tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-191028232024-03-05T01:57:39.890-08:00naffidyLinguistics, Narrative Structure, Internal Frontier, Writing, Night, Nocturne, Syllogism, Ennui, Shadow, Sleep, Vancouver, Psychogeography, Urbanism, Photographynaffidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292067381156774451noreply@blogger.comBlogger207125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19102823.post-75171975874569022382019-02-17T21:04:00.001-08:002019-02-17T21:05:24.426-08:00<style type="text/css">
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<span class="s1">I’ve taken to putting my earbuds in on the bus so that no one tries to talk to me, so that I can quietly take in the odd tiny waiting room a bus is. February right now, end of winter is here, too far north for most people. The days are just starting to get longer, but rush hour still matches up with sunset. Today a break from the snow, and the sun is glaring from the west, everyone has a dramatic light on them light like they’re lit for a film, with what I think it would be called a pepper. I made a film once, I helped make one that is, the director and producers knew about the lighting stuff, not me. A girl checked her reflection in her in the black screen of her phone, people seemed happy to have the sun on their faces, you get to miss the sun in winter. I’ve never much liked such dramatic light, too contrasty. I don’t take pictures of people on the bus, I know that it would upset people, my DSLR makes far too much noise to do it without notice anyways. I suppose I don’t like the dramatic light because then all someone sees is how pretty the light is. Of course light is the primary, and only part of any photograph when you get right down to it, but I think that life can be the subject too. If the lighting sparkles too much then that’s all you see. <span class="Apple-converted-space"> </span></span></div>
<br />naffidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292067381156774451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19102823.post-40137721382369498542017-02-12T12:44:00.001-08:002018-04-25T22:48:29.692-07:00<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdTHJNlKyc6kCaI46Ckfp9Hlq2BnnuI66L_WpaBecvlBpm0djLUCp-UUeaL4e4whenzPyASNgqF-n7K9ZhaLibrvGHnQ9ByoXz7JZmGUTjxw1nra7rjtAhSHczJjBHM-pv110Dfg/s1600/IMG_1534-2.PNG" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdTHJNlKyc6kCaI46Ckfp9Hlq2BnnuI66L_WpaBecvlBpm0djLUCp-UUeaL4e4whenzPyASNgqF-n7K9ZhaLibrvGHnQ9ByoXz7JZmGUTjxw1nra7rjtAhSHczJjBHM-pv110Dfg/s320/IMG_1534-2.PNG" width="180" /></a>naffidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292067381156774451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19102823.post-54099746601759877282017-02-12T12:34:00.002-08:002018-04-25T22:48:29.825-07:00<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">What Ways Out</span></b><br />
<b><span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span></b>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">You have made this prison yourself,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">out of respect for the fine quality,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">you dare not break a way out</span>naffidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292067381156774451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19102823.post-88261465667463986012015-06-28T02:00:00.001-07:002018-04-25T22:48:30.209-07:00<div style="background-color: white; color: #141823; font-family: helvetica, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 14px; line-height: 21.466667175293px; margin-bottom: 6px;">
Resolve:</div>
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Post the unlikeable, the failures, and all the pathos that overfillls silence.</div>
naffidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292067381156774451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19102823.post-54764221249448774942015-06-27T00:37:00.001-07:002018-04-25T22:48:29.851-07:00What It Was<br />
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<span class="s1">Being awake is so very unlike sleep, this constancy of faces, warm pressures, open streets, and insistent calls for attention wear me down each day. Each day my effort is for a silence and solitude in this constant intercourse that I walk into. In the day I operate on versions of programs I’ve written, that secure, propel, and insulate me from the masks that folk don each day. I can wonder tonight who was it that I talked to, what they meant by; and dream how they are. But, today I have little time to pause, and ask the why, and what it was; there is more to be done. </span></div>
naffidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292067381156774451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19102823.post-20621350040834074372015-02-03T02:06:00.003-08:002018-04-25T22:48:29.558-07:00I reason that<br />
<br />
because monuments slowly dissolve,<br />
<br />
a catastrophe is a evil boon<br />
<br />
<br />
which we don't want to,<br />
<br />
