You canít have it both ways.
Humans know well that covering up all or part of the face serves to allow the Hidden to do Bad Deeds.
That does not mean that women who cover up all or part of their face are about to do a bad deed.
But you have to consider those who urge the Covering of the Face in the first place.
Do they, or do they not, have bad deeds in their minds?
I attended a memoir-writing group in the afternoon. We were given fifteen minutes to write from personal experience on a random topic. My first effort appears below, warts and all, transcribed directly from the penciled page.
During the introductory phase of the meeting I had written down a half-dozen names at random spots on my sheet and added the challenge that those names had to be woven into my memoir as my pencil arrived at their location.
(Itís not enough just to write; I have to invent hurdles!)
People I do Not Admire
There is a website, but the name isnít given immediately, so I donít care. Iím waiting to hear if a memoir can start mid-term or whether it has to begin with my first memory of Jody which was really only ten minutes ago. MY memoirs are sitting in the laptop behind me and had I been aware of the North York Library courses in memoir writing Iíd perhaps not be here but be sitting at home nursing a steaming mug of Lapsang Soochong tea instead of a grudge against Cecilia who is really Selia with-an-ess who says that ďstar-place-of-memoryĒ as a web site like all websites starts with an :HttpĒ whereas I know that the Royal Bank website starts with https.
But James has the can of treasures, i.e. topics.
There will be a random draw and already I regret writing ďA New Kind Of ScienceĒ because hell! Itís got fifteen pages of Wolfram on ďWhy I write this wayĒ.
Michael rowed the boat ashore. I could begin my memoirs at Uni with Peter, Paul, and Mary, but then why go back to those times?
It was Barbara Tuchmanís ďGuns Of AugustĒ that sparked my interest in the Third |Balkan War which led me (and Linda?) back to 1870 so I suppose I could say that my earliest memory is of the Franco-Prussian war, for what is a memoir if not a hard-copy dump of my memory, and as Pinker and Dawkins tell me, all memory is fabricated, so how can I trust my memory?
My first memory of writing a memoir was writing the matriculation exam in English. I hated Jeff Horner with a passion, and since he was seated just three seats ahead of me I vented my spleen on his Popularity, his Capo De Prefects, Prowess in Aussie Rules and cricket, good lucks, in fact, just about everything I wasnít. So after fifty years I still wonder if he got a distinction in English.
I know that I did. Spewing out my guts in a final blast-furnace of hate seems to have impressed the examiner.
It certainly impressed my literate dad because he had watched my previous five exams: Fail, Pass, Fail, Pass, Fail and was keeping his fingers crossed. I often wonder if heíd prayed that Iíd get a pass. Was he disappointed with a distinction?
My earliest memory of writing is a letter I wrote when I was four years old. I was in plaster in a hospital bed away from home and by age four I was already writing.
So why at age seventy do I write here for fifteen minutes feeling as if I am racing against the clock in an examination?
What the hell!
I am retired.
Iíll stop now.