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Continuing Education
Managing Compassion Fatigue and Burnout
Date: 10:00am - 12:00pm PDT June 16, 2018 Location: Lewis & Clark Graduate School
Lewis & Clark Graduate School
Working in service of others puts can put educators, practitioners, counselors, social workers, volunteers, and a myriad of other professions at risk for burnout.
Burnout can bring about reduced productivity, diminished engagement, and dampened energy and motivation, as well as anxiety, and depression.
While burnout is considered an occupational hazard, few of us are trained on ways to self-guard ourselves and help prevent it.
In this presentation, participants will learn how to recognize, accept, and take action to manage burnout. We'll cover validated techniques of mindfulness, self-compassion, as well as common misconceptions of self-care.
This workshop is part of the Portland United Against Hatetraining series and is free and open to the public.
Accessibility Needs and Accommodations: This workshop location is wheelchair accessible. Please note any additional accessibility needs (including ASL interpretation or non-english language translation) you may have during your registration. We encourage registrants to make our office aware of any requests no later than two weeks before the workshop date. While we will make an effort to secure accommodations upon short notice, we cannot guarantee they will be available.
Details & Registration
Date and Time: Saturday, June 16, 10 a.m.-12 p.m.
Location: Lewis & Clark Graduate School
Presenter: Evan Dumas, MA
About the Presenter
Evan Dumas, MA works in that space between mental health counseling and standup comedy, providing lighthearted yet wholehearted trainings on burnout and compassion fatigue. Before becoming a counselor Evan witnessed burnout firsthand and vowed to make it his mission to reduce burnout for others. He uses humor, education, and compassion to help people cope with the modern realities of work.
This project is supported by the City of Portland, Office of Neighborhood Involvement and Office of Management and Finance, Special Appropriations for Portland United Against Hate. The content is solely the responsibility of the grantee and does not necessarily represent the official views of the City of Portland.
New events are added to our calendar regularly. For the latest on events related to your specific interests, sign up to receive periodic updates by email and/or mail.


