Sunday 9 June 2013
Last Issue
Reverb Summer Edition
Here is our summer issue, we hope you enjoy it , and expect a lot more this coming September.
If you have any comments or would like to contribute , please email me at
"victoria.taittinger@gmail.com" or , drop us a line here or on our facebook page.
Bonnes Vacances ! :)
The Fashionable Critic
Parlons du Fashion Show 2013. En valais t’il la peine? Reste à voir ce que le jury en à penser,
mais pour ce que j’en ai entendus, le show en a ravie plus d’un!
D’abord venons en à son organisation, en rappelant que les fonds récoltes, une belle somme, on étaient reversés à Justice au Cœur.
Assurément, le comité a fais un beau travail, et puis imaginer vous , avec cette nouvelle sale dépourvus d’un catwalk et d’autant d’espace qu’auparavant les
choses n’était pas facile . Mais ils pourraient s’améliorer sur quelques points
en ce qui concerne l’organisation, la présentation (vidéo et leaflets) et la circulation de l’information.
Bien sûr il faut reconnaître ce travail fou avec une administration parfois réticente.Merci à
tout ce qui ont rendus le show possible !
Venons en désormais à la partie plus captivante de ces deux soirées, en omettant toutes
les nuits blanches qui ont mené a son aboutissement.
On pourrait croire que les choses seraient différentes après la première fois.
Une fois sous les spotlights, la deuxième ne serais t’elle pas moins éblouissante ?
Eh bien ! Non, détrompez
vous. Elle est d’autant plus incroyable.
Je ne saurais
vous décrire exactement ce sentiment… un sentiment que tout ce qui ont
participer au Fashion Show connaissent surement. C’est un mix de stress,
Bonheur, d’une attente trop longtemps refoulé et d’une bonne dose de soulagement
après tant de travail qui est vite suivis par le regret de ne pouvoir repasser
et d’être forcé de patienter à contrecœur
jusqu’a l’année prochaine.
Mais avant de penser à l’année prochaine il faudrait vous parler de cette année.
Les groupes on tous fais preuves d’une grande créativité, que ce soit Dolls and Puppets avec
leur mémorable jack in the box, Star Wars et leur chorégraphie entrainante sur
“going to heaven with the stars” ou encore Fashion Tools et leurs designs a la
fois chic et originaux fruits de l’imagination d’une seule.
Apres pour les gagnants vous les connaissez, et ce , avec raison.
Qui n’a pas été émerveillé par Dream Catchers ? Avec leurs danses envoutantes, ce petit nuage chapoté, ses
robes de toiles et de plumes, et cette cage qui a du prendre un temps fou !
Subtile et sublime a la fois, bravo.
Qui n’a pas adorée ce Carnaval coloré qui s’ouvre en live ? Des oiseaux d’un bien beau
plumage! En plus d’une danse exécutée à la perfection et une compilation
musicale qui nous a donné envie de prendre le premier ticket direction Rio. Félicitations!
Ah, maintenant les
Boys. Ces garçons qui avec leur Evolution of Dance en ont font craqué plus d’une,
on créer une sacrée polémique parmi
les participants.
Une troisième place non méritée ? Je ne pense pas. Oui , peut être n’ont ils pas entièrement
assimilés les termes “fashion” et “création” mais en tout cas le “show” et l’énergie
était la. Une fin belle et bien digne d’un si beau show.
Alors venez nombreux l’année prochaine à cet évènement unique qui dure, et je l’espère,
dureras.
By Victoria Taittinger
A Look back at London 2012 by Corentin HERBINET
Well, 2012 was quite a year for London, wasn't it? With the Queen's Diamond Jubilee and of course the unmissable Olympic Games, people all around the world got a feel for the british culture and London's mix of tradition and modernity.
More than six months have now passed since Team GB's open-top bus parade to celebrate their achievements with all their fans. Therefore, now is the right time to have a look back at London 2012 and check if it respected al of its contract(s).
I can start by saying what everyone already knows: the London Olympic Games honoured sport, thanks to amazing athletes taking part in various events, in modern infrastructures. The Games created a movement of optimism in London and even around Great Britain.
But what marks did London 2012 leave? Firstly, the event was a defeat for British economy: more than 10 billion pounds were spent to organise the Games, which is aproximately the same as they spend on tertiary education (universities, colleges, etc.) in a year. Some people will say that the 3% increase in tourists in 2013, wanting to see London's beauty for themselves, is a benefit but it will never give the taxpayers' their money back.
