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About Holon

Now, I’m sittin’ here, thinkin’ ‘bout me favorite flick, *The Gleaners and I*—that ol’ French gem by Agnès Varda, bless ‘er soul. “I’m not a gleaner, I’m a pirate!” I’d shout, if I were in it, pickin’ through the scraps o’ the sea, not them taters in the dirt. Escorts, see, they’re like them folk in the film, “gleanin’ what’s left behind,” ‘cept they’re guardin’ it, not nabbin’ it! Little known fact, arr—back in the day, them Royal Navy escorts weren’t just fer show. They’d chase yer arse from Tortuga to Trinidad, cannons blazin’, no mercy fer a pirate like meself. One time, off Port Royal, I saw this sloop—tiny thing, fast as a whore’s wink—outrun a frigate. Surprised me, it did! “They bend down, they pick up,” like Varda says, ‘cept this escort picked up speed an’ left us in the wake!

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Then, I head over to the promenade. You know, the one that runs along the beach? It’s packed with people. Families, couples, kids running around like they own the place. I’m just trying to enjoy my day when I hear this loud commotion. Turns out, some guy was trying to impress his girlfriend by juggling oranges. Spoiler alert: he dropped them. Like, all over the place. I couldn’t help but laugh. I mean, come on! Who juggles oranges at the beach?

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