but do hope for.naffidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292067381156774451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19102823.post-40999114037784411382014-08-07T23:12:00.003-07:002018-04-25T22:48:29.717-07:00<b><span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">On Sentences — An Urge to Silence</span></b><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">a kind of writing noesis </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">the punctuated sentence a noeme </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">having the presence of paper</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">having the pressure of a thought spoken</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">the doubt of halted speech</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">the burden to speak</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">at all.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">a kind of writing that urges towards silence</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">the burden to speak </span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">double halted speech</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">the pressure of a thought spoken</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">at all</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">can thinking be punctuated</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">at all</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;">except by the pen</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial, Helvetica, sans-serif;"><br /></span>
<br />naffidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292067381156774451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19102823.post-21730664534673989952014-06-11T14:29:00.000-07:002018-04-25T22:48:29.584-07:00<br />
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<span class="s1">I feel as if I should shutdown every idea of the world, and that being my only possible idea; the impossibility of thought, compel you to listening, to the reasonableness of my proposition.</span></div>
naffidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292067381156774451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19102823.post-186082371509217112014-06-10T14:20:00.000-07:002018-04-25T22:48:29.532-07:00Nightwalks, 2013<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://www.newbloodart.ca/artist/11/joseph-strohan"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHFE-VqkWHVSeU-QhyvKOUyCEGSQYRv6W_NvMd2b0r28wDmEoS08VGV26EY2JlArrsVcAXTGxDqgH6oVyi8m_858fmiIm1mRX_C-RoPaewhyphenhyphen3MpJW2xazkeI2NFhz_IQQbJFtD9g/s1600/art_120.jpg" /></a></div>
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naffidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292067381156774451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19102823.post-81524428509862319552014-06-10T14:14:00.002-07:002018-04-25T22:48:30.127-07:00naffidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292067381156774451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19102823.post-70192300292674233922014-04-24T11:55:00.000-07:002018-04-25T22:48:30.048-07:00Is there truth in a photograph?<span style="font-family: Courier New, Courier, monospace;">No, a photograph is a fragment of an experience with richly intertwining aural, spacial, and temporal elements that are flattened and or eliminated when they are lain down in two dimensions either as emulsion on paper or pixels in a jpeg. We are left with the visual artifact of an event or place which offers an impenetrable surface, beyond which we can only speculate. There is no truth in a photograph, there isn't even a story, we the viewers bring truth and stories with us and project them onto the photograph.</span>naffidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292067381156774451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19102823.post-76388201013719804202014-04-23T11:40:00.000-07:002018-04-25T22:48:30.075-07:00How important is understanding artists' intentions when encountering art?<span style="font-family: Verdana, sans-serif;">If I am privy to the intentions of an artist in making a particular work, which doesn't often happen, my enjoyment and appraisal of the work will be restricted to a judgement I'd rather not make. Namely, whether this work a successful realization of the artist's intention, which is a closed system. I'd rather imagine the work as an animal that is complete, alive, and quite unable to make answer to any clever questions. So, no, although I do find it helpful to know a few basic biographical details about the artist.</span>naffidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292067381156774451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19102823.post-85317963933429204132014-04-22T10:54:00.000-07:002018-04-25T22:48:30.157-07:00<div class="form_row" style="background-color: white; clear: both; color: #333333; float: left; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px 0px 5px; width: 485px;">
<strong style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span id="ld_wtpzif_5966" style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><a action_mousedown="QuestionLinkClickthrough" class="question_link" href="http://www.quora.com/Children/What-is-more-natural-to-banish-ones-fears-than-to-live-on-delegated-powers-and-what-does-the-whole-growing-up-period-signify-if-not-the-giving-over-of-ones-life-project" id="__w2_nIs3X46_link" style="color: #19558d; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;" target="_blank"><span id="ld_wtpzif_5970" style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span class="question_context" style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span id="ld_wtpzif_5973" style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Children</span><span class="normal" style="font-weight: normal; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">:</span> </span></span>What is more natural, to banish ones fears than to live on delegated powers? and what does the whole growing up period signify if not the giving over of ones life project?</a></span></strong></div>
