A THOUSAND WORDS - Alex Waterhouse-Hayward's blog on pictures, plants, politics and whatever else is on his mind.




 

Guns
Saturday, August 29, 2015








The last time I felt comfortable holding a gun was in 1950 when I was 8 or 9 and the gun in hand was a Gene Autrey cap pistol.

After that I had an ambiguous relationship with guns. I felt a repulsion to them and an attraction.

In the early 50s I asked for and got a Daisy pump action bb gun. With it I shot the windows of nearby warehouses. I thought this was fun. In my boarding high school I purchased a CO2 bb pistol and shot cans with it in a nearby field. When Brother Stanley Repucci, CSC, asked me if I wanted to join the St. Edward’s High School Gun Club and to become an honorary member of the NRA I turned him down. I told him I was scared of guns.

In my two years as an Argentine Navy conscript I easily passed the shooting range instruction. I was very good with a turn of the century (the 19th) Mouser, a vintage American burp gun and an Argentine issue version of the .45 Colt Automatic.

It was in the early 70s in Mexico when I was again re-acquainted with guns. In my Palmolive English class I had a student, a blonde Mexican called Mr. Conn. He was low key, spoke pretty good English, softly and took a liking to me. He asked me if I would want to go to the shooting range with him. I was curious. He had a Colt .45 (if I remember well) and an Olympic style .22 calibre one-shot target pistol.

I found that shooting his Colt was sort of like watching Peckinpah’s Straw Dogs on a Friday night after a terrible week of work and bumper-to –bumper driving in congested Mexico City. I felt a relaxing release. I almost enjoyed it.

But I took a photograph of Conn with his automatic that I think that gun people would find verboten.
Five years ago I shot my friend’s wife’s automatic in Texas. I can remember mostly how loud it felt. And my shooting after all those years in Buenos Aires was still good.

I have told many people who ask me about my stance on guns that I am a person with a terrible temper and having one in the home could be dangerous to others.

I remember that back in the early 70s a boy about 9 in my Rosemary’s elementary school class (it was a private school that catered to wealthy Americans living in Mexico City) shot and killed a friend accidentally when he removed a gun from his father’s closet. His father was a CIA operative in the US Embassy. As if everything was normal the boy returned a couple of day after and told my Rosemary that she should treat him with kid’s gloves as he had killed a friend.

The only thing left that is appealing to me about guns is the smell of metal. My old 35mm cameras have a similar smell (but no traces of gunpowder). Few people ever think that metals have smell. Guns with their gunpowder traces and the special grease used to keep them functional have a smell that after all these years is sharp in my memory.

John Arnold 
Rebecca meets Harley



The Reid Sisters Scanned
Friday, August 28, 2015


Julia - scanned negative

Julia - scanned contact sheet frames

When I first started blogging in January 2006 I wasn’t too sure of what I was doing or what the purpose of my exercise was. It didn’t take long for me to find my course which was mostly about memory, family, existential angst (and melancholy), gardening, my passion for roses, reading and my lasting relationship with my wife Rosemary (almost 48 years).

In spite of the fact that a few in my family object to some of my many racy photographs of women that I have posted here (suitably cropped so as not to show bits) I have persisted in what for me is as much a passion as my roses.


Virve

As we prepare for what most call downsizing (an extremely ugly but accurate verb) I have suffered stress, depression and coming wave of the loss of what has been our house and garden for 30 years.

This particular blog is one that has no existential angst. It is a bit of an interlude of escape . It is all about photography and that curious realization that old school film photography when combined with the digital age (in this case a very good scanner) can be beautiful and in many respects not available to either pure film or digital technology.


Julia

What you see here are scans of tiny individual frames from a conventional contact sheet. These individual frames are 30.2mm x 16.7mm. Obviously the level of detail cannot compare to the scan of the actual negative or to the enlargement into, say, 8x10 inches. But there is beauty.
For some of the pictures I used Kodak b+w Infrared Film. The effect on the highlights is called halation.

