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Should you're buying a beforehand-owned dwelling, you have to know this! People who smoke masks smoke odors with ideas taught by realtors. But you may nonetheless inform if you know what to search for… and if the smoker's agent hasn't found out this trick, too.
I've been married over 25 years, reside in Oregon and have 3 wonderful children and one grand child. I take pleasure in spending time with my household. I personal All Media an internet and cellular web site design, internet video advertising firm in Portland OR. I love my work. I enjoy helping other native Portland enterprise proprietor when I can. Us Portlandians gotta stick collectively…. Private and business mix in life as they do here too. So I post random issues about my life both personal and enterprise.
Whenever you name in an estate agent to sell your own home for you, the service you are paying for is that they may come spherical, measure the rooms, take the photos for you, write up the details and lay all of it out for buyers to read. They will promote your own home in native papers and on their web site and in addition on different websites they are affiliated with.
I will have to begin the process next week-They're 29 with a 8 yr outdated & 23 with a three month old. The payments are almost a $1,000 now. The grass is up to my butt with a working lawnmower within the yard. This has been the toughest factor to do in my WHOLE life-however my eighty five yr outdated father lives across the highway-& is sick to death at looking at it.
There are additionally stories of individuals coming into the home, and seeing unusual shadows, hearing noises, or having strange feelings. Having been in the house in broad daylight, with a number of hundred people round me, I can inform you that it's completely affordable to get the creeps when visiting this house illegally. It's big, it's decaying, pieces of it are falling off, and birds and animals are actually making their homes in it. The noises it's possible you'll hear should you sneak into this house are of nature taking over.


