Wednesday, 25 January 2012

Let’s give Franco Debono a few extra seats

As we fret and ponder the lifetime of a government, I must admit, a bit sadly, that this is a land of fools.

But at least even in our fights and constitutional crises we seem to win quite a few accolades. What with the silliness at Parliament, with Buddhist mantras being oohmed away, we surely deserve winning the award of being the best laughing stock of the world. Or rather the laughing stock of no one—because, let’s face it, did anyone in the wide, wild world really realise that we in Malta are in the midst of a crisis?

Dr Debono managed to get the media to fret away, ferreting out anyone who was a has-been, and has lately become a bigger has-been, to give us his views and prediction of what is in store for us in this mini—or should I say maxi?—saga of tottering governments and other such interesting fare.

So besides the likes of me spewing out my definitely unwarranted, and unexceptional, views, we had all sorts of people giving their two-cent senseless bits.

One of the last to join this fray was Dr Joe Brincat. Dr Who? I hear all the world, including most Maltese, ask. Dr Brincat came up with quite an interesting solution to a potential repetition of what Dr Gonzi’s government is suffering right now.

It seems Dr Brincat said that if a party gets a one-seat majority in parliament we should give that party an extra 2 seats so that the party in government will always be assured of a majority in parliament.

The reasoning is that an errant MP could never threaten to vote against the party in power and, by such a vote, bring down the government. Sounds like excellent advice from the learned, former minister. But delve deeper: what if said errant MP joins up with one of the other loose cannon ball members of parliament, Dr Jeffrey Pullicino Orlando or Jesmond Mugliett? So maybe two extra seats aren’t enough. Why not give the party 5 to make sure? Or just in case Franco Debono is made Prime Minister—first Buddhist to lead our country I’d say—and the rest of the naughty Nationalists turncoats turn against him, why not give him, as potential Prime Minister, an extra 50 seats to make sure he has a long period in power?

Errant MPs seem to be quite easy to conjure out of our parliamentary system’s quirky hat. Although Joseph Muscat in his infinite knowledge –were his marks in Predicting Science better than Franco’s?—said that all Labour candidates have been vetted thoroughly and will not be causing any trouble.

The Labour brigade definitely have a better net than the silly Nationalists.

Monday, 23 January 2012

Let’s burn the infernal witch

If Franco Debono hadn’t been such an interesting person I don’t know what some, or most of us, would be writing about. For example did anyone realise that in Malta we’re now officially part of some arctic bloc—or is it just me freezing away? And maybe Dr Debono could enlighten me: can we form part of a block of ice or are we still neutered according to our sacred constitution? Or is the unnatural cold nature’s way of spewing out its anger at us Maltese for being such errant kids? It could be Nature saying “suffer, ye little mortals cos you’ve had it a bit too good for your own sakes.”

If it weren’t because of Franco’s quirky parliamentary behaviour—or at least threatened behaviour—we’d be seeing many photos in newspapers and websites of people’s clothes left in wardrobes and coming out wetter than they would from the washing machine. We’d be discussing our chances of winning the Eurovision song festival, the Champions League, Miss World and the World Cup. And we would be lamenting Arriva’s late or non-arrival. So let’s all be grateful for our parliament—it gives us most fodder for our sorest eyes and blasted ears. Carry on with your ways and silly shallowness—all is forgiven because you give us a bit of fun and clowning in these drab, grey days.

What with Franco, Joseph, Lawrence, Beppe and various other varied and wearisome politicos our life is ever so colourful. In fact here on this fair isle the season of Panto never seems to cease.

It’s true we, or the politicians and their defenders and detractors, hardly seem to care that in Panto everyone is exhorted to be nice to each other—yes we should be nice even to the lawyers and other such heinous baddies and opponents. Even the Prime Minister said we should be nice to each other and not find fault with opponents like Dr Debono—see he too is straight out of Panto. He, the Prime Minister, for now at least, told us he has loads and loads of text and email messages coming from Dr Debono at all strange hours of the day and night. Maybe the errant MP had a secret crush and now, thwarted, he has turned it into a need to crush the Nationalists singlehandedly? The mind, as they say, boggles.

To hear Franco, and his new found Labour friends and Saviours, who back him and talk of him as Malta’s latest and best, unsung hero to solve and save our motherland, we are surrounded by evil and evil-mongers waiting desperately to get us all fried and flayed and fired into the deepest pits of hell.

