People think of compassion as, like, kindness. The image comes to mind of some nice New Age guy bending to something with a look on his face like he’s about to cry. And I don’t think that’s it.
My father loved the strange books of André Breton. He’d raise the wine glass and toast those far-off evenings “when butterflies formed a single uncut ribbon.” Or we’d go out for a piss in the back alley and he’d say: “Here are some binoculars for blindfolded eyes.” We lived in a rundown tenement that smelled of old people and their pets.
”Hovering on the edge of the abyss, permeated with the perfume of the forbidden,” we’d take turns cutting the smoked sausage on the table. “I love America,” he’d tell us. We were going to make a million dollars manufacturing objects we had seen in dreams that night.
by Patricia Lockwood Compiled by Mike Jewett
Bizarre - Perera Elsewhere
"we’re creating an unlimited library of books and video field trips for today’s digitally connected kids, delivered through browsers right into schools and homes everywhere."