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Why almost dying is also often "Really Living" As mentioned in the last post, time expanding "really living" moments tend to have a set of consistent characteristics – either they are truly unique, or feature a sense of extreme beauty. They may be physically intense, or emotionally deep, or feature moments of "flow" where you utilize natural strengths to their limits. Occasionally all five of these aspects converge into the same place at the same time and in the magic of that moment create they create an "event horizon moment" where the gravity of the event is so powerful that time stands still and you remember it forever (often "as if it was yesterday." Often moments such as these feature contrasting emotions of courage out of fear, joy out of pain, beauty out of ugliness, happiness from sadness.
- Unique/Mundane
- Beautiful/Ugly
- Physically invigorating/exhausting
- Emotionally deep (Love/Courage, Hate/Fear)
- Flow State
Below is the story of event horizon moment from my life where I suffered and nearly died, but instead thrived and survived, laughed and loved, all wearing only a silver and pink spandex suit….
An "Event Horizon" moment of "Really Living."
I arrived in Amsterdam in the early gray of morning after the usual overnight flight, exiting the white modern white terminal filled with the acrid smoke of European cigarettes to a typically gray, moist and damp Dutch day. Gray streets, gray skies, gray buses, gray people. Mundane. After some navigation between the train station and the closest tram, I managed to find public transport to the Viking skate factory on the outskirts of town.
After a quick tour of the massive warehouse, I spent about 2 hours in the factory trying on skates barefoot in order to find a pair that fit perfectly. Sure they all "look the same" but the reality is that minute differences in the shape, stretch, and contours of the leather and blade made for significant differences. I'm a size 43 but I bought two pairs of size 41 skates for a tight fit, and added to that a custom distinction – switching the standard set of 16 ½ inch 1mm wide blades blades for 17 ½ blades and carrying a spare pair in a cardboard poster tube. I was set for the season.
I left the huge factory (the interior of which looked much like the end of the first Indiana Jones movie) where there were aisles and aisles of speed skates – primarily for the domestic public (there are over 1.2 million registered Dutch speed skaters – vs. about 2000 in the United States ) and walked back to where the main highway cut through town and followed an entrance ramp down to the viaduct.
First stop, Munich , and then onto Inzell, about 800km away. I had no money so... ready, set, …. THUMB. I had never hitchhiked, but the concept was easy to understand. Unique.
Standing by the roadside next to the roaring traffic I was carrying a number of objects that, as it turns out, would become important later. I had my large black backpack with an internal frame full of about 50 lbs of clothing, shoes, and gear. I also had 2 boxes of skates, and one small poster tube with a spare set of blades. And then I had my 40lb duffel bag with all my skating stuff: sharpening jig and stones, oil, tools, skinsuits and warmups. All told I had about 100lbs of stuff – both hands were full and I had a back full of a backpack.
Other than the recent massive failures with regards to my training I generally considered myself as serendipitous – having a 'green thumb for life' – and on that day I got four aces. Not 20 minutes after I first stuck out my thumb, a rusty old jalopy pulled up and 4 doors popped open full of friendly, smiling young faces with Australian accents who asked pleasantly, "Where you headed mate?"
I told them.
" Munich ? No shit! That's where we are going! We just bought this old beater and are heading to Munich for Octoberfest! Climb on in!" Joy.
I had to tie my backpack to the roof and then held my skatebag and boxes on my lap in the middle seat of the rear of the old jalopy, but the warm dutch beers they passed around quickly had me laughing and jabbering away with the rest of them and we headed on our way all the way to the German border (OK, that's like 30 miles – Holland is tiny). Love, comaraderie.
Serendipity then lost her grip and a god-awful shaking took over the car and then shiny metal disks began to shoot from underneath the car in all directions to an incredible cacophony. At first I though the engine had exploded – except it was still running – but our forward progress began to slow as we coasted: we had dropped the transmission. Fear, despair.
My newfound pals immediately began the mourning process but I had no vested interest in the bum auto deal they had made that morning and instead untied my backpack and resumed what would come to be a very typical posture over the coming months – standing with a slight lean at the edge of the road, arm curved with thumb out, trying to look 'safe.'
A tow truck came and I said goodbye to the Aussies but an hour went without anyone stopping for me. Then two hours. I began to despair… and then it began to rain… hard.
I began to panic and ran for the next overpass and stopped in the shadow underneath. Now dueling needs began their wrestling: stay in the dark and not get picked up? Or be wet and miserable but visible? Exhaustion.
I opted for a compromise and would choose cars that looked "kindhearted" and would dodge out into the light and rain with my thumb out.
This went on for quite some time and finally after another 2 hours (which is an incredibly long time by the way) suddenly my luck turned again. Behind a "kind looking" Euro station wagon was a large Euro truck/trailer combo that put on its air brakes and roared to a stop about 100m beyond the overpass.
I was overjoyed and sprinted up to the bright red cab. Joy.
I'll never forget the face of the man who swung open the door – not because he was so memorable or unique by his-self – instead because his visage was so much like another – that of "Timmons" – the unfortunate wagon train driver in the movie "Dances with Wolves". The same greasy hair, pudgy face, and the same cigar clenched firmly in his brown molars.
The difference in this case was that when he spoke, instead of a patois of redneck English, my driver spoke only in French and I had not the slightest idea of what he was saying. He didn't seem to care, and jabbered away for quite a while until I was able to squeeze in, what seemed to me, an important verbal salvo: " Munich – Munchen" – my destination. Unique.
"Deutschland!" I added, and he nodded and smiled and then began talking again and then began working the gears judiciously.
I was wet and tired (I was up all night on the overnight flight) and it was warm and dry and despite the smoke and the ambiguity of where I was going I just decided to trust in fate, and close my eyes.
Still talking my driver put the pedal to the metal and off we roared, crossing the German border shortly thereafter.
Sometime after a laborious dispute with the border guards and the repeated exit and return of my cigar smoking driver to review the contents of his load I fell asleep. It was just twilight, but the 36 hours I'd been awake, combined with the Dutch beers and contrast of the damp cold and the sudden warmth found me susceptible and I slept for hours without a care for where my wagon-train driver was taking me.
I was dreaming. Somone was fighting with me – buffeting me around my head and shoulders, intent on delivering a message. Finally I opened my eyes to find that I was being shaken.
4 inches from my face was the stub end of a dead cigar and my driver was shouting in French, roughly shaking me, stopping only when I finally moved an arm to indicate I was alive. I lifted up groggily looking through the windshield – seeing nothing but black.
The impassioned dialog and gesticulating continued but my head swam in a fog and it wasn't until Timmons reached across me and unlatched the door and waved his finger that I finally understood.
Translation. "Get out."
That's what all that meant…
So I got out.
What else could I do? Fear.
I grabbed my backpack, my two boxes and tube and the heavy duffel bag and climbed down the steps of the big red cab, black in the darkness.
I first noticed the cold when the winds of the departing trailer swirled around me – it must have been only 35 degrees – and damp…
Then, location: where was I? Ahead there was a lit sign over the highway and seemingly the only illumination for miles. Like a moth I staggered with my load to the flame.
I drew close enough to read the sign even as in the brightening gloom I could see the sudden division of the highway. The sign read, "Franzosich Rechts, Deutschland Links" – " France left, Germany right." My driver and his big red truck has gone right, the streaks of his disappearing taillights still remaining imprinted on my retinas – to France.
Thank you Timmons.
Now what?
As if on cue, it began to rain. At first it was a smattering of drops, but it then quickly settled into one of those steady downpours that last for hours.
The drops were initially stopped by hair and clothing, but within minutes they began to find channels through the already damp materials of my clothes and course down my back and into my shoes.
I began to shiver – violently. I immediately began walking as a defense mechanism – my 100lbs of 'stuff' burning more calories than a brisk walk would. But.. I hadn't actually eaten.. and only a feeble warmth was generated from the effort. My teeth began to chatter uncontrollably. I still remember it. I kept thinking of George Washington for some reason. Wooden teeth. Mine sounded wooden – and it was so clichéd to have them bouncing up and down like as if they were in the hand of a spastic mannequin.
Worse still – with my forward progress, all light disappeared and I found myself sloshing through inky blackness, just the twinkling of the drops and the occasional glint of road markers flashing wetly against the black giving any indication of time or space.
As my clothes became more thoroughly sodden it suddenly occurred to me – not one vehicle had passed in the last half hour… So I checked the time: 2am.
As I walked, I began to dissect what I knew about hypothermia – how your energy fails and instead of fighting you start to give in and then a calm begins to permeate your limbs. With a start I realized I had stopped walking. Terror. My jaw was still chattering though.
I began again – but back towards the light.
I crossed beyond it and then turned around, and then headed back again. One foot in front of the other, arms aching with the load.
So I began what became an incredibly long military drill of marching and discipline. Suffering.
My hands turned to ice, and my feet too. My legs and arms grew numb and I stopped wiping the water from my eyes and stopped hunching my shoulders to protect my neck. I just walked and when I grew tired of walking I began an ugly sloppy jog, lead footed and sloppy, but I jogged.
Sometimes I carried my stuff, other times I set it by the side of the road. I kept moving. I have never, ever been more tired… leaden, deadened, numb, cold.
At some point I began to realize that I could die.
Right there on a lonely stretch of highway I could just stop walking and die – and that in fact it could probably happen in less than an hour. I was so cold that it didn't really phase me… and the lack of emotional response did scare my rational mind… Despair.
It was then that a sudden light grew behind me. Headlights.
Unbelievable! Hope! Joy.
Life resumed and hope grew and I marched back toward those lights waving my arms. The headlights remained dim pricks in the inky blackness for a while an then suddenly became bright with that weird sound familiar from TV – "wreee-oooowwwww" and the car erupted from the distance to directly in front of me to long gone in a matter of seconds.
My despair reached new levels.
3 am and I'm wearing dark clothes and I'm sopping wet in freezing temperatures while in the middle of f!#ing nowhere and I'm trying hitchhike on the goddamn autobahn! People are driving 120 mph! Who in their right mind is going to stop for the wet madman hitching on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere?
No one.
I might die. Maybe I'm ready to die. So tired, so cold, so hungry, so weak. No fire stoked below as I walked, no warmth stole through my limbs, but I knew if I stopped walking I would die and I didn't want to die – I was too young to die, I had too much to do to die.
So I walked – away from the light, toward the light, away from the light, toward the light..
After about an hour and a half more of marching I decided to do some more exploring. There was an embankment to the right and I re-climbed it and saw… nothing. Not a light, not a house, not even a telephone pole – just the grass underneath my feet, and blackness…
Still, I resolved to pick a direction and assume that this, this hay, or grass or whatever that had been neatly mowed into rows, that someone – somewhere had done this work.
I resolved to follow a row.
I followed that row.
It didn't take long before two things occurred: one, it began to get extremely dark – and hard to find my footing, and two, I began to think about all this grass, this neatly manicured row of grass… maybe…. maybe I could…
I stopped. I turned around.
I saved my own life. Hope.
I walked back as close to the light as I could while still up the embankment and then I implemented the plan that had been slowly gestating in my head for the last 10 minutes.
First, I set down my bags and boxes, and then I began to gather the grass. Shoving, combing, lifting, gathering, I quickly developed a coffee table sized mound, and then it grew to the size of a doghouse, then two doghouses. For once the exertion warmed me and in about 15 minutes I had gathered a mound of grass about 5 feet high, ten feet in length (including taper) and 6 feet wide. Think about it – that's a HUGE mound of grass – and fifteen minutes in the dark can feel like forever…
What came next took the most courage of all: after shoving my bags and boxes under protective cover of the grass, I then stripped down, exposing my body to the 35 degree downpour, and I removed every single bit of sodden clothing I had on including my soaking wet shoes until I stood naked in the field under the pouring 35 degree rain, shivering violently, hardly able to control my hands which were becoming more numb by the second.
Next, I pulled my one dry warmup jacket out of my backpack, and 3 dry racing skinsuits out of my duffel bag. Draping the jacket over my head like a floppy umbrella, I proceeded to put on all 3 spandex suits – one over the other, while staying mostly dry under the jacket.
Finally, I grabbed the heavy cardboard tube with the spare set of blades and shook the spare blades out onto the grass and then pushed them underneath the pile. I then pulled the tube under the protective cover of the jacket and then shoved it through one of its arms.
Finally, I got on my hands and knees and, with my head draped in a shoulder of the jacket, used it as protective cover against the wet outer layers of grass and burrowed carefully into the interior of the grass mound.
I had been careful to layer the dry bottom layers of grass from the mown rows into the bottom of my mound and quickly my problem became breathing amongst the dust and tendrils of dry grass versus the expected battle against drowning in the wet drops.
I wriggled carefully into what I conceived of as the middle of the mound and felt a million pricks of grass around me itching and catching the fabric of my skinsuit. But what I also felt was unique again that night – the sudden return of warmth reflected to my limbs from these same pricks. Invigorating.
Finally I reached out an arm and pushed it through the grass until I could feel the damp of the rain and then jammed the cardboard tube, along with the arm of the jacket through that tunnel in the hay and then adjusted the drape of the jacket – which still remained over my head – such that the arm and the corresponding tunnel of outside air created by the tube was right in front of my mouth and nose.
I blew out hard through the tube like a snorkel to clear the passage and then took a deep breath. I was pleased to receive not the dusty air of the interior of my new straw home, but the cool damp oxygen of the outside world.
It may sound odd, but in about 90 seconds I was 100% out-cold asleep: warm, dry, a little itchy, but safe.
I was dreamless in my little cocoon – the long flight, the endless walking and worrying, the rain and shivering all passed into the warm depths of sleeps' embrace.
Finally, the noise and rumble of passing traffic woke me up. It was still dark – yet I woke feeling refreshed as though I'd slept a decent long time. I figured I better wait until it was light before I began hitching, but I went through the exercise of pulling my arm up into my cocoon under the jacket and pushed the button to glow the light to see what time it was…. 2pm! I had managed to sleep nearly 10 hours under a pile of grass – but wait – it was still dark – how could that be?
When I finally lifted an arm and parted the grass, a few faint streaks of light began to penetrate and I realized that it was, indeed, midday. I was in the middle of a gorgeous golden field glistening w/ the crystalline residue of the rain. Beauty.
I stretched a little and then decided to burrow out through the top of my lair. Sure enough when I finally began to extricate myself, the brilliant afternoon sun of a clear day began to shine through. Joy.
It was then that my senses tingled… with the sudden quiet – the traffic noise and rumble of the autobahn and suddenly, inexplicably been, well, 'turned off.'
The traffic noise and vibrations I had felt from the nearby autobahn had entered a deathly erie silence that seemed, oddly, to correspond with my recent exit from my cocoon. Fear.
Shaking off the straw, I opened my eyes fully and looked ahead and saw nothing at first but the brilliance of the midday sun and the shining piles of straw and grass littering the field in front of me. Beyond that I could see a corner of the autobahn with no cars navigating its long stretch.
Another run of cold blood… with that sensation I began to turn.
Behind me – not 15 feet away was one of the world's largest pieces of machinery – a 20 foot high behemoth of modern industrial capacity – a combine collecting the fruits of the summer harvest – stopped dead in its tracks due to the odd formation of grass – the nest of which I had suddenly hatched…
I'll never, for as long as I live, forget the next few seconds – both what actually happened, as well as the processes in my brain that finally switched on at this opportune time.
The door of the bright red cab swung open and out popped the head of a German farmer – at exactly the same time that I registered his expression – a face I'll never forget in its open-mouthed astonishment – I realized exactly what it was that I was wearing.
I had changed in the pitch black of a downpour without a thought to style or color. I had only 3 skinsuits in my possession at that time – two blue USA skinsuits, and one rather odd trade – a pink and silver suit from the Belgian national team. Most notable was that this was the last one I put on, and furthermore I was wearing the silver hood – overtop the other 2 suits.
So… to conclude this interesting convergence of events, let me play it out from the farmer's perspective: A long, stormy night… a huge field finally drying up in order to gather up the grass for market – let's fire up the big machine – but Achtung! What's this weird mound of grass… better slow down…
And then it happens – the mound moves and an appendage appears – it looks like a hand… but it is shiny and silver…
Out of it next comes the rest of this.. thing. Pink and silver and shiny, no hair to be seen, this alien creature stretches as though it owns the place and then turns – and…
And it LOOKED RIGHT AT ME!
I began to laugh. Joy. The ludicrousness of the situation suddenly permeated my core and I began to laugh and laugh and laugh. I bent over, rustling in the pile and pulled out my pack, bag and boxes and then carried those, along with my scarecrow stubbled jacket with the tube still in the arm down the embankment to the autobahn still laughing.
I didn't bother to dress – just stood by the road in the pink and silver spandex and in less than two minutes a couple in a Ford Probe pulled over and picked me up and drove me not only to Munich, but the 30 miles beyond to Inzell, where they dropped me off at the rink in time for the Dutch national team training session. I told them the story in my broken German and we laughed the whole trip. I couldn't have been happier…
Beauty, Fear, Despair, Joy, Exhaustion, Invigoration, Flow.
An Event Horizon of Really Living.