One particular blogger—not me thank god I’m pure, virginal and hardly matter—is called worse things than evil. She, whose-name-I-dare-not-utter, because some monstrous curse will come down upon me, is the evil one; the witch; the sorceress causing all sorts of horrors.

All labour-backers and Gonzi-rubbishers seem to be in agreement that the Prime Minister should gag “her”. This, I imagine, in the name of the now-defunct censorship board, the Ayatollah and the Taleban. Are we in some backward country, by any chance, where gagging is easy, fine and sanctioned by the top echelons of society? If we live in the land of the free then why and how stop her?

Mind you, if, as variously and vicariously claimed, she is a definite no-holds-barred, fully-confessed witch, I’d imagine it’s more the remit of our Archbishop to have her banned and exorcised. His holiness, in his infinite grace, should have her quartered; or dipped, first into the ice-cold sea for a further confessional and then straight away to be burnt at the stake.

The head of our local Catholic church would see his stakes rise ever so sharply if he does as I bid him and crucifies or burns the bitch of Bidnija (as you see I give you no name or else I’m cursed).

A witch in our midst and the usually quite vociferous bishop of Gozo lies dumb at such satanic grossness? Burning her in some great, monstrous bonfire could also give us some added spectacle to our oh so boring lives, and would also keep us warm for a few hours.

We could ask John Dalli, Sargas or some other energy saving magician to stoke the fire for the burning of the witch and her followers, fellow-witches, admirers and readers. Her burning could see us through this infernally cold spell. And at last the witch queen could be doing the nation a great service. Maybe she could then garner a few awards like some medal for serving the republic. “For getting rid of yourself, we the people, award you a full list of medals.” I seriously doubt whether anyone would want to pin any medals or pendants on her charred remains. So maybe she had better not arrive at the palace on her broom.

Such horrors are not for kids or even for adults’ ears—so her name is never ever mentioned in public or in writing. She is “she”; the legendary horror—the gorgon of our times.

So if for nothing else I hope the electorate will choose wisely and opt for Dr Joseph’s amazing technicolour team to lead us into serenity and lack of strife both in and outside Parliament. And this will rid us, once and for all, of the wicked witch’s waylaid ways.

At last the Catholic Church, and the Labour party, will be united as one and the nation will be truly blessed.

Wednesday, 18 January 2012

Let’s bungle away bunga style

So Dr Debono, in one of his rants and in his infinite humility, told us that he might go to Italy to further his lawyerly career and live happily ever after with no one unearthing his thesis or report cards. I, like the unbiased blogger that I am, wish him well.

I’m not sure if he showed us his marks in Italian or if any wily law student dug deep enough to see his proficiency in that language. With such a great mind I’m sure the Italians will not just let him be a great lawyer but will get him into politics. He will surely be offered a number of ministries as unlike our idiot of a Prime Minister the Italians know how to choose their ministers. I imagine he will be given a number of ministerial posts ranging from penal reform to justice to party financing.

From the little I know about Italy it desperately needs Dr Debono to solve its ills and plights. He might also take over finance—I’m sure Frau Merkel from Germany will put her foot down (ouch) and get him that post. Italy’s ailing and failing economy needs desperate cures. Monti, poor deluded soul, move over, our unbelievably educated man is soon coming there.

And if Bossi, or his unruly Lega Nord, are up to any silly trickery and threatened treachery about declaring the North of Italy independent under the name of La Padania, our intrepid lawyer from Ghaxaq will surely be able to heal all rifts between the erring parties and get them to a table together. Not just to discuss but to surely smile, answer a few phones and ultimately embrace gracefully and jointly forget all past troubles and silly petty rows. All will be solved and all will be united.

We might miss Dr Debono but Italy and its newly united, newly salvaged nation will be the new paradise. Germany will bow to the new supremacy of Italy. Italians—from Bossi to Rutelli to Monti—will all hail their new saviour, their own liberator and unifier. Prophets, some holy man said, are not made for home consumption or adulation. Go abroad for riches and for fame and for acclaim, the holy book seems to say.

Obviously the ones to applaud us most heartily and gleefully for what we would have exported to them would be the comedians. Ever since Berlusconi was ousted from his prime ministerial position all comedians have been either out of a job or in tears. Most have lost their muse and their scripts have become as boring as the new prime minister who resembles a mount or a mountain range of boring greyness and drabness. The minute the clown prince of politics, the Bunga-Bungler Berlusconi ,resigned comedy in Italy lost its sting as it lost its biggest patron, its biggest target, its most solid, sordid subject.

