text:
London, England
£40000 - £65000 per annum + commission
Hussain Chowdhury
Contact email:
Job ref:
Hussain Chowdhury
Our client is looking for a Manager/Senior Manager to join the Brand Strategy & Innovation team. Sitting as the heart of creative partnerships, this role is integral in the ideation and development of sponsored marketing programs across our client's content including native, video, social commerce and experiential. The ideal candidate is currently working in a creative partnerships role and has an experience of creating cohesive campaigns on behalf of brand partners and is a self-starter who can wholly own and develop an expanding revenue line for the UK business.
- Drive the development, ideation and strategic thinking of best-in-class marketing solutions for strategic advertising partners
- Create quick and thoughtful packaging of strategic recommendations into smart, concise marketing collateral and proposals
- Leverage proprietary research and audience insights to craft a cohesive story within client-facing collateral
- Collaborate with both UK and US cross-functional teams including Talent, Creative Studios, and Creative Strategy to develop cross-platform recommendations that are smart and cohesive
- Attend client and agency meetings with the sales team to learn about new initiatives and present recommendations
- Actively identify and use emerging platforms to understand the site's consumer and their media usage
- Develop pitches and any supporting materials through communication of new or improved product offerings, customer targeting and in response to RFPs
- Educated to degree level or equivalent
- 5-7 years experience in marketing / brand strategy and in building cross-platform strategic partnerships preferably at a digital media company/publisher
- Detail-oriented and highly organised with proven communication skills (both verbal and written)
- Strategic, creative thinker with the ability to turn ideas into holistic content programs
- Strong attention to detail and an organized nature
- Design-minded with the ability to create effective visual presentations
- Ability to manage and prioritize multiple deliverables with hard deadlines
- Must be a self-motivator who is able to work independently and flexibly with an ability to multi-task in a fast-paced environment
- Able to work with international teams across the US to deliver responsibilities
- Proficiency in keynote
- Passionate about popular culture, entertainment and modern internet culture
About our client:
Our client is the No 1 lifestyle media brand for millennial women attracting a global audience of 100m. Our mission is to power the optimism and dreams of young women around the world.
We deliver inspiring, informative and entertaining multi-platform content that is viewed over 3 billion times every month, including our Creative Studios' videos that garner more than 300M monthly views/
We tell Positive, Purposeful, Playful Stories across categories including beauty, fashion, fitness, food and more.


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subset: commoncrawl


text:
Hello friends! The following is proof of what happened to Sodom and Gomorrah, as well as proof that they did exist :)
This is the only place in the world where we may find round balls of brimstone! These balls of brimstone have burn marks and are still quite toxic and flammable when touched with a match.
(I must note that this is the only Ron Wyatt discovery that hasn't been contradicted, too much plain in sight evidence)
Praise The Lord JESUS CHRIST!!!
Genesis 19
24 Then the LORD rained upon Sodom and upon Gomorrah brimstone and fire from the LORD out of heaven;
25 And he overthrew those cities, and all the plain, and all the inhabitants of the cities, and that which grew upon the ground.
26 But his wife looked back from behind him, and she became a pillar of salt.
26 But his wife looked back from behind him, and she became a pillar of salt.
The Lost Cities Destroyed by Fire and Brimstone
Unlike the historical sites found in Saudi Arabia and Egypt, you can easily visit the ruins of the "five cities of the plain." The ashen ruins of Gomorrah is the best preserved site and is located right next to Masada, the well known mountain top fortress of King Herod where nearly 1,000 Jewish patriots took their own lives rather than submit to the tyranny of Rome.
I visited Masada in 2005 with a large tour group and wondered what the strange looking white area was that we had driven through on the way to the mountain fortress. I even asked our guide – "Where is Sodom and Gomorrah?" The response was – "We don't really know. Some think it is under the Dead Sea."
Later, I learned that archeological researcher Ron Wyatt had spent considerable time in the area and documented all five of the cities destroyed by fire and brimstone in the days of Abraham and Lot. That prompted my desire to return to the notorious cities and see if there was reason to be they were the remnants of the cities destroyed by fire. I became convinced really soon after my arrival!
As you drive into Masada from the main road that goes along the Dead Sea, you will notice a large parking lot on the right hand side. The sign says it is for overnight parking and camping. Not that anyone would want to camp there. There is no water, nothing grows there, and there is a noticeable absence of all wild life. Even bugs can't be found crawling on the ground. The entire place is nothing but ashes.
It is an easy walk going to the north to the most striking ruin that stands high above the rest of the city. A large man-made sphinx was apparently set up near the city gates for protection from their enemies. Now it stands there, its ashen remains giving testimony that the pagan idol was powerless against the destructive fires that descended upon the huge community.
I was quite surprised, when I visited the site, that a pocket knife could easily penetrate the layers of white ash. The material is easily broken off and crumbles in your fingers. As it is rubbed between your fingers, it turns into a fine talc-like powder.
One cannot help but wonder what kind of fire it would take to turn solid rock into crumbling ash?
In some areas of the ancient city there are numerous golf ball sized sulfur pellets. Some of them are encased in a thin, crust-like shell which was the result of burning. The sulfur pellets were tested by Wyatt and consist of 98% pure sulfur and a trace of magnesium. These brimstone balls would have burned extremely hot!
It is interesting that sulfur found in its natural form is only between 40% and 45% pure. This sulfur is extremely high grade.
Some of the pellets I found were inside rock-like slag that apparently formed when there was nothing remaining to burn and the inferno was beginning to cool off. One "rock" that I broke open had the sulfur pellet still inside!
The samples I collected would burst into an immediate toxic flame when touched with a match.
If you visit the site just after a rain storm you will find the brimstone pellets on the flat tops of the ruins. It was obvious to me that a literal rainstorm of burning sulfur fell upon these ancient cities.
I am amazed that tour groups do not visit the sites although I must admit, it was a sobering experience to visit a place where thousands of people perished in the storm of God's wrath as described in the Book of Genesis.
The author, Chuck Anderson, at the large sphinx at the ruins of Gomorrah. Note the brown hills in the background. The whole city is nothing but white ashes!
At the edge of each of the five cities the white ash suddenly stops, bearing witness that this was no random act of nature. In contrast to the white ruins, the surrounding mountains and desert floor are brown limestone.
Ziggurat at Gomorrah:
The cities of Sodom and Gomorrah are much larger than the other three cities also located along the western shores of the Dead Sea. All but Sodom are easily accessible.
We should remember, according to the Biblical account, that the area was once a very beautiful and prosperous valley. The Book of Genesis records that Lot, the nephew of the ancient patriarch Abraham, chose to live there because the area was "well watered everywhere, before the LORD destroyed Sodom and Gomorrah, even as the garden of the LORD." (Genesis 13:10-12)
It is obvious that the entire area came under the severe judgment of God. The Dead Sea, though rich in minerals, is virtually dead. The water is the consistency of #10 motor oil.
What was the sin that brought about God's fiery wrath upon these cities? Many other pagan societies survived for centuries without experiencing such horrendous judgment.
According to the Bible, God destroyed the cities because of their great immorality and perversion.
God apparently preserved the ancient ruins of Sodom and Gomorrah as a warning to other civilizations that God does not tolerate immorality and perversion forever. We read in 2 Peter 2:6 – "God turned the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah into ashes, condemned them with an overthrow, making them an example unto those that after should live ungodly."
This is a pretty stern warning for people today who insist on parading their perversion before the world.
An arched doorway into the city? Layers of ash are apparently 40 to 50 feet deep. The city was once solid rock!