subset: commoncrawl


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Introduction to Budokon®
Budokon® is one of the most unique contemporary training systems in the world.
Type of Event
- Workshop
Yoga Styles
Full Description
Budokon® is one of the most unique contemporary training systems in the world. This yogic style is best described as a transition based yoga flow with continuous circular rotation. This yoga style honors its traditional roots of hatha (asana) yoga while bringing a completely unique martial arts circular influence. A BDK mixed movement artist is a true warrior yogi. This two hour Budokon® Yoga workshop is geared towards yogis, martial artists, fitness and movement enthusiasts who want to deepen range of motion, balance, alignment and breath. Step into a new realm with this thoughtfully designed offering that is guaranteed to awaken and evolve the warrior within. This series consists of 7 intelligently assembled sections of slow and controlled movements designed to improve mobility, agility, flexibility and strength. The techniques are learned through repetition and precision, the emphasis being on the transitions from posture to posture, rather than the holding of postures. The purpose of this class is to gain muscular strength, cardiovascular stamina, and joint mobility. Open to all levels. It is not Yoga, it is not martial arts, it is Budokon®.


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Giveaway: Dunkin' Donuts Offers Almond Milk & $25 mGift Card #AlmonDDmilk CLOSED
Do you stop at Dunkin' Donuts for an iced coffee or a hot latte? Then you'll notice there's a new milk option. Dunkin' Donuts has introduced almond milk to its menu as a new non-dairy alternative to milk and cream for guests to add to their beverages.
Through a new partnership with Blue Diamond Growers, select Dunkin' Donuts restaurants nationwide will now offer Vanilla Almond Breeze Almondmilk as an addition to hot or iced coffee and lattes.
Blue Diamond Almond Breeze Almondmilk offers varieties that are calcium rich and a good source of vitamin D, E and A for customers. Whether they are looking for an alternate to dairy or simply prefer the rich and creamy texture and delicious taste that Almond Breeze offers, now Dunkin' Donuts guests can enjoy more options when it comes to their beverages.
Want to know which Dunkin' Donuts locations offering Blue Diamond Almond Breeze Almondmilk? Use the store Locator and search for a special "AM" symbol indicating locations with this option at www.DunkinDonuts.com
- (1) Dunkin' Donuts $25 mGift Card
Entries must be made on or before 11:59 p.m. September 27, 2014.
a Rafflecopter giveaway
Terms and Conditions
Winner will be selected by random.org. Giveaway entry must be completed before extra entries will count. Winner will be contacted by email and must respond within 24 hours or a new winner will be selected. Open to residents of the U.S. with a valid street address.


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Fishing and Boating week is wrapping up! This weekend, take the boat out and maybe catch some fish! This week is part of June's Great Outdoors Month and is a nationwide celebration of fishing and boating.
We have two boat ramps here at Guana Dam. One goes to Guana River and the other goes to Guana Lake. The dam is open daily for fishing from 4 a.m. to 11 p.m. and parking is only $3 per vehicle. While you're here, check out our trails!


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Anchor Tapestry Wool - Colours 8292 to 8552
Please note down the number of the colour you would like and email us at firstname.lastname@example.com. We will contact you for payment information once your order has been filled.
ATTENTION - Product Change:
Wool-Tyme is making a change! We will be switching to DMC Tapestry Wool.
From DMC:
"Made from 100% virgin wool, DMC Tapestry Wool is a deliciously soft, smooth non-divisible yarn. It's twist and thickness give it excellent canvas coverage and provides a smooth and even texture."
For anyone with a project underway using Anchor Tapestry Wool, we will be doing one final order. You can call the store (613-225-9665), e-mail email@example.com, or call our toll free number (1-888-241-7653) to request Anchor Tapestry Wool colours.
Please let us know what colours you need and how many skeins BEFORE Wednesday, May 22.


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Episode 9
Little Brazil
Brazilians are born to dance, and Mickela learns as many ways as possible how New Yorkers keep that Brazilian energy alive – with capoeira, forró, and Carnival's samba!
featured in this episode
Capoeira at The West Side YMCA
5 W 63rd Street
New York, NY 10023
One of the first Capoeira masters to bring the art form to the US, Mestre Caxias teaches capoeira at the West Side YMCA.
Samba with Quenia Ribeiro
Brazilian dancer, instructor and choreographer that offers samba classes throughout NYC.
Rio Market
3215 36th Avenue
Astoria, NY 11106
A grocery store in Astoria, Queens that carries Brazilian food items as well as basic necessities and specialty items.
Dende & Mamadele Productions
An organization that provides performances, classes and trips all focusing on the culture of Bahia, Brazil. They have four performance groups that travel around the country in order to educate audiences of the music and dance of Bahia.
more episodes
Distributed By
Co-Produced With
Underwritten In Part By
Presented By


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Everything tagged
Stories tagged: washington huskies basketball
Sun., April 7, 2019
Huskies' Matisse Thybulle named national Defensive Player of the Year
Matisse Thybulle added one more prize to his ever-expanding treasure trove of trophies: the Naismith defensive player of the year award.
UPDATED: Sun., March 31, 2019
Washington's Jaylen Nowell declares for NBA Draft
Washington guard Jaylen Nowell, the Pac-12 Conference player of the year, announced he will enter the NBA Draft.
UPDATED: Wed., Feb. 20, 2019
Huskies rally from 14 down to defeat Cougars
Washington overcame a disastrous defensive performance in the first half and a 14-point deficit to pull out a comeback 72-70 victory at Washington State, which handed their cross-state rival another …
UPDATED: Tue., Jan. 1, 2019
Washington Huskies rally from 13-point hole, top Cal St Fullerton
Jaylen Nowell scored 18 points and Noah Dickerson added 16 as Washington erased an eight-point halftime deficit to earn an 84-76 victory over Cal State Fullerton Tuesday night.
Sun., Dec. 2, 2018
Jalen Nowell, Noah Dickerson help Huskies hold off UCSB
Even though the Huskies led almost the entire game, Washington just couldn't put UC Santa Barbara away. Until Jaylen Nowell took things into his own hands in the final minutes.
UPDATED: Tue., Nov. 27, 2018
Washington's 3-point shooting too much for Eastern Washington; Huskies win 83-59
Dominic Green hit seven 3-pointers and scored a career-high 25 points, David Crisp added 14 points and Washington cruised past Eastern Washington 83-59 on Tuesday night.
UPDATED: Sun., Nov. 18, 2018
Jaylen Nowell scores 32, Washington beats Santa Clara 82-68
Jaylen Nowell scored 21 points in the first half, matched his career-high with 32 points, and Washington overcame sluggish stretches to beat Santa Clara 82-68 on Sunday night in the …
Mon., Nov. 12, 2018
Jaylen Nowell scores 18 as Washington holds off San Diego 66-63
Jaylen Nowell scored 12 of his 18 points in the second half, Noah Dickerson added 16 points, and Washington held off a late rally to beat San Diego 66-63 on …
Mon., March 19, 2018
Huskies' season ends with NIT loss to Saint Mary's
Jordan Ford made a wide open 3-pointer with 45.3 seconds to go and Saint Mary's won its program-record 30th game of the season with an 85-81 victory over Washington on …
UPDATED: Sun., March 11, 2018
Washington Huskies land NIT invite, will host Boise State
The Washington Huskies earned a No. 5 seed in the National Invitation Tournament and will host fourth-seeded Boise State on Wednesday.
Sat., Feb. 3, 2018
Washington upsets No. 9 Arizona 78-75 on Dominic Green's buzzer beater
Dominic Green collected a loose ball in the final seconds and made a 3-pointer at the buzzer to give Washington a 78-75 victory over No. 9 Arizona on Saturday night.
Sun., Jan. 28, 2018
Thybulle, Nowell pace Washington past Washington State 80-62
Mattise Thybulle and the Washington Huskies turned the long-range tables on cross-state rival Washington State.
UPDATED: Thu., Jan. 18, 2018
Justin Bibbins scores 20, leads Utah to 70-62 win over Washington
Justin Bibbins scored 20 and grabbed 10 rebounds as Utah broke a four-game losing streak with a 70-62 victory over Washington on Thursday.
UPDATED: Sat., Jan. 13, 2018
Stanford earns road sweep with 73-64 win over Washington
One-time Washington commit Daejon Davis returned to his hometown and had 16 points, Reid Travis also finished with 16 points, and Stanford completed its first two-game road sweep in conference …
Fri., Dec. 29, 2017
Noah Dickerson leads Washington Huskies past Southern California
Noah Dickerson scored 17 points and grabbed seven rebounds to lead Washington to its first Pac-12 Conference road win in almost two years, a 88-81 victory over Southern California in …
UPDATED: Sun., Dec. 17, 2017
Washington holds off Loyola Marymount 80-77
Jaylen Nowell hit an off-balance jumper with 30 seconds left as the shot clock was winding down to give Washington a four-point lead, and the Huskies held on for an …
Sun., Nov. 26, 2017
Nowell, Dickerson pace Washington past UC Davis, 77-70
SEATTLE – Washington's zone defense changed the tone at the start of the second half and freshman Jaylen Nowell took care of the offense down the stretch. Nowell scored 11 …
Fri., Nov. 10, 2017
Freshman Jaylen Nowell lights it up as Washington Huskies edge Belmont
Freshman Jaylen Nowell scored 25 of his 32 points in the second half and Washington rallied from nine points down in the final five minutes to beat Belmont 86-82 on …
Sun., June 25, 2017
Washington Huskies basketball lands second top recruit from New York state
For the second time this month, the Washington men's basketball team added a touted wing from New York, and it appears new Huskies coach Mike Hopkins beat out his former …
Sat., June 17, 2017
Huskies' Markelle Fultz works out for 76ers; trade could be finalized Monday
Saturday was Markelle Fultz Night for the 76ers. Hours before Fultz's arrival at the team's practice site in Camden, N.J., Joel Embiid tweeted out a selfie of himself and Dario …
UPDATED: Thu., March 23, 2017
Washington Huskies release national player of year Michael Porter Jr. from his basketball commitment
Nathan Hale's Michael Porter Jr., considered one of the top boys basketball recruits in the nation, said Wednesday he asked for a release from his letter of intent from the …
UPDATED: Sun., March 19, 2017
Washington Huskies tab Syracuse assistant Mike Hopkins as new men's basketball coach
Mike Hopkins was hired Sunday at Washington, which moved swiftly after firing Lorenzo Romar four days earlier. Hopkins agreed to a six-year deal, with financial terms expected to be released …
Thu., March 16, 2017
Washington Huskies program could be gutted by Lorenzo Romar firing
SEATTLE – Washington is expected to become one of the most desirable destinations in college basketball after its decision to fire Lorenzo Romar but one with a lot of question …
Fri., March 10, 2017
Washington star freshman Markelle Fultz declares for draft
Washington freshman guard Markelle Fultz has declared for the NBA draft, where he is expected to be among the top five picks.
Sat., March 4, 2017
USC tops Washington Huskies; teams await rematch in Pac-12 Tournament
Jordan McLaughlin had 22 points and nine assists and Chimezie Metu added 17 points as Southern California held off Washington 74-58 on Saturday.
Fri., Feb. 10, 2017
Washington Huskies forward Malik Dime suspended after slapping student at game
Washington senior forward Malik Dime was indefinitely suspended Friday for slapping a student at halftime of a loss to Colorado.
Sat., Jan. 21, 2017
Daniels and Bonam each score 24 as Utah beats Washington
Devon Daniels darted through Washington's defense for a career-high 24 points, Lorenzo Bonam also had a career-high 24 points and Utah pulled away for a 94-72 win over the Huskies …
Thu., Jan. 12, 2017
Cal Golden Bears dispose of Washington Huskies in final minutes, win 69-59
Ivan Rabb scored 20 points with 14 rebounds and Jabari Bird added 16 points to lead California to a 69-59 win over Washington on Thursday night.
Sun., Dec. 18, 2016
Fultz's near triple-double helps Washington beat W Michigan
Markelle Futz had 27 points, 10 assists and eight rebounds and Washington beat Western Michigan 92-86 on Sunday night.
Fri., Nov. 25, 2016
Green, Dime step up for Washington in 86-47 win over W. Kentucky
Dominic Green scored a career-high 20 points with six rebounds, Malik Dime added 13 points and Washington beat Western Kentucky 86-47 in the Global Sports Classic on Friday night.