Virve
 My subjects were the beautiful and very patient Reid sisters, Virve and Julia.


Virve




This is my foot, this yours, and this the rope - Borges
Thursday, August 27, 2015

“This is my foot, this yours, and this the rope,”
 "esto es mi pie; esto el tuyo, esto la soga."




Jorge Luís Borges: The Golem
 Translated by James Honzik


If (as affirms the Greek in the Cratylus)
the name is archetype of the thing,
in the letters of “rose” is the rose,
and all the Nile flows through the word.

Made of consonants and vowels,
there is a terrible Name,
that in its essence encodes God’s all,
power, guarded in letters, in hidden syllables.

Adam and the stars knew it in the Garden.
It was corroded by sin (the Cabalists say),
time erased it, and generations
have forgotten.

The artifice and candor of man go on without end.
We know that there was a time in
which the people of God searched for the Name
through the ghetto’s midnight hours.

But not in that manner of those others
whose vague shades insinuate into vague history,
his memory is still green and lives,
Judá the Lion the rabbi of Prague.

In his thirst to know the knowledge of God
Judá permutated the alphabet through complex variations
and in the end
pronounced the name that is the Key

the Door, the Echo, the Guest, and the Palace,
over a mannequin shaped with awkward hands,
teaching it the arcane knowledge of
symbols, of Time and Space.

The simulacrum raised its sleepy eyelids,
saw forms and colors that it did not understand,
and confused by our babble
made fearful movements.

Gradually it was seen to be (as we are)
imprisoned in a reverberating net of
Before, Later, Yesterday, While, Now, Right, Left,
I, You, Those, Others.

The Cabalists who celebrated this mysterium,
this vast creature, named it Golem.
(Written about by Scholem,
in a learned passage of his volume.)

The rabbi explained the universe to him,
“This is my foot, this yours, and this the rope,”
but all that happened, after years,
was that the creature swept the synagogue badly.

Perhaps there was an error in the word
or in the articulation of the Sacred Name;
in spite of the highest esoteric arts
this apprentice of man did not learn to speak.

Its eyes uncanny,
less like man than dog and much less than dog but thing
following the rabbi through the doubtful
shadows of the stones of its confinement.

There was something
abnormal and coarse in the Golem,
at its step the rabbi’s cat fled in fear.
(That cat not from Scholem but of the blind seer)

It would ape the rabbi’s devotions,
raising its hands to the sky,
or bend over, stupidly smiling,
into hollow Eastern salaams.

The rabbi watched it tenderly but
with some horror. How (he said)
could I engender this laborious son?
Better to have done nothing, this is insanity.

Why did I give to the infinite
series a symbol more? To the coiled skein
on which the eternal thing is wound,
I gave another cause, another effect, another grief.

In this hour of anguish and vague light,
on the Golem our eyes have stopped.
Who will say the things to us that God felt,
at the sight of his rabbi in Prague?


Jorge Luis Borges – 1958


Si (como afirma el griego en el Cratilo)
el nombre es arquetipo de la cosa
en las letras de 'rosa' está la rosa
y todo el Nilo en la palabra 'Nilo'.

Y, hecho de consonantes y vocales,
habrá un terrible Nombre, que la esencia
cifre de Dios y que la Omnipotencia
guarde en letras y sílabas cabales.

Adán y las estrellas lo supieron
en el Jardín. La herrumbre del pecado
(dicen los cabalistas) lo ha borrado
y las generaciones lo perdieron.

Los artificios y el candor del hombre
no tienen fin. Sabemos que hubo un día
en que el pueblo de Dios buscaba el Nombre
en las vigilias de la judería.

No a la manera de otras que una vaga
sombra insinúan en la vaga historia,
aún está verde y viva la memoria
de Judá León, que era rabino en Praga.

