"My mother was a Chinese trapeze artist in pre-war Paris smuggling bombs for the underground. And she met my father at a fete in Aix-en-Provence. He was disguised as a Russian cadet in the employ of the Axis. And there in the half-light of the provincial midnight to a lone concertina they drank in cantinas, and toasted to Edith Piaf and the fall of the Reich. My sister was born in a hovel in Burgundy and left for the cattle. But later was found by a communist who'd deserted his ranks to follow his dream to start up a punk rock band in South Carolina. I get letters sometimes. They bought a plantation; she weeds the tobacco, he offends the nation. And they write, "Don't be a stranger, y'hear. Sincerely, your sister." So my parents had me to the disgust of the prostitutes on a bed in a brothel. Surprisingly raised with tender care. 'Til the money got tight, and they bet me away to a blind brigadier in a game of high stakes canasta. But, he made me a sailor on his brigadier ship fleet. I know every yardarm from main mast to jib sheet.
But sometimes I long to be landlocked, and to work in a bakery."
We cross our bridges when we come to them and burn them behind us, with nothing to show for our progress except a memory of the smell of smoke, and a presumption that once our eyes watered.
Tom Stoppard
linkage!
beware, shamblors!
and
people who rock the FREE world
and
where sanity hides
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