Cette semaine a neftlix

J’espere que mon aesthetique cinematique est beaucoup mieux que mon francais!
Mon recommendation mensuel est un film de Karin Viard dans le role vedette.
Ma Part du Gâteau ( ang. A Piece of the Pie).
M. Viard est travailleur dans un usine a Dunkerque qui devient le victim d’un
prise strategique par un financier a Londres. Il le fait liquider et la la
divorcee jouee par Ms. Viard tent de se suicider tant qu’elle s’inquiete
de son abilite de se soigner de ses trois filles.
Le destin s’entreviens apres quelques developments en forme d’un liaison
professionelle entre Mme. Viard et l’homme qui est responsable pour sa perte de boulot

Franchement cet film se depend beaucoup sur l’artifice de coindcidence, mais la
cinematographie adept, le contrast discretement expose entre les scenes des vie
ouvrier dans le port industriel de Dunquerque et les environs de bon ton a Londres
et Paris servent a creer un context interessant pour cet complot tellement interessant
a cause de l’element de coincidence.

Categories: Uncategorized

Who You Are and What You Get…a Poem

There comes a time when who you are
And what you get
Look like two sides of the same coin
They meet exactly and without quarrel
giving you at that point, at that time a living reality;
Comes a marriage – a two-ness that is closer than a oneness
And from this promising junction of this X of x’s
And this Y of y’s,
a spiral stairway takes shape and form;
And the DNA of your destiny begins to pulse
With a pulsing that is beyond all dreams

Categories: Poetry

This Thing Called War…a Poem

The thing I’d like to underscore
Is just how ridiculous
Is this thing called war
You’d think we’d have something better to do
Than to cut someone’s body in two
Just because he thinks different thoughts
Or talks to different gods
Or prefers his chips with flounder
While we all swear by cod
Or because he speaks
In a strange tongue
Or prefers a lethal dose of gas
While we prefer to see them hung.
Or differs from us
In ways middling and small
As when he likes his women fat
While we like ours tall
Wouldn’t it be just dandy
If we who are about to die
For reasons not fully explained
Gave our wives some candy
Or went and baked a pie
And left the masters of war
Foiled, failed and frustrated
Standing recruit-less
Out in the rain!

Categories: Poetry

Why Mitt Romney Lost the 2012 Presidential Election

Why Mitt Romney Lost
-by David Klein

“There are two Americas.”
-John Edwards
The presidential race of 2012 was too close to call for months before election day.
Was it “race,race,race” or “class, class, class?”
Though not entirely without merit , either/both of these explanations is/are too simple. Neither one nor the other can be pointed to as a deciding factor.
Democrats – and especially Liberals – are convinced that the average Republican voter – who earns about $30,000 per year – goes against his/her own economic self-interest by supporting the party that is perceived to be the “bagman” of the rich and super-rich.
And many Republicans are surprised to see , in the Liberal camp, luxury-car-owning white collar types who earn $150,000 a year or more voting to raise taxes on themselves.
Two questions come to mind here:
Why – after he came so close to winning – did Romney lose?
The Wall Street Journal, an icon of Conservative respectability, was – understandably -none too happy about the president’s re-election. They wrote off Obama’s victory as “the definition of winning ugly” and accused the President of painting the challenger “as a plutocrat and intolerant threat”
Who votes for whom, on an average day?
There was a heavy turnout for Obama among the young, African Americans, Latinos, single Moms, and union members – all dependable Democratic voting blocs.
Among the voting blocs that Republicans have counted on for quite some time now.
Rural White Americans.
Richard Nixon went South – in a manner of speaking – in 1968 and it won him the American presidency. Playing on the fear of steadily worsening racial animosity in the mid nineteen sixties – a fear that was exacerbated by footage of mass looting and entire city blocks engulfed in flame – Nixon employed what many deemed a divide-and-conquer strategy. It is a fact that he did change American electorl history by carrying both the (hitherto) Democratic South while winning many votes among another long standing Democrat bloc –White blue collar workers
Middle/Upper-Middle Class College-Educated White Males in Red States
Very much a question of which suburb or exurb you’re talking about; and in a college town you may even find significant pockets of Democrats
The toney environs of the nation’s capital helped to put President Obama over the top in hotly contested and often Conservative Virginia in both 2008 and 2012.
Similar zip codes went for McCain and Romney in those two elections; particularly if they were in such solidly Red States as South Carolina and Kansas.
A number of Republicans in these areas went for Obama in his first run for president but not in the second.
. In 2008, they believed Barack Obama to be much more favorable to their Recession-crippled portfolios and to/for their need for healthcare. Once the economy started to turn around and their home values , salary caps and net worth all started to recover from the Great Recession, they returned to the Republican fold and rallied around a can-do CEO who would keep their taxes down and stock evaluations on an upward tick.
Forbes opinion editor John Tamny writes that it was Romney’s economic advisers who cost him the election. Some say it was the bad advice of Romney’s economic advisors that cost hium the election. Romney’s failure to convince a larger electorate that the now-fabled “1%” could be counted on to bring the economy back up rather than drag it down; his call for support of the barely post- crash housing market at a time when it probably is not prudent to try to rekindle that market; his ignoring the need to convince the little guy that as a tried and true money maker/ CEO he could be trusted to use his professional skill and experience to help him get back up on his feet rather than face a lifetime of vassalage to big money and the socially conscienceless new American rich.
All these factors helped to keep him out of the White House.
Because, after all was said and done, the not-so-rich outnumber the rich; and the former group simply did not trust this guy.
Is there a “takeaway” in all this?
Perhaps it is this:
The America that Mitt Romney and many of his Republican followers seem to inhabit is an America that is quite real to them. Whether they live in the piney woods of the Deep South, on the wind-scorched prairies of the Dakotas, or in one of those gated fortress towns favored by your average Texan oil industry executive, they seem to have one thing in common: the world they are living in IS America…and there is no other that is worthy of the name.
Hopefully, there are a few of this group who are open to including the rest of us in their world view and definition of America.