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The Mermaid
Evelyn Henry
"Age eats you up. You don't remember what it was like, being a child, having so much fear. So much of it. So little of you. The lunge under the sheet."
I saw a mermaid the other day. The other night. I don't recall, exactly, what time of day it was. Who can? The days shimmer and simmer like mirages and steam whistling from a pressure cooker. Not a bomb. Red flows in the veins, but they are dark, ensconced in that inky darkness. Who knows? How well the light penetrates the chest, does it light up the cavity like your hand held against a hot bulb? The smell of hot sweat and burnt hair. Raw skin and untethered yearning. Wet blood, warm then cold, dripping down the blade of a knife. Not on purpose. An accident. Shucking oysters. The muscle is thick and tendinous. Gurgling oysters.
No one believes me about the mermaid. Why? I explain it as thickly as I can, stating the facts as they happened. Plainly. As much as I am able. Some things fissure and ebb. Flow. Disappear. Smokescreens are surfaces to project images. A laser to the eye smells but doesn't feel. Mushrooms and coconuts have the same texture. Not-desired. She was familiar, in a distant way, like nostalgia for something you haven't felt in a long, long time. But you felt, you know, at some point. Vividly.
She handed me sea shells that day/night. Was it last week? She was distant, then near. Emotionally. She had no nose. Her voice, when it happened, rarely, was sing-song like. But without anything attached to it, no connotation or implication. Not sultry.
I hear that Van Gogh ate yellow paint to try to feel happiness inside his body. Was it the heavy metal laced cadmium kind? It must've been. Oils are so much more toxic than acrylics, but they're both derived from the same source. In a metaphorical sense: death. People think dinosaurs, but it's more algae. Is that less tragic? Crushing an ant and feeling its exoskeleton destruct under heel isn't satisfying, but it is easy. I don't care.
I mean, I dreamed of a mermaid. They can't be real. She can't be. To touch. I woke with salt covering my stomach like some piece of meat being tenderized for supper. My stomach hair swirled in that white crust. It isn't worse. I whispered into the darkness that cascaded between dawn and dusk, cycling like clocks. I should clarify: I didn't just see her, I touched her. Her skin was like a dolphin, slick and rubbery, a sliver of a dream coming up from the deep. The darkness. Those eyes, seemed to know more than I did. They glinted in the light. They oozed out of her face like cold magma. Hot steel. The difference is there.
Not like, eye gunk. Or wet tears with saline solution, one rub. The eyes themselves. The embodiments. Swelling with red ale like shimmer. Light penetrates something. The body. A bruise festering. A blissed blister. The eyes were like melted wax. Dried cake. Blue as dark as midnight, not blue at all. With lighter colors like the dark seas of the Moon, with sea-glass embedded in them. Not the object, the color. She was alive. Breathing. Not through her mouth, witch. Thickly. Her chest moved to match the swaying of the sea cast behind her, the setting, the theme. The swatch. The sand grated my toes, irritating. The seeds of ancient rocks, set in the future. Depending on your perspective. If you turn a sheet of map upside down it isn't wrong. The shoreline was like an endless spine, scattered with pulverized bones. The shore's rotted spine. Salt and brine on my tongue. Gurgling oysters, their raw sewage silk-like. A gash across my thigh, weeped dark blood. Oozing. Like the eyes, that is. Situated there in the dark cascades. Not on purpose. Her eyes, situated there, mimicked the moon, dropping into the sea, with its sharp incisors penetrating thick water like blued flesh, seared but not cooked. Vulnerable. Intimate. I shivered in the cold, but not from it.
Curdled milk-like clouds buffeted the scenery. I couldn't really see them. I squinted in the darkness, robbing what light I did receive with grace. Not expectation. The opposite. Gratitude. Is that true? I don't recall. An accident. "Should I be embarrassed right now?"
I don't remember coming to the beach. I couldn't have been dreaming. I keep a log. I don't sleep. Not recently. Not anymore. At least five days. When I threw the sheets off the other day, in that abyssal dark, something clinked on the hardwood floor, besides the dust and memory. I grasped for the sound, and when I pulled my hand back into my sea-sick stomach, seashells were splayed between my digits. My webbing. They were wet. I was shaking. My hands were, the rest of me, still. Restless. Vibrating under the surface. A wave crests distantly.
She spoke to me, I should add. I should explain. I couldn't understand what she said at first, a calibration was necessary. The words gurgled out of her mouth like a corpse. An accident; like a fish. Her lips were swollen a deep bruise. But, I could a hear sound inside my forehead, between my eyes. Where auras begin and migraines birth. I could sense a sound. Her words, like sharp crystals split between the folds of my mind:
– this is unique – she says, said. Will say.
Either way, those first things stayed with me.
Ever see a large spider or insect crawl behind someone's shoulders? On a wall? It doesn't move with a kind of urgency, a self-awareness. But when you point at it to show the person, it just then vanishes under some clock or some-such. As if it knew to hide at that moment. As if it felt your gaze, knowing your anxiety was mounting like piles of stacked stones, each barely balanced on the last. The moment is lost to some kind of gap. "What has been seen, cannot be unseen," Nabokov finished his memoir, with a kind of persistent kind of horror – you cannot relive the present. That's what I took from it. But in that case, less physical and more existential. This is a poor example. It has less to do with spiders and more to do with… something with a lot of eyes and less limbs.
The mermaid doesn't have a visible tail. But it is there. Scattered among her ashy skin (that tastes like sweet, white wine, just before it turns to vinegar). There are scales. Her neck, her long slender arms. Longer than they ought to be. More lithe. Mannequin-like. Is that, an objectification? It wasn't a figment. A dream. I don't have that kind of faith in my mind to conjure such visceral nightmares. I don't dream. Not because of the sleep, but because I don't remember them. What's the difference between a memory and a dream, besides conviction?
They're thus detached. In a strange way, her movements are, too. They don't mirror the sounds that produce them. As if they are somehow out of sync, out of focus. A lazy operator forgets to achieve crystal clarity on a scene, a director and editor miss it, and it becomes part of the living creation they all birthed together. It takes a village, flush with cash. It wasn't an accident.
I am failing at description. It is a ragged destiny to do so. Written word conjures a lie that fizzles inside the mind and vanishes between the thoughts. Like sheets drawn over springs. The first utterance or scratched mark (digital or not), begins the cycle. How can you expect to describe anything with the least amount of detail? That isn't understanding, it is giving up. Failing. Not an accident.
It is a cheat to rely on experience, understanding or implication to fill the gaps. To expect that. Gratitude is the opposite. Right? How do you describe the color blue without reaching for metaphor: cold, harsh, ugly, bloodless, empty, beautiful, disgusting, repulsive, rotted, fetid, cursed, moonlight, fucking disgraceful excuse for red.
Describing anything is a lie everyone participates in. Psychoanalytic theory, a la Zizek, focuses on this inherent flaw of language: attempting to lower any thought process into a basket weaved of language is robbing it of specific detail to grant vague wishes something else. It destroys it as it is lowered from a prism of brilliant flashing light into white, blue, red, rainbow. There is an aspect of understanding that is intuitive, incommunicable, unreachable, un-understandable. You fail as soon as your mind has formed words in the some-place in your folds, where researchers have decided is so-and-so region, if you believe everything you read. Do you? But they are formed, and it doesn't mean they must be sublimated into a gas that evaporates through your mouth.
You failed before you began. Falling to your knees to beg like some passenger on a ride you never signed up for. No one asks to be born, it is a wish granted without the words to attach to it.
All you can do is traverse the waking fantasy, the daydream, the figment of something unutterable, unreachable, impossible. Erode yourself into that desert of realism and grow your bones into a white ghost. Something, she said.
– a crypt displays something / evaporating / that once / aspirated –
I can't explain the meter to her voice (whatever voice that is, that sinks into you like leaded veins filled with acrylic that are extracted and hung to display in an exhibit: these are the arteries).
There is an ordered chaos to things. By describing all of human thought or idea that can flow through someone's mind, it highlights the absurdity that anything can be real or accurate. I know I'm real. That is something worth considering, or is it… banal? Mundane. Extremely nauseating? Everyone has a voice. Everyone has a way they laugh.
Imagine trying to understand the transplant of someone else's mind into yours. The chaos, barely hewn together, so unlike your own. Sticky. Gooey. Molten steel. The linkages and connections ragged. You couldn't understand thoughts like, "this is red," because however their mind produces such an idea would be wholly alien to your own. Your mind entombed in your skull. But it isn't a corpse. It breathes through the small apertures it opens up, the eyes, the smell, the touch, the taste, and it understands the glimmer of a dream and a whispered thought without a voice. It tries.
– what does a dream / taste like –
I told you, before. Didn't I? A dream tastes like ash in the mouth. It tastes like a glimmer of light cresting between thick, fog-like clouds. Like pines hanging heavy against the backdrop of a fire. Like whiskey swirled in a glass filled with too many ice cubes, making it overflow and drip, drip, drip onto your lap. A dream is just that — a nothing. And an everything.
The worst radioactive incident to happen to us was because some high schoolers robbed the radioactive source from a CAT scan machine in an abandoned hospital. A CAT scan machine operates by sliding open an aperture of radioactive material to decay for microseconds as it is spun in a large circle around the patient. It is through this glimpse, this sublimation, it understands and passes the information to specialists. High schoolers are not specialists. The accident began when they broke open the aperture and spilt the seed of the machine, and through that insight gained, exposed 2500 people to radiation poisoning. Two of the three died weeks later. Radiation can be a metaphor, if you pulverize it enough. Everyone has a way they cry.
– bursting light irradiating electrons / and moving at full tilt / c is the designation for the speed of light / because it is a / universal constant –
Mimicry shortens the lease on empathy, it doesn't lengthen it to any degree. What psychosis have people unlocked inside themselves in their feigned belief that they are truly telepathic or psychic? That they can understand the glimmer of anyone else's thoughts to the same verisimilitude as their own? Correctly guessing the lottery numbers exactly is the same as being given to them through divine intervention, no one can prove you wrong. You cannot know who anyone really is, there is a layer of crust that builds up between things, like rust or coats of paint, thick and dark. Yellow paint. What's the implication?
She licked her lips when she handed the clattery and clinking shells like they were some kind of trade or purchase. What was I giving in return? Had I already done it? Am I failing? Did I actually hear them clink, or did I only imagine the sound carried along? The surf was loud, the water too irritating to focus on anything. My skin, like hers, burnt to a crisp (from hours before.) – I couldn't actually hear the shells clink. As when you hear a muted movie because you've heard it so many times. The way singing music you know is like you're creating it from the abyss. It wasn't an accident. It was an accident. What was?
After she licked her lips (which definitely happened) she handed me the five shells. They were varied in size, incremental. Warm, radiant, but somewhat tacky like glue and wet. They won't dry off. They clink with a sound as if they were dry, like keys trying to scratch the reinforced plastic glass of a phone. Front pocket. Right. My main hand. I find myself touching them without remembering when I started. Something obsessive. Reassurance. Affirmation. Validation. A talisman or charm. What other habits are manifested and hidden under layers of social engineering and obsessive compulsive touching? Regimented thoughts cyclical and douses an inner fire with ice cold black water.
– a leap of faith is something / you have never done / and will need to do / immediate / will you–
I'm not diagnosed with anything. Nothing important. Do schizophrenics recognize their illness, when medicated, or is it a strange befuddlement like tacky syrup, amber, or dried batter?
– wait inaction / through lack / erosion is movement –
