes followed this 'flashy' Western car gliding through the centre of their street at 2 o'clock in the morning. Neither of us suggested stopping to ask the way. Well....they most likely wouldn't speak English anyway we reasoned.<br />
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">Painting:-</span> 1874. John Atkinson Grimshaw. 'A Moonlit Lane'.<br />
English 1863-93.Half-heard in the Stillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01840301617199033576noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460200095396398008.post-63751696149402884072014-01-07T16:14:00.001+00:002014-01-08T13:58:16.604+00:00Years ago we drove across Belgium, through what was then, West Germany and East Germany and on into Czechoslovakia. Back in that time, we were scarily behind the Iron Curtain as soon as we had left behind the jolly 'oom-pa-pah' music blasting out from one of the offices at the West German border-point. The East German border guards gave us a span of time to travel across their country so we had to arrive within the specified time at the exit border in order to transfer into Czechoslovakia, otherwise they came looking for you. That was pretty nerve-wracking, and we prayed we didn't break down, or have any other kind of adventure during our frantic drive across. <br />
Up to that point, our trip travelling with our three year old daughter had been sunny and exciting. I remember us deviating from the auto-ban to try to find somewhere to buy lunch, and subsequently driving towards a beautiful Bavarian chalet restaurant, set a little way from the road surrounded by shrubbery and tall trees. It's frontage was completely festooned with scarlet geraniums, cascading in froths so wonderful that even now, I have only to close my eyes to conjure-up their ruby delight-fullness. We clambered stiffly from the laden car stretching out our achy limbs to wander inside. The place was empty of people, but all the tables seemed dressed for a feast. Presently we were attended by two lovely ladies, who gently informed us that the restaurant was closed that day for a wedding party. However they were <i>so</i> kind, taking my little daughter by the hand they motioned for us to follow them through into a small back room just off the kitchens. There to prepare a delicious pork schnitzel for the three of us, even though they were closed and must have been really busy. Just as we were leaving the bridal party arrived, amazingly, a stunningly beautiful bride in the most gorgeous wedding dress, all billowing and rustling carried by an ecstatic bridegroom, both of them surrounded by a gaggle of laughing,happy people, it was <i>so</i> romantic!<br />
Imagine then the contrast, between that friendly and welcoming sojourn and the frightening experience of us reaching the East German/Czechoslovakian border. Darkness had fallen by the time we drove up to the metal barriers and we were dazzled by the starkness of the massive overhead arc-lights. Snow was falling, an icy wind catching the flakes, swirling them about like swarms of midges below the blue-white, starkly beaming lights. A soldier in a grey-blue worsted overcoat strode up to the car and ordered my husband to get out with our papers. Meanwhile another soldier angled a heavy, long handled mirror beneath the car, whilst two others, both in their bulky worsted overcoats, fur edged hats and heavily armed with guns, accompanied by Alsatian dogs snarling at their leashes, moved this way and that peering into the car. This being not that long after The Ipcress Files film and James Bond it was mighty intimidating and later we were told they could have made us empty the whole car of its contents, searching for contraband goods or stowaways. Most likely because it was late at night, midnight, in a snow storm and maybe our small daughter being asleep in the back of the car made them show a little compassion, who knows? Eventually after a long wait and anticipating all sorts of scenario's.... would we disappear into some dungeon to be brusquely interrogated? Never having been to an Iron Curtain country we weren't used to being in the vicinity of guns, never mind soldiers! However, thankfully we were handed back our passports and papers and motioned roughly on through the striped metal barrier.<br />
How can I explain what was on the other side? I still clearly remember my first sight of that steely-blue-grey moonlit strip of concrete road, either side lined with massed rolled up barbed wire and wooden barriers, whilst beyond deserted buildings loomed in the night, their window's glass-less, dense black pits in broken-down abandoned dwellings. Great pot-holes and rubble strewn everywhere and not a soul in sight. Just the moonlit empty concrete-blocked road stretching ahead of us into the darkness. No street-lamps, no sign-posts nothing to point us in the right direction, and no-one anywhere to ask.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAWSKCab_jy5eo_SXgu0gh6WUxqLvksBbGBF9Q8JDYHk1H4057iSluhwGeVbKdI4pRPlDWZZ32SftnJWRjyiV-RPnS_xvbVIJ59J-D30iVbjADPsxYo1owjsXRb14ifNc08hwMB3UdHhA/s1600/L1010281.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjAWSKCab_jy5eo_SXgu0gh6WUxqLvksBbGBF9Q8JDYHk1H4057iSluhwGeVbKdI4pRPlDWZZ32SftnJWRjyiV-RPnS_xvbVIJ59J-D30iVbjADPsxYo1owjsXRb14ifNc08hwMB3UdHhA/s1600/L1010281.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