Nevertheless, the city of London has used the Games as a start to restructuring the Eastern, ex-industrial, area of the town. The Olympic Park will be opened to everyone from July 2013 and will be renamed the Queen Elizabeth Olympic Park. This will be the centre of a new vibrant and active part of London where companies are being persuaded to move to, next to the huge Westfield shopping centre. The Olympic Village (the apartments where all the athletes lived) will be sold as cheap and modern apartments. What's more, the East of London's connectivity has greatly improved during the Games: it will be served by eight train lines, with London City Airport less than 20 minutes away, and half-an-hour away from the M25, one of Britain's most used motorway.
But what about its sports legacy? In my opinion, London 2012 was a great show of solidarity and making sport available to everyone. Many Londoners came together to make the Olympics the best event London has ever seen and nothing would have been possible without the “Game Makers”, the huge number of volunteers who literally made the Games successful. 2012 was also the first time that the Paralympics receive as much attention as they did: all the people that didn't manage to get a ticket for the “real” Games (and there were many) took the Paralympics as an opportunity to discover the Olympic atmosphere and by consequence most stadiums were full. The crowd weren't shy to show their support for the handicapped heroes pushing their bodies to the limit.
London 2012's motto was “Inspire a Generation” and inspire a generation they did. Team GB's great performance at the Games gave the opportunity to children to watch plenty of sports during ther summer holidays and there has been a significant increase in children participation all around Britain's sports clubs. 2012 was the first time that a host nation put out a team or at least a participant for every single sport represented at the tournament, which gave everyone the opportunity to discover new sports while still supporting their favourite team. The symbolic lighting of the Olympic torch by a few future athletes represented exactly what London 2012 did right: passing the torch to the young and letting sport get its deserved victory.
The unsung heroes
The unsung heroes
“What happens when well-known men die?”
Well dear we build a monument.
“What else?” Well we all cry and cry.
We weep a lot and we lament.
“What happens when unknown men die?”
Well dear we dig a shallow grave,
Rain opens them up to the sky,
Memory is an empty cave.
“But what if they were also great?”
My dear, fame we do not forsake.
“Take me to where their ashes lay
And there all I will see is earth.
Take me to where their souls now play
Then I will be the judge of worth.”
Tatiana LEBRETON
The master of fates
The master of fates
Steady! Steady! Engineer!
Captain’s coming down from deck!
Get the grime, every smear,
Captain’s coming down to check!
Steady! Steady! Engineer!
Got a leakage in the ship!
Water’s come to laugh and sneer,
Get the buckets! Quick! Quick! Quick!
Steady! Steady! Engi- Eek!
Got a big burst in the pipe!
Gotta fix it up real neat
Otherwise, explode it might!
Steady! Steady! Engineer
Who keeps this dear boat afloat.
Now hide in the engine’s gear
A mere shadow in a coat.
Tatiana LEBRETON
Nouvelles
First Alarm. Are you kidding me? It’s still black as death
out there. Hit the snooze button. A few minutes, I can’t be late with a few
minutes.
Second Alarm. Well the situation hasn’t gotten much better,
still one of those tireless winter mornings that persist in invading an already
morose spring calendar.
Third alarm. Now is the time to make a move.
After the daily ritual of a cup of green tea, it’s the
fashion trial. The comfy grey sweater , top shelf, and funky leggings could
do…but one quickly remembers, that among those three thousand students, looks
do matter. Oh certainly nothing wrong with that outfit, but if you want to look
like your having one of those snug days, it can’t be effortless.
Hair is the key, braids should do the trick.
One quick look at my phone tells me he answered. With a
goodbye that remains unanswered in an empty house, I’m off. 8:28? That’s okay,
supposedly…. it’s safe till 8:40, right? Wrong. With most it’s 8:31.All though
it is undeniably disrespectful, who has it in them to rush?
The hustle and bustle of the street oozes past my headphones.
The clipedy claps from the glistening pavements accompany
Cat Stevens, the fast beeping lights interrupt Dire Straits and the still cabs’
hum momentarily join the morning’s harmony.
We are face to face now. The dreaded blue gate and I.
Enemies till university do us part.