I shake my head. No. Shut up. Stop. Fingers pressed against ears, silencing the surf but not the voice, like sharp crystal. What do memories mean if you remember them in third person? Is that only possible because of influence from media? Did people imagine scenarios in third person before cameras recorded, before visual storytelling could be easily disseminated? Have you considered how often you're plugged into music and how absolutely bizarre that is in regard to human culture? That, people had to congregate to create or listen to music, and might not do it so eagerly without a constant IV flowing into them… ear worms breeding and festering in the folds of your brain? That you have distinct after-images and effects from watching video and film with cuts – that you divide events by passages like car doors, automatic glass, locks clicking closed or open? When you walk to a store, a rare event, and walk out, these divisions are fewer in number and more striking in their absence?
How much of your life is contracted time? The narrow passage in an hourglass? Present. Then past. Then future. Cyclical.
The mermaid's hands weren't sticky when I touched them, folded them into mine. Even though, they looked like they should be. A kind of salty brine was left over across the shells, but it didn't come from her. She wore a torn and battered blouse, wind-swept and raged. It looked homemade. Seamade. Her fingers were slender and thinner than they should be, spider-leg like, with long pointed nails that looked like they could scoop clams dry of vibrancy. They had. Grime was encrusted under them, and the hands themselves looked smooth with a kind of porous quality like a sponge. They smelled of octopus and hope. Of dread and ink. That metallic twinge. Like dreams and reality.
When she tilted her head, her eyes shifted subtly. With a delicate mass, inertia to them. Were they following? Beckoning and yearning in a way that is not voiced but simply understood on a deeper level of comprehension. There was no distinct pupil to track. Were they figments of eyes, slivers of dreams, or something else? I could not lock eyes with her. It was like, being shaken awake. An accident. It tugs something inside you. Like from the deep recesses you barely could feel. That cavity in your ribs. Something peering into you, through you, raking its long fingernail of obliterating desire down to the stone-walled well of your soul and pulling you up by saliva and starch. Not like a puppet, less constructed, more whole. That sleep paralysis, empowered by fever, where you can feel something watching you. You were told that people don't actually have eyes in the back of their head, but you desperately wish you did so you could see the surmounting fear. Is it a physical presence you feel, or simply a crackling kind of anxiety that roars like a fire in the background of your mind? An absence, not a presence. Your face is turned to the wall, your bed considered propped against a window with the glass pulled open and a trampoline smell of the screen wafting against the smooth summer air, you can feel a breath on your neck. Is it simply too hot to feel warm, or too hot to feel cold? You swear it. You build and build your nerve, finally wracking loose to turn in a flurry, terrified you'll freeze up halfway and be trapped in a half-state of want and desire. A gorgon watching you disappear. Vexing white eyes glimmering in the darkness. There is no moonlight to reflect it, but they are glowing. They can only be reflecting something coming from within you, but there is nothing within you. The sensation of being watched fades like a de ja vu that makes you question if you even had it at all or simply created it by force of utterance.
No red color blushed the mermaid's skin. Her flesh was ashy white like a corpse. A ghost, is what, a corpse aged beyond decomposition? The part that cannot flee. Shouldn't there be trillions of ghosts? 99% of all life has died. Ink and swollen gums. Breasts and swaying height. Erupting looks and longer reflections. Dirges and Symphonies. She was familiar. Infrequent, but familiar. Something about the way she didn't move. That stillness seemed to quake beneath my hands, holding them against a flame. Searing. Longingly. Yearning.
Dark dreams and weakness float to the surface of the water like ice, white and filled with air and aspirations. What keeps the water cold down below? Besides distance and ambivalence. For millions and millions of years, the only light at night was the moon, a pale reflection of the sun hiding beyond the veil. How many systems of biology are tied to that light? That flicker of something more distant and a thousand times brighter? A hand clawed from a cramp that won't stop. The mermaid closes my fingers over the shells, tighter, tighter, until I hear one crack and feel warmth slip from my palm and drip drip onto the gray-carpet-like sand. Mercurial sway, a serum that pools at my bare feet. Her lips move, that out-of-sync over-dub making me nauseous, like too much yolk pooling out of an egg:
– were all the paths walked / chosen for you? –
I blink and find solace in that gap for a moment. Her hands, boned and long with cartilage of some kind of non-fish, release their grasp from me. White imprints linger on me, leaving bruises that last longer than memory.
– dozens hundreds thousands of miles what does it matter / roads are portals passages / if you focus long enough / you can create your own / if you dig long enough / your own tunnels will escape / if you swim far enough / you might just find your way into hell –
A laugh echoes across the churning sea-sick and then her mouth opens to mime it. The key of E fills the surrounding cliffs as wind howls against their choked and pock-filled chasms. The sand flattens around us, her feet or fin submerged in it, and the gray-pebbles and coarse grains turn to a solid surface. The waves crest and break their thresholds, ever-shifting and redistributing themselves with each pull and dead-weight tug of the Moon hundreds of thousands of miles away. "Gravity is one of the weakest forces in the universe; but it can trap light itself."
My bed. The sheets loose and soggy. Gray and damp. Trampoline. Smooth air. The bed looks almost black against the blue-tinted light filtering through the open window. I peel open the covers, my right shin is wet with blood, my hands sweating with it. Shells splay my webbing. Broken fragments jut out from my palm. My face is knotted. Seawater, brine, saline, metallic, what difference? Rimed with encrusted gray crocks, I stagger to the bathroom and light switch is slow to decay into light. I wash my face. The sun is cutting its teeth on the horizon. Somewhere. Not here. "Maybe we'll die one day, so what's the point of effort?" I remember. "Because we will die: but not yet."
– the shaking of adrenaline filled hands / the rustling of wind / the gap between dreams –
I shake the voice away like a groggy after image. I don't actually sleep. I review the log. Five days. It barely counts, because it was only twenty minutes back then. Forever ago. I caught the end of an episode I put on TV. I'm still mad, because I wanted to watch it but when I replayed it I knew all the lines already. Psychic insight. Not an accident. It was an accident. I remembered the episode, but had no memory of it. Music can flood you just so when you listen to it, decades later, you'll know all the words. Did you ever really forget?
I touch my chest and feel a deep rattling coat my insides like thick, dark water. Reverberation is muted and sullied by it, but it resonates anyway. There is a blue light that radiates out of the pools in nuclear reactors, caused by the difference in light speed in water and air. I tell myself the rattling means nothing. Anxiety? Restlessness. Sleeplessness. I'm not insomniac, its too infrequent. At least, what I read on webMD tells me so. I believe everything I read. Don't you?
What does it mean to be categorized but you're not even good enough at failing to make the grade? The cliché? The trope? What character do you become when you don't sleep for four days? Have you tried it? Fears of schizophrenia fade with age because the window of opportunity closes, but almost everyone is scared at one point that they might never stop hiccuping. I talked with a man that sold tacky paper about it one day. Or maybe, you'll forget how to sleep. How do you sleep? What's the trick? What point do you… fall?
Your latent familial insomnia finally takes hold and you die, your death becoming your only monument, rather than your life. A king of a deserted land.
If you can make it past your fifties without catching the cancer, you're golden. In studies that researched brown bats or land-rodents, the ephemeral "they" were able to lengthen the life spans of these vermin through caloric restriction and other methods. They found when these pests outlived their traditionally experienced lives, they started to catch a lot of cancer and disease. There was no factor in breeding the disease out of the populations because they never reached that age before. The darkness beyond the edge of the light. Figure it like Huntington's, something that doesn't take hold in people until their late thirties, just at the edge of their fertility. What's the use in existing beyond that, biologically? A lot of reasons. Music. Movies. Love. Still, it is like by cheating death, the pests discovered new ways to die. Insight is an awful thing.
It isn't death that scares people, it is old age. But they seem to connect the two, too easily. Ask someone if they want to live forever and they shudder at the thought, their minds automatically jumping to their aged grandparents and somehow living another lifetime beyond that shiver. Their hips shattered into fine sand and their voices decayed out of their throats and their teeth missing out of their jaws. Necromancers. Liches. No one thinks of vampires, ageless and timeless, frightening and seductive. I tell myself, that is normal. I swallow twenty seven milligrams of melatonin and diphenhydramine and hope the nightmares don't take root before the sleep does.
Patience is key, but also the most degrading of all virtues. Time is a resource that cannot be retrieved, and patience basically demands it be given up willingly.
I still feel her eyeless sockets following me. How they don't look through me, but into me, a shallow depth of field that permeates my self like a kind of vulnerability or intimacy breathed across your bare neck and tongue pressed against your ear lobes and a promise that says: don't go, I know I won't. You are intimate.
She beckons with her fingers, toward me. I don't remember the melatonin or bar of xanax, if that's why I felt a chord reverberate inside my skin-shrouded bones. Something lusty lingers. Lingerie. Something repulsive and arousing. Her skin lingers a scent. Rotting despising pleasure. She becomes something else, her arms spread open and inviting, ashen-milk and charred black contrasts mix and swirl. The char is bubbled against the surface, but when it is touched, it flakes away and reveals purity underneath. Blisters filled with bliss. Is gesso pure white, or titanium with a bit more bite?
She says, as she wraps her squid-length arms around me, their tentacles and itching fingers digging into my shoulders not with want but need:
– dolphins are / constantly drowning / crowning –
I shiver, her embrace is not warm, but disconcerting. As if that is a word that describes anything accurately.
– clocks are circular / you know / time is measured by how it repeats / until it doesn't –
The water doesn't froth with intent, but anticipation of my disgust. I cross the threshold in my mind and see a room emptied out of everything but scratching claw marks. Her mind is open to me. I step across, as if I were looking through distant binoculars. Surely the fever dreams taking hold inside my mind. The heightened sense of vertigo is a dead-giveaway. I choke back the surprising viscera and hold back a surmounting thrill that buzzes inside me like a long dip in an airplane that might crash if it wanted – did the engines just cut out or did they simply slow the throttle upon reaching cruising altitude? A dark sensation that I do not belong here. There is a shimmer across her pooled eyes, as if she has shifted her gaze away from me for the first time to something else. I appeared inside a beach with her, in her. There is a distinct feeling of cold absence on me when her eyes shine with that thick glimmer, and I feel a deep pervading loneliness I've never felt before.
– you absolve / time / with your existence / it erodes / all of me –
I take a step further inside her, and feel myself go deaf. That howling muted sound. The vibration of sound does tickle my skin, but is muted on my drums. It doesn't pierce anything but a growing mass of emotion growing thick in my chest like an illness. My prison of ribs, containing a heart and lungs, implying my ancient air-filled bladder that predated my lungs when I was a fish. Is the sea moving, or is that my imagination doing it? I can't tell. I'm cloaked and ensconced in that hope and calamari smell, that despair that lingers, that repulsion and attraction that cakes my skin like semen.
As if you are being robbed of something outside of yourself.
– the rattling of any cage / is most distinct / from within –
The smell shifts to wet mud and I linger on the divide a little longer. The light beckons a distant ache and I feel my weight shift under me without my consent. Unsure of my footing, I can't see where I place myself. I'm lost and hovering in a heavy atmosphere. The water crests and surrounds her fetid body. Cursed and destroyed, it eats at her like a crawling lust. Is this my fault? A riptide pulls my feet forward as I lose my balance. There is an obvious fluster of heat in this cavity and I feel self consciousness radiate through me.
