Sooner or later, one has to take sides. If one is to remain human.

Odd things painted on walls in New Town, #1. New Town Road. July 2010.

Who said that holding hands is powerless

Huh?

I’m not sure that that is a sentence. Traditionally (and far too simplistically), a sentence is traditionally defined as a group of words that expresses a complete idea and that includes a subject and a verb.

Convention also dictates that it ends with a full stop, question mark, or exclamation point.

Who said that holding hands is powerless

It looks like a question, but we don’t have a question mark.

We have a subject, verb and even an adjective, but I am not convinced that we have a complete idea.

Who said that holding hands is powerless

I do wish that these hip young urban artists would try out their sloganeering prior to getting out into the streets to create their intertextual self-reflexive hyperstylistic post-structural syntaxtically illiterate counter-cultural mash-ups.

I mean really. Every day I wait that that bus stop and every day I wonder what on Earth it is that they are on about. It’s caused me no end of grief.

On that note, I present today’s Sunday Top Five! Today, I’m tackling Top Five Sentences That The New Town Banksy Might Have Used Instead Of Who said that holding hands is powerless!

Holding hands IS power.

Powerlessness is NOT holding hands.

Qui a dit que se tenir la main est impuissante

Who was it that said that holding hands is an act of the powerless?

~~I WAZ ERE~~

I hold hands, therefore I am.

Comments

Roddy said…

Terribly profound isn't it!

8 August 2010 at 16:58

Kris McCracken said…

I thought so.

12 August 2010 at 08:51

If you want to be loved, be lovable.

Henry admires the view.

Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it...

I still have the robot on the job. Here you can see the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery . And here is a poem: Soliloquy for One Dead Bruce Dawe Ah, no, Joe, you never knew the whole of it, the whistling which is only the wind in the chimney's smoking belly, the footsteps on the muddy path that are always somebody else's. I think of your limbs down there, softly becoming mineral, the life of grasses, and the old love of you thrusts the tears up into my eyes, with the family aware and looking everywhere else. Sometimes when summer is over the land, when the heat quickens the deaf timbers, and birds are thick in the plumbs again, my heart sickens, Joe, calling for the water of your voice and the gone agony of your nearness. I try hard to forget, saying: If God wills, it must be so, because of His goodness, because- but the grasshopper memory leaps in the long thicket, knowing no ease. Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it... I like Bruce Dawe. He just my be my favourite Austral

Zeal, n. A certain nervous disorder afflicting the young and inexperienced. A passion that goeth before a sprawl.

Here I have tried my hand at the homemade sepia-toned photo. I wasn’t happy with the way that the sun had washed out some of the colours in the original, so had a bit of a fiddle because I like the look on Henry’s face, and didn’t want to pass on posting it. I have a tip for those of you burdened with the great, unceasing weight of parenthood. I have a new recipe, in the vein of the quick microwaved chocolate cake . Get this, microwaved potato chips . I gave them a run on Sunday, Henry liked the so much I did it again last night. Tonight, I shall be experimenting with sweet potato. I think that the ground is open for me to exploit opportunities in the swede, turnip, carrot and maybe even explore in the area of pumpkins. Radical, I know. I’m a boundary-pusher by nature. It's pretty simple, take the potato. Slice it thinly (it doesn't have to be too thin, but thin enough). Lay the slices on the microwave plate, whack a bit of salt over the top and nuke the buggers for five minut

This will hurt me...

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