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This does seem to be a process all human children go through as they become adults, that is putting your <i style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">causa sui</i> project on the shelf to accommodate the responsibilities attendant to adulthood. <br style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" /><br style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;" />As to which is more natural, <b style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">"to banish ones fears" </b>or <b style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">"to live on delegated powers" </b>I'd say that the latter is more natural (to humans). Fear is man's best friend, it alone allows us to protect ourselves from danger, fear is a vital part of human life. Almost every person seeks to be delegated powers from those in authority which is the safest course and integrates the person smoothly into their society, but those who take power or create power for themselves <i style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">de facto</i> will find many enemies around to challenge their authority. Acting like Alexander the Great or Napoleon seems to be the natural expression of a highly developed ego which only seeks to continue to create itself, like the teleology that Friedrich Nietzsche uses in Thus Spake Zarathustra with his Superman, yet this approach is fundamentally antagonistic to general peace, well being, and happiness.</div>
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naffidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292067381156774451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19102823.post-59853219553708648492014-04-21T11:14:00.000-07:002018-04-25T22:48:29.904-07:00The State Of Art<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.920000076293945px;">Doing it like you don't know how, talking like you don't read books, playing dumb. I believe the pretension of being an anti-intellectual is a global trend in art. I think this may be a knee-jerk response to the overwhelming onslaught of information constantly available to us, and a withdrawal, (whether sincere or not) and a biding of time, so that artists can figure a few things out.</span>naffidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292067381156774451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19102823.post-48601195994010414812014-04-20T10:43:00.001-07:002018-04-25T22:48:29.745-07:00An Excuse<span style="background-color: black; color: white; font-family: 'Helvetica Neue', Arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17.920000076293945px;">I make art firstly for myself, secondly for the art public. Making art and looking and thinking about my art makes me happy. Doesn't everyone want their work to be something they enjoy? As for the audience, my work is made with a specialist art audience in mind, that is to say for the art world, not the general public, but a specific public. I associate my art practice with the art world because I think that new ways of understanding our current conditions are invented there. The art world is full of failed experiments in thought, and because of the low stakes of getting something completely wrong, artists have the licence to embark on wild tangents that stretch whole lifetimes. This is the precious privilege of irresponsible thought that the world has delegated to its artists.</span>naffidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292067381156774451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19102823.post-24018355194457138712014-04-20T10:43:00.000-07:002018-04-25T22:48:29.610-07:00Walking NoesisYou can't really deny your self, your presence when your walking up hill. Your feet on the ground come into view, your legs tell you in their way they are there too and working hard. Landscape shapes our perception in the least romantic ways, what is a sex life in the rain?naffidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292067381156774451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19102823.post-28842637163431300382013-09-13T22:35:00.000-07:002018-04-25T22:48:29.665-07:00I want melody<br />
Winds and whispers<br />
Smells and sensations,<br />
Poetry like prose,<br />
Prose like poetry<br />
Days like dreams,<br />
Dreams like years,<br />
and nights like days.<br />
<br />
I want to move into and out of words.naffidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292067381156774451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19102823.post-26825911365760349812012-11-25T22:59:00.006-08:002018-04-25T22:48:29.638-07:00Writing<br />
<div class="column">
<span style="font-family: 'RNSCamelia'; font-size: 18.000000pt;">Writing
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'RNSCamelia'; font-size: 10.000000pt;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-family: 'RNSCamelia'; font-size: 10.000000pt;"><i>Sleep can look so much like death, Barthes might have recommended to put the author
to sleep instead of to death. Sleep only has the surface appearance of death.