Does the discovery of the cities destroyed by a literal rain storm of burning sulfur pellets have any implications for modern, end-time nations that flaunt their immorality and perversion? Is this a warning for any nation that legalizes perversion and calls it an alternative and normal lifestyle?
The answer to these questions appears to be, tragically, yes. For example, the ancient prophets of God spoke of a mighty, end-time nation that they described as the youngest, most wealthy and powerful of all the nations of the world. That nation is also described as the greatest consumer of all the world's products and a melting pot of all nationalities.
The Prophet Jeremiah declared – "As God overthrew Sodom and Gomorrah and their neighboring cities, saith the LORD, so shall no man abide there, neither shall any son of man dwell in her." (Jeremiah 50:40)
An ancient dwelling at the City of Gomorrah? Whatever it is, it was man-made!
It is noteworthy that this great end-time nations, whoever it is, is destined for destruction at the hands of the Almighty – "The merchants of the earth shall weep and mourn over her; for no man buyeth their merchandise any more." Revelation 18:11
Imagine the merchants of the earth weeping at the destruction of a great and wealthy society because there will be no one to buy their trinkets!
Most astounding about the prophecies of this immoral, end-time society, is the fact that its fiery destruction will occur in just one hour's time. (Read Revelation chapter 18)
Shadows of a once thriving city. Now there is nothing but ashes!
It would take days to explore all the ruins of the ancient cities destroyed by the fiery judgment of God. It appeared to me that their dwellings, walls and towers were built on natural cliffs so that enemy invaders would not be able to us ramming devices to destroy their fortifications. The canyons with square and round towers go on for literally miles.
Late in the afternoon when we were getting to leave the ruins just below Masada, we looked up and saw an impressive wall with eleven obvious doors and windows. Whether these were entries to dwellings or places carved out of the solid rock to house their idols was unclear. If you visit the ancient of Petra, you see countless square and round top recesses, carved to hold their pagan deities. Some apparent dwelling sites can still be viewed, but be prepared to do a lot of walking and take plenty of water with you.
The obvious smell of sulfur still lingers in the entire area. As we climbed the crumbling sides leading to the tops areas of the city, we began to find the sulfur pellets. Many of them disintegrate underfoot and the smell of sulfur is very apparent.
Windows and doors or altars to the pagan gods?
Archeological explorer Ron Wyatt seems to be one of the first modern day persons to identify the ruins of the five "cities of the plain," but he was certainly not the first to visit the sites.
During the first century, the Jewish historian Josephus recorded their visible existence in his day – "Now this country is then so sadly burnt up, that nobody cares to come at it . . . It was of old a most happy land, both for the fruits it bore and the riches of its cities, although it be now all burnt up. It is related how for the impiety of its inhabitants, it was burned by lightning; in consequence of which there are still the remainders of the divine fire; and the traces of the five cities are still to be seen." (Josephus in his "Wars Of The Jews", Book IV, Chapter VIII)
"Traces" of the five cities is a good description. You are aware of the shadows of what had once been a large and thriving community, now, perfectly still and suffering the aftermath of a terrible day of infamy.
The most obvious structures were the sphinx and ziggurats still clearly visible on the flat tops of the city. It would appear that God had left these specific ruins of idolatrous worship for all the world to see.
I was personally overwhelmed at the site of the Biblical judgment of Sodom and Gomorrah and was reminded that sin does bring about serious consequences. God Himself has said – "Be not deceived, God is not mocked, for whatever a man soweth, that shall he also reap." Galatians 6:7
Source: http://www.discoverynews.us/DISCOVERY%20MUSEUM/BibleLandsDisplay/Sodom_and_Gomorrah/sodom_and_gomorrah_4.html
The five cities of the plain have been located and the evidence is staggering.
For the first time in modern history we have found round balls of brimstone, or nearly pure sulfur, embedded in an ashen area near the Dead Sea, which show clear signs of having once been ancient building structures!
For the first time in modern history we have found round balls of brimstone, or nearly pure sulfur, embedded in an ashen area near the Dead Sea, which show clear signs of having once been ancient building structures!
Above: Lighter colored formations can be seen near the Dead Sea.
Above: ziggurat stands amidst ashen ruins in Gomorrah, with darker terrain in rear.
Government sign with gate, attempting to keep vehicles out.
Government sign with gate, attempting to keep vehicles out.
Josephus Saw the Cities -- Why Can't We?
The cities were located in the plain, so they should not be located in the low area now covered by the Dead Sea. These cities were well known in the first century, as Josephus said, "The traces or shadows of the five cities are still to be seen." If Josephus could see them, then we should be able to see them also. The water level of the Dead Sea has fallen since the time of Josephus, so the areas Josephus saw in his day are still visible today.
Biblical Warning For All
The cities of the plain were destroyed as a warning for all that this same event will happen again one day to the wicked. One would think God is capable of preserving this ancient lesson for us to see and to learn from.
"Then the Lord rained brimstone and fire on Sodom and Gomorrah, from the Lord out of the heavens" Genesis 19:24. "Turning the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah into ashes, condemned them to destruction, making them an example to those who afterward would live ungodly" II Peter 2:6. (The word for "example" means an exhibit for warning.)
Analysis of the Brimstone
These sulfur balls are mostly golf ball sized, and some have burn marks all around them! Webster's Dictionary says that "brimstone" = sulfur. Accordingly, we have found the absolute proof that we have finally located Sodom and Gomorrah, the cities of the plain!
Above at left is brimstone with a burned, hardened shell that has the unburned sulfur inside, and next to it is brimstone without a burned shell. The photo at right is a shell or capsule with unburned sulfur inside. Tiny crystals are on its surface which were formed when the sulfur was burning and was in a liquid state, then it burned out.
Above: Located on the side of a ziggurat, this brimstone in a shell is opened to reveal the unburned sulfur inside
Each of the cities of the plain contain evidence of brimstone which God rained down upon the cities to destroy them. The brimstone is composed of 96-98 percent sulfur, with trace amounts of magnesium which create an extremely high temperature burn. This is the only place on earth where you can find 96 percent pure monoclinic sulfur in a round ball. This brimstone is NOT from any type of geo-thermal activity as there is no evidence of such in the area, and geo-thermal sulfur nodules are only 40 percent pure sulfur and are of the rhombic type.
Above: holding a chunk of ash that has a burned ring which surrounds an unburned ball of sulfur
Above: removing the lid from a brimstone shell reveals a round ball of sulfur inside
Above: Jason cut this brimstone out of the material
Above: Brimstone with burn ring
Analysis of the Ash
God rained down upon these cities was so hot that it burned the limestone blocks that were used in the construction of the cities. The ash there today is composed of Calcium Sulfate and Calcium Carbonate which are by-products of the limestone and sulfur burning.
Everything in these cities burned and turned into ash, including the buildings themselves as the Bible says that the cities were to be destroyed also. The Bible told us that God rained down "fire and brimstone" When God rains down fire, it is a consuming fire, just like the time of Elijah when God sent down fire to destroy the stone altar, the limestone buildings here were totally destroyed and turned into ash.
Above: The extremely high burning temperatures created a multi-shaded layering of ash that was formed by thermal ionization, caused by electrons repelling and attracting, creating a swirling effect in the remains.
Above: layers of multi-shaded ash, crumble in your hand. Dead Sea and sphinx in rear
Cities Visible in Satellite Photos
The cities are almost entirely turned into white ash, and can be seen in the satellite photographs below.
Notice each of the cities stand out from the surrounding terrain because of the white ash contained within them. The city of Zoar was a "little one" or a newly built city that was square. As cities grew or expanded they quickly lost this square shape.