I’m in for an extra fifteen minutes, until someone deems it
a fit and most useful punishment.
Unfortunately laziness not being considered an acceptable reason,
and since I can’t think of anything witty at the moment, “problème de bus” will
have to do.
First row for good figure. Oh I don’t mind participating.
What I hate are useless questions that lead nowhere, not the ones where someone
is attempting to understand, but the ones where someone tries to give the
illusion they are participating and lamely attempt to show the little knowledge they may hold through an
interrogative form.
After the first quarter she has already lost half the class.
It’s not her, it’s the system.
The way we are taught often fails to captivate if you aren’t already passionate.
I do love it, but my mind is elsewhere.
Smoking hour strikes. I still fail to see what they all find
attractive?
Sure, when Audrey Hepburn or James Dean were at it, you could say it
was sexy, daring, the thing to do.
Now, it’s unoriginal, dreadfully unoriginal and
preposterous.
There they are “ taxing” and chitchatting about who was most
hammered last Friday night, and the unforgettable upcoming exams.
The alternative would be the repulsive green préau with it’s
two absurd empty pots.
I suppose outside, with half the school, but mind you, only
the cool and popular half of it, is a better, at least more esthetic option.
What would he think if he were to see me now? With a fag at
my lips.
A traitor, that’s what I would be. She died because of it,
he knows that.
The bell tolls for us. Off to class again. No matter how hard I try, getting him of my mind remains impossible. A single word can summon him , an image bring him to mind and a thought keep him there.
Maybe a math test isn’t the most appropriate place to day dream? Granted it isn’t the most
comfortable. Nonetheless, those aren’t things you can control.
When you realise, it’s too late, they’ve already crawled under your skin and engrained
themselves there, for pleasure like pain, worries like happiness and constant
wondering. But right now, with him, I was happy. It seemed he was the only one
to care, not by obligation but will. I guess that’s what does the trick,
someone that listens, and is worth listening to.
Your always going to get hurt, it’s finding the one that is worth getting hurt by that matters.
Corridor to corridor, wall to wall, class to class, desk to
desk, sit to sit, poet to poet goes on till 6’o’ clock. After the best wishes
for nocturnal homework, the rond point gradually empties. All those people whose
name you will never bother to learn, head back to similar homes. Broken
marriages holding by a thread, constant reprimand for nothing and anything,
conversations that lead nowhere, a worrisome future that, slowly but surely,
drags you in closer and closer by the minute…but he is there.
I run up the stairs, furtively look for my bag, grab it,
unlock it, and smile as his name flashes onto the screen. I can’t wait to read
it.
Perplexed, I stop midsentence; my eyes refuse to read on. I sit.
The words hit against my skull, their echo invade my every
thought.
“In the city” resonates, “ accident” crushes it, “dead”
chokes me.
“Dead”, “dying”, “gone”, that’s all I hear. That’s all I’ll
ever hear.
Anonymous
Nouvelles
Le chaos régnait. Partout. On tentait de sauver ses possessions, sa peau si on était
moins bête, ou si l’on comprenait la situation plus clairement. Et puis il y en
avait aussi, qui, toujours, derrière leurs bureaux, tentaient de sauver la
république.
Il rentrait d’Orly, ou il venait de voire Dunderdale, un ami Anglais, qui était venu
évacuer un polonais, très cher aux services de renseignements britanniques. Un
coup d’œil lui avait fait comprendre que Dunderdale était désolé, mais que son
petit avion officiel ne pouvait prendre personne d’autre. De toute façon, il
n’avait pas envisagé cette solution pour fuir. Il aurait été porté déserteur.
Même pendant une invasion on prend le temps de faire l’appel.
Vite, très vite, il avait rejoint le quai d’Orsay, et avait monté quatre à quatre les
marches de l’escalier.
« Monsieur Langeron ? » Il
avait demandé au fonctionnaire derrière le bureau.
« En bas, occupé à surveiller le
chargement des péniches. » L’autre n’avait pas relevé le nez de son
travail.
Il était rapidement redescendu. Roger Langeron, préfet de police de Paris,
supervisait effectivement le chargement des dernières caisses dans deux
péniches à vapeur. Il n’avait pas l’air surpris de le voir.
