Tuesday, December 3, 2013

Volume 3 Issue No. 1

TVFP has received this correspondence from a small village in Uganda called Kinoni. Lindsay Hillcoat, working for an NGO involved in local economic development, has written to us describing a particularly harrowing 24 hrs in the life of a village family and her part in the attempt to avert a tragedy:

Today was a particularly difficult day. Juliet (the local woman I work with on the lending project) and I met today to go and visit the second round of loan recipients at their businesses and homes in a small community called Kinoni. We rescheduled this from the week before as Juliet has been getting very ill lately as she is battling HIV/AIDS. Today she was feeling well so we took off on a walk (about 15 minutes) to one of the loan recipient’s house and shop. 

When we arrived the woman told us that her daughter gave birth in the middle of the night but that she had only been 7 months into the pregnancy. We were told by the neighbor that helped deliver the baby that the mother was hemorrhaging before, during, and after the delivery. They had tried to go to the village health centre when she was in labour but there was nobody there and they had no money for transport to the hospital so they delivered the baby at home. The woman brought us into her small one room shop and behind the counter her daughter was lying in sheets on the floor with a small baby boy in a box with blankets. 

The baby was very tiny, had his eyes shut, was barely moving, but was able to breathe. The baby would not suckle and therefore had not been fed the first 20 hours of his life. I told the Jori (the grandmother and loan recipient) that both needed medical attention and we would cover their medical visit and transport costs. We called up four bodas (motorcycle taxis) to take Juliet, Jori, myself, mother and baby to the health clinic. It was open and I spoke with a nurse, but no doctor was due in and she recommended that we make the trip to Mbarara (approx. 40 mins). 

So I gave Jori some transport money and she went home for overnight supplies and Juliet, the mother and baby and I waited for transport to Mbarara. We could only find a minibus to get to Mbarara so he stuffed us into the van and off we went to get to the hospital. The conductor of the minibus saw me as a money opportunity and overcharged all of us for the ride. I got quite angry as we needed that money to be able to get the baby to the hospital and treated. He finally paid me back some of the money so that the other two women weren’t overcharged, but still kept mine at an inflated fare. 

Sometimes I get quite sick of the discrimination you get as a mzungu (white person) as everyone thinks you have tons of money and that they should be able to benefit from that (I don’t think they’d believe us if we told them we were all in debt from student loans). 

We finally arrived at the hospital, and because it was government-run, it was packed. We got directed building to building and finally arrived at an admissions room. There was a shortage of doctors and all the benches were full. We couldn’t get seen right away as there was a small child on the table of the admissions table that they were losing. 

There were actually a group of a few McMaster medical students that were clearly overwhelmed as it was only their second day there. After a few minutes they were able to do an initial assessment of the baby. His temperature was dropping, but he was still breathing. We ended up bringing the baby on to the same table as the one they were trying to revive. They gave him oxygen and a shot of dextrose (his first nutrients) and began to warm him up. When he was doing well they moved him into a ward with the other premature babies. 

We were told his blankets and sheets weren’t warm enough (they have no incubators, just a warm room) so I went to the market outside of the hospital grounds and bought him some new ones. In the meantime, the mother was being cared for by a doctor. When Jori (the grandmother) arrived and both baby and mom seemed on the mend, Juliet and I left them with some money for food for the evening. I presume they would join all of the other families out on the lawn for the night; most had mattresses or rugs, blankets and camped on the hospital property at night. 

Everyone seemed very grateful (the doctors, mother, grandmother, and Kinoni neighbours) that Juliet and I brought them in. I kept being told “you did a good thing, thank you”. Jori and her daughter, later told to me by Juliet, have decided that they will find a big fat hen or chicken and sacrifice it for me as thanks. I am just glad that today was the day that Juliet and I ended up meeting with Jori, as I know the baby would not have made it through tonight without medical care (and nourishment).
Although it was a rough day I was feeling better that mom and baby had medical care and that they were doing well. Unfortunately, as we left though, Jori came up to speak with Juliet and expressed her concern about her daughter’s HIV. I was unaware of this until then. The struggles this baby is already facing... If given proper care, the chance of mother to baby transmission is actually quite low. However, given that the mother was not on ARVs, had a home birth, and hemorrhaged the baby’s chances of contracting HIV increases up to 40%. 