Genesis 10:19 indicates the five cities formed the Canaanite border, thus the could not have been grouped together at the south end of the Dead Sea as popularly believed. They form a north-south line along the Jordan/Dead Sea area. Gomorrah is located at the base of Masada, and in 1998, additional formations were found in Jordan on the opposite of the Dead Sea from Gomorrah in the Lisan Peninsula, including a large cemetery area containing 1,000,000 graves. The same structures as found on the Israeli side were also found on the Jordanian side - ash, brimstone and even ceramic tile.
Above - looking southwest at the southern end of the Dead Sea
Above - The northern end of the Dead Sea, looking southwest
Man-made Formations
Man-made formations are found in the cities, including ziggurats, sphinxes, windows, arched doorways and walls resembling double Canaanite city walls.
Above: On the left is a ziggurat and on the right a tower
Above: ziggurat shape on raised platform composed of white material
Above: Ninety degree angles extending out from a wall demonstrating unnatural architecture
Above: Arched doorway still stands today
Sphinx Shapes
Unique shapes are visible in the cities that are not found in nature, including sphinx shapes like the ones below.
Above: This sphinx formation on a raised platform is about 40 feet long and was made of a different whiter material than the surrounding platform. It may have been a worship figure or god and was made of a special material. Masada in rear.
Above: Another sphinx shape sits at the edge of the city. They thought it would protect them, but it too
was consumed in the destruction of fire and brimstone.
was consumed in the destruction of fire and brimstone.
Sulphur Crystals
The extreme heat caused unusual specimens that can be found in the cities, including the creation of sulfur crystals. Below are photos of a large slab of crystals found by our Ark Discovery Team.
Above: The top layer is a solid slab of sulfur crystals created by a complete layer of brimstone underneath that was burning, then turned to a liquid, then cooled down leaving this layer of crystals. Approximately six feet long.
Above: Here we can see the brimstone underneath the crystals that are on top.
Above: another shot of the brimstone underneath and the crystals on top
Above: In another area, we found sulfur crystals which are a remnant of the consumed brimstone.
Above: two feet in diameter clump of crystals. Another group was found later when I broke open a large clump "live" on video.
Above: more crystals resulting from the sulphur burning, turning to liquid, and cooling into crystals
More evidence of the extreme heat was found.
Above: this specimen shows signs of having been melted, with the upper portion bubbling and the lower section pooled into a solid.
Above: Specimen that some people think resembles bone, with the marrow in the middle. This looks similar to the specimens found by Dr. Lennart Moller, author of The Exodus Case
A spear head and a cache of burned gold which is now gold salts, burned bones, jars, and tile have also been found by others who have visited the cities.
Most photos by Kevin Fisher


text:
Wew, it's been a long week! We've been at the Game Developer's Conference this week, and were able to meet plenty of lovely people as well as have attendees play our game! Lots has happened for Snacko in the past couple of days, and there's much more work ahead to slough through. What are we going to do next, and how is this going to affect Patrons?
✈ We're moving
Yup. I'm graduating (finally) and moving back to Vancouver, so there's going to be a big chunk in May that we won't be able to work much. Please be patient while we tow our life belongings and cats across the border!
? New store opening
We reached our Patreon goal of $150!! That's amazing. It's so amazing I could barely believe it when we first hit $100. I never would've imagined this coming so far, especially with how early Snacko is in development. To celebrate this and to keep my word on the goal, I'm moving our store to Big Cartel. This would need a monthly cost to keep it open, but will also give me the luxury of giving special discounts to Patrons of different tiers. I'll be working on new designs and opening pre-orders for new types of items such as t-shirts and mugs, so keep your eyes peeled for the store's grand opening!
? State of Snacko
Ok, this question is in everyone's heads…what now? Where will Snacko go after it's first playable build? Good question, we're still trying to figure that out. While we scramble around to try to find funding so we can work on this full time, we've decided to take the risk and move ahead as if we're going to work full-time on Snacko. It's something that we think has potential, and we'd be really sad if we had to let everyone down by slowing down or discontinuing the project ):
? New Patreon tier
I never anticipated our Patreon to get this much attention and lovely support, so our highest tier has always been the Snackie Hero role. Listening to the feedback of some amazing Snacko fans, I've decided to start working on a new $25 role. This will include things like bigger shop discounts, consistent asset releases for educational or personal use, and special photos of Momo and Mikan.
? Discord changes
Oh…did you know we're now verified on Discord! Now you have to look at Momo and Mikan when the channel's open on your desktop! In the future, this also means we can potentially distribute Snacko through Discord's storefront. Our aim is to have Snacko accessible to everyone who wants to play it, and we'll hold ourselves to that as far as our budget and time allows. To celebrate this, I'll be working on a new set of emotes for the Discord.


text:
The nerves that supply your arms leave the spinal cord via small holes between the vertebra either side of the spine. Normally the nerves have plenty of space and are able to supply the arms with power and sensation. If the size of the hole becomes reduced the nerve will become compressed or irritated. This can cause pain that radiates down the arms (radiculopathy), pins and needles, numbness, shooting pains, and can cause muscle weakness.
There are numerous causes including osteoarthritis of the vertebra and irritated facet joints, but the main cause is a herniated disc. The disc is made from a jelly-like centre (nucleus pulposus) surrounded by a hard outer ring (annulus fibrosis). The jelly-like center can push against the outer ring.
This may initially cause a bulging of the outer ring of the disc, called a bulging disc. However if there is enough force or if the outer annulus is very worn or damaged, the nucleus may squeeze all the way through. This is called a prolapsed or herniated disc.
Patients with this condition may experience a sudden onset of neck pain during the causative activity, however, it is also common for patients to experience pain and stiffness the next morning. Symptoms are typically felt centrally, on one side or on both sides of the neck.
Treatment for Prolapsed Discs and Trapped Nerves
Physiotherapy treatment for patients with this condition is vital to hasten the healing process, ensure an optimal outcome and decrease the likelihood of injury recurrence. Treatment may comprise:
- Joint mobilisation
- Joint manipulation
- Spinal and pelvic realignment
- Dry needling /acupuncture
- Deep tissue massage/myofascial release
- Ultrasound/electrotherapy
- Exercise programs to stretch, self treat and improve proprioception, balance, strength and core stability
- Biomechanical Assessment
- Neural mobilisation
- Education / training advise/ phased return to exercise
- Activity modification advice
- Ice or heat treatment
- Taping
- Clinical Pilates
- Injection advice


text:
this is who you (i) are (am)
this is who you (i) are (am)
Fariha Mabud
If you are not part
of the solution,
then you are part of the problem.
"That's so gay"
She was just a girl I played with sometimes
The girl who was friendly to
other girls, like me.
The way she waves her hands
and bats her doe-y eyes like she's
on the verge of crying.
What ever happened
to the girl she used to be?
I never thought about her
in all the years she lived somewhere else.
Now that she's moved back, she never lets me forget.
Because I have a boyfriend,
I thought things would be different.
Holding hands,
Now I'm a girl who kisses
and secretly wishes
for more.
I want to say
"Close your lips," if only to divert attention away
but it's too late.
Pray for release
from this purgatory of
so many things
that never mattered before
and will never matter again.
She has eyes that say,
"I'm the hammer
and you're the nail."
I Wonder If She's Jealous
"So, you want to go to the dance with me?"
I was so clueless
And I said,
And that's the way it happened.
Love makes fools of us all.
At the dance,
I've never seen such passion
Oh, how I love her fire, her mind,
her awesome sense of fashion.
(Not that I notice what she wears,
it's hardly worth the mention;
with her skintight jeans
and her pouty-pouty lips
and the way she moves her hips
With her perfect little purse
and her perfect phony tan.)