– white weak brittle bone / is nothing more than scaffold / for something grander –
She opens her mouth again. I've heard her voice echo in the canyons of my mind for decades and over twenty six hundred days. Her pale lips are tinged with a scarlet shade, and rows of shimmering hello teeth glisten with wet want through the portal that is opened between us and her. I feel a dark impulse course me, grinding my guts like seven rocks against gravel and I swallow on a dare. I swallow a temptation that elevates my shoulders to match a vigor I didn't know I could feel. A sensation I should be excessing. I was told not to be weak, to keep a strong upper lip, not bend the knee, not fall down and crawl on the stairs even though my legs were battered and bruised. My legs broke in four places, each.
Smoke rises like a fog from unseen recesses near her, the inky blackness exceeding some kind of physical barrier between us in my minds eyes. It is acrid and stings me like bruised egos or sliced onions. A sour taste invades my mouth and coats my tongue in bile. She is closer to me now. Her chest rises with a tempo I can't pin point but can match. Blinkers in a line will inevitably coincide. If I am careful, we can touch each other.
But that's the last thing I want. It felt like it'll erode my body like time carving a canyon empty and dry. A husk. A temporary vessel filled with greed. Weather is a construction. A destruction. Lightning strikes the earth millions of times a year, but only innervates and slaughters dozens.
My tongue is then pressed against her milk skin and I taste the salted carbon of the earth before me. I can't help it. My chest heaves and I feel like I'll burst with need.
– he's only my enemy / i'll crush him with everything / i am –
The smell of curdled milk and breeze. It inverts my distaste for rancid. An arousal.
– you asked for this / don't forget / you wanted it –
The jagged slobbery splinter of the horizon piles purple vomit like clouds as if they were bonded chains against white wrists.
– i'll destroy him / like everything / i have –
Her vertical lips embrace my horizontal and I feel inverted magnetism demand sacrifice. Pinched skin turns purple and falls off like death. I'll taste the salt, the bloodied thirst, the burning brine.
– you'll tear apart the years / to burnt pages that divide / want from brittle need / your fragile skin flays / secrets aren't clothes for everyone / tell me a dream / tell me what a dream tastes like –
I step back and feel the saliva strands that bind us together break like gossamer. A dream is … what? I told you while we were hanging it. The night we skinned, tacked above our bed with posts. Moonlight white drapes, mixed with grey, teased laughter from our sweating faces in the dark. The sound of a typewriter echoed throughout the dark wooden, sand-grey floors of the house.
– i don't believe you / i can't ever believe you –
Like eager decay desperate for revival. A thirst that crawls deep into your abdomen and further still. Its claws leave marks inside the well of your soul. Like a coast that looks like collar bone and arches. Long gulps of water, dregs pulled from a brackish sea. Like supple and succulent leather-like eyes that stretch longer than cobweb. Like I blame you for the gates opening and the child leaving. Like I blame you for stained porcelain and sliced open finger nails. Quicks don't heal quickly, but slowly. Effortlessly.
There, in the crouched darkness of pitch and drooling ink, she pressed her fingers against my chest and pushed me backwards. I stumbled and fell. The frame collapsed. There is a specific kind of anxiety when you realize you are lucid in a dream and you try your best to not convince yourself too fully, because if you are too aware of what-is, you will wake yourself up in excitement.
I woke myself up. A dream, a delusion, a hallucination. What difference is there, except where you find your body, displaced in time and day? I remembered going to a beach, miles away, too far to walk or bike, when I was a child. The sun hadn't risen yet, not that I remember it setting. I decided to take a bus.
The sand was gray as a dream. Sunset glistened residue off the gravel. The sand. Closer, it looks less like fine dirt and more like pulverized bone. Bleached and barren. Flat. Mounds of seaweed washed up on the shore, like long green silvery claw marks. Accidents. They didn't want to be out of the ocean, did they? If they had a choice, that is. I did. That's why I was here, sandals and shorts in the cold, heavy air. The ocean looked thick with ice. The eaves moved with frost. The wind dragged across dead clouds and fog hung for décor. Frosting is glazed sugar.
Standing out there. I could still taste her secrets on my tongue. Despair. Swelling veins. Embarrassment, regret, deep gratitude. Taste like salt, brine, long gulps of ozone. Everyone talks about sky diving and parachutes not opening, but no one talks about how suffocating it feels to have wind moving faster than a hundred miles an hour pour down your slackened jaw and sinuses. Going under at the surgeon is terrifying because you don't remember it, and people get paid a lot of money to make sure you wake up – and you might not.
The waves crested higher on the beach. The setting sun pulled the tide out. That can't be right. The sun doesn't affect the tides as powerfully as the moon. Dead. A reminder of something more ancient than ourselves.
I've missed you for so, so long.
I don't remember the bus ride. It wasn't short, otherwise, how could the azure glow of the night be stalking across the sky already? Didn't I just beat the sun to the morning? I didn't bring a book with dog-eared pages to tell me I had read. I didn't doze, because my neck doesn't hurt from slamming against the slobbered window. I don't remember talking to anyone. It feels like my vocal cords haven't worked for ages.
The beach is desolate. Growing more by the night. The waves pound senselessly, ceaselessly, against the spine of the earth. Deafening. I can't forget the sound. The taste of turned clams across my tongue, horizontal. Vinegeared wine. Dessert wine. Desert.
I shamble over to the seaweed, frothy scum sticking to it like persistent headaches. There's something swaddled in it. I kick it over with my foot, my toe grazing its soft flesh that gives as my nail nicks it. A disembodied arm, the hand tanned in three places, where a bracelet or watch covered it. The hair slimed across it in the wrong direction, wrapped in seaweed. Dead, clearly. The owner? I push more seaweed off it, like ropes hanging from a ceiling fan in a failed attempt to succeed at something, and part a channel around it to give it room. The curled strands frame the portrait of life and keep it frozen in some stand-still. Water pools lazily on its matted flesh. It's fingers are clutching at air. I decide, and nudge it over with my other foot. Where the nails should be, watery bulges rest. I fall to my knees, racked with some kind of guilt, and clasp my fingers tight to my thighs. I bruise myself. The seashells in my pocket clink and one spills on to the sand like a clumsy drink. Anxiety brims over my insides and I squeeze my face to try and stop whatever emotion is barreling out of me.
Curling sobs erupt from me. Sending spasms to the arches in my feet into cramps. I grasp the edges of my pants to hold on as if I'm swaying against the horizon and could fall into the white churn, the teeth of the waves. Tears wisp my cheeks and drop into the wet sand. What is it? Why?
Why did I come here? In the first place?
I stare into the gouged out eyes of the seal and feel a chill crease my forehead.
– you needed this / you chose this / as if you forgot –
I didn't. I don't. I draw my chin toward my chest and push myself off the floor. The carpet. And stand again, swaying a little in the crooked breeze exhaling off the waves that won't stop. That seem louder than before. The riptides jiggle the seaweed and drag it back across the limb, as if to cover it in a veil. I can't bring myself to move it again.
– how roads did you walk down / did you chose any of them? –
I shake my head. I don't even know who that is. I won't, either.
– did the ghost tell the truth to the mourning sun / or did it betray him / as he suspected he deserved –
I inhale, sniffling. The smell of the arm hits me. Rotten. How long has it been out here? Not more than… a week? But not less than a couple hours. Was it here this morning, or has it always been here?
– taste it / you choose this / I'll forgive it –
Forgive? The sound is listless, atonal. Not like before. Not when I could taste her, raw skin. Her joy. Her misery. It's … turned now. As if it is my fault. There's a venom to the feeling, to the senses, that wasn't present in my… last encounter. My dreams. My thoughts. My waking nightmares.
– taste / what / you've / sown / seeds spilt / aren't dropped –
I stare across the horizon, breaking my eyes from the decay for a moment. Gathering what thoughts I can. The voice keeps.
– drag out what you hide / what has been seen / cannot be unseen –
Didn't I say that? To myself? At one point? When? Yesterday? Last week? What linearity exists between pages that are decoded weeks or days after they were written? It takes many more hours to create anything than it does to destroy it. To consume it. To flay it. A bag for a book, the pages scattered and unnumbered.
Night falls further in time. Black ink stretches out before me and the sea. The only glow is from the moon casting shade above. The seal is tucked back into the seaweed, parts of it have fallen off and bones are exposed. I cannot see it now, you have to trust me on this. I tasted bile last time I considered it. I can't consider anything now. There is no way back to the bus, there is no way back home, there is no path to redemption. I have trapped myself mise en abyme.
The light shines a spot in the sea and it moves steadily toward me with a relentlessness, mercilessness. My eyes grow wider as if I can access something different, or see the illusion beyond itself. The solution to any maze is to follow a wall until you reach the exit. That is, if you want to leave. All bodies are simply toruses with a single cavity entering the top and exiting the bottom. Gravity acts the same. Time works the same. Einstein-Rosen tunnels in nature, if you can call the maddening chaos of outer space nature. It isn't an accident. Programming entries mirror one another and the same protocols will excite the same pathways in others, even if they are illicit or taboo. What can you do to stop your curious mind from becoming ravenous? The mind reels when it doesn't want to, intrusive obsessive thoughts plummet like darkened stairwells, plastic crutches, and titanium rods inserted through surgical incisions created by machines and doctors in adjacent rooms to protect them from the radiation, the grander truth, of whatever work they are tampering with.
When did I sleep last? What kind of ideas permeate the mind-space that exists between that half-sleep/half-dreaming state of being when you feel you are still carrying out the actions your dream-self would have wanted, as if you are supposed to?
– we stain ourselves / with colors that don't mix / their purpose is / divination / at least / we have faith / as one –
The light from the moon moves closer now, something breaches the waves. It makes no sound, as it cannot overpower the ceaselessly dripping sea. If it could, I can not hear it. The tree in the forest does make a sound when it falls, because sound is a physical construct of vibration in a medium – your mind is an extension of something in space, not entombed in a coffin of off-white bone and sinew. The figure touches the beach and hovers yards away, the mermaid. She moves closer to me, a gender I assume, and wraps her elongated, elvish, disturbed, rod-pierced boney, arms around me. The warmth is satisfying, but also familiar and chilling. I gasp for air. But it doesn't come.
You asked:
— what does a dream / taste like —
Like the loss of a limb. Like reading words that were pulled from you sometime before you were born, in that chasm, and recognizing them for what-they-are. Like, electric current jerking muscles in circles. Like, waking up in the cold sunlight, the sheets just wrapped around you in a way that is perfect, of drinking water in the early morning, and receiving a gentle phone call that doesn't contain anything soft or warm, but pitted and rancid. Of remembering a voice mail left when we weren't talking and having that as the only evidence you existed. Like the color quinacridone magenta: disgusting, repulsion. Magnets turned to similar poles. I will hold on, you will hold out.
— this is different. —
I remember: Her laugh was like sunlight, how it would pour through a room and fill it with radiant warmth. You could feel your fingers thaw in that kind of joy. Her eyes were like deep glaciers, and when they looked at you (they would, the whites so bright like coronas) they would carve across your insides and move so much Earth and bone.
Evelyn Henry has been writing since 2012. She studied Creative Writing at College of Idaho and completed her Bachelor of Arts in Creative Writing through Southern New Hampshire University. She has a keen interest in the grotesque, sublime, and the strange magic of the surreal when they mix together. She currently lives in Idaho.