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Tag Archives: Things Fall Apart
Reflect and Locate Chinua Achebe's Post Colonial Novel, Things Fall Apart
Let's enjoy this informative interview with Nigerian author Chinua Achebe that was recorded fifty years after the publication of his novel, Things Fall Apart. View this interview and take notes on a few items. First note what was Achebe's first … Continue reading
Posted in Summer Reading, TED Talks/TEDx Talks, YouTube Tagged Things Fall Apart 6 Comments
The Significance of Mealtime
Throughout literature the power of food is interpreted in different ways, all of which stem from the original meals of the Bible. The unifying quality of a meal, first shown in the iconic story of the Last Supper, is remembered … Continue reading
Posted in AP Mindset Tagged Biblical Allusions, The Great Gatsby, The Sun Also Rises, Things Fall Apart 3 Comments


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Monday, October 31, 2011
Organizing with Knitting Baskets
Want a stylish way to containerize your knitting projects? There are some wonderful knitting baskets out there — and, of course, they could all be used for other purposes by those of us who aren't knitters.
The basket above comes from Eline Oftedal of Norway, and through the wonders of Etsy it's readily available to all of us. Eline's Etsy store is called The High North, and the tagline made me smile: "Hand made during the long Nordic winter." [via Pretty Vintage]
Here's another Etsy option — a stunning handmade basket from Freda's Basket Works.
This handmade knitting basket comes to us from Africa via Connected Fair Trade.
Peterboro Basket Company makes this knitting basket; you can also buy a fabric liner for the basket.
For something really different, you could get this leather knitting basket from Renaissance Art.
Finally, Sew Essential has framed knitting baskets — a style that I was only finding through vintage product sellers (such as this one and this one) before I found the Sew Essential site.
Posted by Jeri Dansky at 7:36 AM
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Discussed in this essay:
• Have a Nice Day, Dubravka Ugrešić (trans. Celia Hawkesworth). Viking. 240pp.
• The Culture of Lies, Dubravka Ugrešić (trans. Celia Hawkesworth). Pennsylvania State University Press. 273pp, $31.95.
• Thank You For Not Reading, Dubravka Ugrešić (trans. Celia Hawkesworth). Dalkey Archive Press. 211pp, $13.95.
• Nobody's Home, Dubravka Ugrešić (trans. Ellen Elias-Bursac). Open Letter. 297pp, $16.95.
• Fording the Stream of Consciousness, Dubravka Ugrešić (trans. Michael Henry Heim). Northwest University Press. 225pp.
• The Museum of Unconditional Surrender, Dubravka Ugrešić (trans. Celia Hawkesworth). New Directions. 256pp., $15.95.
• Lend Me Your Character, Dubravka Ugrešić (trans. Celia Hawkesworth, Michael Henry Heim). Dalkey Archive Press. 250pp., $12.95.
• The Ministry of Pain, Dubravka Ugrešić. Harper Perennial. 272pp., $13.95.
• Baba Yaga Laid an Egg, Dubravka Ugrešić. Canongate. 256pp., $24.65.
Here's the scenario. Amidst fiscal chaos, the U.S. government permits states to form their own independent countries. As the citizens of these new countries apply to for new passports, they become caught in a bureaucratic web that ultimately evicts many of them from their homes.
"State of birth?" asks a passport official.
"New York."
"And you are applying for a California passport?"
"California has been my home for twenty years."
"You are a New Yorker. Passport request denied."
Now, we are ready to discuss the works of Dubravka Ugrešić.
Dubravka Ugrešić is Yugoslavian. When the country of Yugoslavia dissolved, she was robbed of her national identity and forced to become a Croatian because Zagreb was her home. Choices had to be made. Does she accept her new identity? Does she join the battle to claim the preeminence of Croatia? Does she take this opportunity to quietly leave and establish her home in an entirely new country? Does she say, "Hell, no! I'm Yugoslavian!" Ugrešić is of the "Hell, no!" variety. Using her pen as her weapon, she declared war on those who wanted to rob her of her Yugoslavian identity, and ultimately she was forced to leave Croatia. Though time has softened some of her rhetoric, Ugrešić's wounds are deep, and she continues to plumb their depths. Her readers are rewarded with works that combine the personal and political to reveal the universality of the experience of displacement.
|photo: Zeljko Koprolcec.
There's a scene at the end of Ugrešić's 1993 essay collection Have a Nice Day: From the Balkan War to the American Dream where the author describes an encounter that occurred while waiting in line for her I.D. card in Zagreb. When asked her nationality, she declares, "Anational." Some standing behind her in the queue speculated that she's afraid to admit she's Serbian, others urge her to declare she's a Croat, or better yet, a Gypsy. Ugrešić declared that, "As long as belonging to a particular nationality makes one citizen of this state politically, socially, and humanly acceptable, and another unacceptable, I refuse to be reduced to any blood group." She finally convinced the clerk to put her in the category of "others" and vows that she values her hard-won Croatian passport, "a dark-blue booklet with the red and white (Coca-Cola) design," because of "the long drawn out battle for it." She might have savored that victory, but her identity war was just beginning.
Reading Ugrešić's three subsequent essay collections, the most recent of which, Nobody's Home, was released last year by Open Letter, it's possible to say that Ugrešić has reached a truce with her displacement. She has moved from seeing herself as a former insider to an outsider, and she seems resigned to and more objective about her status than she once did, especially when she was writing the vitriolic essays in The Culture of Lies. In the 1992 title essay from that collection (issued in 1995), Ugrešić's tone speaks to her deeply passionate engagement with the troubles in former Yugoslavia.
Indeed, I am convinced that that outside world, that so coveted arbiter of civilisation, that Europe—so called upon and so desperately depended upon by the Croats (Danke Deutschland, danke Genscher) and the Bosnians and the people of Sarajevo (who for months have been expecting the mythical Sixth Fleet to sail into Sarajevo)—that Europe has also played its part, bears its heavy portion of blame, has its problem of a "Western" culture of truth and lies. And the root of that problem, whether Europe wants it or not, lies in Bosnia. And that is why Karadžic's dark and terrible shadow is already sitting, comfortably settled, in the armchairs of European homes.
Words and phrases like "coveted arbiter," "heavy portion of blame," "truth and lies," "terrible shadow," and the sharp declarative tone speak to Ugrešić's understandably less-than-neutral political stance.
One of the more fascinating moments in reading the essay "What is European about European Literature?" in Nobody's Home is seeing how Ugrešić's passions have been reduced to a simmer, letting the flavors of her essays become much more complex. Pointedly, in this latest collection she devotes more time to questioning her responses and the responses of others to concepts like nationality and the impact of labels on the reception of literary texts. Instead of conjuring images of dark shadows, truth and lies, blame on a nationwide scale, her arguments have become personal, softer around the edges yet sharper at their center, as in this case where she extends her passport experience into a larger question of how we define national literature.
Ten years ago I held a Yugoslav passport, with its soft, pliable, dark red cover. I was a Yugoslav writer. Then the war came, and the Croats, without so much as a by your leave, shoved a blue Croatian passport at me. The Croatian government expected a prompt transformation from its citizens, as if the passport itself was some sort of magic pill. Since this didn't go down easily in my case, they excluded me from their literary and other ranks. Croatian passport in hand, I abandoned both my newly acquired and formerly demolished homeland and set out into the world. With impassioned, Eurosong-like glee, the rest of the world identified me as a Croatian writer. I became a literary representative of a place that no longer wanted me. I, too, no longer wanted the place that no longer wanted me. I am no fan of unrequited love. Even today, I still, however, haven't shaken free of the labels.
Again I hold a passport with a soft, pliable, dark red cover, a Dutch passport. Will this new passport make me a Dutch writer? It may but I doubt it. Now that I have a Dutch passport, will I ever be able to "reintegrate" into the ranks of Croatian writers? Possibly, but I doubt it. What is my real problem? Am I ashamed of the label of Croatian writer that still trails after me? No. Would I feel any better with a label like Gucci or Armani? Undoubtedly I would, but that's not the point. Then what is it that I want? And why am I, for God's sake so edgy about labels?
Why? Because the reception of literary texts has shown that the luggage of identification bogs down a literary text. Because it has further been shown that labels actually alter the substance of a literary text and its meaning.
Notice not only the number of questions in these paragraphs but also how Ugrešić subtly revises her own story about the acquisition of her Croatian passport from a battle won to a passport forced upon her. Should such revisions lessen her literary stature? Not at all. Looking back and seeing our personal histories through different lenses is a decidedly normal part of transforming experiences into wisdom. Frankly, if she'd not revised bits of her history, she would fall into the category of if-you've-read-one-book-you've-read-them-all.
Given Ugrešić's biography, her perspective on how national labels affect literature is an especially intriguing aspect of her developing philosophy regarding literature, art, and criticism. In both Nobody's Home and her previous essay collection, Thank You For Not Reading, she turns from the topics of national identity and displacement to the effects of books being treated as commodities rather than art forms. In "The Writer and His Future" (from Thank You For Not Reading) Ugrešić argues that "the dividing lines have faded between high and trivial literature" and that "the individual voice is increasingly rare." Furthermore, she approaches the question of labels and literature from a slightly different angle than she did in Nobody's Home:
The writer today is more than ever before plastered with identity labels, and these labels determine his place in the literary market and the kind of understanding there can be between himself and his readers. "Identities" do, admittedly, facilitate market communication, but they badly reduce the meaning of the text, impoverishing it or simply distorting it. The literary text is read more than ever with a key: gender, racial, national, ethnic, cultural, sexual, political. It is also diminished by a market which sells books just like any other commodity, according to categories and not according to value. Milan Kundera's The Joke can be found in the humor section and Gyorgy Konrad's A Feast in the Garden among the gardening books.