"That's so gay"
is an expression I hate.
Some boys laughed, and some girls, too,
one even called me mental.
She smiles
as if she were my best and oldest
and truest and forever friend
"If you and I happened to be straight"
I never say it, but I think it every time,
but it doesn't matter who we are
as much as where we are.
The pounding on the door and the
shouting of names
After a chance
encounter between both her legs.
Twirling her hair,
dropping her voice,
raising her eyebrows.
"This is going to be a
challenge. But you know me,
I love a challenge."
"You should put on a
I will, I say, and I'm out the door,
and I know
I'm forgetting something
Where's my kiss?
The thought of it almost makes me laugh
I have a boyfriend
"Shut up for once"
And he leaned in
before I could say
"What are you doing?"
I'm wishing
I could disprove the words in my head
I can't help myself, and now
everyone is staring at me.
I slip past
ashamed to have been caught in the act
of being normal
Writing it down
is the way I make it real,
the way I find my way
into what it is I feel.
When I'm afraid,
let me keep
what I don't want
to lose,
Say to me:
So I walk home alone
thinking about how it used to be.
I could never keep up with her, and yet
somehow we'd always end up with our arms
wrapped around each other's waists, kicking
like the Rockettes, or swaying like a couple
of drunks before we even knew what that
meant. Now I walk home thinking the kinds
of serious thoughts she helped me to forget.
When I get home,
she has one arm
and one leg splayed, reaching
for the sky, her eyes squeezed
tight, her mouth open wide,
crying, "Look at me, I'm flying!"
say nothing back, but run inside
to throw myself on the sofa
and cry.
"I'm with you
on this one.
Love sucks."
She smiles,
face breaking out in dimples
and I know it's a look that's meant
for only me, and I feel my insides
flip and my brain flop, and I know
I should do better, but so what?
So what.
I heart love.
I have a boyfriend?
Does it count as breaking up if the words are never said?
Maybe we half broke up. Maybe when you half break up,
you don't have to say anything.
The boy who first clicked the clasp
of the necklace,
stepped back to check it out, and said,
"You look nice."
The master of sly looks
and cool moves
and smiles that charm the teachers
and, sometimes,
I say, "I am not your girl"
and he says
"I am already gone."
I think
we broke up.
I looked over at her face.
Her eyes were closed.
She was
Maybe she was thinking.
Maybe she was simply glad that I was there.
With her hair in a braid,
in her high white boots
and her short, short skirt.
She was a mystery I
would never solve, only glimpse in
moments she chose to share.
The flowers,
the flowing hair, the flashing eyes,
the sun and then
the rain
and the rain
and the rain
that never
to stop.
No clothes at all
I blushed.
I thought it would go on forever.
I do not understand this girl,
don't understand what I am to her.
She doesn't try to hide
eyes that have been crying.
She says to me simply,
"You don't know everything."
And goes to wash her face.
My mind is full of not knowing.
Maybe that explains the sadness in the corners
of your eyes.
"Remember when we were little
and would swing out here
in the summer evenings,
counting fireflies, pumping
higher and higher,
racing to the moon?"
I am a girl that kisses.
She is wearing duct tape over her mouth.
Thinking that she's brilliant
and beautiful and amazing
and loving the way she dresses
and how the heel of her right shoe slips off
when she sits on the edge of her desk.
What does that make me?
I ask my grandma,
"What were girls like when you were my age?
Did they mess with your head?"
Grandma's shears go snip,
and she straightens herself to look me in the eye.
She hands me the tulips
and we turn back to the house.
"Rise above it," she says, her hand
on my shoulder. The air is turning colder
as I tell her,
"I'll try."
She lived across the street.
The house was empty. The tulips,
all but the one dropping in my hand,
nodded goodbye as I turned away.
I go to wash my hands. They aren't especially dirty.
Perhaps it's the loneliness I want to wash away.
I never even said goodbye.
A strong, sensitive girl fighting her way out.
She got some kind of mouth on her.
Pretty as a picture.
Now, why do you think I've gone
and fallen for a thing like her?
Am I strong
when I do not speak,
but keep silent
and accept the truth?
If you are (I am) not part
of the solution,
you are (I am) part of the problem.
you (I)
are (am).
Leave a Reply.
June 2019


text:
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Click below to download : The Heart Of Rome - Chapter 24 (Format : PDF)
The Heart Of Rome - Chapter 24CHAPTER XXIV
Masin was very much relieved when his master came home, looking much calmer than when he had gone out and evidently having all his senses about him. Malipieri sent to ask at what time the mails left Rome for Florence, and he sat down to his table without remembering that he had eaten nothing that day.
It was not easy to write out in a concise form the story of all that has here been told in detail. Besides, he had not the habit of writing to the Signora Malipieri, except such brief acknowledgments of her regular letters to him as were necessary and kind. For years she had been to him little more than a recollection of his youth, a figure that had crossed his life like a shadow in a dream, taking with it a promise which he had never found it hard to keep. He remembered her as she had been then, and it had not even occurred to him to consider how she looked now. She sometimes sent him photographs of the pretty little girl, and Malipieri kept them, and occasionally looked at them, because they reminded him of his friend, of whom he had no portrait.
He found it very hard to tell this half-mythical woman and wholly mythical wife of all that had happened, while scrupulously avoiding the main fact, which was that he and Sabina loved each other. To have told that, too, would have seemed like a reproach, or still worse, like a request to be set at liberty.
He wrote carefully, reading over his sentences, now and then correcting one, and even entertaining a vague idea of copying the whole when he had finished it. The important point was that she should fully understand the necessity of announcing his engagement to marry Donna Sabina Conti, together with his firm intention of breaking it off as soon as the story should be so far forgotten as to make it safe to do so, having due regard for Donna Sabina's reputation and good name.
He laid so much stress on these points, and expressed so strongly his repentance for having led the girl into a dangerous scrape, that many a woman would have guessed at something more. But of this he was quite unaware when he read the letter over, believing that he could judge it without prejudice, as if it had been written by some one else. The explanation was thorough and logical, but there was a little too much protest in the expressions of regret. Besides, there were several references to Sabina's unhappy position as the daughter of an abominably worldly and heartless woman, who would lock her up in a convent for life rather than have the least trouble about her. He could not help showing his anxious interest in her future, much more clearly than he supposed.
The consequence was that when the Signora Malipieri read the letter on the following morning, she guessed the truth, as almost any woman would, without being positively sure of it; and she was absent-minded with her pupils all that day, and looked at her watch uneasily, and was very glad when she was able to go home at last and think matters over.
It was not easy to decide what to do. She could not write to Malipieri and ask him directly if he was in love with Sabina Conti and wished to marry her. She answered him at once, however, telling him that she fully understood his position, and thanking him for having written to her before she could have heard the story from any other source.
He showed the letter to Sabina, and it pleased her by its frank simplicity, and perfect readiness to accept Malipieri's statement without question, and without the smallest resentment. Somehow the girl had felt that this shadowy woman, who stood between her and Malipieri, would make some claim upon him, and assert herself in some disagreeable way, or criticise his action. It was hateful to think she really had a right to call herself his wife, and was therefore legally privileged to tell him unpleasant truths. Sabina always connected that with matrimony, remembering how her father and mother used to quarrel when he was alive, and how her brother and sister-in-law continued the tradition. If the Volterra couple were always peaceful, that was because the Baroness was in mortal awe of her fat husband, a state of life to which Sabina did not wish to be called. It was true that Malipieri's position with regard to his so-called wife had nothing to do with a real marriage, but Sabina had felt the disapproving presence of the woman she had never seen, and whom she imagined to be perpetually shaking a warning finger at Malipieri and reminding him sourly that he could not call his soul his own. The letter had destroyed the impression.