Let’s hope this so-far-unnamed baby boy will be a lucky one. On our way out we came upon Juliet’s cousin in one of the wards who was being cared for after having a miscarriage from her 4 month pregnancy the night before. Arriving home from the day I had a lot to think about. I have witnessed poor access to medical care before, but today hit me pretty hard. It is difficult to watch just how tough a child can have it just hours into his life. 

Tomorrow morning I am going to go see how the baby (and family) are holding up. I hope tomorrow  is a good day for them (and that baby has made it through the night).

Update: I got a call this evening that they needed help to buy formula. The store that sold it was already closed, but Tara and I took the trip to the hospital anyways. When we arrived Jori and her daughter were quite hungry so we got them some food and water (they had already spent the money I gave them on other things for the baby). 

We had someone translate for us and they had another mother lend them formula until I could come back in the morning. I would also bring more blankets. The baby looked much warmer and had a steady strong breath. They were very thankful for the food and help and I told them I would see them at 9 am with the formula and blankets. They also asked me to name the baby. I told them I would think about a name.

This morning: I was up getting ready to go to the hospital and got a call saying the baby had died. They said the mother and daughter were waiting at the gates and I told them I’d be there soon to bring transport money. When I arrived they were waiting at the public transit stand, looking very upset, and holding the baby wrapped up in blankets to bring home. I was told he made it through the night and died this morning. 

All I could do was say how sorry I was (through my tears) and give them money (plus some extra) to get home. Through someone translating, they asked when I would visit. I told them in a few days. I am going to bring flowers. I am very sad that he did not make it, but am glad he was at least given a chance. Many children don’t get that chance. 

All I can think of is what if she gave birth at the hospital? What if she had prenatal care or seen a doctor during pregnancy? What if he got there sooner? He could have had a better shot-- But I know it is better that he died warm in the hospital with his family and many people fighting for him, rather than without the hope of medical care and in a box on the floor of his grandmothers shop.

For more information you can contact Ms. Hillcoat at:

TVFP likes: Jim Read (a whole lot). Mr. Read is a writer who lives in Parkdale. He has written to us to shamelessly promote (how could we say no) a new release of his short stories: Dispatches From The Belleisle And Other Stories:

Smashwords Interview with Jim Read

Do you remember the first story you ever read, and the impact it had on you?

The first story I ever read was Spot Sees Jane. Spot was a dog and Jane was the pretty girl in the row next to me who had bright blue eyes and black bangs and knew the answers to everything.

When did you first start writing?

My last year of high school. I had an English teacher who got us to write a poem. I did. It had something to do with a beach and the tide.

Where did you grow up, and how did this influence your writing?

I was born in Winnipeg, Manitoba, and I grew up there for awhile. I grew up a little more in Kirkland Lake in North Ontario, a gold mining town that had run out of gold. I was still growing when our family moved east. There was my wandering period that after a few years brought me back to the Maritimes. I'm living in Toronto now. 

Displacement, a sense of loss, yes there's that. A sense of place or a nostalgia for a place is very much a theme for much of what I write.

What motivated you to become an indie author?

There is a real opportunity with Indie publishing to strike a fair deal with my readership. I have these great stories. The pricing is affordable.

Describe your desk

It's a simple, uncluttered platform. Very small, but with room for my elbows. The chair is important. I have a good chair that I can elevate with some sort of a magical air device. The magic lasts for a day or so and then I have to pull on the magical lever. There's an incantation that came with the chair but I've lost it.

What are your five favorite books, and why?

A Farewell To Arms. It was the best thing Hemmingway wrote. It is a simple love story, told in plain language. The economy of the narrative nevertheless conveys a deep emotional impact. There's a Brazilian author, Jorge Amado. I've like everything he's written but particularly, Tieta. Amado is a smorgasbord, with robust characters and vivid descriptions. His plots are models of irony. I would recommend anything by Mordecai Richler, but particularly Joshua Then And Now. Richler's comedic sensibility is relentless. Two Pints, by Roddy Doyle. Doyle's dialogue is unbeatable, his flawed characters completely believable . Rounding up the top five how about a Curtain of Green, by Eudora Welty. Ms. Welty is a master of short fiction.

Who are your favorite authors?

