“You know what’s going to happen next, don’t you” said George, in the middle of a news bulletin, at the start of the UK’s roll-out of the vaccination programme in early 2021, with the promise of a way out of the ‘greatest public health crisis for a century’. George could see a new problem coming: “Politics will walk all over biology. Another scrap between political egos will ensue. And the people will once again be scattered, like seed to the wind”.
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Enoch², oh, never did I like his
Odious Racism and Hate!
But then I heard him speak, one day on
Bee-Bee-Cee Radio, that time
The interviewer asked him: “Today
What’s the point
Teaching
Ancient
Greek?” Continue reading
En tiempos remotos, tanto que no ha quedado registro escrito de ello, vivía en el actual emplazamiento de Bruselas, que entonces era un gran bosque, un pueblo pragmático y poco dispuesto a la reflexión que pasaba lo más claro de sus días recolectando bayas u hongos, y corriendo la liebre, para tener con qué alimentarse.
Como sus mañanas y sus tardes eran un puro andar, casi sin darse cuenta recorrían enormes distancias, a menudo en redondo, volviendo adonde sabían que había arbustos con frutos o se escondían animalejos, y dormían donde los encontrara la noche, a la intemperie, a lo sumo improvisando un colchón con hojas. Pero, de vez en cuando, imperceptiblemente, la inercia de sus pasos los alejaba de su territorio. Continue reading
St. Gilles was drowning in the darkness of a late autumn evening and damped in a cold rain. That – plus the late pandemic era made the neighbourhood, otherwise lively, a half-deserted place. The pubs were open for those who could flash a safety ticket on the screen to the weary faces of waiters. The clandestine bars stayed more hidden, but that is another story. Sometimes a tram passed with its distinct heavy energy bringing people from a place to a place.
Two women walking down the Avenue Brugmann approached a small gathering of people with drums. Viva Cuba Libre! A young man shouted in a megaphone turned towards the other side of the street. “We are protesting against a recent arrest of opposition politicians,” the man told the women. No windows lit in the embassy building. A building in a row of others, a Cuban flag flaccid, limp, like a male sex organ after an intercourse. How can something so proud, even menacing, like a male sex organ and a flag, turn into a touchingly soft and damp thing? The penises of the protesting guys were safely placed in the warmth of the pants. How many executions, arrests, tortures were going on around the globe in many countries? Despite the sinister cause, the little party of boys and girls here was jolly, eager, and vibrant. Poor weather, good to be out anyway. Viva Cuba Libre. The women talked with them for a while and then continued their road. Towards Parvis St. Gilles; it was lighter and sounder at the square where poetry is read, beer is drunk and buffets serve delicious lamb koftas with slender art-nouveau building looming over the diversity.
The two women entered a spacious lobby of a community culture centre. Out of the rain, into a sharper light. They looked at each other.
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