subset: commoncrawl


text:
Exeter girls take crucial win over Purdy
The Purdy High School gym hosted an important pre-Christmas showdown in the Ozark 7 Conference on Friday, Dec. 19. The Exeter Lady Tigers, gaining momentum going into the holiday break, put their undefeated record on the line against the 3-3 Purdy Lady Eagles.
With only the one conference loss to Joplin McAuley, Purdy was still in the thick of the conference race. McAuley still owned a perfect conference record, having dealt Southwest its lone league setback.
Exeter overcame a horrendous first half of shooting that saw Purdy take a 30-27 lead into the locker room, and rode an 18-7 third quarter run to an impressive 59-47 victory.
The Purdy girls had a great opportunity, with their home-court advantage, to move into the Ozark 7 championship picture. They also felt the pressure of knowing that a pair of early conference losses might eliminate them from that scene. Plus, the Lady Eagles were anything but fresh following a physical battle with Wheaton on the preceding night.
Sophomore guard Brooke Swadley sported an impressive black eye. Leading scorer Shelby White was questionable after leaving the Wheaton contest with an ankle injury. Audrey Patton, at 5' 11" the only Lady Eagle capable of battling with Exeter's superb Whitney Edie inside, wore a shield on her broken left pinky -- another memento from the Wheaton struggle.
The early shooting woes of the Lady Tigers suggested that they were the team more affected by the moment. While Whitney Edie missed her first shot of the evening, Purdy's Addy Roller stopped and popped a trey on the following possession. Exeter missed a variety of shots in the first four minutes but still led 8-3 when Shelby Bowman buried a trey of her own.
Exeter's defense kept Purdy at bay until Roller sank her second three-pointer of the quarter at the buzzer, to pull the home team back within a basket at 15-13.
With the home crowd on its feet, the Lady Eagles rode an adrenaline rush in the second quarter. Patton, playing virtually one-handed throughout the contest, twisted past Edie in the lane and scored to earn a tie at 15-15. After Exeter used an Edie basket and pair of free throws to build a 19-17 lead, Roller unloaded her third bomb of the night and Purdy led, 20-19.
It would have been easier for Exeter to buy an Illinois Senate seat than a basket during their miserable first half of shooting. But even though Purdy built a 30-27 lead at halftime, the tide was already turning in the Lady Tigers' favor. Whitney Edie came alive and scored 6 points in the final 5:05 of the half, with her last basket dropping with four seconds remaining.
It seemed that Exeter had finally solved the puzzle of Purdy's morphing defensive scheme, or maybe emotion and adrenaline had carried the host team as far as possible.
The halftime deficit could have been larger. Twice, the Lady Eagles wasted precious opportunities by overthrowing outlet passes on fast breaks with guards running wide open to the basket.
Both teams benefited from the intermission, and the intense struggle resumed with Purdy maintaining the lead. The Lady Eagles enjoyed their largest second half lead when Swadley dropped a pair of free throws and the score stood at 35-31 with 5:14 remaining in the third period. Who could know that Purdy would only score 2 more points in that crucial remaining span of the quarter?
Exeter exploded on a 14-2 run to finish the third, and Whitney Edie only scored one of those, a solitary free throw with less than two seconds on the clock. Shelby Bowman of the Lady Tigers poured in 8 points, while Destani Stensrud added a trey, and Kasie Scott chipped in a basket.
The Lady Eagles had run out of gas. Less than three minutes into the fourth quarter, the Exeter girls took their first double-digit lead at 49-39.
Following a timeout, Shelby White was fouled in the act of shooting and made two clutch free throws to pull Purdy within 8 points. Then Exeter left the door open for a Purdy comeback with a careless backcourt violation, but the Lady Eagles could not score on that critical possession and the lead increased steadily as the clock wound down.
Despite an off shooting night, Edie led Exeter with 23 points and owned the boards when it counted in the second half. Bowman scored 18 and Stensrud had 12 for the Lady Tigers.
Shelby White was Purdy's high scorer with 16, and Addy Roller added 15.
A tired but satisfied Jason Cole bemoaned his Exeter team's shooting performance.
"In the first half, we got the shots we needed but we just couldn't hit," said Coach Cole.
Cole changed defenses at half, going with a triangle and two to stifle Purdy's long range shooters, an adjustment that paid great dividends as the game progressed.
Exeter and Joplin McAuley are the only two remaining Ozark 7 girls teams with unblemished conference records. A game matching the two teams that was postponed due to inclement weather has been rescheduled for Jan. 12.


text:
Welcome to Wordplay games, a small press games company producing rules light and immersive pen and paper roleplaying games.
Our established and first game is the eponymous 'Wordplay'. Find out more through the links above and right. The game has garnered a lot of praise and others are using the engine in their own games. The links to the right give a taste of what is to come.
Age of Arthur, our Dark Ages Fate roleplaying game of war torn Britannia, is now available in Print and PDF format at DrivethruRPG.
Time of the Wolves is an epic four part interlinked campaign for our Age of Arthur game. The PDF is also available on DrivethruRPG here.
Starfall is our Wordplay powered 1950s alien invasion science fiction game. You can buy it here!


text: \r\nHow to place an ad\r\nClassified ads are free for RMR\/PCA members. Send a copy of your ad, contact information and images to firstname.lastname@example.com for online only, but if you want to put your ad in our newsletter, then send that to firstname.lastname@example.com - no photos and 75 words or less. If you are an RMR-PCA member, just include your membership # and your ad is free. If you are not, send your check for $10 (made out to RMR-PCA) to our treasurer:\r\n\r\nDonna Helberg\r\n55 Baxter Farm Ln\r\nErie, CO 80516\r\n\r\nThe deadline for classified ad submission is the 10th.\r\nAds run for two months.\r\nSend your ad to email@example.com.


