I was shocked to awaken to this morning's news that Trump has continued to speak about America taking over the ruined territory of Gaza and redeveloping it, adding the detail that the Israeli military would be in charge of overseeing the removal of its Palestinian citizens to safe Arab territories before the USA took 'ownership' of the Strip. Such provocative speculation can only wind people up and inflame tensions. He seems to think being American president places him above international law. His messianic fervour for saving the world from all its woes is nothing short of diabolical - in other words, it divides and promises to conquer because might is right in his eyes. Heaven help us.
I spent the morning after breakfast writing my sermon for Sunday. This year we have four Sundays before Lent as Easter is so late. In terms of the three year lectionary cycle it's an infrequent event. When I looked in my archive, I couldn't find a text file for Year C readings for this occasion, and had to find and copy them from iBreviary website. I started compiling lectionary texts for use in leaflets, and for consultation off-line when the Church of England started using the Revised Common Lectionary and the new Common Worship Book of Common Prayer came into use, twenty five years ago. Such resources weren't as readily accessible on the internet back then, and off-line working a more regular aspect of life. Looking back, how things have changed!
Clare cooked a veggie pasta dish for lunch with added TVP. I added tomato paste to my portion to give it a flavour I prefer. Clare steers clear of tomatoes as part of her anti-arthritis diet. I continued writing after we'd eaten, as I wasn't sure about the way the sermon should end. Eventually I went out and walked for a couple of hours, through Llandaff Fields to the Western Avenue Bridge and down the Taff Trail all the way to the Millennium Bridge and then back home. A chill wind was blowing from the east, but the sun shone. It was just right for a brisk walk after a sedentary morning at home.
As I was walking past the SWALEC stadium, a group of about thirty teenagers emerged from within, bunched together talking animatedly. One or two hailed me with 'Hello', perhaps because I was wearing a camera around my neck. I couldn't work out what language they spoke, but from a few odd words guessed they were Italian not French or Spanish. I remembered Laura, Holy Trinity Church secretary in Geneva thirty years ago observing that Italians are very gregarious, so if you saw a bunch of people skiing cross country unusually close together they'd most likely be Italian as other nationalities prefer to spread out and make the most of the piste. Funny how these little memories emerge from time to time.
The camera in question was my Olympus PEN. Despite its lack of viewfinder it's getting easier to use now thanks to its Optical Image stabilisation feature. It takes good pictures, except those of red petalled flowers which never seem to reflect the visible reality. Photo editing afterwards doesn't cure the issue. It's just the flower itself that seems over-exposed and lacking in detail when other colours aren't. It's something to do with the way digital camera sensors work producing a compressed JPEG image, and how the eye registers colour at the red end of the spectrum. Several explanations I read were too complex to understand fully.
After supper I watched the tense final episode of 'An t-Eilean', a beautifully crafted bi-lingual drama about a coercive controlling Scottish laird deceiving and ruining the lives of his grown up children, unmasked by an islander who is a police family liaison officer called back home to act as an interpreter after the wife of the laird dies in ambiguous circumstances. It held together well, made me think of a Greek tragedy.
This week I've been in touch with cousin Sue who lives on the island of Mull, part of the Inner Hebrides island group. The drama is set in Harris, one of the Outer Hebrides islands. Sue told me about differences between the Gaelic spoken on Mull and Harris, very similar to the way North and South Wales Welsh have some differences in vocabulary and in distinctive ways of voicing the language. Every place and every generation has a way of owning the language they call their own. Talking of which, I read a few chapters in my current Spanish novel before turning in for the night.
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