Subsequent to the publication of this essay in Thank You For Not Reading, Ugrešić told the Boston Globe that Stephen King's National Book Award was "a fall of the Literary Wall: a final unification, not of good and bad literature but of literature and trash." Let us remember that the genre of the novel at the beginning had only one function: to be cheap, mass entertainment. Some other genres, like poetry, had been valued much higher. However, fiction—which meant to be an amusement—managed to have its glorious history, its peaks, especially in the epoch of modernism. Ugrešić opens up relevant avenues of debate and opportunities for refinement of one's personal philosophy on the nature of contemporary fiction as art versus entertainment.
Americans have a tradition of permitting the marketplace to anoint literature of merit and lumping books in with movies and music in the category of entertainment. Additionally, we often consider the honoring of literary works based on artistic merit as suspicious, smacking of snobbery, academic exclusivity, or simply being anti-democratic. As such, there is merit to Ugrešić's argument that our literary wall has fallen. However, that particular wall must have fallen centuries before Stephen King received the National Book Award, even if Ugrešić is right that the novel form was created to take literary amusement beyond the limitations of poetry. Valuing literature as art before entertainment, in the tradition of the Slavs, does not make it an inherently better system of literary assessment, simply different.
When reflecting on the entire body of Ugrešić's work (excepting her earliest translated novel and her latest), it's difficult to keep straight which of Ugrešić's works are essay collections and which are fiction. Perhaps this is a problem of reading these works one after another in a short time. Perhaps it's also a function of Ugrešić's predilection for the first-person narrator. And perhaps it's Ugrešić's distinctive authorial voice, undiminished by translation, that's at the root of the confusion. Although Ugrešić's fiction is clearly fiction, the themes of both the fiction and the non are mutually reinforcing: while her essays elaborate on themes she approaches more obliquely in her fiction, her fiction illustrates the complexities of these themes.
|Image courtesy A Journey Round My Skull.
Unlike the essays, with Ugrešić's fiction we are fortunate to have access to translations of a novel, a novella, and short stories that pre-date the dissolution of Yugoslavia—thus, we have her pure Yugoslavian voice, if you will. It's difficult not to read these works and wonder what kind of writer Ugrešić would have been if she remained a "Yugoslavian writer" rather than develop into an "Anational" one.
Interestingly, Fording the Stream of Consciousness, winner of best Yugoslav novel of 1988, seems to anticipate some of this, as it examines the clash between Eastern European and Western European cultures. She sets the novel at an international literary conference in Zagreb and uses her characters to explode both Communist and Western cultural stereotypes. There is a sense of irony and playfulness to the story that mirrors what is found in her most recent novel, Baba Yaga Laid an Egg, and which is not nearly as prevalent in The Museum of Unconditional Surrender and The Ministry of Pain. The following excerpt from Fording the Stream of Consciousness demonstrates that Ugrešić mined the theme of national identity even before she found her self cast into the world of "Anationalism." Here Troshin, one of the novel's Russian characters, bitterly reflects on foreigners and freedoms afforded them by their passports.
Foreigners. He envied them their light, easygoing way of doing things; it came from their personal freedom, something you could not acquire, something you had to breathe in with the air of the country where you lived. He admired the ease with which they entered into conversation with door-keepers, reception clerks, cloakroom attendants, janitors—that ever-present, terror-inspiring band of geezers that constantly aroused Troshin's anxiety. Or used to admire them, admired them until the day he witnessed a skirmish on the streets of Moscow between a no-nonsense policeman and a foreigner and watched the foreigner's self-assurance melt and the familiar, home-grown, humiliated look of fear spread over his face. Troshin knew the mechanisms of fear like the back of his hand, yet it was only after that incident that he realized how tenuous personal freedom, inner freedom, actually was. A foreigner played the tough guy as long as he had his passport in his pocket.
There's that ever-important passport once again being used as a symbol of identity. However, here the passport is free to stand for more than Ugrešić's personal battle with identity. Here, she uses it to contemplate the freedoms afforded by some passports as opposed to others.
Lend Me Your Character begins with the 1981 novella "Steffie Cvek in the Jaws of Life: a little patchwork novel." A key to symbols found in the margin of the novella's text, such as "….. = stretch and ////// = gather" help guide the reader through the narrative in much the same way as a dress pattern uses symbols to direct the seamstress. A "pattern" outlining major plot points is also provided, and then finally the story of Steffie Cvek, a woman in search of a man to love, begins. After reading Ugrešić's essays, this novella seems like a left turn—Ugrešić writing a love story? Have no fear. Such comical scenes as cheating husbands showing up at Steffie's door for afternoon quickies and Steffie taking bad beauty advice from magazines are part of a more ironic twist that makes the story a study on modern feminism. In highly ironic tones, Ugrešić elaborates on this point using the fictional device of a third-person "objective" narrator at the end of the novella:
Having expressed at the outset her intention of writing a women's [sic] story, the author took into account several predominant characteristics of so-called "women's writing:" the main (female) character's search for personal happiness, a feeling of isolation, love as the primary motive force, a powerful experience of the body, sensuality, passivity, an apolitical outlook, the banality of the everyday, social consciousness in the subtext, impoverished language, the impossibility of experiencing the world as a totality, etc. The author avoided all autobiographical tendencies and the predominant confessional tone. The author would like to point out that all these definitions have been taken not only from the current criticism but also from life.
In fact, all the short stories in this particular collection, all published in Yugoslavia in the 1980s and translated into English in the 1990s, examine issues of sexual identity and the creation of art. Stories like "A Hot Dog in a Warm Bun," about a man who loses his penis only to have it discovered by a woman who tosses it away as a bad hot dog, deals with sexuality in an overt and comic way, while the final story "Lend Me Your Character" balances humor and the battle of the sexes in the context of a creative couple, writers: the man wishes to borrow a character from one of his girlfriend's stories to use in his own. This glimpse into Ugrešić's identity as Yugoslavian writer is also a glimpse into her future.
Baba Yaga Laid an Egg, released this spring, is part of Canongate's The Myths series, a series where ancient myths from many different cultures are re-imagined by contemporary authors. Ugrešić takes the traditional Slavic tale of the witch Baba Yaga, who lives in a house built on chicken legs and kidnaps children, and turns it into a humorous and, at times, somber tale of women and aging. (Interestingly, Ugrešić opens one of her short stories in Lend Me Your Character with a quote from Soviet writer Alexei Remizov: "Baba Yaga hatched an egg.") In Ugrešić's take on this myth, she weaves together the story of a writer's journey to Bulgaria to satisfy her aging mother's wish and the story of three elderly women who travel to a hotel spa to live the life of luxury for a week. When one of the women dies in the midst of this vacation, secrets emerge and lead to a future that none expect. The visceral details in this excerpt from the opening are classic Ugrešić, offering dead-on observations with a dash of dark humor:
Sweet little old ladies. At first you don't see them. And then, there they are, on the tram, at the post office, in the shop, at the doctor's surgery, on the street, there is one, there is another, there is a fourth over there, a fifth, a sixth, how could there be so many of them all at once?! Your eyes inch from one detail to the next: the feet swelling like doughnuts in the tight shoes, the skin sagging from the inside of the elbows, the knobby fingernails, the capillaries that ridge the skin. You look closely at the complexion: cared for or neglected. You notice the grey skirt and white blouse with the embroidered collar (dirty!). The blouse is worn thin and greyed from washing. She has buttoned it up crookedly, she tries to unbutton it but cannot, her fingers are stiff, the bones are old, they are getting light and hollow like bird bones. Two others lend her a hand and with their collective efforts they do up the blouse. Buttoned up to her chin, she looks like a little girl.
What's decidedly different about Ugrešić's writing in this excerpt is how the humor arises from the collective image developed by the prose while the details themselves paint a sympathetic portrait of these old women; Ugrešić closes the distance between narrator and characters in a way that she doesn't in much of her other fiction.
In concluding notes wrapped in irony and the fictional cover of an academic explaining the myth of Baba Yaga to non-Slavic readers, Ugrešić gives us a clever footnote on how the egg in the book's title is a grim symbol of female creativity.
Female artists are Baba Yagas, isolated, stigmatized, separated from their social surroundings (they live in the woods or on its edge), wholly reliant on their own powers. Their roles, just like the role of Baba Yaga in the fairytales, is marginal and constricted. On the other hand, the same title can be read as a cheerful apology for women's creativity.
Isolation. Female creativity. Stigmatized. Ugrešić seems to have combined the creative themes of her "Yugoslavian" writing with that of her "Anational" writing. It's rare that a book by an established author, one who has decades of writing in her portfolio, makes me eager to read what will come next. However, that is where I found myself when I turned the last page of Baba Yaga Laid An Egg.
