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17 August 2015
Vol. V, No. 258

From Elizabeth Boleman-Herring: Weekly Hubris‘s primary benefactor and muse, over the past five years, has been F. Theresa Gillard, who returns to her keyboard this week with a piece on traveling home for the holidays to South Carolina. Sandlapper William A. Balk, Jr. has been writing as well: this week, about grits present, and remembrance of grits past. (It’s a short, short journey from Will’s garden to his kitchen and so, often, he conflates the two spaces . . . to our delight.) So, two South Carolinians on board here in mid-August. (Observant readers may detect a theme.) Your Faithful Editor, as well, recovering from her Florida-induced stupor, meditates upon a table of odd and runic objects (a few of which hail from . . . South Carolina, though most were found in Greece). Scroll and read, Weekly Hubrisians; scroll and read.

Flight No. 1247 is no longer delayed.

Flight No. 1247 is no longer delayed.

Status: Quo Minus

“Flight No. 1247 Is No Longer Delayed: It’s Cancelled” By F. Theresa Gillard

BOSTON Massachusetts—(Weekly Hubris)—8/17/2015—I have this little story to tell. Honestly, I’m full of ‘em. Of course, it’s mostly about me. So, I traveled to South Carolina for the holidays. Yes, I did say “traveled,” meaning I boarded another aircraft. Really, there’s no other way anymore. (Read more . . .)

The Smoker.

The Smoker.

Epicurus’ Porch

“True Grits: A Sandlapper Heritage” By William A. Balk, Jr

BEAUFORT South Carolina—(Weekly Hubris)—08/17/2015—Claims to “Heritage” have been much in the news recently, and those born in any culture and raised to know that culture’s history will understand the complexities such knowledge reveals. I was born in the American South, although the distinction of having been reared in South Carolina—a Sandlapper—was of more significance to how one defined oneself than was the more generic “Southerner.” I suspect “Sicilian” more correctly reflects the identity of someone from Palermo than does “Italian.” It’s the same for me. (Read more . . .)

The small exoskeleton I carry going forward, and looking back.

The small exoskeleton I carry going forward, and looking back.

By Way of Being

“Provenance: Remembrance of Small Things Past” By Elizabeth Boleman-Herring

PETIT TRIANON Florida—(Weekly Hubris)—8/17/2015—Wherever I have hung my hat in adulthood, my personal space has been . . . riddled with altars. Not altars erected to “received deities” but, rather, collections of totems, assemblies of memory-stones, strings of beads to “tell,” and re-tell. Objets trouvés. Also, objects given as tokens of affection, declarations of love. Objects embodying received wisdom. (Read more . . .)

Fifty Shades of Greece 01

Fifty Shades of Greece I

Out of Santorini

“Fifty Shades of Greece” By Doris Athanassakis

IMEROVIGLI, Santorini Greece—(Weekly Hubris)—8/10/2015—This portfolio of  images represents yet another offering via Weekly Hubris of works by photographer Doris Athanassakis. Here, Doris again turns her lens on elements of her analog and demotic world, focusing on cliff-face views of Santorini’s “caldera,” and the myriad and variegated cats among which she lives. (Read more . . .)

Image 1 large, here, Tim. Caption: “Illegal” is not an adjective applicable to people.

“Illegal” is not an adjective applicable to people.

Waking Point

“Liars & Haters & Poseurs, Oh My!” By Helen Noakes

SAN FRANCISCO California—(Weekly Hubris)—8/10/2015—They say they don’t want us here—us immigrants with no papers to permit our presence. As if words on paper are worth more than the paper they’re written on. They call us vile names, accuse us of heinous crimes, these white folks with distorted faces, these usurpers in a foreign land. How quickly they’re forgotten their own trespass on our Native brethren’s land, their own crimes of murder, torture, rape—not only of the people they called Indians, but of a land that once was pure majesty. (Read more . . .)

Plato’s “Allegory of The Cave.”

Plato’s “Allegory of The Cave.”

Skip the B.S.

“Submerged Cables: Intuition” By Skip Eisiminger

CLEMSON South Carolina—(Weekly Hubris)—8/10/2015—I took Psych 201: Introduction to Psychology when Shane, our first born, was about six months old, not knowing he’d be perfect for my experiments in epistemology. He spat and frowned when I fed him a lemon slice and sucked ferociously when I offered him my honeyed finger. He cried when the radio was too loud, closed his eyes when the light was too bright, dropped the ice cubes I handed him, and wrinkled his nose when I held his diaper too near. Hence, I concluded, humans are born knowing a great deal, or blessed with a ready grasp, or both. (Read more . . .)

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