</i></span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'RNSCamelia'; font-size: 10.000000pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'RNSCamelia'; font-size: 10.000000pt;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: 'RNSCamelia'; font-size: 12.000000pt;"> In order to begin I speak. I have finished my work today, I am in my chair. I
don’t say a word and or barely think a thought. I look straight ahead at motes in
the air between my chair and the outside my window. And outside of this staring
and around it or beside it I think about my staring out my window and wonder
what it is to look through and at and through all at once. And I see my thoughts
begin to fold over and over. Each thought acts out it’s role with each other, and
each is a different character. Anxiety fights ambition, love humility, evil hunger,
and asceticism fights reluctance. An indistinct sense of time flows and ebbs, and
it is hard to return to a previous thought without losing my place looking back for
some notion I passed on from. I seize on some sounds of the thoughts and begin
to rhyme these thoughts into sounds. The tiny phrase I make from this sound back
to thought is my seed for a thought with a language. I write the thought out, and
begin to be ready to write. Only with silence can writing begin.
</span></div>
<div class="column">
<span style="font-family: 'RNSCamelia'; font-size: 12.000000pt;"> I put my I to sleep, and myself is falling into self is my fall to sleep. My eyes
although wide don’t see ahead, I see inside thoughts crossing over to words and
whole sentences glide in from a hidden place and meet me in my sleep. My
sleep is here before I sleep, it caught up to me. I couldn’t have written awake, so
with I. In myself with myself questioning ceases, writing begins. The ink flows freely
in my book on my knee in my chair. I am writing in the only way I ever do, I am
writing about writing. Each sentence is self conscious, but also not conscious of
itself. Just as in sleep I cannot say that I sleep, I disappears in sleep, self in self is
the state of affairs. Self in sleep is interior, and everything is self, exterior waking life
permits the I to be aware amongst all the other I's. Everything is in myself as writing
goes on, I am every character if there were any, every thought.
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: 'RNSCamelia'; font-size: 12.000000pt;"> Already dreaming begins. Somehow there is a shift into other bodies while
mine remains at home, somehow I can look at myself standing next to myself and
be both selves at once. It is easy to forget here that all of this is my own creation,
yet I have no hand in making this, my I is up to his chin in sleep and only vaguely
knows that he is sleeping. He is I, but he doesn’t know himself here in this night
sleep has pulled over him. He doesn’t write, he can barely even speak, if he used
words at all they would be of the order of that which comes before speech. I write,
I write what my sleeping self says, and must translate from the language that
comes before language, the language that can recognize itself but can not
articulate itself into that waking language with words, grammar, and syntax. And I
am awake now, which is to say my writing is finished. </span></div>
naffidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292067381156774451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19102823.post-88184555238712951282012-10-08T20:34:00.001-07:002018-04-25T22:48:30.184-07:00Signification
<br />
<div class="p1">
Signification is the act of making a relation between a word per se and an object. The word is the signifier of the object and the object is the thing signified, this relation between signifier and signified is called the sign. Signification can only be accomplished by a subject, which is to say by a person. Signs do not occur naturally. The act of signification is the basis of language, and can only exist within language (whether spoken, visual, or otherwise). The study of signs which is semiotics must use language to understand language and as a result has become very cumbersome. In a sense we are trying to come to know ourselves knowing ourselves, and have found that intelligibility beyond language is not within our reach. Julia Kristeva says that we are, “speaking subjects” she equates signifying with speaking, and that this is can be a “capacity for enjoyment.” This is a humbling idea, and seems to complete the discourse of semiotics. If this is the end point of semiotics, then what comes afterwards must be writing, which is the greatest enjoyment one can derive from language.</div>
naffidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292067381156774451noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19102823.post-66926325899773403932012-09-30T00:20:00.001-07:002018-04-25T22:48:30.022-07:00Writing Myself to SleepI am asleep now, even before I found sleep tonight. I feel asleep, my thoughts feel asleep, my eyes feel asleep. The lamp I turned on to write this is waking me up. The refrigerator's noises are pulling me back towards sleep, my eyes burning are evidence I haven't slept at all.<br />
<br />
I haven't slept at all. I have been around sleep but I haven't been sure whether I want to sleep. I've been enjoying my fantasies and memories too much to let myself fall to sleep. I am becoming even more awake now. I am starting to feel my exhausted nerves and swollen eyes beat with my pulse. My heartbeat only makes me sure of myself. The tick-tocking of my bedside clock only makes me think of the night. So I can only think right now about myself in the night, myself in my bed, myself next to my lamp. Myself writing to sleep, writing myself to sleep.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />naffidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292067381156774451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19102823.post-79860251972368120742012-09-03T23:15:00.000-07:002018-04-25T22:48:30.102-07:00Don’t Track Back Me/ And Unmappably Map Me<br />
Don’t track back me, / and unmappably map me.<br />
Don’t keep the collapse / Lastly, track me,<br />
No evermore, lose me / Flash me with flashcards.<br />
Back where you know / Force me to speak<br />
Logically no no / Grab me from behind<br />
Doh, don don / Don’t drag me out<br />
Don’t do that / Don’t do that<br />
Don’t drag me out / Doh, don don<br />
Grab me from behind / Logically no no<br />
Force me to speak / Back where you know<br />
Flash me with flashcards. / No evermore, lose me<br />
Lastly, track me, / Don’t keep the collapse<br />
and unmappably map me. / Don’t track back me,<br />
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naffidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292067381156774451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19102823.post-49826796871657407372012-08-27T20:01:00.002-07:002018-04-25T22:48:29.771-07:00Regular Words With Broken GeometryRereading this stuff feels like sleeping on my dirty sheets. I am daydreamer, I burn away idle hours. I will write out my voice until I get hoarse. I'm writing and struggling to work back, to show myself a few things. I'm getting meaner and I don't really mind. Instruction to follow augments previous instructions, so please let contradictions glide past.naffidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292067381156774451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19102823.post-52031872376949940742012-07-30T23:25:00.001-07:002018-04-25T22:48:29.798-07:00<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRgWfP6nlU7pOyagk43hUfv_5_xydpBOQRWdbZuH2GQeS7AD1RolMavbayQZeKLdMoyevKMXLpecZ3-tI-C93nLOFkG4EgZ6SOIhCJyfjOslIf-ee-F-A7erlKofNkqcRbLTevpg/s1600/IMG_0382.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRgWfP6nlU7pOyagk43hUfv_5_xydpBOQRWdbZuH2GQeS7AD1RolMavbayQZeKLdMoyevKMXLpecZ3-tI-C93nLOFkG4EgZ6SOIhCJyfjOslIf-ee-F-A7erlKofNkqcRbLTevpg/s320/IMG_0382.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />naffidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292067381156774451noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19102823.post-75055363028089355852012-03-19T23:16:00.002-07:002018-04-25T22:49:21.148-07:00ITSAHORSE<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />naffidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292067381156774451noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19102823.post-57344972217432313302012-03-19T22:53:00.002-07:002018-04-25T22:49:21.029-07:00The Times' Whistle: Or, A New Daunce Of Seven Satires: And Other Poems R. C. (Gent.)<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAVll5PPA-pLaIXSS16Hf5BEyt621M0wQf58YvX7kPUQsce2Y8XXVSdSnOlPa3f8KbczoABBDCOSggeVKXHYGDx2_S7jjrn9h_qco62-5QT3WHXtCZyO9882Vo7b2UNBtDcSt9kg/s1600/rcgent.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="175" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAVll5PPA-pLaIXSS16Hf5BEyt621M0wQf58YvX7kPUQsce2Y8XXVSdSnOlPa3f8KbczoABBDCOSggeVKXHYGDx2_S7jjrn9h_qco62-5QT3WHXtCZyO9882Vo7b2UNBtDcSt9kg/s320/rcgent.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
The Times' Whistle: Or, A New Daunce Of Seven Satires: And Other Poems<br />
R. C. (Gent.)<br />
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Page 23.</div>
<br /><br />naffidyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01292067381156774451noreply@blogger.com0