text:
Honor roll
Julia Maxwell and Anna Harleen, Branson: The junior standouts finished first and second in a dual meet with Marin Catholic on Wednesday, with Maxwell breaking Bon Tempe's 2.6-mile course record of 15 minutes, 46 seconds with a clocking of 15:32 while Harleen finished in 16:31.
Matt Theriault, Peter Saiga, Jake Yandle, Will Lorne, Austin Gooder, Dominic Lecouturier and Will Thompson, Marin Catholic: All seven Wildcats runners were recorded with the winning time of 17:02 in a season-opening win over Branson.
Trevor Reinhart and Bevin McCullough, Marin Academy: The Wildcats sophomores each set a course record on San Domenico's 2.85-mile trail while finishing first in a BCL West meet Wednesday. Reinhart broke his own mark with a time of 15:16 and McCullough's time of 19:35 bested the previous mark of 19:41 set by Urban's Emma McCune last year.
Isabel Moon, Novato: Took first place — by 50 seconds — to help the Hornets defeat Justin-Siena, Terra Linda and San Rafael at IVC on Thursday. Moon won with a time of 19:34.
Nassim Kabbara, Joey Morris and Kevin Martinez, San Rafael: The trio finished first, second and third, respectively, as the Bulldogs beat Novato, Justin-Siena and Terra Linda in the season-opening MCAL meets Thursday. Kabbara's winning time was 17:11.
Megan Bordes, Redwood: Finished first in the Giants' season-opening MCAL meet against Tam, Drake and San Marin at Symons Grove, winning in 18:43 on Thursday.
Contact Dave Curtis via email at firstname.lastname@example.com


text:
The 100 Season 2 Episode 3 : Reapercussions
When Clarke discovers a horrifying project being carried out in Mount Weather's medical ward, she joins forces with an unlikely ally. After Abby confesses to committing a crime, Kane issues an order to have her brutally punished. Meanwhile, Monty warns a distracted Jasper that Clarke could be in trouble, and Octavia continues to fight for Lincoln.
Episode Guide
Season 01
Season 02
Season 03
Season 04
Season 05


text:
Meet Leonard - Leonard M. Adkins-The Habitual Hiker
Description: The website is maintained by Leonard Adkins (Leonard M. Adkins), known as the Habitual Hiker, and the author of more than 15 books on the outdoors, hiking, nature, and travel.
Popular Searches: habitualhiker
Site rating:
3.0 / 5.0, reviewed by Sites Like Search
Language: English
Site topics: literature
Books on e-business, e-commerce and the future of the Internet written by Daniel Amor. Available in fifteen (15) languages
ebusinessrevolution.com -
Sites like Ebusinessrevolution»
Site rating:
3.0 / 5.0, Language: English
Isabel Allende
isabelallende.com -
Sites like Isabelallende»
Site rating:
3.0 / 5.0, Language: English
Richard Aldington and H.D.
imagists.org -
Sites like Imagists.Org»
Site rating:
3.0 / 5.0, Language: English
Shanta Acharya has the rare achievement of being published in fields as diverse as poetry and literary studies as well as business and finance.
shantaacharya.com -
Sites like Shantaacharya»
Site rating:
3.0 / 5.0, Language: English
The website maintained by Diane Ackerman, author of "The Zookeeper's Wife," "A Natural History of the Senses" and other works of nonfiction ...
dianeackerman.com -
Sites like Dianeackerman»
Site rating:
3.0 / 5.0, Language: English
An organization to bring writers and others with a professional interest in horror together and to foster a greater appreciation of dark fiction in general.
horror.org -
Sites like Horror.Org»
Site rating:
3.2 / 5.0, Language: English
John Allen writes about the Bible, angels, religion, Jesus, evolution, philosophy, Christianity, literature, cults, God, sermons, human evolution, Jesus Christ ...
johnallenbooks.com -
Sites like Johnallenbooks»
Site rating:
3.0 / 5.0, Language: English
Breaking news, sport, TV, radio and a whole lot more. The BBC informs, educates and entertains - wherever you are, whatever your age.
bbc.co.uk -
Sites like Bbc.Co.Uk»
Site rating:
4.5 / 5.0, Language: English


text:
Thursday, May 05, 2011
Quotable: Christian Living
"Learning to live as a Christian is learning to live as a renewed human being, anticipating the eventual new creation in and with a world which is still longing and groaning for that final redemption."
Tom Wright, Simply Christian: Why Christianity Makes Sense, 223
Posted by Joel Willitts at 9:01 AM
Labels: Quotes
1 comment:
- outlook fly said...
With Microsoft outlook 2010 , you're in control of getting things done and delivering amazing results according to your schedule. More communication tools in Download Outlook 2010 help you stay in touch and organized.
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text:
Recently I was lucky enough to be sent a YESSTYLE Beauty Box. The box was full of ten Korean beauty products and skincare items. I've never received a little box of goodies like this before, not to mention I've never delved much into Korean beauty products before, so I was super keen to try some of these out. The great part about this is how cheap most of these products really are, so if you find yourself keen to try any of these out, they won't break the bank.
I love using products that claim to rip those little white and black heads from your nose, so I was excited to give these pore strips a go. I'm not sure if I didn't let my pores open up enough with a warm cloth beforehand, or if my pores just aren't that bad at the moment (though I feel like there is some stuff in there that could do with cleaning out), but I found these didn't seem to grab anything out of my nose. I have only tried these once though, so keep an eye out on the blog to see if I have a change of heart about these.
For some reason lately I have actually be thinking about starting to use some products to begin treating under my eyes. After working full-time and doing full-time Uni for the last few weeks, I noticed my under-eyes were starting to look a little tired, so I was super keen to give these a go. These feel just like those sheet masks you can get; they were completely covered in the serum they come in and felt super slimy. I slapped them on my face and left them on until they just began to dry out. I feel like a product like this is one you should use consistently to really see a difference, but unfortunately the book only came with one pair. However they did feel nice on, so if you're going to grab a few pairs I would recommend giving them a go.
This smells amazing! I wanted to eat it! This stuff is basically like a thick lip balm, that eventually absorbs into your lips. I have to say I think this stuff does work well. The top part of my top lip had been feeling a bit dry lately, and after waking up the morning after lathering some of this on, my lip feels back to it's healthy self. Moisturising your lips is never a bad thing and when the product smells as good as this does (like a real fruity, strawberry scent) , I can't not recommend.
I didn't set very high expectations for it, especially being so cheap and being a BB cream, both factors which in my personal track record haven't made for great products. However I was presently surprised. Firstly, the shade I got was quite light, but it's actually perfect because most of my foundations tend to be in shades that suit me best when I'm tanned, so I finally have a foundation of sorts that will suit me when I'm not tanned. In terms of staying power, when I paired this with my Mac Studio Fix powder and a primer, it stayed on fairly well during the day, and I didn't get to shiny and oily. I think for a BB cream it does the job, but obviously isn't the product if you're looking for full coverage all-day every day.
This stuff goes alright. When it comes to cheek colour I tend to stick to bronzer and darker tones rather than actually blushes, however I didn't mind this. When you open the cap the applicator is like a little fluffy pad which the product squeezes through. The pigmentation is pretty good and it blends quite nicely into the skin. If you're a fan of a pink tone on your cheeks this product will probably take your fancy.
I have seen peel-off lip tints all over the Internet, and part of me had always wanted to try one and the other part of my couldn't really be bothered to spend money on one, especially with all the mixed reviews. I don't generally wear a lot of lip colour normally and I don't really have the patience to wait for something to dry on my lips so I can peel it off and have colour. The colour I got was quite a nice coral and again this stuff smelt so good! I lathered some of this on and speed the drying processes up by fanning my lips, but when I peeled off the tint I didn't really notice much difference. I'm thinking I really didn't let it sit long enough and that maybe speeding up the drying process wasn't the most effective way to get this to work. I might give this another go at some point (if I can be bothered).
The colour I received isn't quite on point for me, so I do mix a little of this with some of my other products, however I do love it. I've never used an eyebrow product that has the same look as essentially a massacre, but I did love it. This stuff is very pigmented so you don't need to go to crazy when you're applying, in fact I'd have caution when doing it. After setting this with my usual brow gel, the colour stays in place, so it is a good product, just make sure you have the right colour ;)
This product is an interesting one. The packaging and the way it works is cool. Basically, as you use up the product, you twist the end labelled sharpener and it moves up the pencil to give you more product; I always love practical things like that. This eyeliner also has glitter within in. Though the sparkles on the lid probably should have been a giveaway, when actually looking at the product before using it, it's not so obvious. However once you start to draw the glitter comes out, but I wouldn't say it's that overpowering. Also something I noticed is when swatching on my hand where I could apply a decent amount of pressure, it came out quite a dark brown and seemed to have great pigmentation. However once I started to use in on my eyes where I can't press to hard, it came out quite lighter, and it didn't show up when trying to use it in my water line. So it's a good product when you're looking for something that isn't to dramatic.
So it seems the trend with all the lip products in this box is that they smell damn amazing, including this one! Now this claims you can use it not only on your lips but your cheeks as well. When you open up the bottle it has a little applicator on the end which I thought was a nice touch. It was quite a thick product when I first applied it to my lips, so I'm not to sure about trying to work it onto the skin on my face. Mine was quite a bright pink colour which isn't something I can ever see myself wearing on my lips, so I might have to give it a go on my cheeks because if I'm going to be able to wear this colour anywhere, it'll be there. I did notice, the longer it sat on my lips, that it seemed to become less thick and began to feel better. So I'm a bit on the fence with this one until I give it a go on my cheeks.
Overall I was pretty impressed with this box. It's always fun to try new products and there were some pretty good ones in this box, I especially loved trying the skincare. So if you're thinking about maybe testing the waters with some Korean skincare and beauty items, I would say this is a company worth having a look at.