« Vous allez avec eux. Il y a
vingt-cinq kilos de dynamite avec tous ce fatras. Le conducteur connait la
route, vous n’avez qu’à saborder. Personne ne doit avoir ces documents. »
Ils descendirent ensemble dans une des péniches. Un homme installait un
pavillon prioritaire, bien visible, sur le pont.
« Qu’est ce que c’est ? » Il
ouvrit une des caisses. Elle était remplie de papiers.
« Tous les documents du quai. Et
quelques autres. Ces caisses là, particulièrement, vous y faites attention. Ce
sont toutes les fiches sur les familles juives qu’on a pu trouver. Ca n’empêchera
rien, mais au moins ca les ralentira. Et puis, peut-être qu’il y en aura qui
parviendront à passer entre les mailles du filet… »
« Monsieur le préfet ? » Un
des gendarmes demanda, en rentrant à moitié à l’intérieur « Nous
appareillons. »
Le préfet
leur dit au revoir, les gendarmes et lui, en leur répétant de saborder la
péniche s’ils étaient arrêtés.
« Il était temps. Les frisés seront là
dans moins de deux jours. »
***
L’écluse était en miettes. Des bouts de la porte flottaient sur l’eau, les bords du
canal étaient éventrés, et l’eau coulait librement. Pour la péniche, en
revanche, cela aurait été plus difficile de passer.
« Y’a pas a dire, c’est drôlement
précis, leurs stukas. »
Ils cachèrent la péniche dans des roseaux, sur le bord du Loing, et la sabordèrent.
« Voilà. Quelques tonnes de papier
buvard en plus pour les poissons. »
« Qu’est ce qu’on fait
maintenant ? » L’autre péniche avait pris un autre chemin. Avec un peu
de chance, elle serait plus rapide que l’avancée allemande.
« Nous on doit marcher jusqu'à la
gendarmerie. On fera notre rapport là. Vous venez avec nous ? »
Il réfléchit un moment. « Je vais me
débrouiller, merci. Bonne chance. » Lui et les gendarmes partirent dans
deux directions opposées, eux vers le sud-est, lui vers le nord-ouest.
Après vingt minutes de marche, par pure chance, il arriva à une intersection. Un
groupe de mobilisés du centre s’y tenaient. Ils le prirent dans leur camion en
échange de directions. Il avait eu la chance de s’ennuyer beaucoup, enfant, et
de se distraire en apprenant les grandes routes de France par cœur. Ils
seraient à Brest le 17 juin.
***
Il se promenait sur le quai militaire, attendant, comme tous les autres. Peu de gens
avaient des ordres, encore moins avaient les ressources pour les exécuter.
« Z’avez du feu ? »Un marin
lui demandait, une cigarette à la main.
« En permission ? » lui
demanda-t-il, en tendant son briquet.
« Non, coulé. Sabordé, plutôt. »
Il lui rendit son briquet.
« Comment ça, sabordé ? »
« Ordres de l’amiral Darlan, le grand
gourou. Tous les navires qui ne sont pas en état de prendre la mer doivent se
saborder. Sinon, départ vers les Antilles, Dakar, ou un port anglais. La
plupart partent vers les ports français. Sauf les sous-marins. Leur navire
ravitailleur, le Jules Verne, est
parti plus tôt, menant tambour battant neuf petits de 600 tonnes, et cinq gros
de 1500 tonnes. »
« Il y en a encore qui
restent ? »
Le marin ricana « Oui, si l’on
veut ! Y’en a quelque uns sur lesquels les ingénieurs s’épuisent, pour les
rendre étanches avant l’après-midi. Sinon, il y a le Surcouf, mais lui, on est même pas sur qu’il parte. »
Le Surcouf n’avait pas été très dur à trouver. Il était en carénage, complètement
à sec, pour réparations. Des jurons sortaient ostensiblement de ses entrailles,
traitant éperdument le moteur de tous les noms possibles et imaginables.
Un officier se tenait sur le bord, seul. Il se tourna vers lui tandis qu’il
approchait.
« Un problème ? »
« Non, mon capitaine, mais je cherche
à rejoindre l’Angleterre, et j’entends que vous partez. »
L’homme fit une grimace. « Vous n’êtes
pas de la navale, vous. De toute façon, ca n’a pas d’importance. On ne peut pas
y aller au diesel, et nous ne sommes pas sûrs de réparer les moteurs
électriques. »
« Mais…si vous y arrivez ? »
Le capitaine réfléchit un instant.