I don't have favorite authors so much as favorite books; A Farewell To Arms, for instance. There are certain parts of books that I re-read, Molly Bloom's soliloquy, The Tale of Aragorn and Arwen. I've read just about everything by Elmore Leonard and Mordecai Richler. It's hard to put down a book by Roddy Doyle once you start. The Color Purple and As I Lay Dying are two books that moved me deeply as did the Diary of Anne Frank. It simply ends one day and it is as chilling a denouement as I've found in any book.

What do you read for pleasure?

Lately I've been reading cookbooks that create a vivid narrative of place and culture. Mourjou, by Peter Graham is just such a book. Mourjou is in the Auvergne region of France.

You can read the entire Interview here:

TVFP recommends you visit this website:

As well, once you're there you can follow a link to a story published and generously archived by The Antigonish Review, a highly regarded literary journal, published by St. Francis Xavier University. A Night Out With All OurCoins is an excellent introduction to Jim Read's writing.

You can also follow this link directly:

A Night Out With All Our Coins

TVFP likes:

Transformations in Toronto’s Parkdale Neighbourhood
UBC Press

Suburb provides an overview of the development of the Village of Parkdale against the background of the historical development of urban theory. However, it was of interest to us because of its usefulness for writers who live in Parkdale or who are interested in using Parkdale as a setting for a fictional work before wading into primary source stuff. It is also well written and of interest

TVFP has heard from our correspondent at large, HRH the Empress of India:

We do not often tell a joke. I told Albert a joke and he thought I wanted to redecorate the palace lavatories. Albert was a German and as a German he was very sensitive to that sort of thing. One of the few jokes I've told was to the French Ambassador. It was in private, for his ears only.

'A French fry walks into an establishment and says to the bartender, Sir, would you be so kind as to pour me a glass of your best claret. The bartender looks at the French fry and bows politely, as a gentlemen should. The Bartender says to the French fry, my dear Sir, I’m sorry, but we don’t serve food.'

Ha, ha. Ha, ha.

Lord Melbourne called on me the next day. He said, Ma’am, are you planning to invade France?

Fuck off. Stupid git.

TVFP presents: The Milky Way. This little lane way runs parallel to Queen Street, from Dufferin Street to Elm Grove Avenue.

Sunday, March 17, 2013

Wes, a seasonal gardener employed by a city in southern Ontario, has written to us with a biographical note. We feel that it has merit and so we have printed it here in its entirety:

Don’t even talk to me you can’t roll up a fifty foot half inch EPDM rubber hose into a tight coil no more than eighteen inches in diameter. I know secateurs is French for pruners. You call a pair of secateurs pruners I will take you for an amateur. You don’t know the best secateurs ever made are the Felco #2 you are probably a phony. You’re shy of the line trimmer and back pack blower that tells me you learned it out of a book as in you know the Latin but you don’t know the lingo.
Mrs. Caruso has a chocolate lab named Crosby who is fit unlike many of the dogs I see. Mrs. Caruso said to me Wes, you’re all on your own in this big park. I said to her, you know Mrs. Caruso I am a seasonal gardener but just the same this ain’t a big park if you got thirty weeks. This would be a small park if you got thirty six weeks which is the number any self respectin gardener in this part of the world would want. You got twenty-six weeks, well then it was big park. Mrs. Caruso had no idea what I was talkin about. In my dreams I am dazzlin her with my steely good looks.
I came in here five years ago there were weeds growin out of the weeds. There were rampant day lilies as in somebody had a two-fer-one on sale. There were overgrown shrubs, badly pruned and choked with old and dead wood. There were dead and half dead Austrians and Red Maple. There was weeds and grass in the cobble and the limestone scree path down to the embankment was a field of dandelions.
The year they gave it to me you could see the dead patches all across the turf from the dog poop. I talked to the dog owners. I explained to them a good solid dog turd may mean your pet is in good health but that little puppy will still retain enough of its potency to burn a lawn after the big melt. At that time I didn’t know I was comin back in the spring. Well I did come back and you know there was maybe a fifty to sixty percent decline in turf burn from dog poop.
Now Mrs Frumpy, as I call her, came to me and said Mr. Gardener, I have found some mushrooms and I want you to identify them for me. I am concerned they are poisonous and may pose a danger to Chico. Well, Chico is a noisy irritatin little rat dog Chihuahua. I know Mrs. Frumpy don’t pick up after it.
So I said, Mrs. Frumpy is Chico partial to mushrooms? She said, I beg your pardon. I said ma’am because if he is, that is Mushroominous Canadiansis Queen of Transylvania or some dumb thing like that. I said, it is impossible to kill and it will sure as shootin kill your beautiful dog he even takes a whiff of it.
Well don’t Mrs. Frumpy look shocked. I pressed my advantage. Mrs. Frumpy, I said, best advice maybe take Chico to another park until I can get the poisonous plant people over here and get rid of this menace of a mushroom. Of course, I said, but you know how City Hall works. It could take years.
 She looked at me out of the corner of her eye. Yes then, Mr. Gardener, thank you. Well, no further comment on Mrs. Frumpy, as I don’t believe in speaking ill of people whatever I might think, although I should say there was an old couch put out for pick up on my street and I had to take a second look as I thought I was bein stalked.
I got five years to go to full retirement.  My old knee cartilage is tellin me I should be shmoozin Mrs. Frumpy who I’m guessin is a sad and lonely old thing. This year and the next. That’s it. I mean probably what I’ve got left in me. I lay awake at night listenin to them knees burn. That way I pretend they don’t hurt. I pretend they are a song from an opera I once heard with Patti Scram. Ibuprofen works a little. I got a prescription for these anti-inflammatories. Some days I have to gobble the stuff. I ain’t complainin.
They started callin me Wes the Dope. I had finally got the park headed in the right direction. Maybe twelve things that had to be done. I wrote up a list. This was the middle of year two in a heat wave that had been goin on for some time. A garbage troll gave me that moniker one day it was near forty with the humidex. He gave it to me from the inside of an air conditioned cab while I was workin the perennial beds down by the channel. I wear it with pride.
I came out of the north. I came down here with Patti Scram as my common law wife. We had two children. Donny wasn’t quite right and maybe we should have had him in a different school. When he was sixteen he tried buttin heads with a subway train. A witness said he must have been down the tunnel. The witness Donny came out of the dark at the train like he was chargin the scrimmage line, one shoulder down, a wild grin on his face. They say he was bullied at school. I never learned the truth of it. I lost track of Elaine and her mother. I think they might be out on the west coast.
We came down here I did hard landscapin, interlock mostly, in the private sector until my body broke down. They kicked me out and then I got on with the City as a Parks Handyworker. I liked it. I liked workin in a park. I woke up one mornin and realized I had found my callin in life.
I wanted a park of my own and so I studied for one year and wrote the gardenin test. Darn if I didn’t pass it. I know there is a God because He persuaded Parks and Rec to give me this place and to let me stay. I know there is a Satan because he sent Mrs. Frumpy and Chico to torment me. By the way she ignored my advice on the mushrooms and I am still pickin up after that rat dog. God also gave me Mrs. Caruso who gave me a Harris Tweed jacket with the patches on the elbows that smelt of mothballs. She said her husband had outgrown it. I would marry Mrs. Caruso in a heartbeat.
I play it by the numbers. I’ve got twelve numbers in my head. Second or third day on the job back in year one I sat down on one of the park tables and made a list of the things I had to do to bring the park back, resurrect it you might say. There were twelve things. I forget what they were now. They were basic gardening things; dividin perennials, weedin and pruning, de-thatchin, aeratin and overseedin the grass, gettin to know the locals. Things I needed to do to put the park right, challenges then, and you know what I got them done.
I think about the death of my son all the time. I think about my wife and daughter runnin off. I think about my body breakin down. I don’t know that I ever did anythin to deserve that, but the boy killed himself and the girls are gone and my knees are made of glass. Some how I think it is down to me. Maybe I was a little harsh with them. Maybe I didn’t take care of myself they way I should have.
I do my best with the park. I love this place. I think to myself I keep a good park, I keep it so that it’s right, I’ll be forgiven. It’s what gets me out of bed in the mornin, thirty weeks a year. The other twenty two are a little on the rough side.

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Sunday, March 10, 2013

Queen Victoria on Civic Politics in Toronto

You know there are so many shabby little men around. God knows and I’ve spoken to Him about this, the Empire was full of them. They were the ones who came after the explorers and adventurers and then the conquerors and then the sturdy honest brave men who stitched it all together. The shabby little men were creatures who existed and thrived in the moist cracks and in the dryness of old paper.

Nowadays we have to admit there are the shabby little women. They are all beneath contempt but you have them, there they are in great numbers, you have them. There they are like cockroaches or a bad smell. They are like dried feces. They are like a cesspool. Eventually something new and refreshing blows or washes it all away. You must show patience.