text:
Now, every vintage loving gal knows the benefit of shapewear, it really is key to getting the right silhouette for all looks from the 30s to the 60s. I am not blessed with a naturally nipped in waist, in fact it really is the one part of me I'm quite unhappy about, and so when Maidenform offered to send me their waistnipper for review I jumped at the chance.
This waistnipper is the pull on style, in black satin, and is boned and elasticated to really smooth out your shape. I have to admit I'm not a huge fan of pull on shapewear, I favour long, tapered 30s style manicures and pulling on a very tight elasticated garment is always a threat to my talons. Still, it went on without too much of a struggle (it should have done, being sold as "Easy-Up") and certainly did the job well - my trousers definitely felt looser.
It isn't the most ornate or beautiful of garments but anything goes with plain black satin, however, it isn't something to wear if someone (read: someone you want to impress) is going to see it as not only is it a bit of a pain to remove with any decorum but on a slightly fuller figure such as mine it pushes the excess flesh to the top. The effect being a slight under-boob muffin top. Hot...not. Again I think this is the result of the pull on style as I don't get a similar effect with my Rago which does up with a row of hooks and eyes.
Still, it was comfortable on for a good 12 hours and didn't roll up or bunch as many cheaper shapewear items can tend to do.
Also, it sadly does not come with suspenders. Which means you either need to go bare legged, wear an additional suspender belt or, as I do, keep it for wearing with trousers.
So the good:
- affordable at just £19
- a good classic design if nothing fancy
- actually does nip in the waist
- pull on design
- no suspenders
- sizing seems a bit off
All in all it is a good basic item and definitely represents value for money, it is perfect for wearing with dresses in the summer and with trousers. The thing is that, as a sort-of vintagista, I really do prefer something that clasps at the front and has the option of being used with stockings by having removable suspender straps - but hey, you can't have everything for £19.
You can buy this product, and the rest of the Maidenform shapewear range at their website.


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MINNEAPOLIS (WCCO) — You may not know his name, but you've almost certainly played his game.
Charles "Chuck" Foley, the Minnesota man who invented Twister, passed away on July 1. He was 82 years old.
His family said he had been suffering from Alzheimer's disease. Foley dedicated his life to finding new games and toys for children.
Haven't we all, after all, been tangled in Twister's web of fun? But few have spent more time on that plastic sheet of colored spots than Foley's family.
"Twister took on its own life," said Mark Foley, Chuck Foley's son.
Mark knew at a young age that play goes with being the son of a toy inventor.
"He was a fierce competitor. When he was involved [in the game], we didn't win," Mark said.
Hard to believe that 47 years after Twister hit the market, the world almost missed out. The iconic mat posed a problem in the beginning. Initially made out of a shower curtain, Foley made a deal to sell 1 million games to get production in place.
"Making the mat, in and of itself, was a challenge, because there was a manufacturer that would manufacture the shower curtains, but didn't have a machine set up to do the design he needed," Mark said.
Foley also ran into issues with the game patent.
"Initially, the United States patent office rejected his patent. So he went there and played the game with them, and they got it," Mark said.
But after a plug from Johnny Carson and Eva Gabor, Twister became a game everybody wanted to buy.
Ever the visionary: Chuck Foley wasn't ready to stop there.
The Minnesota man is responsible for toy handcuffs, with a lock that made it easy for kids to remove safely, dart boards that used darts with a flat head, and of course more games.
He even ventured outside the toy market. Foley and his son brought an adhesive removal product to store shelves called "Un-DU."
An inventor into his 70s, it's the drive to create that his loved ones will remember most.
"He was always interested in improving, or making the quality of life, or the quality of play, better," Mark said.
The true legacy of someone you might call the original gamer.
Chuck Foley didn't work alone. He teamed up with another Minnesota man on Twister and several other toys and games.
Neil Raben is still alive and doing well in Mora, Minn.


text:
Fair Housing Basics:
Housing plays a large role in defining a person's quality of life. Where you live affects your access to social, cultural, educational, and many other community amenities such as schools, transportation, employment, medical services, retail and professional services, recreational and entertainment opportunities, and much more.
The Fair Housing Act emerged from Congress's recognition of housing as a crucial determinant of societal equality and opportunity, and its knowledge that racial and other prejudices ran deep within the private and public spheres. Ending discrimination and creating equal housing opportunities for all has been a national goal since the Fair Housing Act was passed by Congress in 1968.
Federal law prohibits discrimination based on
- Race
- Color
- National origin
- Religion, gender
- Familial status (having minor children) and
- Physical or mental disability.
North Dakota law prohibits discrimination based on all federally protected categories, plus age, marital status, and receipt of public assistance.
Minnesota law prohibits discrimination based on all federally protected categories, plus marital status, sexual orientation, creed, and receipt of public assistance.
Decisions and terms for housing-related transactions cannot be based on whether a person belongs to or associates with any of these categories of people.
Fair Housing Laws Apply To:
- individual homes, duplexes, multifamily housing (apartments, condos, and townhomes), retirement housing, adult foster homes and longterm care facilities, homeless shelters and other nonprofit housing
- sales, rentals, mortgage lending, building and construction, home insurance, appraisals, and inspections, land use regulations, zoning, and neighbor-on-neighbor harassment
- private housing and publicly supported housing
Open and barrier-free housing contributes to expanded social and economic opportunity for individuals and families, providing a conduit to improved life outcomes and stronger communities. Ensuring equal access to housing that is linked to high performing schools, sustainable employment, transportation infrastructure, and childcare is essential for securing an economically viable and sustainable state and region. Integrated housing allows residents to interact with people of different races, ethnicities, and lifestyles and, ideally, increase understanding and tolerance among a more diverse population.


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5 Ways To Get Exercise Without Exercising
Do you find yourself avoiding exercise because it's boring? Don't worry you're not alone, we all do it, but exercise doesn't HAVE to be boring… there are plenty of fun things you can do that get you the exercise you need but more importantly enjoy doing it. Here are a few…
1. Play basketball
I find that if I try running on a treadmill I'm totally bored within three minutes and I just stare at the timer wanting it to be over. If I play basketball, football, soccer or whatever I can run for hours and hours and not really even care where the time goes.
Why? Because I'm distracted and instead of staring at the clock and wondering why it seems to be ticking so slowly I'm trying to shoot the ball or stop someone else from scoring on me. Don't like team sports? Try hiking, swimming or jogging around a nice area. You'll get lots of exercise with none of the boredom.
2. Chasing your kids around the yard / park
If your kids are like mine they do everything at 100 mph, so try bringing them to a safe park and letting them "loose". By the time you chase them around, play games with them and get all of their energy out you will also get all of YOUR energy out too. Trust me you won't be watching the clock wishing the time would go faster, you'll be trying to keep up!
3. Mowing the lawn
Ok, I didn't say all of these would be fun right? Mowing the lawn is a great source of exercise, and I'm not talking to all of you who have a riding mower and drink soda or beer while mowing. Get a nice push mower and get out there and push it around. My lawn seems to take forever to mow and it's a much better work out than any treadmill could ever deliver for me.
4. Helping a friend move
Ever help a friend move to a new house or apartment? I can guarantee you will be way more exhausted than any weight lifting session or cardio workout. Moving boxes and furniture up stairs and in and out of a moving fan is really hard work so you'll get tons of exercise and your friend will appreciate it.
5. Play with your dog
Playing catch with your dog doesn't really sound like a good workout I admit but most dogs do anything but run after the ball or Frisbee and bring it back… they take it and run because they want you to chase them. Don't want to play catch? Take them for a walk instead. I had a friend once say that if your dog is fat, then YOU don't get enough exercise. Totally true!
The whole point of this post was to make you think. Exercise does NOT have to be boring… you can get exercise just about anywhere whether you live in the city or country, whether you're a man or a woman…whatever. Exercise can be fun, but you have to use your imagination first!
A few good health sites with fantastic health tips we recommend are www.womenshealthmag.co.uk/fitness/ www.womensfitness.co.uk/ and www.nhs.uk/livewell/fitness
Have a healthy fantastic day.


