Firewood Was Passing

Marrakech

by George Orwell, 1939

(source)

As the corpse went past the flies left the restaurant table in a cloud and rushed after it, but they came back a few minutes later.

The little crowd of mourners–all men and boys, no women–threaded their way across the market-place between the piles of pomegranates and the taxis and the camels, wailing a short chant over and over again. What really appeals to the flies is that the corpses here are never put into coffins, they are merely wrapped in a piece of rag and carried on a rough wooden bier on the shoulders of four friends. When the friends get to the burying-ground they hack an oblong hole a foot or two deep, dump the body in it and fling over it a little of the dried-up, lumpy earth, which is like broken brick. No gravestone, no name, no identifying mark of any kind. The burying-ground is merely a huge waste of hummocky earth, like a derelict building-lot. After a month or two no one can even be certain where his own relatives are buried.

When you walk through a town like this–two hundred thousand inhabitants, of whom at least twenty thousand own literally nothing except the rags they stand up in–when you see how the people live, and still more how easily they die, it is always difficult to believe that you are walking among human beings. All colonial empires are in reality founded upon that fact. The people have brown faces–besides, there are so many of them! Are they really the same flesh as yourself? Do they even have names? Or are they merely a kind of undifferentiated brown stuff, about as individual as bees or coral insects? They rise out of the earth, they sweat and starve for a few years, and then they sink back into the nameless mounds of the graveyard and nobody notices that they are gone. And even the graves themselves soon fade back into the soil. Sometimes, out for a walk, as you break your way through the prickly pear, you notice that it is rather bumpy underfoot, and only a certain regularity in the bumps tells you that you are walking over skeletons.

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Fitzgerald’s Pop on a Tuesday

I was looking for some random new-to-me live music to see and didn’t have to look too far.

Tuesday at Fitzgerald’s are two duos who do pop music (The opener self describes as electronic soul). One from Britain, one from NY now residing in CA. Both are guy/girl combos, sharing vocals. I’m in a pop music kind of mood of late.

The Ting Tings are the headliner. @TheTingTings

 


 

And kaneholler is the opener. @kaneholler

 

Cupid’s Undie Run

sign on wallWe know you want to run around Midtown Houston in your underwear. Now you can do it while fundraising, and party before and after at Celtic Garden.

My excuse is that I’ll be out of town, but if I was in town my excuse would be that I don’t run unless I’m being chased.

If you register, though, let us know and we’ll donate to your fundraising.

CupidsUndieRun.com

#ImWithCupid