Meanwhile Malipieri was appalled by the publicity of a betrothal which was never to lead to marriage. The Princess took care that as much light as possible should be cast upon the whole affair, and to the Baroness Volterra's stupefaction and delight, told every one that the match had been made under her auspices, and that the Conti family owed her eternal gratitude for it and for her care of Sabina during nearly three months. The Princess told the story of the night in the vaults again and again, to her friends and relations, extolling everything that Malipieri had done, and especially his romantic determination to show the girl he was going to marry the treasures which should have belonged to her, before any one else should see them.
The Princess told Volterra, laughingly and quite frankly, that her lawyer would do everything possible to get for her a share in the value of the statues discovered, and Volterra, following her clever cue, laughed with her, and said it should be a friendly suit, and that the lawyers should decide among themselves how it should be settled, without going into court. Volterra was probably the only man in Rome who entertained a profound respect for the Princess's intelligence; yet he was reckoned a good judge in such matters. He himself was far too wise to waste regrets upon the failure of his tactics, and the stake had not been large, after all, compared with his great fortune. Magnanimity was a form of commodity which could be exchanged for popularity, and popularity was ready money. A thousand votes were as good as two million francs, any day, when one was not a senator for life, and wished to be re-elected; and a reputation for spotless integrity would cover a multitude of financial sins. Since it had been impossible to keep what did not belong to him, the next best thing was to restore it to the accompaniment of a brass band and a chorus of public approval. The Princess, clever woman, knew exactly how he felt and helped him to do the inevitable in a showy way; and it all helped her to carry her daughter and herself out of a difficult position in a blaze of triumph.
"My dear," she said to the girl, "you may do anything you please, if you will only do it in public. Lock your door to say your prayers, and the world will shriek out that you have a scandal to conceal."
It dawned upon Sabina that her cynical, careless, spendthrift, scatter-brained mother had perhaps after all a share of the cunning and the force which rule the world to-day, and which were so thoroughly combined in Volterra's character. That would account for the way in which she sailed through storms that would have wrecked the Baroness and drowned poor little Sabina herself.
Meanwhile a hundred workmen had dug down to the vault under the courtyard of the Palazzo Conti, the statues had been lifted out intact, with cranes, and had been set upon temporary pedestals, under a spacious wooden shed; and the world, the flesh and the devil, including royalty, went to see them and talked of nothing else. All Europe heard the story of Malipieri's discovery, and of his adventure with his betrothed wife, and praised him and called him and her an "ideal couple."
Sabina's brother came up from the country to be present at the Embassy dinner, and of course stopped at the Grand Hotel, and made up his mind to have an automobile at once. His wife stayed in the country with the delicate little child, but sent Sabina a note of congratulation.
Clementina, writing from her convent, said she hoped that Sabina might redeem the follies of her youth in a respectable married life, but the hope was not expressed with much conviction. Sabina need not disturb the peace of a religious house by coming to see her.
The Princess boldly gave out that the marriage would take place in the autumn, and confided to two or three gossips that she really meant to have a quiet wedding in the summer, because it would be so much more economical, and the young couple did not like the idea of waiting so long. As for a dowry, everybody knew that Sassi, dear, kind-hearted old man, had left Sabina what he had; and there were the statues.
Prince Conti came to the Embassy as soon as he arrived, and met Malipieri, to whom he was overpoweringly cordial in his weak way. On the whole, at their first interview, he judged that it would not be easy to borrow money of him, and went away disappointed.
Society asked where Malipieri's father was, and learned that he was nearly seventy and was paralysed, and never left his house in Venice, but that he highly approved of his son's marriage and wished to see his future daughter-in-law as soon as possible. The Princess said that Sabina and Malipieri would live with him, but would come to Rome for the winter.
Prince Rubomirsky, Sabina's uncle, sent her a very handsome diamond necklace, which the Princess showed to all her friends, and some of them began to send wedding presents likewise, because they had been privately informed that the marriage was to take place very soon.
Sabina lived joyously in the moment, apparently convinced that fate would bring everything right, and doing her best to drive away the melancholy that had settled upon Malipieri. Something would happen, she said. It was impossible that heaven could be so cruel as to part them and ruin both their lives for the sake of a promise given to a man dead long ago. Malipieri wished that he could believe it.
He grew almost desperate as time went on and he saw how the Princess was doing everything to make the engagement irrevocable. He grew thin, and nervous, and his eyes were restless. The deep tan of the African sun was disappearing, too, and sometimes he looked almost ill. People said he was too much in love, and laughed. Little by little Sabina understood that she could not persuade him to trust to the future, and she grew anxious about him. He wondered how she could still deceive herself as to the inevitable end.
"We can go on being engaged as long as we please," she said hopefully. "There are plenty of possible excuses."
"You and I are not good at lying," he answered, with a weary smile. "We told each other so, that night."
"But it is perfectly true that I am almost too young to be married," said she; "and really, you know, it might be more sensible to wait till I am nineteen."
"We should not think it sensible to wait a week, if there were no hindrance. You know that."
"Of course! But when there is a hindrance, as you call it, it is very sensible indeed to wait," retorted Sabina, with a truly feminine sense of the value of logic. "I shall think so, and I shall say so, if I must. Then you will have to wait, too, and what will it matter, so long as we can see each other every day? Have people never waited a year to be married?"
"You know that we may wait all our lives."
"No. I will not do that," Sabina said with sudden energy. "If nothing happens, I will make something happen. You know what I told you. Have you forgotten? And I am sure your father will understand."
"I doubt it," Malipieri answered, smiling in spite of himself.
To tell the truth, since her mother had cleared away so many dangers, and showed no intention of shutting her up in a convent, Sabina had begun to see that it would be quite another matter to run away and follow Malipieri to the ideal desert island, especially after they had been openly engaged to be married and the engagement had been broken. The world would have to know the story of his marriage then, and it would call him dishonourable for having allowed himself to be engaged to her when he was not free. It would say that she had found out the truth, and that he was a villain, or something unpleasant of that sort. But she meant to keep up the illusion bravely, as long as there was any life in it at all, and then "something must happen."
"It seems so strange that I should be braver than you," she said.
He did not wonder at that as much as she did. Her reputation was saved now, but his honour was in the balance, and at the mercy of a worldly and unscrupulous woman. When he broke the engagement, the Princess would tell the story of his marriage and publish it on the housetops. He told Sabina so.
"You are safe," he added; "but when I lose you, I shall lose my place among honourable men."
"Then I shall tell the truth, and the whole truth, to every one I know," Sabina answered, in the full conviction that truth, like faith, could perform miracles, and that a grain of it could remove mountains of evil. "I shall tell the whole world!" she cried. "I do not care what my mother says."
He was silent, for it was better, after all, that she should believe in her happiness as long as she could. She said nothing more for some time and they sat quite still, thinking widely opposite thoughts. At last she laid her hand on his; the loving little way had become familiar to her since it had come instinctively the first time.
"You know that I love you?"
"Indeed I know it."
"And you love me? Just as much? In the same way?"
"Perhaps more. Who knows?"
"No, that is impossible," she answered. "Now listen to me. It is out of the question that we should ever be parted, loving each other as we do, is it not?"
The door opened and a servant entered, with a card.
"The lady told me to inform your Excellency that she is a connection of Signor Malipieri," said the man. "She hopes that she may be received, as she is in Rome for only a few hours."
Sabina looked at the card and handed it silently to Malipieri, and her fingers trembled.
"Angelica Malipieri."