When Dr Debono moves over there I feel confident that he will give these comedians, these silly cartoonists, a lot of work and a lot of ready scripts. He will also help Italians get back on to their toes, laughing away their tears at the antics of the liveliest politician we could ever have given rise to and, alas, exported.

In fact I think I too will change my mind and cry out—all is forgiven please remain on this fair isle and keep the laughter going—our terribly serious, terribly boring way of life—especially our oh so deadening petty politics—needs you and your colour.

Sunday, 15 January 2012

Correction : of missing links

Some of the followers of this blog might have noticed that I had a missing link to a blog post called, "Faux fur and frauds". This happened because after publishing the piece in my blog I changed the title to "Of birds, bards and baptisms". It's easy to change your mind but unfortunately it isn't so easy to change your tracks in the blogosphere. Being completely tech-useless didn't help me or my links. Snide remarks about missing links and people who change their views--or titles of articles-- are more than welcome. Apologies to anyone who suffered unduly because of this lost link.

Saturday, 14 January 2012

Of birds, bards and baptisms

What’s in a name some bard asked. Well, a lot, I think most people will say. Anyway said bard said it but I’m sure if we called him Billy or anything as silly, he’d have had us chained and quickly quartered.

While walking around Sliema, trying hard to lose some flab which the Christmas cheer always seems to bequeath on me, I was struck by this name game. Names of streets which seemed quite fitting and right have changed overnight (or did it take years and I missed the changeover? Did it have mini stars and ministers cutting ribbons for the re-christening?).

I passed through a sweet, little street which was always Depiro Junction in my time. I have no idea why it was called thus and have even less of an idea what a junction actually is. But now it’s called Ġużè Cardona Street. Nothing against the celebrated author of course but couldn’t we name another street after him? There surely are a few more deserving streets which are in dire need of a change. Sqaq it-Tiġieġ (chicken alley) in B’kara surely needs a sore change in name. Even if it is an old and apt name does anyone want to live in a chicken pen?

I hear someone say that even politicians have been equated with some fowl species but if I were the mayor of B’Kara I’d surely change its name and be forever remembered as the man of steel or woman of stainless reputation who was no chicken and changed the name of his/her locality to something more appropriate. Change names yes—but only if it is of utmost importance.

Some other streets in San Ġwann have incredibly silly names like Gallina, Korvu and other names of birds and stranger stuff. They might sound sweet and be part of our country lore and all that but they sound completely wrong. And besides I hardly think San Ġwann, even if tremendously beautiful, can be called part of the countryside and birdland. So instead of naming a street in that industrialised and built-up land "tit street", wouldn’t it have been better to grace it with Ġużè Cardona? Again no offence is meant to Cardona or any writer, musician or whoever is awarded a street in his honour.

Name changing, unless it is uber-important, is rather daft. I’ve always been called the same—with some silly variations like vic, and maybe il-vic. As good citizens we should accept as our fate our name as presented, sometimes frivolously, sometimes with a smirk, by our parents.

But lately I did seriously think of changing my name; or try to make it stand out as being mine. I saw a comment on the online Times of Malta by a man calling himself Victor Calleja. I’m sure there are quite a few of us but I flinched when I saw what he had written, convinced that people will surely think it is me. How can I get a name which will get me out of this quandary? Please help with some suggestions so that I can rest assured that only I represent my views and all others are frauds, impersonators and faux victor callejas.

Maybe I need to ask Ġużè Cardona or the bard himself for a distinguishing name? I mean imagine when they name a street (triq it-tiġieġ maybe?) after me and my exploits and everyone will think it was named for this other guy writing even more garish garbage than me.

What’s in a name my foot dear Billy.

Friday, 13 January 2012

Franco is an honourable man

In Roman times, when glory sometimes turned to gore, emperors were deprived of power by being stabbed and dumped. Now we live in more enlightened days so we—or rather one particularly particular parliamentarian—stamp our sillier feet, cry foul at anything under the sun if we don’t get what we want and after unleashing all sorts of threats and blackmail we then stick the knife till the emperor is dethroned. Or dumped so that another election is held.