Categories: Uncategorized

“Souls of Black Folk” by W.E.B. DuBois Ch. 1 Pt. 1

Chapter 1

I. Of Our Spiritual Strivings

O water, voice of my heart, crying in the sand,
All night long crying with a mournful cry,
As I lie and listen, and cannot understand
The voice of my heart in my side or the voice of the sea,
O water, crying for rest, is it I, is it I?
All night long the water is crying to me.

Unresting water, there shall never be rest
Till the last moon droop and the last tide fail,
And the fire of the end begin to burn in the west;
And the heart shall be weary and wonder and cry like the sea,
All life long crying without avail,
As the water all night long is crying to me.

ARTHUR SYMONS.

[musical notation from “Nobody Knows the Trouble I’ve Seen”]

 

Between me and the other world there is ever an unasked question: unasked by some through feelings of delicacy; by others through the difficulty of rightly framing it. All, nevertheless, flutter round it. They approach me in a half-hesitant sort of way, eye me curiously or compassionately, and then, instead of saying directly, How does it feel to be a problem? they say, I know an excellent colored man in my town; or, I fought at Mechanicsville; or, Do not these Southern outrages make your blood boil? At these I smile, or am interested, or reduce the boiling to a simmer, as the occasion may require. To the real question, How does it feel to be a problem? I answer seldom a word.

And yet, being a problem is a strange experience, — peculiar even for one who has never been anything else, save perhaps in babyhood and in Europe. It is in the early days of rollicking boyhood that the revelation first bursts upon one, all in a day, as it were. I remember well when the shadow swept across me. I was a little thing, away up in the hills of New England, where the dark Housatonic winds between Hoosac and Taghkanic to the sea. In a wee wooden schoolhouse, something put it into the boys’ and girls’ heads to buy gorgeous visiting-cards — ten cents a package — and exchange. The exchange was merry, till one girl, a tall newcomer, refused my card, — refused it peremptorily, with a glance. Then it dawned upon me with a certain suddenness that I was different from the others; or like, mayhap, in heart and life and longing, but shut out from their world by a vast veil. I had thereafter no desire to tear down that veil, to creep through; I held all beyond it in common contempt, and lived above it in a region of blue sky and great wandering shadows. That sky was bluest when I could beat my mates at examination-time, or beat them at a foot-race, or even beat their stringy heads. Alas, with the years all this fine contempt began to fade; for the words I longed for, and all their dazzling opportunities, were theirs, not mine. But they should not keep these prizes, I said; some, all, I would wrest from them. Just how I would do it I could never decide: by reading law, by healing the sick, by telling the wonderful tales that swam in my head, — some way. With other black boys the strife was not so fiercely sunny: their youth shrunk into tasteless sycophancy, or into silent hatred of the pale world about them and mocking distrust of everything white; or wasted itself in a bitter cry, Why did God make me an outcast and a stranger in mine own house? The shades of the prison-house closed round about us all: walls strait and stubborn to the whitest, but relentlessly narrow, tall, and unscalable to sons of night who must plod darkly on in resignation, or beat unavailing palms against the stone, or steadily, half hopelessly, watch the streak of blue above.
To purchase “Souls of Black Folk” by W.E.B. DuBois click on the clink below:

A Poem…Diaspora

Unabsorbed by others…

Absorbed by and into ourselves

self-absorbed Jonah-like

both prophet and whale

Into a self that is more Not than Is

Made so by time stopped and frozen

For Years upon years

Made forever frozen by the dull steady ache

of pain and not-ness

And no-ness

And the rictus grin of

No-grace and no-hope.

And all this time so far from home

From home’s reach and home’s love and warmth

So far from the promise of “I,” “I am”

And “I need not be afraid.”

So far from the promise of this good earth to

Lovingly anchor the soul and

Give our ourselves and our thoughts flesh and blood

And sufficient might.

Leave it to other tribes; other Folk

To lay back and suck on the breast of

Lives untwisted and unskewed and unbent

Not for us the psychic bounty and bonus

That comes from being one with rocks and trees

and the stars overhead…

so that we can say that these

things are are ours and we theirs

Not for us God’s good moods

Rather rats and spider webs and the stale smell

Of fear;

Our home

A house built of unanswered prayers

forged in a furnace of pain

pain coming through the tines of

an angry peasant’s pitchfork or

Through the malediction of a Man of God

Gone astray with hate

or from an equally deadly stream

From unknown places deep within our souls

A messiah must arise…

An existential Messiah

So that all of it,

Rocks, trees, hills, thoughts

of time lost

Of thoughts spoken and unspoken…

Must be as if they were just for us

And when lost time itself comes rushing

Back to us as a downright pogram of

savage and atoning love

And each moment of hell cast into the sea

Then all will be right

And all our dreams will be good.

…to purchase “Diaspora” click on this link:

Categories: Poetry

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A Poem…America, America, America

Do you think time will tell

Do you think America is going to hell

Will it get better

Will it be swell

Will the economy recover

Will we be saved by the bell

Or will we go pell mell

Thru trials and tribulations

Ordeals painful and grotesque

While svelte lords and ladies

Sit happily at their desks

Watching dreams fade and hopes die

Perched like eagles

At their nests in the sky

In buildings made of glass and steel

And occupied by tenants

Who think only greed is real

And agree on one other thing mainly

..thou shalt not feel

Categories: Poetry

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