Sediento de saber lo que Dios sabe,
Judá León se dio a permutaciones
de letras y a complejas variaciones
y al fin pronunció el Nombre que es la Clave,

la Puerta, el Eco, el Huésped y el Palacio,
sobre un muñeco que con torpes manos
labró, para enseñarle los arcanos
de las Letras, del Tiempo y del Espacio.

El simulacro alzó los soñolientos
párpados y vio formas y colores
que no entendió, perdidos en rumores
y ensayó temerosos movimientos.

Gradualmente se vio (como nosotros)
aprisionado en esta red sonora
de Antes, Después, Ayer, Mientras, Ahora,
Derecha, Izquierda, Yo, Tú, Aquellos, Otros.

(El cabalista que ofició de numen
a la vasta criatura apodó Golem;
estas verdades las refiere Scholem
en un docto lugar de su volumen.)

El rabí le explicaba el universo
"esto es mi pie; esto el tuyo, esto la soga."
y logró, al cabo de años, que el perverso
barriera bien o mal la sinagoga.

Tal vez hubo un error en la grafía
o en la articulación del Sacro Nombre;
a pesar de tan alta hechicería,
no aprendió a hablar el aprendiz de hombre.

Sus ojos, menos de hombre que de perro
y harto menos de perro que de cosa,
seguían al rabí por la dudosa
penumbra de las piezas del encierro.

Algo anormal y tosco hubo en el Golem,
ya que a su paso el gato del rabino
se escondía. (Ese gato no está en Scholem
pero, a través del tiempo, lo adivino.)

Elevando a su Dios manos filiales,
las devociones de su Dios copiaba
o, estúpido y sonriente, se ahuecaba
en cóncavas zalemas orientales.

El rabí lo miraba con ternura
y con algún horror. '¿Cómo' (se dijo)
'pude engendrar este penoso hijo
y la inacción dejé, que es la cordura?'

'¿Por qué di en agregar a la infinita
serie un símbolo más? ¿Por qué a la vana
madeja que en lo eterno se devana,
di otra causa, otro efecto y otra cuita?'

En la hora de angustia y de luz vaga,
en su Golem los ojos detenía.
¿Quién nos dirá las cosas que sentía
Dios, al mirar a su rabino en Praga?




A Splash Quite Unnoticed
Wednesday, August 26, 2015


Landscape with the Fall of Icarus, now seen as a good early copy of Bruegel's original

Royal Museums of Fine Arts of Belgium

According to Brueghel
when Icarus fell
it was spring

a farmer was ploughing
his field
the whole pageantry

of the year was
awake tingling
near

the edge of the sea
concerned 
with itself

sweating in the sun
that melted
the wings' wax

unsignificantly
off the coast
there was

a splash quite unnoticed
this was
Icarus drowning 
William Carlos Williams

I have four favourite poets (am excluding Shakespeare as he was also a playwright). In English there are Emily Dickinson and William Carlos Williams. I must admit that my entry into poems in English came via Ogden Nash. In Spanish there is the Argentine Jorge Luís Borges and Mexican Homero Aridjis.

Twice in the last couple of years the NY Times has published in its arts section paintings by Peter Brueghel the Elder. In both of those occasions a sentence from a Williams Carlos Williams poem was cited. I found this not only interesting but strange. Why would the poet have written two poems about Landscape With the Fall of Icarus and The Corn Harvest?

My curiousity led me to the usual Google search and I hit paydirt. The book in question is Pictures from Brueghel and other PoemsA New Directions Paperbook – Collected Poems 1950-1962. The book won Williams a Pulitzer Prize.

In the book I learned that William Carlos Williams had written ten poems about Brueghel paintings. I also found a poem that fit ever so nicely with some roses in my early fall garden here.