The likely scenario if that happens, according to most pundits and Austin Gatt, is that Joseph Muscat and his motley, mostly worrying, crew will take over the running of our country. Not being a pundit and less of a prophet, I will not say that the ruination of all we hold dear will ensue.

Franco Debono is—at least till the time of writing—a most honourable of men. As Marc Antony so eloquently said when Brutus and his group murdered Caesar, these—the murderers—were all honourable men.

So what should honourable men do? This particular MP wants, he has been telling us ad unbelievable nauseam, reforms. He wants more transparency. More accountability.
He wants parliament not to be a gathering of hens all gleefully accepting the diktats of some superior cock who moves them around and does to them all there is to do between one cock and many hens. Those poor, abused hens have to bow and obey and follow the lead. So I hear most honourable—and less honourable—men say amen to that. If only we have a government that is not set by diktat. Let all ministers be mini or maxi stars just as much as the prime minister. Let’s, he once famously said, follow the Labour Party style and give all backbenchers a particular aspect to shadow. Of course if he agrees with the Opposition nominating all their MPs to shadow a ministry I imagine he—if he were emperor or Prime Minister—would make all his backbenchers ministers.

No backbencher’s talents, he seems to imply, would go to waste. Of course mayhem would result. And would he, in this farcical vision, accept all ministers to having their say and opposing all or most he says or does, just as he did with most of what Gonzi did?

The stage is set. The nation awaits the moment when the despicable man sinks in his proverbial sword, safe in the knowledge that all the ones who voted for him a few years ago are enjoying his antics and his ways. He keeps talking of representing the voters—yet I have not heard even one of his voters saying he agrees with his way forward. All I hear is Labour voters egging him on, saying he is the champion of democracy and other such drivel. All Nationalists—even the ones who are not so full of cheer for Gonzi and his ways—want is to consign Franco Debono to the bin of history as soon as possible.

So shouldn’t he stop and reflect a bit: if he wants reforms and accountability shouldn’t he exit his little world and ask the ones who voted for him what they really think and do their bidding and resign?

Go on Franco and do one little honourable thing. The whole nation will, for once, be proud of you.

Monday, 9 January 2012

The rascals in our midst

It’s that time of year when we resolve to do all sorts of things and promise ourselves, our wives, partners or the nearest lamppost that we will be better, leaner and super efficient. And we will stop smoking, nagging, snoring, gossiping, picking our nose and picking on everyone while biting heads away cheerily and thinking how sweet and dignified we are.

It’s that time for resolutions. Even if you are reading this after the great day of resolutions I will still talk about resolutions and jog your memory with such boring stuff.

If you still remember anything that happened a few days ago, you might recall that you were stuffed full of too much turkey with all sorts of strange and silly stuffing, too many sweet everythings and too much drink that makes the heart beat faster and the brain groggier than is the norm. At that strange appointed hour when one old year passes on, oh so happily, the baton to the younger sprightlier one, we, the people, promise ourselves we will be more level-headed and more austere in these times of boring austerity and impending doom.

While partying or stuffing ourselves, pangs of guilt over the homeless in Chicago overwhelm us. We suffer through visions of Labour Party supporters totally deprived of a proper and dignified existence because all they can afford is pizza and some paltry pasta or pastizzi (cheesecakes). So we all eat and drink even more to assuage the vicissitudes of guilt. And, then, L-Istrina comes and we give generously – to absolve ourselves completely and for a whole year we feel we have dispensed the best Christianity any man, woman or beast can do.

So what is my resolution? Or was, because I have already broken it.

My resolution was not to rage against anything anymore. To be meek and subdued and to just talk of roses but no thorns, of thrones’ glitter but not of despicable despots sitting on those thrones; to just see the silver lining but not let the rain bother me when the clouds decide to wet my pate.

I had started this writing mission mainly to entertain, not to be a bore, an old mighty bore finding fault and firing fitful tirades against all. So let me take stock of what has happened and try to be as jolly and positive as humanly possible.

The economy in the world is in dire straits. Or, at least, in some places like Greece it is. Some other countries, like Italy, seem to have mountains of problems and need conjurers more adept than Silvio Berlusconi to keep the economy ticking.

Britain, as an economic powerhouse, has been left behind by Brazil. Not sure what that country produces but I do know they used to have great footballers and greater behinds, which they show off – both football and behinds – all the time on their beaches. Maybe the beaches of Britain need a definite injection of sun and fun to get their economy back on track and beat the Samba band.