That was the name and there was the address in Florence, in Via del Mandorlo.
"Ask the lady to come here," said Sabina, quietly; but her face was suddenly very white.
The Heart Of Rome - Chapter 25
The Heart Of Rome - Chapter 23
- The Heart Of Rome - Chapter 25
- In The Palace Of The King: A Love Story - Chapter 1
- In The Palace Of The King: A Love Story - Chapter 2
- In The Palace Of The King: A Love Story - Chapter 3
- In The Palace Of The King: A Love Story - Chapter 4
- In The Palace Of The King: A Love Story - Chapter 5
- In The Palace Of The King: A Love Story - Chapter 6
- In The Palace Of The King: A Love Story - Chapter 7
- In The Palace Of The King: A Love Story - Chapter 8
- In The Palace Of The King: A Love Story - Chapter 9


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Corbin's Crusaders works with each student or camper to ensure that they have the resources and support needed to enjoy Corbin's Crusaders Sports Club and excel on and off of the sports' field. We understand that each child is unique and will work together with parents to find solutions that work for each child. Although our goal is to work through all issues, situations may arise that require consequences. Corbin's Crusaders uses the following Behavioral Management and Supervision Policy:
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Collage History of Art by Henry Darger
January 24, 2009
As you may or may not know, we are huge fans of one Mr. Henry Darger – hard 'g' or not. Not so recently, a a dear friend sent me a copy of a book of essays by John D'Agata, entitled "Halls of Fame." It's well worth the read, and I'd highly recommend it. Put out by GrayWolf Press in 2001, you can find more information about it here. Also, we put out an issue of Paper & Carriage last year that featured Henry Darger, including some of his writings, the writings of others inspired by him and a collection of incredible mages, largely contemporary, from the show "Dargerisms" curated Brooke Anderson of the Folk Art Museum in New York. In any case, here is a great essay of the same ilk. Something good for Saturday Winter-Doldrums.
Collage History of Art by Henry Darger
written by John D'Agata
PACK: SOMETHING WITH WHICH TO SEE. Bring trousers as well for the vegetation is thick. Sometimes storms, so a poncho would be smart. Also, war: in which case follow the instructions of your guide. A box lunch is provided. Do not drink the water. Please note the schedule of the moon's fall and rise as detailed on the back of your itinerary, enclosed. Memorize this. It will be your best friend. It will be on the test. It will be in your best interest to carry wrapped gifts for our hosts—men, women, children, parents, long-lost friends, sleek-winged beasts—but do not, under any circumstances, carry cash on your person. Cameras may be cumbersome but by all means sketch. Ready? Questions? Not now. Go!
HE COMMENCED THE LONG STRUGGLE not to express what he could see, but not to express the things he did not see, that is to say the things everybody is certain of seeing but which they do not really see.
SHE REMEMBERS IT WAS A SATURDAY but can't remember day or night. The window in Henry's room was covered with tinfoil and the wallpaper was hidden beneath several hundred faces. She remembers taking a step closer to see exactly whose: girls. Photographs, drawings, cartoons, and stills, from newspapers, magazines, dress patterns, lunch pails. She took a step back. All their eyes were X-ed. I didn't know if this was a joke or what, she says. Against the wall lay piles and stacks, bundles and bags, trunks and crates and a cage. I found things in there that I lost years ago, the landlady recalls as we walk through the room. Things that smelled rotten, things that looked rare. Henry's landlady found boxes full of icons from religions she'd never heard of, photographic negatives filed and cross-filed, mounds of wax crayons worn down to a nub. On a large metal folding table in the middle of the room was a collection of arms, legs, and heads drawn onto heavy pink butcher's paper. The tin ceiling had been painted black and the floor dusted with pencils. There was a chair with a blanket on it, another chair beside that. And against the far wall was a long and narrow bed, covered with what looked like brightly colored children's sheets. She looked closer: they were paintings. She stepped back: they were landscapes. Beneath the bed in eight neat stacks were the notebooks she had given Henry every year for Christmas. Closer: forty years' worth. Closer still: all filled. Closely reading some of them over the next few days, Henry's landlady realized that they were novels, memoirs, histories, prophecies—a hoard of 21,000 pages all type-written and indexed. Over the next few years the paintings and writings would be visited by scholars, psychologists, and curators, all of whom agreed that the landlady's eighty-year-old tenant who had washed dishes for a living and never spoken a word to her—not of art, not of anything—had left behind the largest collection of outsider art ever created by an American.
HERE'S WHAT I KNOW: Born H. Joseph Darger on April 12, 1892, his father is a tailor, his mother a housewife, and together they lived in a small house at 350 Twenty-fourth Street, Chicago. He is the only child. Later that year, sometime in September, Henry is born to an unwed seamstress in the city of Cologne, Germany. The following year: Brazil. Henry's given South American name is Dargurius. 1896: due to complications during labor, Henry's mother and infant sister both die at the Alexian Brothers Hospital, Chicago. The infant is immediately given up for adoption. She comes home in a basket. Enjoys piano and dance. Henry himself is sent to an orphanage. He is sent to an asylum. He experiences a period of unrecorded years. 1896-1900: the Lincoln Asylum for Feeble Minded Children houses the nation's "most violently deformed and retarded patients under the age of seventeen," according to a 1901 House Committee Report on Children. Number of beds for 1,562: 900. Henry is there because his father is dead. Because his father is tired. Because Henry was caught setting a warehouse fire in which several hundred dollars worth of prized rabbits were killed. Why is Henry there? "Little Henry's heart is not in the right place," according to patient evaluation, 1905. 1906: "Masturbation." Henry runs away: 1908. Number of attempts preceding escape: eight. Employer number one: Alexian Brothers Hospital. Education: none. Apparent source of Henry's encyclopedic knowledge of the American Civil War as displayed to his coworkers in the hospital's gray wards: . Henry begins writing, in 1911, the story known to you as "The Realms of the Unreal." Full title: The Story of the Vivian Girls, in What is Known as the Realms of the Unreal, of the Glandeco-Angelinian War Storm, Caused by the Child Slave Rebellion. Plot: good vs. evil. Fuller plot: war ravages the planet Abbiennia on which a good Christian child-nation is enslaved by haughty men, thus inspiring seven immortal, identical, curlicued blond sisters to rally the good children against the bad men until terrible bloodshed (number of men "killed" during battle: 63,821; number "mortally wounded": 63,973,868 ) persuades the men to surrender to the sisters and ultimately convert. Abbiennia's blue moon is Earth.
"HENRY ON THE STAIRS" IS A PHOTO you've probably seen. It depicts the artist as a lonely, scary old man. Unshaven, unwashed, unaware of why we've come to stare, he's been somewhere so sad for so long that his eyes, God help him, cannot look up. But earlier than this, in 1910, Henry makes a photograph at the Midway with a friend. He and the boy each pay eleven cents, then climb up a platform before a makeshift set. The object of the photograph, according to the backdrop, is for the young men to pretend that they are at a ball. The huge scrim sinks behind them toward a party. Above their two heads a chandelier is abloom. Henry's young friend sits cross-legged, hatless, staring us down. He's taken off his overcoat, rolled up his sleeves. He's about to reach out and take us for a spin, maybe even ask if we have a cousin for his friend. Henry, meanwhile, looks past the camera's lens. Not behind it, but beyond. Past the little machinery of make-believe surrounding him, off into the afternoon faces gathered round, the people standing by who are watching as they wait, eagerly anticipating their own turns at pretend. Henry, at this time, is new to "pretend." He's eighteen years old and has just escaped from an asylum. His expression, in this photograph, is one of pure shock—his eyes and mouth and whole face agog—as if he's caught the whole world in the midst of doing wrong.