I cannot leave out from this blog my thanks and appreciation for our excellent Vancouver Public Library which as far as I know, its main branch has the only known copy (UBC and Simon Fraser University perhaps, too?) of the lovely book




The Rose Fades
Tuesday, August 25, 2015


Rosa 'English Elegance'


The rose fades
and is renewed again
by its seed, naturally
but where

save in the poem
shall it go
to suffer no diminution
of its splendor

William Carlos Williams
Pictures from Brueghel and other poems
A New Directions Paperback 1962

A splash quite unnoticed



Mark Budgen's Aura
Monday, August 24, 2015


Mark Budgen's Aura - Illustration Ian Bateson - Osoyoos 2015


In the old 20th century my writer friend Les Wiseman harped on one thing if you wanted to be a writer (he was and is a very good one). He harped, “Write about that which you know.”
I soon found out that there were a couple of corollaries. The first is that if you don’t know you interview and write about someone who does know. A second item quite easy in this 21st century is that if you don’t know you can find out on the net. That was not so easy back then. My friend Mark Budgen (of whom this blog is about) was one of the best free-lance writers I ever met who was justly famous for going to incredible lengths of tireless research before he put pen to paper. Now you can always check first with Wikipedia.

Of the meaning of the word aura I know a just a bit so here is the stuff from my Wikipedia:

In parapsychology and spiritual practice, an aura is a field of subtle, luminous radiation surrounding a person or object like the halo or aureola in religious art. The depiction of such an aura often connotes a person of particular power or holiness. It is said that all objects and all living things manifest such an aura. Often it is held to be perceptible, whether spontaneously or with practice: such perception is at times linked with the third eye of Indian spirituality. Various writers associate various personality traits with the colors of different layers of the aura. It has also been described as a map of the thoughts and feelings surrounding a person.
Skeptics such as Robert Todd Carroll contend that people may perceive auras because of effects within the brain: synaesthesia, epilepsy, migraines, or the influence of psychedelic drugs such as LSD. Other causes may include disorders within the visual system provoking optical effects. Eye fatigue can also produce an aura, sometimes referred to as eye burn.


For most of my life the only aura I ever experienced was the aura of Kodak b+w Infrared Film. Exposures with this film had a curious glow around things but particularly around human figures. This was because  the film didn't have the anti-halation layer (found in all film except for the now, alas, discontinued Kodak Infrared Film), so the light bounces around within film backing creating that aura.  

In 1966 I went to a show of Jefferson Airplane at the Fillmore West in San Francisco. Of the show I remember little. What I do have in my memory is a sharp image of a young woman sitting on a corner staring at a little glass containing crème de menthe. She must have been under the influence of LSD and she was seeing (perhaps in my imagination) a perfect green beyond greenness - a green approaching a Platonic essence of  a perfect form of green.

I think I may have been close to seeing that kind of green (very sober) when Rosemary would descend from Mexico City to Orizaba, Veracruz on our way to visit my mother who lived in the port of Veracruz. Tropical Orizaba oozed green.

While still living in Mexico my friends always made fun of my straightness and tried (unsuccessfully to get me drunk or high). The latter came with an experiment  where I was given some peyote to consume. I threw it up immediately without any ill effects or visions of any kind.

In Vancouver my friend Maurice Depás made me put some of his best hash into my pipe while we were sunning ourselves on Wreck Beach. My pipe, in which I usually smoked the best pipe tobacco was ruined and all I experienced was an inability to move and extreme stuttering. That was it as far as pot was concerned. My only other drug experience happened at Gary Taylor’s Rock Room, where chubby young woman with a smile on her face said to me, “Are you Alex Waterhouse-Hayward?” I nodded yes. She told me to open my hand and poured a white powder. “Sniff it,” she ordered. I did not think I had a choice so I did. She came back later to ask me about my experience. “It was like going up the stairs of the New York City subway on a hot summer day. The cool air rushed as I went up.” Apparently this was the wrong answer and I never saw her again.

In short I have seen very well, very sharply all of my life with one long and painful exception.

Between 1980 and 2002 I suffered debilitating migraines. They came with lights similar to the little flying lights in Close Encounters of the Third Kind. During the painful episodes my vision was blurry. The only drug that helped was a powerful prescription medicine called Gravegol. Thirty minutes after taking it I could survive a thrashing from the worst mother-in-law-from-hell with aplomb.

