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Look at all these true winter colours.

I took Cormac with me on a business trip and after the work we turned it into a holiday together. It is the first time I have holidayed with him alone.

There is something very special about both that kind of intimacy and the nature of being away from home. It suddenly all feels quite effortless. You are a better kind of parent, more attentive, more patient, more capable of moving at their pace. And they are a better kind of child, more reasonable, more appreciative.

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I was a life drawing model for Amelia Draws and she painted this beautiful watercolour.

One of the things I enjoy about Amelia’s work, apart form her eye, is also seeing her discuss her life as an artist alongside it –  the single parenting, blending families, feminist parenting and day jobs.  This is my favourite piece of hers.

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The constant reminders that we are watching a performance serve to reinforce the sense that we remain between reality and the dream, always prompting the question about what the meaning of the performance is.

Twin Peaks is also — far more than Lynch’s other work — preoccupied with communication, or, more accurately, non-communication, and not merely because of the reverse-talking of the Lodge inhabitants.

From Bernard Keane’s “I’ll watch you again in 25 years: a return to Twin Peaks” in Crikey. 

This is great analysis.

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Russian Ending

Jerry Williams

As in some demented romantic comedy,
my wife and I divided the apartment in half.

She took the living room and I took the bedroom.
Bivouacked and bleeding, we waited for the lawyer

to finish the stipulation so we could sign
the pages and crawl away forever.

I lived in her midst like an alien species.
The exclusion zone sizzled like wet lightning

when I whispered to outsiders on the house phone.
Then came the morning of my departure:

I awoke in civil twilight with my wife standing
over me, looking down into my pallid face.

For half a second, I thought she might strike me,
but she grasped my hand and squeezed it goodbye,

an astonishing tenderness glistening in her eyes,
one final gift in all that pain and murderous détente,

all that wailing and mortification of the flesh.
On the way to the gallows of divorce,

she held a merciful cup of clemency to my lips,
and I drank deeply, I drank so deeply

that I forgot what I’d done to deserve her.

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they ask me to remember

but they want me to remember

their memories

and i keep on remembering

mine.

 

“Why Some People Be Mad at Me Sometimes” – Lucille Clifton

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As for the topic of race, I subscribe to American author Fran Lebowitz’s position, in which she says first, it’s only a topic to white people, and second, well-intentioned white people should stop asking, “What would it be like to be black [or brown]?” and to instead seriously consider what it’s like to be white. And that’s to concede that being white is not to talk about levelling the playing field, but to acknowledge that “white people own the playing field”.

From “White Noise: When white privilege drowns out reality” by Virginia Larson in Noted. 

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