Where do the children play?

The title for my magic box is a quote from a Cat Stephens song; Cat, so demonised for an infamous allegiance to Islam. His lyrics and upbeat tunes pointed forward to his (pretty logical) eventual conversion. 'Miles from nowhere' presaged the climbing of Mount Zion, still a reality to Youssouf the islamist.

And kids? The same inspiration as was to the buddhist monks playing off ground touch and knock knock ginger. What are always behind us but always ahead of us? Any adult growing old who attempts to 'teach 'em a thing or two' lives in fear of losing the source of youth lying at the threshold of existence.

The children can spot the cynics, the bitter, and the pessimists, ever caught one looking at you a bit quizzically? That will be the grim reaper, GO ON! RUN FOR YOUR LIFE! Or stare the tiger in the eyes.

Z

Henchmen of the hierarchy, state heads have met to pollute the troubled seas using unctions of a thousand brands of a thousand different oils. It appears (as illusions are wont) the henchmen have delivered a stunning feelgood panacea just because they can feel us breathing down their necks. The latest manifestation of them controlling the masses involves us believing that the henchmen are now a united front and model unity as a sop to the further demise of capitalism, most feared by the hierarchy. You can fool some of the people... They draw us close to their enclaves, the better to ensure (white) supremacy.

Z

Having been to my regular haunts in Brittany for the past 7 years, I took advantage of cheap flights and free accommodation to hop down to a caravan park not far from Perpignan. So stunned by the total lack of similarity, I tried to explain (in French) to a taxi driver the meaning of the English language phrase "different as chalk and cheese." Hysterically, everyone had to know how much my palate had got violated by the food and drink "down there" by the ole Mediterranean Sea. Christ! How much tannin is that!? Burns like fucking acid. Burns like the sun in the Med. I would gladly stand corrected if, when swayed by an alternative argument, I stopped believing that the whole context was responsible for my 'dereglement de tous les sens', and not only the bloody food. I truly wish to belong to the Langue d'Oc, sun worshipper that I am, yet Brittany is attractively gentle and softly sophisticated especially to the senses.

Z