« Vous pouvez venir. Soyez ici à six heures du matin. Mais, je ne garantis
pas qu’on parte. »
***
Un cri collectif de joie fut poussé par les sous-mariniers lorsque, après
plusieurs heures de harcèlement par l’équipe d’ingénieurs, les moteurs
électriques daignèrent enfin donner signe de vie. Le sous-marin s’arma
rapidement, et commença la traversée. Une large portion de la flotte française,
ou, plus précisément, tout ce qui avait un canon, des marins, et était en état
de flotter, partait en même temps qu’eux. Le plus impressionnant départ fut
celui du Richelieu, l’énorme cuirassé,
une des fiertés de la marine française, qui les dépassa allègrement.
« Quatre nœuds, quatre nœuds. »
murmurait le capitaine « Je suis humilié. Le plus grand sous-marin du
monde quitte le port, sur ses moteurs auxiliaires, incapables de plonger, à
quatre nœuds de vitesse. »
« C’est toujours ça que les Allemands
n’auront pas. »
Ils regardaient avec une pointe de
tristesse la côte française qui s’éloignait.
« Ca se voit que vous n’êtes pas de la
navale. »
« Non, je suis volontaire temporaire
dans la gendarmerie. Comment le savez-vous ? »
« Les marins savent que le mon n’est pas un adjectif possessif,
mais l’abréviation de monsieur. Et,
depuis la défaite de Trafalgar, les officiers n’ont pas le droit d’être appelés
monsieur capitaine, dans la marine. Que
comptez-vous faire en Angleterre ? »
« Pour un début, écouter la BBC. J’ai
une assez bonne notion de l’anglais pour comprendre si on engage des
français. »
« Faites comme vous voulez. On y sera
vers 22 heures. » Dit le capitaine. « 22 heures du 18 juin
1940 »
by Pacome Cardon
Nouvelles
As the slow ringing of the alarm
clock echoes in my head, I felt myself rising out of bed. What day was it?
Probably Wednesday. It didn’t matter. It was just another day of the week. To
add a little drama, the voice in my head gave it an opening: my name is Mercury
and this is the longest day of my life.
Just as the school bell rang, I passed the classroom’s threshold and noticed that my
favourite seat was free. Third row, far left, next to the window. M. Summer had
finally decided to show his face, and he had brought M. Sun along with him. If
the day was really so bright, then why was no one smiling?
I learnt later from a fellow class member that we had just sat through a two-hour long history
test. Hence the general cursing.
Walking down the stairs of the tallest white building, I crossed paths with a girl who tried
to sell me these coloured ribbons, insisting it was for a good cause. She
claimed to be a volunteer for the school-based charity organisation “Justice au
cœur”. I had heard of them before. How could you miss those posters where they
quoted all kinds of ‘great men’ saying ‘inspiring’ things? Who where they
kidding, trying to convince people to donate? You can change a lot of things,
but you can’t change human nature. People know charities exist. If they had
wanted to donate, they already would have. Maybe they had, but I doubt it. I
finally complied and bought a red ribbon. The girl seemed happy enough as a
soft smile drew itself on her lips. I watched as a strand of her chestnut-blonde
hair brushed in front of her bright, green eyes.
I was about to ask her name when she left to interrupt more people in their repetitive discussions.
Off I went to the Vie Scolaire to justify another absence of mine. What did it matter to them, anyway? All in
all, you’re just another cross on the list. So, to soothe my boredom, I picked
up a Newcomer’s leaflet to the school. The opening message said, inter alia,
that the staff is also here to “promote the well being of your social life
while maintaining your individuality”. As to think that they are even starting
to believe their own hot air. It was signed by our beloved headmaster, the man
on the ant hill, looking down on us from his fourth-floor view. With that, I closed
the door behind me.
Half past one already, sitting in the school cafeteria with my two best friends, our laughter lost in the
never-ending chatter that surrounded us. Around us swarmed the yellow jackets,
small men who were given the authority they so much craved.
Authority over children, authority none the less. For some reason, I kept looking at the three
main entrances to the large, yellow room, looking for something.
I had my friends right here, was it not enough?
A cloud had moved over to cover up the mid-afternoon sun, giving us all a chance to breathe.