The loss of Ugrešić's Yugoslavian nationality was a death that she's been mourning through her art. Memory and loss permeate The Museum of Unconditional Surrender, her first novel based on her experiences as an artist adrift from her national identity. Ugrešić uses narrative devices to dissect the very nature memory of how and what we remember. The very way that she constructs this somber narrative—paragraph breaks on nearly every page, numbered paragraphs, snippets of Joseph Brodsky quotes wedged between snippets of dialogue—creates a sense that the reader is floating on a narrative river whose current keeps bumping them from the "present" shore to the "past" shore.
"I sometimes think I have forgotten everything. Why does a person live at all if he forgets everything anyway?" asks my mother.
"Memory betrays everybody, especially those whom we knew best. It is an ally of oblivion, it is an ally of death. It is a fishnet with a very small catch and with the water gone. You can't use it to reconstruct anyone, even on paper. What's the matter with all those millions of cells in our brain? What the matter with Pasternak's 'Great god of love, great god of details'? On what number of details must one be prepared to settle?" says Joseph Brodsky.
"Even what was mine, and only mine, I remember so little of it . . . " says my mother.
"A normal man doesn't remember what he had for breakfast. Things of a routine, repetitive nature are meant to be forgotten. Breakfast is one; loved ones is another," says Joseph Brodsky.
The intrusion of memories is frequently as disorienting in real life as it is in this excerpt. The advantage of these intrusions occurring on the page is that we, as readers, have the luxury of re-reading this passage and finding clues as to what's really happening. Here, the narrator is "remembering" Brodsky's quotes on memory and using them to respond in her head to her mother's confusion and frustration over her own memory problems. Ugrešić brilliantly uses prose to capture the very process of the present slipping into the past and the future slipping into the present. Similar to Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking, The Museum of Unconditional Surrender uses prose to capture the process of grieving for a lost identity. However, free of the bonds of "truth" that limit personal essays or memoirs, Ugrešić takes full of advantage of artistic devices such as shifting points of view, dialogue, and multiple narrative voices that permit this novel to transcend the personal to ponder compelling questions of an artist and their identity with a nation versus their identity with art.
Shades of this can be seen in The Ministry of Pain, where Ugrešić moves her story of personal grief from sorrow to anger. However, instead of as would be expected of a sophisticated artist, she leaves overt wrath out of her narrative. The narrator of this story is a professor of literature who has fled her native Croatia and now teaches a class of Yugoslav exiles at the University of Amsterdam. Still coping with her own feelings of loss and problems of her new adjustment, the professor decides to let the class indulge in Yugonostalgia rather than study literature. When one of the students submits an anonymous complaint to her department head she angrily returns to the syllabus, much to the disappointment of most of the students. At the end of the semester, she issues a failing grade to the student she suspects of complaining. In a moment that stands alone in Ugrešić's fiction and, even her essays, there is a confrontation between the professor and the student that is filled with great anger and a surprising moment of violence. The student expresses the true source of his anger with his hostage, the professor.
"Tell me, has it occurred to you that all that time you may have been torturing us? Has it occurred to you that the students you forced to remember were yearning to forget? That they made up memories to indulge you the way the Papuans made up cannibalistic myths to indulge the anthropologists? Your students aren't like you. They love this country. Flat, wet, nondescript as a country without pain. People turn into amphibians here. Of their own accord. They turn the color of sand; they blend in and die out. Like fucking amphibians. That's all they care about: dying out. The Dutch lowlands are one big blotter: it sucks up everything—memories, pain, all that crap . . . "
Mining memories can be a dangerous undertaking for those who are fleeing them. This is a theme touched upon in the Museum of Unconditional Surrender, but not explored to the depth it is in this novel. Additionally, upon reflection, the absence of more displays of anger and violence in Ugrešić's fiction is admirable; where such sensational scenes have a tendency to send fiction flying off the shelves and line the pockets of authors and publishers with cash, it can be seen as no less than a noble artistic vision that has guided Ugrešić in not giving her readers the kind of story one would expect given the former Yugoslavia's recent violent history.
In the essay "A Little Red Dot" in Thank You For Not Reading, Ugrešić writes of a visit to the Slavic Department Library of a European University. The visitor finds all the Yugoslavian books living together "in an enforced library community" on one shelf—Serbian, Croatian, Bosnian, Slovenian, and Macedonian—and is sad to see such a small collection. Then the visitor notes that some books have a red dot and learns from the librarian that books with a red dot may not be taken from the library because they are usually stolen.
The visitor knows that the little red dot on the spine of the book is the greatest literary prize that is possible for a writer from the Yugoslav literary provinces to achieve, more significant than a Nobel Prize. It is the result of a secret ballot, in which anonymous visitors to the library—Croatian, Serbian, and Bosnian—have chosen the only cultural heritage that they recognize as alive and meaningful.
Ugresic writes in Croatian and relies on translators to bring her works to the English-language public. Searching through interviews and biographies, I could not find her explanation for this choice and decided to indulge in some extrapolation. Based on all that she's exposed of herself through her essays and fiction, I speculate that writing in Croatian remains her personal and everlasting defiance in response to being denied her Yugoslavian identity. They can take away her passport, they can brand her a witch, they can force her to pursue her writing in other countries, but they can't change the language she chooses to write in. She is a citizen of literature and a Yugoslav who writes in Croatian. Her books will join those from Serbian, Bosnian, Slovenian, and Macedonian writers on shelves of Slavic Department Libraries as one of the last remaining testaments to a Yugoslavia that once was.
Karen Vanuska is a freelance writer from the San Francisco Bay Area. She is a regular contributor to Open Letters: A Monthly Arts and Literature Review. Her fiction has appeared in UC Irvine's Faultline and her creative non-fiction in a recent issue of The Battered Suitcase.
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I just put a well-seasoned oak log on the fire and have settled back into my favorite chair. Peggy just brought me a steaming cup of tea to warm my insides on this cold January night. The busy holiday season is past, my goals are set for the new year and I have decided to indulge myself in the pleasure of a bit of reflection. It is good to be home. Not just in another house. But home. Pulling up stakes, as we have every few years, has taken its toll - especially on Peggy. Our decision a year ago to put down roots back on Walker Avenue (the mixed income neighborhood we helped to rebuild) has proven to be right in so many ways. Peggy, who is by nature a nester, extracted a promise from me as we were constructing this home. "Promise me that this will be our last move until they put us into 'the home'." The weary look in her eyes told me how important this commitment was to her.
I am finding that there is something very good about rootedness. Novel discovery for a preacher's kid for whom moving has been a way of life. I was surprised by joy this autumn as the shade tree we planted turn bright crimson. I found unexpected satisfaction in the simple pleasure of bedding young plants with a blanket of mulched leaves for their winter sleep.
I think that permanency must be a deep desire of the soul. Deeper far than adventure-thirst and wander-lust. Whether displaced by eviction or dislocated by opportunity, there is an unrest in our spirits until we find a secure place to call home. We seem to have an innate, compelling drive to establish roots, even when the soil is rocky. I see it happening with homeless families who move into our interim apartments. The drive to reestablish stability is both powerful and persistent.
Rootedness must have intrinsic value. Perhaps it is a function of turning 50 {as I did this past year) but I am finding something remarkably satisfying about enjoying the shade from a tree I planted. In a highly mobile society where neighbors are transitory and homes are commodities to be traded, I am beginning to see just how gracious is God's gift of stable community for His people. I am privileged to enjoy the benefits of this gift in caring neighbors who look after each others' children and who come to each other's aid in times of sickness or need. In the midst of a high-crime environment I feel the security of neighbors who are committed to keeping our street safe. I know why there is such low turnover of homes in this neighborhood - people are tasting of the grace of community.
Our world churns with massive global migration. Nations are breaking apart. Overnight entire cultures are turned into wandering bands of refugees. Huge city-states are emerging like giant magnets that draw the diverse peoples of the globe into chaotic proximity. Displacement is epidemic. And an intense yearning for home burns in the souls of the scattered people of earth.
Centuries ago the prophet Isaiah caught a glimpse of God's promised design for the security of His people. For the dispersed people of Israel as well as the displaced ones of our day, the promise speaks hope to the human spirit:
"They will build houses and dwell in them; they will plant vineyards and eat their fruit. No longer will they build houses and others live in them, or plant and others eat. For as the days of a tree, so will be the days of my people; my chosen ones will long enjoy the works of their hands." (Is 65:21-22)
Could it be that the God of history is preparing us for residency in the city into which He will gather the faithful from every tribe, nation and tongue? Is global urbanization His invitation to learn how to rightly function in our cities in order to equip us to reign in the City of our God?
Enough of my eschatological musings. For now I will savor the special grace of this moment - a crackling oak fire and another cup of tea. And the joy of seeing a contented smile on Peggy's face.