Curiously the only other person in my circle of friends who had migraines was my friend Mark Budgen. As soon as I was 60 my migraines petered out. I sometimes get pre-migraines but with no lights. Budgen still gets them. Some months ago he woke up with a terrible one, so painful he went to the hospital.

To make the above story short,, Budgen was diagnosed to have three brain tumours. All but the third were removed and after a two-week radiation treatment in Kelowna, Budgen is alive, all here but aware that his months might be counted with the fingers of one hand.

Before the radiation treatment Budgen described to our mutual friend Ian Bateson (and me) during a separate but same-day drive to the hospital in Oliver, a strange and terrible aura that he saw behind us on the hospital wall and around our body. This aura which he called a hallucination came with terrible visions of his visiting brother from England dying (he did not) on his trip back to home.

Our friend Bateson, who is a most capable artist (beyond the fact that he is a trained designer and a very good editorial illustrator) has been experimenting with his iPad and a program called Procreate.

Bateson and I decided to visit Budgen last Monday, August 24th. We drove in our Malibu to Oliver on a day that was most unusual. Such was the smoke and haze from the forest fires in Washington State, that beyond Hope little was visible in what was golden haze (it was sunny above it). When we approached Kelowna the lake was only visible for a few yards. Nothing on the other side was visible. We had a little picnic on a sandy beach in Penticton in which we could have easily, beyond the sand, have been in the middle of a foggy ocean.

Paradoxically  the “aura” we experienced was not matched by Budgen’s. He saw perfectly with his glasses and asked Bateson to put his favourite podcasts by (Melvyn Bragg, Baron Bragg a British broadcaster, author and parliamentarian.) on the list of favourites in his iPad. When we first visited Budgen he could not have used his iPad or even read anything as it was all clouded by the visions of his aura.

Bateson presented Budgen with his portrait, a 5x7 inch lovely interpretation of an aura (see above). He liked it (did not say anything) but instructed Bateson to put it on his bedside table. Before we left he moved it beside him on his bed.

Bateson and I talked at length driving back on how the man we knew from our past was almost exactly the man we had visited for three hours. He was precise, concise and oozing with intelligence. As always it was contrasted (or aided?) by his almost near whisper but all perfect diction. 

We discussed, too, Budgen’s exact answer to Bateson’s question. “Where are you going from here?”

“I am going to be here until the end.”

A Luddite skips that tape



Esa Cara Que Un Sueño Nos Devuelve
Sunday, August 23, 2015


Shinto
Jorge Luís Borges


Cuando nos anonada la desdicha,
durante un segundo nos salvan
las aventuras ínfimas
de la atención o de la memoria:
el sabor de una fruta, el sabor del agua,
esa cara que un sueño nos devuelve,
los primeros jazmines de noviembre,
el anhelo infinito de la brújula,
un libro que creíamos perdido,
el pulso de un hexámetro,
la breve llave que nos abre una casa,
el olor de una biblioteca o del sándalo,
el nombre antiguo de una calle,
los colores de un mapa,
una etimología imprevista,
la lisura de la uña limada,
la fecha que buscábamos,
contar las doce campanadas oscuras,
un brusco dolor físico.
Ocho millones son las divinidades del Shinto
que viajan por la tierra, secretas.
Esos modestos númenes nos tocan,
nos tocan y nos dejan.

 Shinto - Jorge Luís Borges
Translated by Hoyt Rogers


When sorrow lays us low
For a second we are saved
By humble windfalls
Of mindfulness or memory:
The taste of a fruit, the taste of water,
That face given back to us by a dream,
The first jasmine of November,
The endless yearning of the compass,
A book we thought was lost,
The throb of a hexameter,
The slight key that opens a house to us,
The smell of a library, or of sandalwood,
The former name of a street,
The colors of a map,
An unforeseen etymology,
The smoothness of a filed fingernail,
The date we were looking for,
The twelve dark bell-strokes, tolling as we count,
A sudden physical pain.