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Lexus of Richmond's Pre Owned Vehicle of the Week is this 2016 Toyota Highlander.
If you're looking for an SUV with all the safety and entertainment features, look no further. With under 12,000 miles this like new Highlander is sure to meet all your needs with it's front-wheel drive, 3.5 liter V6 engine and 270 horsepower. Inside you'll love the 8″ touchscreen with navigation, radio, bluetooth phone/music and usb audio capabilities. The front bucket seats are heated and ventilated with perforated leather. 3 zone auto climate control, mirror signals, reclining rear seats, tilt and telescoping steering wheel, and much more all come together to make for your perfect next vehicle.
Call or email our Internet Sales Team today (804.323.8000) for more details. Sales prices are subject to change so we recommend confirmation by phone.


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Ally: I will not bore you with the tales of my life in suburbia these days. I will say this, I went to Walmart today. It was a highlight. I cried when the lady at the Starbucks drive-thru asked me how my day was. That was a lowlight (lowlight?).
So, Walmart. I bought a new dress. Not even sure you can call it a dress. It's a cute little T-back sundress that I thought looked adorable on the hanger. I didn't even try it on (baby has been in enough dressing rooms). It was all of $9, and I figured if it didn't fit, I could hand it off to one of you readers. Here's the thing: it fits, and I sort of love it paired with the stilleto gladiators I got at Winners over the weekend. However, and it's a big however, it is…sheer, shall we say?
It's not like this:
Source: Did you know that there is a website dedicated to See-through dresses? It's true!
It's sort of like this:
College Fashion dot com asks the question in an archived post, "Would you wear a visible bra?" I would. However there are limits. Aren't there? I mean, I am turning 32 on Saturday (this is what they call, "dropping le subtle hint"). Is that age appropriate?
The writer at College Fashion states, "Personally, I think this look is cute and fun for summer, so long as it's worn the right way. A lacy bra worn under a loose, basic top is sexy and fashion forward, while a satin push up bra hanging out of a too-tight top is NOT. This trend has the potential to go very wrong, very fast, so it's important to make an effort to wear it right if you're going to attempt it." But, it's "college" fashion. Not "fashion for moms-with-under-ones".
Now, I know I previously criticized the Carrie Bradshaw see-thru shirt/bra combo:
I'm not talking fishnet here, people.
So, can I pull it off? Should I wear this dress tonight for our interview with Veronica MacIsaac and her MUA roomie, Victoria Bouchard?
Crap, that's supposed to be "see-thru", not "see-thu". Drink! Ha….ah. Actually, we should create a drinking game around our botched spelling on this blog. We'd be schmasted every Mon, Wed and Fri!
We're going for après-interview drinks if any readers would like to come join and meet the fashionable girls (not us, them. We're still working to attain fashionable status). Follow our twitter account to find out the deets.
L-A: Maybe I'm a huge prude, but I do not love the sheer top + bra look. Actually, it has nothing to do with being a prude. In a well-styled photo shoot, I am down with the visible bra, the sheer + bra. I just don't think it translates well into the real world. (I know Intern Eden will disagree with me). At least, I haven't seen it translated well. Take that pic of Rumi Neely for example:
She looks good, right? Right. And you like her style, right? Right. Now, imagine that look on a stranger passing you on the street. What would you do if you saw that? I bet the majority of us would judge them. If we saw that look on the bus, we'd be like, "who's the skank with the bra showing?", as opposed to, "who's that bold and trend setting lady?"
I guess this is the argument I have always made about Carrie Bradshaw: we love her look and her fashion chutzpah on screen, but as soon as we see someone do it in real life, we mock. And we mock hard.


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Honest Advice
Personalized Care
Natural Results
Honest Advice
Personalized Care
Natural Results
Plastic Surgery Tampa Bay
Joseph M. Brown M.D, F.A.C.S
Continually inspired by his experience with family and patients, Dr. Joseph M. Brown is a board certified plastic and reconstructive surgeon
who strives to bring excellence to his Tampa practice within
the field of Plastic and Reconstructive Surgery.
Tampa Aesthetic & Plastic Surgery has established itself as a leader in the Tampa area for plastic and reconstructive surgery. Spearheaded by Dr. Brown, we are committed to achieving the best results for our patients while applying the latest techniques and technology. Please check our photo gallery featuring today's most popular procedures.
ldesi2 – Abdominoplasty
After having my two babies, now four and two years old, I worked hard to get back to the body I used to have. Having lost all the baby weight left me with plenty of excess skin on my belly that was most likely not going anywhere no matter how much effort I would put into it. I understand now why many women are turning to plastic surgery to get the so called "mommy makeover". Being blessed to have been referred to Dr. Joseph Brown and having him explain to me in detail what an abdominoplasty involved, what to expect from this procedure, and the comfort and support I felt from our initial consultation, I was quickly reassured that I wanted to have this procedure performed and by no other surgeon than him. The procedure went flawless, with a surprisingly speedy recovery, much better than expected. Dr. Brown made sure to closely follow up my healing process, he called the night of the surgery to make sure I was doing fine and to answer any questions I might have. I love my results and I'm so happy and impressed on how my body fits into any clothing I want, specially can't wait to get back to my two piece bikini! To all the women out there that identify with this story, I encourage you to seek Dr. Brown for a consultation and not wait any longer. You will LOVE your results!!
Erin33579 – Breast Reconstruction
Dr. Brown and his entire staff is fantastic. I was referred to his office for breast reconstruction after a double mastectomy and am very happy with my results. He has been caring, professional, always accessible for questions or concerns. I would absolutely recommend him to anyone."
PamF1959 – Breast Reconstruction
Dr. Brown is amazing! I was scared but he reassured me that he would help me get thru it. Dr. Brown was always upfront about any complications that may occur. He always made sure that I was comfortable with any procedure I was having performed. I would recommend Dr. Brown to anyone who needs plastic surgery.
JvP – Abdominoplasty
The process from beginning to end has been positive. I felt well informed about the procedure and knew what to expect on the day of the procedure as well as in the weeks to follow. Each and every time I visited the office I was well received and felt as though I was the only patient being served. The care that was provided by Dr. Brown and his staff clearly went far beyond the care I have ever received with other healthcare professionals. I highly recommend using this office for any type of procedure.
M. – Breast lift with implants
Dr. Brown is an exceptional doctor who goes above and beyond to care for his patients. I personally used his services and he not only performed an incredible procedure that produced amazing results, he took the time and care in advance and post surgery to ensure I was comfortable with the procedure and I was recovering safely. Truly an exceptional, caring and expert doctor. A rare quality to find in doctors and truly overjoyed to find this with Dr. Brown. Quality and care, best of breed!
tampa aesthetic and
plastic surgery
To become a leading practice in providing plastic and cosmetic surgery to the greater Tampa Bay area through safety, fantastic results, and strong doctor-patient relationships.
Monday – Friday 9:00 am – 5:00 pm
Saturday and Sunday – CLOSED
16626 N Dale Mabry Hwy,
Tampa, FL 33618
Please call or fill out the form below and one of our friendly staff members will contact you as soon as possible.
We are located at Tampa Aesthetic & Plastic Surgery, 16626 N Dale Mabry Hwy, Tampa, FL 33618.


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Established in 2010, Pete's Plumbing has been providing a professional plumbing and heating service in Hastings and the surrounding area. With a proven track record on checkatrade.com, and over 15 years experience, you can be sure you will receive a highly professional and reliable service. We are Gas Safe Registered, Accredited Worcester Installers, Certified nest Professional and ESCC Trading Standards Approved.
Pete's Plumbing offer a full range of plumbing services including; Boiler Services, Boiler Upgrades, Bathrooms, System Flushing and Unvented Water Heating. Whether you want a tap washer replaced or installation of a full heating system, Pete's Plumbing are sure they can meet your requirements however big or small.
Visit our Services page for more information.
If you would like to make an enquiry or arrange a quote, you can contact Pete's Plumbing on either telephone number shown or by email. We aim to respond to all enquiries within a 48 hour period.
Telephone: 07782 253027 Office: 07462 558840
Or email here
We accept payments made by debit card, online bank transfer or cheque.