With all this faltering and defaulting, I find it hard to remain neutral and not applaud and cheer our situation. We, the people of the Republic of tiny Malta, seem to be doing quite well. True that in football we are still in the pits. But in economic matters, at least, no one is talking of our defaulting and no one seems to be revolting on the streets, or sleeping homelessly without blankets or searching desperately for a job.

Property does seem to be in rather a mess: flats for sale far outdo the flats being bought. But the biggest worriers are the property developers who have sucked the economy dry for 30 years, pillaged our landscape with atrocious buildings and now want the government to do something about their mess.

My resolution was to be good and kind. So here goes: Lawrence Gonzi, beleaguered, belittled and definitely not bemused has, on the whole, done a good job.

I know Kate by his side has lost her eternal smile. Can she be raging and pillorying Lawrence about the state of her economy? Maybe she can’t make ends meet even if her husband has taken home a good pay deal? Could it be he didn’t tell us, the people, about the deal because he wanted to keep it hidden from his wife, so he started a slush fund away from his home affairs minister? And can it be Kate’s heating bills were so high this year that she told her beloved husband that Joseph Muscat’s amazingly described, albeit constantly derided, proposals could be the solution to her economic plight?

I resolved to be good and bash no more. Then Franco Debono and his mindless threats and puerile ways came horrifically to mind and I damned all resolutions and realised that whatever we humans do there will always be among us a few who are wayward. Or who have some delusional affliction.

Whatever happens in the next few days between Dr Gonzi and Dr Debono, and however the tussle is patched up and the government kept afloat, nothing can be properly mended. If we compare the government to a cracked pitcher of water or wine, we might stem the water for a while but eventually it becomes impossible to do so. The crack has become too big to stem and the rascal cannot be assuaged enough.

So, like all spoilsports, Dr Debono has ruined our Christmas, my resolution and, soon, will ruin what was good for Malta.

This article first appeared in The Times on January 9, 2012

Saturday, 7 January 2012

In God we trust ?

Dr Franco Debono has now come out clean. Thank the Lord for that. Or rather let’s leave the Lord out of this for a few days or months. On the same day that Malta was given a cardinal we also found out what irks the Nationalist MP turncoat.

Dr Debono is reported to have said that Lawrence Gonzi is only a prime minister not a god. As a truly intelligent, highly observant, diligent lawyer he just wanted to point out the obvious. Gonzi is prime minister—Debono, far from being a backbencher, is God Himself.

All ye atheists, hear Malta’s clarion call: all is forgiven. I’m sure the newly-appointed cardinal will agree that, in this dire crisis of ours, we can do without this god. Franco Debono is one wild fairy tale we surely can do without.

Thursday, 5 January 2012

Alan, keep your post as Dame—but get Frankinstead as baddie

The older I get the more I learn strange lessons and stranger facts. I’m not going to go on about psychoanalysis or some psycho-babble about some of our politicians’ state of mind. Or the state of their mindless idiocy. I’ll leave that to other, more respected, more erudite analysts.

What I am referring to is my lesson in panto. You are not going to see me on stage dressed in sequins and glitz; and you are definitely not allowed to see my legs. They are mine and my intimate ones’ property only. But dare I attack one of our most beloved, most followed, most glamorous, most famous man in Christmas drag?

Alan Montanaro’s dameship is a Maltese icon, a legacy of our country as well known and definitely less reviled than our prime minister. Alan is a man who plays the part of a woman to a tee (or should I say a pea?). If there were panto-Oscars Alan would win pants down. I’m sure even the ones at the other panto production would not despise, or begrudge, this accolade.

So what have I learnt at my creaking old age?

I love panto. I love anything that makes me laugh. I love the colour and the innuendo—and the hilarity of the children is infectious. And when the camp jokes, the sexual jokes and the political jokes just float off the kids’ radar it makes me laugh even wilder. So we, the codgers at the theatre (can that huge hall at the MFCC be called a theatre?) laugh out loud.

Or, as one political guru writing in the august columns of a newspaper, said: LOL. Yes I kid you not—he actually cracked a joke, and said lol. Alan take a cue from this learned doctor who will soon maybe/possibly/probably/definitely be giving advice to Joseph Muscat on how to be prime minister of our land. When you crack a joke for us old- timers, who will miss the modern clue, please lift up a placard with the words: laugh, gentlefolk.