Eight million Shinto deities
Travel secretly throughout the earth.
Those modest gods touch us--
Touch us and move on.



     

Previous Posts
Lee Lytton III & Friendly & Warm Ghosts

San Valentín

From Simple To Complex

Leaning Towards Irrelevancy

Nevertheless She Persisted - For Allan Morgan - My...

El Reloj de Arena - The Hour Glass - Jorge Luís Bo...

An Officer and a Gentleman & An Anniversary

el ayelmado tripolio que ademenos es de satén rosa...

For Susanne Tabata's Media Class At the Art Instit...

Linda Melsted - The Music in the Violin does not e...



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1/11/09 - 1/18/09

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11/1/09 - 11/8/09

11/8/09 - 11/15/09

11/15/09 - 11/22/09

11/22/09 - 11/29/09

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12/20/09 - 12/27/09

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5/23/10 - 5/30/10

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10/24/10 - 10/31/10

10/31/10 - 11/7/10

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11/14/10 - 11/21/10

11/21/10 - 11/28/10

11/28/10 - 12/5/10

12/5/10 - 12/12/10

12/12/10 - 12/19/10

12/19/10 - 12/26/10

12/26/10 - 1/2/11

1/2/11 - 1/9/11

1/9/11 - 1/16/11

1/16/11 - 1/23/11

1/23/11 - 1/30/11

1/30/11 - 2/6/11

2/6/11 - 2/13/11

2/13/11 - 2/20/11

2/20/11 - 2/27/11

2/27/11 - 3/6/11

3/6/11 - 3/13/11

3/13/11 - 3/20/11

3/20/11 - 3/27/11

3/27/11 - 4/3/11

4/3/11 - 4/10/11

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4/24/11 - 5/1/11

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5/22/11 - 5/29/11

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11/20/11 - 11/27/11

11/27/11 - 12/4/11

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12/11/11 - 12/18/11

12/18/11 - 12/25/11

12/25/11 - 1/1/12

1/1/12 - 1/8/12

1/8/12 - 1/15/12

1/15/12 - 1/22/12

1/22/12 - 1/29/12

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2/19/12 - 2/26/12

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10/21/12 - 10/28/12

10/28/12 - 11/4/12

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11/11/12 - 11/18/12

11/18/12 - 11/25/12

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12/2/12 - 12/9/12

12/9/12 - 12/16/12

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12/30/12 - 1/6/13

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1/13/13 - 1/20/13

1/20/13 - 1/27/13

1/27/13 - 2/3/13

2/3/13 - 2/10/13

2/10/13 - 2/17/13

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2/24/13 - 3/3/13

3/3/13 - 3/10/13

3/10/13 - 3/17/13

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3/24/13 - 3/31/13

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4/21/13 - 4/28/13

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5/12/13 - 5/19/13

5/19/13 - 5/26/13

5/26/13 - 6/2/13

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8/25/13 - 9/1/13

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11/24/13 - 12/1/13

12/1/13 - 12/8/13

12/8/13 - 12/15/13

12/15/13 - 12/22/13

12/22/13 - 12/29/13

12/29/13 - 1/5/14

1/5/14 - 1/12/14

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1/19/14 - 1/26/14

1/26/14 - 2/2/14

2/2/14 - 2/9/14

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2/23/14 - 3/2/14

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4/20/14 - 4/27/14

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12/21/14 - 12/28/14

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1/18/15 - 1/25/15

1/25/15 - 2/1/15

2/1/15 - 2/8/15

2/8/15 - 2/15/15

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1/31/16 - 2/7/16

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4/24/16 - 5/1/16

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12/25/16 - 1/1/17

1/1/17 - 1/8/17

1/8/17 - 1/15/17

1/15/17 - 1/22/17

1/22/17 - 1/29/17

1/29/17 - 2/5/17

2/5/17 - 2/12/17

2/12/17 - 2/19/17