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Primary area of expertise: Product Market Fit
Coaching focus: Strategic Planning, Scale / Growth, Mission/Vision/Values, Business planning and BMC development
As an UpStart Associate, Lindsay brings over a decade of experience serving as a senior strategist to leaders in private industry, government, and the social sector. Lindsay works with clients to help them understand the landscape in which they operate, clarify the impact they wish to have in the world, design effective and sustainable business models, and develop organizational capabilities that better prepare them for the future. She adores creating inclusive processes that engage a broad range of stakeholders, supporting more successful strategies. Lindsay has also worked as a senior project manager at the Monitor Institute, as an associate with strategy firms in London and New York City, and has consulted to a range of national and international nonprofits and foundations. Her academic background as a social scientist focused on program planning, design and impact assessment methods for governments and nonprofits. Lindsay holds a Masters in Public Administration from the London School of Economics and a Bachelors of Arts from Smith College.


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Can Calcium Damage the Heart?
The Johns Hopkins University School of Medicine recently completed a study on the relationship between calcium supplements and cardiovascular problems. This notable institution of higher education spent a decade gathering data on more than 2,700 individuals. At the conclusion of the study, researchers determined that calcium supplements can increase the risk of plaque accumulation in the arteries and even in some parts of the heart. More specifically, elderly individuals who take daily calcium supplements are at a very high risk of developing cardiovascular complications and consequently require post-stroke care in Cincinnati, OH.
Calcium is an abundant mineral that helps to rebuild bones and teeth. In the United States of America, there seems to be an obsession with taking calcium supplements that are readily available for sale in pharmacies and drug stores. The National Institutes of Health estimates that more than 40 percent of American adults take supplements that contain this mineral. It seems that half of the nation is on the wrong track when it comes to consuming calcium. Even the FDA does not recommend that adults take calcium supplements on a regular basis. Instead, it's much better for people to get this important nutrient from natural food sources such as green vegetables, dairy products, seafood and legumes. For example, kale and bok choy are loaded with calcium and many other beneficial vitamins and minerals. Milk, yogurt and cheese also provide plenty of calcium and other nutrients like protein.
Medical and dietary experts worldwide agree that calcium that is derived from food does not cause a significant increase in heart problems. Cincinnati, Ohio, home care providers recommend that seniors rely less on calcium supplements and more on balanced diets that are loaded with essential nutrients. Elderly individuals with arthritis are often pressured into taking calcium supplements, but these individuals should be encouraged to get this mineral from their daily meals rather than some tablets that have been synthesized in labs.
Turn to Home Care Assistance of Cincinnati to help your loved one maintain a balanced diet and boost longevity. Our live-in and hourly caregivers in Cincinnati, OH, enable seniors to sustain overall vitality and wellbeing in the comfort of home by encouraging healthy diet and exercise. Call 513.891.2273 today to learn what else our trusted caregivers can do to enhance your loved one's wellbeing.


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Elizabethan actors existed in a contradictory world in which they were regarded as the lowest of the low, but if they achieved success and, most important, a following, they would be regarded as almost godlike, exactly as film stars are today. Modern film stars may spend years in near starvation, playing minor roles and living in circumstances that most of us would find intolerable, before becoming the gods that we see worshiped by hysterical fans. In Elizabethan London it was the same: actors worked hard and slept rough and, like in the modern world, most actors never 'made' it. But those who did made it big.
We find today that a president or a monarch or a member of a royal family will invite a movie star to a Whitehouse or Buckingham Palace event. There's nothing new in that. The immensely popular theatre clown, Richard Tarlton, was taken up by Queen Elizabeth herself, and granted royal favours. She is said to have stood up and applauded one of his performances. Open any tabloid paper today and you will find a close interest in the doings of successful actors reflected there. In Elizabethan London the theatregoers also clamoured for nuggets of information about the doings of the stage stars, particularly if there was anything prurient about them.
Big stars are often in the news for things like charity walks across continents, participation in cycling or running marathons: their presence can steal the headlines of the event. Will Kemp, one of the most famous actors of Shakespeare's Lord Chamberlain's Men, who played jesters and burlesque characters, was also an accomplished dancer and led the jigs that ended each play at the Globe theatre. In 1600 he Morris-danced all the way from London to Norwich.
There was no bigger star of the Elizabethan and Jacobean theatre than Richard Burbage. One wonders how many of the Hollywood stars of our time will be remembered in 400 years from now. Richard Burbage has lasted that long, though. Four years younger than his friend, business partner and fellow actor, William Shakespeare, Burbage is still lauded as one of the greatest actors of the theatre, amongst all of Shakespeare's contemporaries. His fame could rest alone on his having been the first actor to play Hamlet, but he was also the first to play all the iconic tragic heroes. Indeed, while Shakespeare was working on his great tragedies he had Burbage's skills and talents in mind as he wrote, for his friend played all those roles – Macbeth, Othello, Lear, etc.
It is impossible to underestimate the part played by the theatre in the life of Elizabethan Londoners. Whereas today we have thousands of forms of public entertainment Elizabethan London had only the theatre and a few other things like bearbaiting and cock fighting. The Elizabethans had the passion for the theatre that we have in the modern world for our great sports events and the stars of the stage were as big as football and baseball stars are today.


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A stretch limousine is an awesome way to experience your 21st birthday, Quinceanera, Bat Mitzvah, your sweet 16 birthday, or any other birthday, with you and your friends. A birthday is a memorable occasion, whether it is your own or sharing with a loved one, a friend or colleague. The celebration is full of fun and excitement, the special day is meant to be shared by you and your friends, in a safe comfortable environment, luxury, and enjoyment.
American Eagle Limousine is your Denver birthday limo headquarters, your birthday limousine Denver, our professional courteous staff pays attention to the details, and we go the extra mile to help you create an enjoyable, everlasting experience that you and your friends can savor for a lifetime.
Call American Eagle Limousine today, we have a wide selection of stretch limos, SUV's, stretch SUV's, town cars to choose from for every taste, let us help you plan this special day with our wide selection of stretch limousine, stretch SUV, town car, limos, Vans, SUV limo. We are your one stop shop for all your transportation needs.