Half-heard in the Stillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01840301617199033576noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460200095396398008.post-38221186113250567562014-01-01T16:56:00.000+00:002014-01-01T16:56:04.122+00:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWOlPb8S1MyiHMNFOGifW-huxN2uOl1b4_RiCgSRTUvxscw_ibv9nct7dKOkE5ON0So8F3ZUattCFXRm1TSfPDk4Uy9u4D-MbUH4Za_aPGT8mieJo43td8080SfrtdNMKANqWN9cttysA/s1600/Taking+it+all+in.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="319" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWOlPb8S1MyiHMNFOGifW-huxN2uOl1b4_RiCgSRTUvxscw_ibv9nct7dKOkE5ON0So8F3ZUattCFXRm1TSfPDk4Uy9u4D-MbUH4Za_aPGT8mieJo43td8080SfrtdNMKANqWN9cttysA/s320/Taking+it+all+in.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">-Taking it All In</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;"> by Karen Offutt- </span><br />
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"For last year's words belong to last year's language,</div>
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And next year's words await another voice,</div>
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And to make an end is to make a beginning."</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">-T.S. Elliot-</span></div>
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I do hope you have all had a wonderful Christmas, and wishing you all a very Happy New Year!</div>
Half-heard in the Stillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01840301617199033576noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460200095396398008.post-17817523091443570782013-10-26T17:10:00.002+01:002013-10-26T17:10:37.856+01:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG30OCgKQGik7GPi0oGatg0YWiOnoi3IW2WUtsby4mZsztXHWYqOMlTYeEIpXNvb56LvHd_WdLjE_z_tz8fWpgG0AmuaWjShkj73eLPPVa75-srXwHJ0c4vvi_USrtmlZW4MNgK2W3Qqo/s1600/Artist+Edward+Robert+Hughes+1851-1914.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgG30OCgKQGik7GPi0oGatg0YWiOnoi3IW2WUtsby4mZsztXHWYqOMlTYeEIpXNvb56LvHd_WdLjE_z_tz8fWpgG0AmuaWjShkj73eLPPVa75-srXwHJ0c4vvi_USrtmlZW4MNgK2W3Qqo/s320/Artist+Edward+Robert+Hughes+1851-1914.jpg" width="258" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Artist:- </span><span style="font-size: x-small;">Edward Robert Hughes, 1851-1914</span><br />
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'part of doing something is listening.</div>
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We are listening</div>
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to the sun</div>
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to the stars</div>
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to the wind.'</div>
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<span style="font-size: xx-small;">-Madelaine L'Engle-</span></div>
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I've been doing this for the month past...reading and listening to the wind plucking the leaves from the trees. Time whirls about us all and our lives move inexorably onwards. I hope to return to writing soon.... </div>
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That face in Edward's painting is so hauntingly full of beauty.</div>
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Half-heard in the Stillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01840301617199033576noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1460200095396398008.post-73981647177668803862013-09-27T15:57:00.001+01:002013-09-27T15:57:57.191+01:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSXchba4fZHspLVePtMKpwlNyQNAmXr-SFOfUHqfZCRYENT4FGxIIqEK1LdLY0gqlq-bCVrdQiCO9B-pjFGMpjz736OmBK8fNq948eFYnivKq0A5EOyrWkh07tCpDjyB8XYKai_tZJbE4/s1600/The+News+Reader.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjSXchba4fZHspLVePtMKpwlNyQNAmXr-SFOfUHqfZCRYENT4FGxIIqEK1LdLY0gqlq-bCVrdQiCO9B-pjFGMpjz736OmBK8fNq948eFYnivKq0A5EOyrWkh07tCpDjyB8XYKai_tZJbE4/s320/The+News+Reader.jpg" width="249" /></a></div>
'The News Reader'<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Photo:- Llse Bing,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Paris 1947</span><br />
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later that night</div>
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I held an atlas in my lap</div>
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ran my fingers across the whole</div>
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world</div>
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and whispered</div>
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where does it hurt?</div>
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it answered</div>
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everywhere</div>
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everywhere</div>
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everywhere.</div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">-Warsan Shire-</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: x-small;">In memory of those killed in Kenya and Pakistan this week.</span></div>
Half-heard in the Stillnesshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01840301617199033576noreply@blogger.com9