Anyway, so what if I love panto: hordes do. But they don’t brag about it in their blog. Or maybe they do and I’ve missed their blogging? As I was nicely told off when I started blogging—everyone and his dog does it now. So bugger it. But what I have learnt through panto is that Alan is a national institution—he surely deserves that title—and please beware and do not say he is over the top or that he sucks at panto. He doesn’t.But I said he did in a previous blog post ( I also had the audacity to say that Alan should move over and let Franco Debono take centre stage as our best, our most honourable, dame of all.

Alan, lover of fun and sports, posted my piece wherein I asked him to retire, on Facebook (oh Facebook, to thee do we bend low and adore at your honoured, cherished feet). I unleashed an avalanche of boos, jeers and death threats (ok so I exaggerate but seeing as we have just come out of the jolly season I think I am allowed to: double LOL) by his fawning fans and frenzied followers.

Alan solved it all, and the fans, after taking me to some dark, dank dungeon where all baddies are kept, forgave me in true panto style.

Then I reflected and further reflected till I realised I had made a bigger mess in my article asking Alan to move over. Alan, your post is safe: keep it forever more as you make us laugh and forget our worst ills and farces.

But please get rid of your baddie, give Baddafi , or whatever his name is, the chop and put him in a sack to be sent somewhere far, far away. And get Franco Debono with his posturing, his preposterous demands and his silliness to head the baddies of all baddies. Call him Frankinstead or Frankenstein—and keep him chained in a dungeon or turned into brittle stone.

If Dr Franco Debono moves to panto as the baddie, my life will be spared, Alan keeps his tiara and our politics will get back to their normal level of boringly manageable mediocrity.

And if you want to be nice to yourself and have never been to a panto, with or without Alan, make sure you book one of the two productions this coming December. Or go to both and get a double treat. And like chocolates and panettone they are super-sweet but won’t add to your flab.

Monday, 2 January 2012

Proper words fail me

The new year started with a horrific shock, not just to the families of the victims of the incident in Sliema. I never thought I would be writing about anything so sad, so serious and so shocking.

Unfortunately knowing some of the people concerned makes it all the more difficult to comprehend and to accept. To me—a bystander, or at most, a friend—it feels like one of those terrible nightmares you actually wake yourself up from. It is like a horror movie come true. But this is no movie and neither a nightmare. It is the sad reality. The loved ones left behind in the tragedy, the families and the friends, have to live with the horror that has hit them. They have to try to patch the pieces and work out a life knowing the tragedy will be relayed a few millions of times a day in their mind.

While thinking and then writing this I feel I am intruding. I know I could erase what I have just written but I feel I need to convey my thoughts on this sad start to the new year. Actually—and most uncharacteristically—I have felt at a loss for words and a hand seemed to stop me from writing anything these past 24 hours. All subjects seemed inane; all words seemed insane.

So I had to force myself to write seriously about the deaths—is such an incident called a double murder?—of these two young people, which shocked us all on New Year’s Day.

I still find myself knotted up and can hardly think straight. I doubt if we will ever know what really happened and for the sake of us, the intruders, the onlookers, I almost wish we do not learn anything more than that two men have expired. I say this because through our hunger to pry, to find out, to talk and to find reasons and stories that fit, and hypotheses that sound right, we do nothing helpful at all.

Our natural curiosity should be stemmed: and the only thing that matters is to let the families suffer in private, away from the public gaze. Whatever wrong doing needs to be uncovered let this be done but let us all try to keep off the gossip-mongering which leads us into the temptation of believing fantasy to be the sacred truth.

There is a mother with two babies who are just a few months old. Whatever happened, whatever she saw and knew, she has to carry on.

Hopefully, with the grace of whatever God or natural force helps the afflicted in these circumstances; she will make a new beginning and give the children a whole new meaning to their lives, notwithstanding the tragic end of their father.

It is hard to express good wishes when life seems so strangely tough. But to all, even the suffering ones, may the year bring some form of inner peace.

If what I said above lacks proper articulation I ask forgiveness. It is hard to write about a subject which is so fraught with tragedy. If I have offended anyone by my prying, by my words, I also ask forgiveness.

My intention was not to offend anyone. What I do feel guilty about is that I have written all this so that I can move on. If I hadn’t written this piece I would have kept silent forever or at least for a long time. Nothing made sense and all the rest of the subjects, the thoughts, the words seemed trivial and nonsensical.