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|    alt.books.george-orwell    |    Discussing 1984, sadly coming true...    |    4,149 messages    |
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|    Message 3,587 of 4,149    |
|    Edward Belsky to All    |
|    Re: Nice to see a judge giving...    |
|    17 Feb 07 20:32:43    |
      From: edwardbelsky@worldnet.att.net              The article says the following:       "Malasi, an Angolan refugee who lived rough in Peckham, was not identified       as one of the attackers until a year later"       Question for abg-o: Who knows what "lived rough" means in American parlance?       It means to be homeless. Homeless people, shadow men, are all over New York,       an epiphenomenon of high rents. They are not dangerous in general although       one chased me once when I went up to him. Part of the bipartisan experience       of New York are the piles of disparate objects that do not look completely       dead and have their owner demurringly scrunched down inside them. There is a       perfect word in Yiddish for the valued objects that the homeless carry       around with them -- be-be-khas. I once walking a dog whose ball rolled down       stone stairs in Morningside Park and I came across a group of huddling       homeless people, talking rationally about getting through the cold night It       was a vision of hell which I understand needn't happen under the Bloomberg       administration -- he's opened more shelters and spent money on security for       them..       I once started a poem about the homeless and may finish with encouragement.              From An Ash Heap       A HOMELESS MAN Seen sitting in a vacant lot USING A PARCHED TEABAG in water       warmed at a brazier       It is the peculiar LOWNESS of poverty that you discover first -- George       Orwell              Easy transitions leak only from wealth.       Your colorant is thin and overextended.       Stale inspirations break through your cup.       Your day begins as apparitional gains       But your industry releases no conceits       Of water, no casual auroras.       Husbanding peels and prodding glints,       Trapped in the minor reds, you tease and pump       An ineffectual, uninfluential bag.       You can't conjure color from leftovers       You've got to be somewhere to get somewhere.       You are trying to wrestle color out of nothing,       Like a medieval theologian       Through quibbling degrees to consummation       And the dogged replacement of shades       With nuances more more solid.       The verriest vein of summer, youth's rashness....                            jmm1951 |
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