I asked God how is that we have so many of these shabby little men and women. God said, my dear, it is because we wish them upon ourselves. I asked God, why do we wish these shabby little men and women upon ourselves? (Not upon our royal self, please be assured.) God said, it is in our nature. I said to God, but we are made in your image. God declined to comment as you know a god, sorry God has been known to do.

But there, spoken from God, it is in your nature to inflict these shabby little men and women upon yourselves. There, from God. Not a whiff of Darwin.
Is there not a man or a woman amongst you with a grand vision? Are there not women and men who thirst for adventure? Are there not person of both sexes who aspire to endure great challenges, to conquer their fears? Where are the good sturdy people who dedicate themselves to the preservation of a good and decent civilization?

We shall not comment on the Irish this day. We have been apprised that there are Irishmen in Heaven. This is most distressing. I must take this up with Cleopatra who is a most annoying girl but very entertaining at cards. She maintains the most shining complexion and chides me that a dram of urine in the morning is absurd, but rather random intercourse with multiple partners of both sexes including angels is the secret to a fine complexion. She says I am irrelevant and sometimes I believe her.

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Sunday, February 24, 2013

TVFP: New Apps for the New Age

1.              Mondo Cats:  lovingly shot pics of adorable cats, domestic and feral, eating their offspring and killing endangered songbirds.

2.              Extreme Epicure: beautifully rendered shots of master chefs preparing delectable dishes of dog, cat and monkey meat.

3.              Banker’s Delight: this travel app follows disposed families as they pack up their belongings in the Ford Escort and head down the road to East of Eden. Complete with interactive maps and historical anecdotes.

4.              For the worldly aficionado we have German Schiesse Porn, the certified organic version. Now available in HD.

5.              High on America: high definition videos of born again Christian children of both sexes shooting Mediterranean fish in a barrel with twelve gauge shotguns. It’s cute. They wear bibs. No level of difficulty. This one is for the tots in the family.

6.              India for Men: a gaming app that allows you to rape young girls, kill them and then throw them down a well. Eleven levels of difficulty.

7.              The Village of Small Huts: another gaming app that let’s you bet on which Native child will blow up first from sniffing gasoline. You hold the barbecue lighter. Awesome graphics. Four stars.

8.              African Safari Plus: this app lets you manoeuvre a bulldozer. This time sensitive app challenges the user to fill up the mass graves of victims of genocide, internecine wars, starvation and capitalism before the United Nations security force arrives to secure the perimeter and dole out humanitarian aid. Great fun for the whole family.
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Sunday, February 17, 2013

Pope Benedict Resigns: The PLF handicaps potential replacements

With the sudden and shocking resignation of the latest in a long line of Christian champions of genocide, paedophilia and misogyny the Church has an opportunity to begin the long and tortuous process of the self criticism and healing. The Department of Religious Affairs and Other Weird Stuff of The Parkdale Liberation Front as put together a short list of possible replacements for the old fart:

1.              The Littlest Hobo: we readily admit that choosing another German for the papacy is a long shot. However he is a shepherd and every flock needs an alert and courageous protector otherwise you get eaten by the wolves, unless of course you are already running with the wolves and then it’s sort of a culling process, you to the left, you to the right. However the Littlest Hobo has some serious credentials when it comes to saving people and ferreting out evil doers of which we are sure are plentiful in supply within the walls of the Vatican. Still a long shot.


2.              Frodo Baggins: this stout of heart hobbit took on Sauron the Dark Lord in a fight to the death of good vs. evil. Despite having hairy feet this little fella might just have the moxie needed to clean up centuries of papal self entitlement and abuse. Even money.

3.              Marg Delahunty, Princess Warrior: admittedly a woman as pope strains credibility when you consider that the papacy is a woman hating institution that has yet to emerge from the Dark Ages. We admire the Princess’s irreverent sense of humour. We believe that an institution that finds its jollies by burning people alive at the stake might find Marg just the breath of fresh oxygen it needs. Of course we need to be reminded that in the Middle Ages one of their Popes was a woman and when they found out she was tied to a horse’s tail and dragged through the streets and stoned until she was dead. Marg we think is a long, long shot.