THERE WAS A GARBAGE STRIKE, a mob war, a great, long Depression. There were things piling up on Chicago's streets as if the city had orphaned them. Henry could be seen on the sidewalks in the '30s pulling dolls out from trash heaps, tiny leather shoes, any magazine in which girls appeared in ads. He even tore the horsehair from an old chaise lounge. He took newspaper clippings of children lost in fires, rusty metal toys, spools of ribbon frayed, comic books, candy wrappers, stout pink bodies of Pepto Bismol bottles. Henry clipped a photograph of a little girl from the Daily News. The headline above it was just one word: GONE! According to Henry Darger, everything could be saved. He kept a list. It grew. Literature originated on clay desert rolls that itemized sheep, wheat, debt; that unraveled into praise for the wealthiest landowner, into law and writs, into myths about chaotic pasts when nothing cohered, made no sense, hadn't ever heard of a thing called list. Beside the 15,000-paged, typed-and-single-spaced, hand-bound-and-illustrated list of Henry's world, there were 753 wound balls of twine and fishline and rubber bands and thread that were found in his apartment after Henry was dead. He searched for knotted string in the garbage heaps he scavenged, practiced untangling all of their kinks, tied the pieces together, rolled them into balls.
IN THEIR SLEEP, HENRY WROTE, "which lasted only a few hours without interruption, that had a long and beautiful dream. This was their dream. They had been put into a very large cell, where they wandered around for a very long while, when finally they grew very tired, and sat down on the hard stone floor, just ready to cry, when all at once, a dear child of unearthly beauty, appeared before them, and asked what was the trouble, and why they were about to cry, so they told the celestial child all about it, and she said, Never you mind, we will take good care of you. Don't be afraid. There is a golden carriage waiting in the street for you. I'll take you to it, and then I'll go ahead, and see that supper is ready."
ONE MUST HAVE A GOOD MEMORY to keep the promises one makes. Art, for example, originally emerged out of the need for good hunts, strong offspring, safe journeys through death. Art allowed the earliest humans to represent things they couldn't have, hoped to have, had too much of to carry. "Modeling," scholars call it, the fundamental element of which is the copy. Henry, who was classified retarded and never formally taught, knew as little about art as the earliest humans. Collage is the slowest route between two points.
ONE DAY HE HEARD A VOICE WONDERING, What if. She was sitting on a tuffet, eating curds and whey. Then along came a spider—which Henry erased.
HE WORE A LONG TRENCH COAT, grew a long beard, added small penises to every naked girl. I paint with my prick, Renoir once said. At first this is the most striking element in Henry Darger's art: that boys don't exist, and yet the girls all lack vaginas. No place of origin, no real womb. Where did Henry come from? In one painting there is an odalisque in recline in a garden. Flowers all around her are fecund and rotting, producing blooms so fast and so large that nobody bothers to pick them. Instead, the girls in the background, the foreground, all around the woman, play amidst the odalisque's seduction of the garden completely oblivious, as if her long stretch of mounds across the landscape were the very hills they run up and down. Long trains of girls with outstretched arms carry beach balls, giant strawberries, hats blown off their heads. Some of the girls carry nothing at all but whatever they can see in the distances ahead. Henry Darger's paintings burst like blooms from thin air. He never studied art—was never shown art—which is why Henry's girls all look like paper dolls. He cut them out of magazines, then glued them onto landscapes. So often repeated, their origins are moot. Yet where he wants to take his girls is the real question unfolding in all of our laps. Unfolding like a rhyme that Henry keeps repeating. Unrolling like syntax in the midst of translation. It is with my brush that I make love, is also a version of Renoir said.
PROPHETS OF NATURE, WE TO THEM WILL SPEAK a lasting inspiration, sanctified by reason, blest by faith: what we have loved, others will love, and we will teach them how.
CUMULUS, NOW. THE BLOSSOMING, puffed, low-lying kind. They sweep across the landscape like girls having fun. In his paintings we can see precipitation—but only some. There is just enough for a rainbow. And over there, light drizzle. It falls so lightly, with so subtle a plop, that we look up to see it, hold our hands out to catch it…but then decide we like it, so why bother trying to prove it? In the distance is some lightning, calligraphy on hills. And above the mountain distances are blue skies embracing clouds in full view. If his paintings had windows we could point to what we feel. If Henry's paintings were a window, would we agree on what we feel? Am I the only one, for example, who sees Shirley Temple? Little Miss Muffet? The Campbell's Soup Kids? Henry Darger's paintings feel like something clogged in clouds: not childhood exactly, but the skies that hung above.
COULD THE FLAP OF A BUTTERFLY'S WINGS in Brazil set off a tornado in Texas?
WHEN YOU'RE ALL ALONE everything belongs to you. All the good and bad. Every yes and no. Whether to kill that little girl, or not. It was sometime in his late twenties, Henry tells us in his journal, when he lost the newspaper clipping of the girl from the Daily News. He prayed to God to return it, but God never did. Soon, war hung down around him from the towering piles of garbage that he had rescued from the streets. He hung his head over his notebook on the table and roared down at the girls who were playing in his trees. In some of his paintings: notice running. The black clouds hovering. Purple shade down. Yellow cracks severing the nano-strip of sky. An angled craze of fleeing girls is set against a phalanx marching. One soldier reaches and grabs an orphan by the throat. Her green eyes wobble, and then they bulge. One soldier spears an orphan in the spine. Her eyes pop out, replaced by an X. Eviscerations are happening at the feet of hills and trees. Of Henry, of God. The Coppertone baby has been left for dead, the Campbell's Soup Kids are all running in a pack, Little Miss Muffett is crying, naked, scared. As the children try to scatter the sky presses down, and the whole picture frame, likewise, spreads.
MILLIONS OF SOLDIERS ON BOTH SIDES howled at each other like demons, Henry wrote in volume seven of his novel The Story of the Vivian Girls, in What is Known as the Realms of the Unreal, of the Glandeco-Angelinian War Storm, Caused by the Child Slave Rebellion, "striking at each other, pouring a murderous fire at point-blank range, cutting, stabbing, hacking, thrusting, and slashing like wild savages bent on whole-sale butchery, while amid all this was an indescribably tumult of bayonets adding to the riotous din, the Angelinian girls wavered in the furnace of the fire, staggered, broke and ran, but undaunted they regathered again in hundreds of human waves, plunging again into the mighty inferno of fire and smoke, whole gray lines roaring like a trillion cannon blazing like hell and its damnation, the Angelinian girls wavered again, fell back, rallied, swarmed upon the first line of works only to go down in scores of hundreds of thousands, a fourth time beaten back, rallied, swept to the assault, reached the first line of works in the face of the murderous canister and gripped the torn and tottered and bleeding line with their dead piled in windows, only to again rally and rush to the assault like a whirlwind, the tempests of canister and musketry fire withering their many waves, a sixth time they rallied sweeping within a hundred feet of the position, as far even as the second breastworks like a whirlwind of flaming flesh and steel pouring over the bodies of their dead and dying comrades in the face of a withering roar of artillery musketry that now seemed to stun even the heaven and the earth."
