Thanksgiving Is Ruined

The Personal is Political. The Political is Personal.

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August 31, 2014

moi, global village idiot

          Like the village idiot [l'innocent du village], I see the vision, I hear the mode
          And the instrument, but the words like a herd of stumbling buffaloes  [un troupeau de buffles confus] 
          Bump against my teeth and my voice opens on the void.
          The last chord hushed, and I must begin again at zero,
          Learn once again this language so strange and ambiguous [si étrangère et double] . . . 

from Léopold Sédar Senghor's "Elegy for Martin Luther King (for jazz orchestra)"

(found here)

(orig. here)

methinks TiR often feels this way, this summer / year, esp. whenever after reading the daily newspapers