I took this opportunity to step inside the foyer, a sanctuary where you could
gather your thoughts and prepare for the fail that your next test would inevitably
be.
There she was again, the girl with the green eyes. This time, she was putting up posters
for the CVL, a ‘power to the people’ thing for the students, spreading a false
sense of democracy among them. The members were all elected by popularity, and
popularity alone. I had never even heard of half of them, in fact, I hadn’t
bothered to vote. One of the girl’s friends came by and asked about her
implication in the CVL.
From what I overheard, she had barely made the list, but was the most determined to actually make a significant change. That’s what
she said.
When her friend left, I decided to go talk to her and my heart started beating slightly
faster. It was probably just the heat. After a brief exchange, she told me she
was parading at the school’s Fashion Show that evening and invited me to come.
With little doubt I agreed.
For the first time, I stayed after hours in these empty walls they called school.
I hoped the evening wouldn’t be a total loss, after all, I wouldn’t want to miss
out on the repetitive cycle I would be coming home to. As I passed by the
Churchill room, the floor started vibrating: the music had just started.
I came in through a long, white corridor before slipping behind the back row.
So people came and did their thing, group after the other, I wasn’t really paying attention.
Towards the end of the parade, the moment finally came.
There she was in all her glory, painting colour in the grey wall that my life was, without even
knowing it. She was out there, shining like the brightest star while I was back
here, on the dark side of my lonely little moon. I felt so small.
After the end credits had rolled, and my self-esteem gone with them, I made my way to the
exit. I hadn’t reached the door when a hand went out to grab my arm. To my
surprise, it was her. We talked longer than before, but this time she wasn’t as
confident and was often lost for words. I can’t say I was doing any better
myself. Finally, I just asked if she was free that Friday evening, to which she
answered yes.
On the trip back home that night, I think I dozed off in the tube. There it was, the sound
of silence. All the demons had run off into the sunset and there came peace at
last. Maybe my bleak view of society had finally shed its skin, some light had
leaked out. The neon lights of the subway rushed passed me. And for the first
time in a very long time, I smiled.
by Mercury
The Self : The Greatest Illusion
The Self: The Greatest Illusion
What is your self?
Oxford dictionary defines the self as “a person’s essential being
that distinguishes them from others, especially considered as the object of
introspection or reflexive action”. You.
The self is basically considered to be the essence of you.
It is your past,your future, your personality, your thoughts, your memories.
As you lie in bed each morning, just woken up, with your eyes straining to make sense of your
surroundings and the nighttime’s haze slowly lifting from your mind, the first-person observer of reality reassembles itself to take on the new day.
That first-person observer is your self.
Your self is many things indeed. But one thing it might not be is real.
The claim that the self does not exist seems erroneous, and even ludicrous. If your
self isn’t real, who are you? Isn’t the doubt of the existence of the self,
proof enough that the self does indeed exist?
As we try to make sense of it all, getting a grip on the true notion of the self is
tricky. Thankfully scientists have amalgamated three fundamental beliefs about
the self. First: the self is unchanging and continuous. Second: the self is the
“unifier” of the world around us. Third: the self is an agent, meaning it
thinks and acts. Two different models of the self, based on these three
fundamental beliefs, have been determined: that of a string of pearls, and that
of a rope.
According to the first model, the self is a continuous and constant element that runs
through our life like a thread runs through the string of pearls. It is present
at every moment of our lives yet is always unchanging. Our mood fluctuations,
changes of opinions or tastes, symbolized by the pearls, have no effect on this
thread of self.
However,the empirical evidence scientists claim so far on the self points towards the
second model. Presumably, just as a rope is made up of a sequence of
overlapping short fibres, the self would be a continuity of overlapping mental
events.
Regardless of the chosen model, it is clear that the sense of self is an effortless, intuitive and axiomatic human experience. But it is nothing more than an intricate illusion.
The Buddhists were the first to assert that there is no unique individual self, by
stating that everything is impermanent and the self is an illusion. In Buddhism,
“suffering comes from craving, and the idea of the self is a craving for
immortality”.
For the less religious, there is also empirical evidence that suggests the sense of self
is no more than an illusion, no more than an elaborate construct of the mind.
But it seems to serve us well: the illusion is so anchored in us, and so useful to our
reality, that it is impossible- and maybe even dangerous- to shake it off.
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