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We are overwhelmed by all the great things our students are doing! Here's a sampling of the fabulous news we've received just since our last issue. Congratulations to everyone, and we're very sorry if we missed anyone!
- Caitlin Gurlt has been selected to be the 2010 Yale University Summer Intern! This is a great honor for her, our department and university, and Psi Chi at UWGB. She will receive travel funding, room and board, and a stipend.
- Katie Kordus is the 2010-2011 winner of the Fergus and Bonnie Hughes Scholarship. She will receive $1000 to support her studies here at UW-Green Bay.
- Kristin Nick recently presented her research at the prestigious "Posters in the Rotunda" event at the State Capitol Building in Madison.
- Katie Von Holzen, a December graduate, has been awarded a $7500 Phi Eta Sigma Scholarship to support her graduate studies.
- Finally, we want to congratulate all of our May and August graduates, as well as though who will be receiving Leadership Awards this Friday!


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|Image credit: Visual hunt
Mary Kom born on 24th November 1982, Her full name is Chungneijang Mary Kom Hmangte. She was born and brought up in a poor Manipur family. She has two siblings- one younger brother and one younger sister. She belongs to the tribal community of India's northeastern state, Manipur.
Mary Kom started boxing at the international level at the age of 18. In 2001, she won the silver medal in her first AIBA World Women's Boxing Championship at Scranton, USA. But she won the gold medal in the second AIBA World Women's Senior Boxing Championship in 2002, Antalya, Turkey. Her determination to succeed in the world of boxing won her many medals including a bronze medal in 2012 Olympics.
"I still remember I was castigated by my father who said with battered and bruised face, I should not expect to get married. He was furious that I took to boxing - a taboo for women- and he did not have the slightest idea about it. But my passion for the sport had got the better of me and I thank my cousins who coaxed and cajoled my father into eventually giving his nod. I'm happy that I did not let anyone down." she told the Deccan Herald in September 2004.
Mary Kom got many titles
- MC Mary Kom
- Magnificent Mary
- Mary Kom
|Image credit- Flickr
Mary Kom married early in the year 2005 to her longtime friend Karung Onkholer Kom. Now they have twins as their children. It was then everyone thought that her career is over in sports. But it was never like that. Mary Kom made a classic come back with the great willpower to win and show her talent. She proved that everything is possible if you set your body, mind, heart, and soul into your dream. She started training again and rebuilt her body, stamina, and strength. She silenced the skeptics by winning the Silver medal in the year 2008, Asian games and gold medal at China's AIBA World Women's Boxing Championship.
|Image credit: visual hunt
She co-authored her autobiography "Unbreakable", with Dina Serto and published by Harper Collins in 2013. If you wanted to buy this book, her is the link- http://amzn.to/2kmB1e7
In 2014, biopic movie based on Mary Kom's life realized on 5th Sep 2014, which is directed by Sanjay Leela Bhansali and Priyanka Chopra played the main role of Mary Kom in Mary Kom movie.
On this Saturday, 24th November 2018 Mary Kom wins her sixth Gold medal in Women's World Boxing Championship by defeating Ukraine's Hanna Okhata which takes silver. Kom said "I would like to dedicate this win to my country" and she become the most successful boxer in tournament's history, albeit won the gold medal exactly 16 years after she had won it for the first time.
Awards and Recognitions
|Image credit: Flickr
- Arjuna Awards (Boxing) in 2003
- Padma Shri (Sports) in 2006
- People of the Year- Limca Books of Records in 2007
- Contender for Rajiv Gandhi Khel Ratna Award in 2007
- Pepsi MTV Youth Icon in 2008
- CNN-IBN & Reliance industries' Real Heroes Award in 2008
- 'Magnificient Mary' from AIBA(International Boxing Association) in 2008
- Rajiv Gandhi Khel Ratna Award in 2009
- International Boxing Association's Ambassador for Women's Boxing in 2009
- Padma Shree Sportswoman of the Year 2010, Sahara Sports Award
- Padma Bhushan Award in 2013
- Big Star Most Entertaining Sportsperson of the year in 2014
- Mary Kom Wins sixth gold medal in Women's World Boxing Championship in 2018.
Reader's Favorite- Jessica Cox- First Armless Pilot
Mary Kom always wanted to prove that women can do equally what men can. Today she makes sure she help other girls to achieve their dreams and assist them to fight against the odds. Mary Kom runs an academy in Manipur that teaches self-defense. Success can never materialize from fear.
For success in your career, one needs to be determined and confident enough. If you wanted to achieve certain goals and abilities, you should take up the challenges and pursue them.
For success in your career, one needs to be determined and confident enough. If you wanted to achieve certain goals and abilities, you should take up the challenges and pursue them.
Share your inspirational story with us, we will make publishing article. Thank You for reading!!


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Keep this quiet though...
While the death of Bill Sparkman was a media sensation for pushing anti-conservative sentiments just a couple of months ago, it is receiving little to no coverage currently. Why? Because, as investigators have recently speculated, there is a possibility that he died by his own hands.
Well, that just doesn't make for interesting news at the so-called legitimate news organizations.
As the AP states,
"The strange case attracted national attention when it first came to light, prompting worries that it may be a sign of increased anger toward the federal government in the first year of Barack Obama's presidency."
Prompting worries from whom? The unhinged left wishing to create sensational accusations? Check. The list follows:
- The Democratic Underground quickly posted a 'Handy Guide to how Republicans and Fox News are responsible for Census worker being hanged'.
- Rachel Maddow suggested Sparkman was killed simply because 'he was a federal employee'.
- Liberal bloggers were quick to accuse 'right wing zealots' trying to 'take their country back.
- Time chalked it up to government distrust, a sentiment fanned by 'talk media, tea parties and white-hot town-hall meetings'.
- The Huffington Post immediately assumed this was a case of right-wing paranoia.
- True/Slant opined that the body of Sparkman should be shipped to Glenn Beck.
- Think Progress pointed the finger at Michelle Bachman and her 'inflammatory and fear-mongering rhetoric against the Census'.
- New York Magazine linked the death to that of 'some wide-eyed, hysterical woman' named Michelle Bachman. (The irony in this is that the reference to a wide-eyed, hysterical woman was made in an article mentioning Nancy Pelosi).
Now however,
"Investigators probing the death of a Kentucky census worker found hanging from a tree with the word "fed" scrawled on his chest increasingly doubt he was killed because of his government job and are pursuing the possibility he committed suicide..."
"In recent weeks ... investigators have grown more skeptical that 51-year-old Bill Sparkman died at the hands of someone angry at the federal government."
Thus far, the AP article remains the only main-stream mention of the case as a possible suicide. Oh, and the St. Louis Post-Dispatch explored the possibility.
Funny though, how rampant speculation of murder managed to find its way through the media, but now that authorities are leaning towards a suicide, mum's the word.
Will the rest of the media express the same skepticism as those mentioned in the AP article? Will the aforementioned media outlets begin tripping over themselves, offering apologies to everyone they accused of having blood on their hands? Or will they quietly sweep this development under the rug?
Shhh! Don't answer; it'll be our little secret.
Photo Credit: The Times-Tribune/AP


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Andrew Dys
This cheater fails again in Special Olympics doughnut-eating contest
The TV lady was shocked, stunned, that some rotten and despicable person next to her would stoop so low as to cheat at a doughnut-eating contest.
"Don't," admonished Kristen Hampton, from WBTV in Charlotte, possibly the nicest television personality in not just the region, but on earth. Hampton for years has done a segment called "Good News" because she celebrates the wonderful in a world filled with news of pain and suffering and mayhem. She smiles in a world filled with frowns.
It is contagious.
Hampton caught me slipping my doughnuts into her Krispy Kreme box. That is, in a contest, cheating. Her smile stopped, for a second.
"Eat your own," Hampton warned.
So I tried to slip the doughnuts to Tega Cay Mayor George Sheppard, then to York County Councilman Chad Williams. Both caught me, too. I can't even cheat politicians, who are below "coyote" on the food chain.
For the second year in a row, in the Cops on the Roof doughnut-eating contest for something called "celebrities," I was what my three daughters would call a "colossal fail."
I came in last again.
The event with politicians and prosecutors and media personalities kicked off events through Saturday at Rock Hill's Krispy Kreme on Celanese Road. Last year, the events raised more than $20,000.
Police will be on the roof of the Krispy Kreme at 1525 Celanese Road through Saturday, waving to drivers and customers in an attempt to collect money for athletes with disabilities. Look for the officers from 6:30 a.m. to 10:30 p.m.
"The Special Olympics athletes show all of us what it means to try our best," said Detective Phil Tripp of the Rock Hill Police Department, the chief organizer. "Apparently, Mr. Dys, you missed that lesson."
Still up – with no cheating – through Saturday:
▪ Friday at 2 p.m. cops square off against firefighters and emergency workers in a doughnut-eating contest.
▪ Saturday is a public doughnut-eating contest at 2 p.m. Entry fee is $20, and the winner receives a year of free doughnuts. Registration starts at 1 p.m.
Donations are accepted any time at bit.ly/1Ayt3A1.
Andrew Dys • 803-329-4065