This Hour Has 22 Minutes

4.              Finally there is everyone’s favourite giant, The Friendly Giant, currently retired. The thing is being a giant he’d have plenty of weight to throw around when it came to reigning in the trolls and neandrathals who currently run the church bureaucracy. As well there are the various cabals within the church who along with the Queen of England are intent on world domination. However The Friendly Giant isn't without allies. Rusty the chicken and Jerome the giraffe would pretty soon put things in order along the sin encrusted walls of the Vatican. A Five to One Favourite of ours.

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Sunday, February 10, 2013

The Parkdale Liberation Front Uncovers Secret Espionage Activity in Parkdale

Sub-Lt. Jeffrey Delisle of the Royal Canadian Navy was sentenced on January 10th to twenty years in the hoosegow and a fine of $111,000 CDN for passing naval secrets to the Rooskies. The PLF has recently completed its own investigation into secret espionage activity in the Village of Parkdale.

During our investigation the PLF secret investigative team of Assistant Commander Ron and Patti, a waitress at a local Parkdale establishment were able to capture a top secret conversation between a high official in the Chinese Ministry of State Security (MSS) and an important operative of the Russian Intelligence Directorate (GRU).

We are pleased to be able to provide a transcript of this shocking conversation to the Canadian people.

MSS         Victor, nice to see you, huh.

GRU         You too, Lee.

MSS         So you buying Canadian now.

GRU         We shop the world as befitting the importance of our nation’s 
                  international stature.

MSS         You buy from us, huh.

GRU         Only from approved sources.

MSS         I approve all your sources. Give you good deal, huh? It’s okay I see you
                 blushing. You get any good stuff from Sub-Lieutenant?

GRU         Let’s just say that the transactions with the naval officer were most beneficial.

MSS         How much you pay?

GRU         I think we paid fair market value.

MSS         You think so. You buy from me I give you discount. You boss think you

GRU         Why would I buy Canadian goods from China?

MSS         Listen Victor, inside Oval Office there a little string. President Obama pull
                 little string Prime Minister Harper jump up say, woof, woof. Okay.

GRU         I think it’s fair to say that Washington has a great deal of influence in Ottawa.

MSS         He pull another string Harper roll over play dead.

GRU         Perhaps an exaggeration.

MSS         Okay no exaggeration who own Canada?

GRU         Certainly the US is Canada’s largest trading partner.

MSS         Okay next question, who own the US?

GRU         What’s your point, Lee?

MSS         Everybody know China own US, so US own Canada, next time you in market for
                 information you come to me I give you good deal, top notch stuff.

GRU         Really?

MSS         Is all about Arctic resources Victor. They ours, huh. You wait and see.

GRU         I don’t think so.

MSS         Confucius say: A man only as faithful as his appetites. You want another latte?


Sunday, January 20, 2013

TVFP: A Delhi Savant's Homily on a Box


A Delhi Savant's Homily on a Box

We were reading the news feeds and we thought you would appreciate this little gem plucked from the Letters to the Editor section of a certain Delhi newspaper. This man writes:

Now let us please agree that a box is a receptacle. It may have four sides or it may not; a hat box for instance, may very well be circular. The one property that they share is their availability as a receptacle. Of this there can be no doubt. In fact I mention it here at the risk of being accused of stating the obvious. However it is necessary to lay out our terms of reference before we can proceed, as men of good will and with an interest in understanding the truth.

Now let us say that an empty box is a box in name only. It exists in time and space however its emptiness is like a bird without a song, a poet without a voice, a flower that fails to blossom. In this we can agree, can we not, that an empty box is bereft, a sad thing, its emptiness like the sharp keening of sorrow across an expanse of water.

Thus we must agree that the thing in and of itself is only truly itself when it is put to the use for which it was constructed whether by man or by the gods themselves. And we know that a box can be put to many uses. One might use a velvet lined box to conceal a sparkling gem for the graceful neck of a beloved wife. One might use a plain box to store the treasures of one’s childhood such as cherished photographs or much loved toys.

But supposing one came upon an empty box that is, let us say, in the public domain? Perhaps it is on public transit. This box is empty this much is obvious. How does one respond? Clearly an empty box is, in that diminished state less than itself, it is a mere shade wandering in the twilight, an object pity for some, of scorn for others. Does it not then follow that to fill such an empty box cannot be condemned, but rather applauded, in the light of logic and reason? Is it not at the very least a human kindness?

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