WHEN DID YOU FIRST NOTICE something missing in the world? Henry Darger died and was then brought to life. When his paintings were discovered they were "mounted," "framed," and "hung." They were "lit." Look at the painting of Henry's girls in a cave, huddled together beneath the red hard clay, and ask yourself why we bury what leaves. Stalagmites fang around them. The air is lacquered red. Now the soldiers who pursued the girls have stopped to picnic on a knoll instead. As long as the girls are out of sight, the girls are out of mind. Once there was a woman from the Smithsonian Institution who flew to Chicago to buy Henry's room. Here is a detail: she wanted all of Henry's paintings, wanted all of Henry's journals, wanted his novel that's so long no one has read it, the very walls around everything, the ceiling above everything, the floor beneath everything, and copyright control. She wanted her sound crew to fly up to Chicago, record several hours of interviews with Henry's neighbors, and then loop their voices through his reconstructed room so museum-goers in Washington could walk through Henry's life. In the end, however, the deal fell through. Oh, said the woman, when she entered Henry's room—briefly seeing the Jesus shrine, the boarded window, the hundred some-odd drawings of little girls nude—then departed the same day for Washington. The girls in his paintings have coiled far below the seeded world. Past history, past art, into a vast cavern that's nearly dark, where their bodies are descending into the sinking red light from polka-dotted dresses, to silhouetted shapes, to gone from our eyes like an opened-up grave. Beginnings, Henry wrote, are hard. He remembered his father first telling him this when he dropped the boy off in the driveway of his new home, the Lincoln Asylum for Feeble Minded Children. Henry's young mother and unborn sister had just died during a labor that lasted twenty-three hours. Beginnings, Henry reasoned, don't even exist.
HENRY'S GIRLS—GRANTED—are already dead, but imagine in his paintings that they are living instead. Imagine, for example, how you would kill for art. In order to illustrate his great bloody war, Henry knew he somehow had to gather dead girls. But magazines in his day seldom published such illustrations. This, then, is how Henry first learned about color. Once cut out of magazines and pasted on the page, the girls were surrounded by washes singed with war: black shattered glass, blue melted steel, orange rusted barbs, smoke poisoned red. Henry filled in gaps as if the world would trip without him. Are girls in a wagon in the middle of a war going out to play, or are they going to their graves? Who is worthy to open the book and break the seals thereof?
VAN GOGH USED TO SWALLOW mouthfuls of dried paint. Miró starved himself. Dalí said he performed "autohypnotism" to create. Meanwhile, however, in French mental wards, Adam Christie sculpted with broken glass and nails; Martin Bigsby sewed lacey dolls' clothes from his skin; and when Aloise Carbaz lost her privileges to paint, she began to draw self-portraits with lily stamen instead. In March 1945, while passing one day, Jean Dubuffet decided that art could happen anywhere if it could happen in sanatoria. Art, he wrote, could be spontaneous, unprocessed, full blown brut, yet still recognizably artful if only we would look. He began that fall to search for it in mental hospitals, prison yards, and soup-kitchen lines, and by 1948 over 5,000 works by 200 artists were gathered in an exhibition he called, "Compagnie de l'Art Brut." According to Freud's theory of recapitulation, the development of psychosis in an individual brain follows the evolution of the whole human race. God blew, Picasso said at the opening, and we were scattered.
NOW LET'S PLAY A GAME! When the girls who look like they are picking flowers bend, think to yourself that they are really lifting stones. When the girl mixing cake batter in a large bowl at her waist raises a spoon as if to stir, know that she holds a drumstick instead and is really in the midst of playing a snare. And when the forest animals gather in the clearing to play, be honest with yourself: they have come for the scraps of war. This is the game that Henry likes to play: a gray wash over everything familiar to make the seams around our memories fade. The trees blown bare in the gunfire are gray. The fence and its shadow—like a ladder on the river—gray. Blood streams out of everyone gray. As in the mud that's made beneath them. And the world that's stuck around them.
MUSEUMS ARE LIKE THIS ROOM. They're not arguments and answers, not stories with a meaning, not hallways linking galleries and adding up to plot. This is the place Henry lived in for forty years. A tour group files through the room and stares at nothing but the mess. Where did he sleep? they ask. Oh, there's the bed! The landlady lifts plastic sheets off the two chairs and bed, the large table and crayons, the four wheel-less tricycles in a corner, red. There are no more paintings in Henry Darger's room, but there is still a mess. There is still a stack of manuscripts that no one yet has read. Still a search for a patron who'll take this room off her hands. A Henry Darger original averages 85 grand. Once he is scattered around the world like crumbs, how will Henry Darger find his way back here?
DAY, IN 1913, WHEN HENRY WITNESSES a tornado destroy an entire Illinois town: Easter. When a handwritten draft of "The Realms" is completed: 1916. When Henry is drafted: 1917. When Henry is demobilized: 1918. "The Realms" is type-written by 1922. Number of single-spaced legal-sized pages: 15,145. Volumes: 9. Titles of other literary works of equal of greater length in the
world: . Number of pages occupied in "The Realms" by a single quotation from The Pilgrim's Progress: 59. Number of accompanying watercolor illustrations: 318. Average painting's length: 12 ½ feet. Number of first-edition copies of Frank Baum's Oz books: 7. Moves to one-room Webster Street apartment in fashionable Lincoln Park. 1945: registers of conscription. Income, before taxes, 1963: $1,216.32. Year Henry begins to write autobiography: 1966. Number of pages: approximately 5,000. Number of times, per day, Henry attends mass: 4. Sometimes: 7. Years Henry chronicles the local weather forecasts: 13. How often do you do this: he does this everyday. When do you die: 1973. Number of washed and dried Pepto Bismol bottles discovered inside Henry's room as logged by the landlady on a clipboard she shows me: "several large black plastic bags full." Number of black bags filled with twine: 6. Number of broken eyeglasses, magazines, newspapers bundled up blocking the door; of broken toys, sewing patterns, record players, crucifixes, men's shoes/ladie's shoes/children's shoes, plastic Jesus dashboard statues; typewriters, radios, ways to love a girl…How many bed linens, pillows, blankets do you have: for weeks on end I imagine Henry simply couldn't find his bed.
I'M SORRY IF I MISLED YOU into thinking this would be fun. That a paragraph could stand in for Henry Darger's room. That this essay could be a gallery you could walk through on your own, that you could get to know Henry on a Sunday afternoon. What I meant to say is that Henry never had any guests. I didn't mean to say apartment, but maybe stanza instead.
noun, singular, English: poem
noun, singular, French: stance
noun, singular, Italian: room, chamber, stopping place
CHILDREN USUALLY INTER THEIR PARENTS, Herodotus wrote in the earliest History, but war violates this natural order, and causes parents to inter their children. He is sitting there at his table with twelve feet of cave-black crayon covering his hands, trying to recall his father's face in their night-pitched kitchen after candles ran out, before the war worries of money crept up between them both, before poor little Henry got buried in the past. Henry was never taught about History in school, and so he never learned this word that's wrapped around him: interred. He looks over at the bed where the first five volumes of his own war lie bound. Does every life have a story? Why am I alone? He picks up volume one: eleven feet of paintings bound tightly together by glue and wire and cardboard and thread and can't remember for the life of him how this all began, nor why he even bothered, nor what should happen next. Kneeling on the floor he lifts with both hands the front cover up. Midway open the book scrapes plaster and photographs and crosses off the wall—then is jams against the ceiling. His room is too small.
THAT WHICH IS GROWS; that which is not becomes. If Henry had been diagnosed with schizophrenia in his lifetime, he most likely would have encountered Dr. Walter A. Freeman, the best-known American psycho-surgeon of the day, and pioneer of the ingenious "ice-pick lobotomy." Between 1942 and 1952 alone, over 5,000 lobotomies in the U.S. were performed—one-third of them by Dr. Freeman. "Much less intrusive than conventional surgery with a drill," Dr. Freeman once explained to Time magazine, "my technique, with an ice pick, enters the brain subtly by way of the eye socket." Already, Time reported in 1945, scores of patients have been saved by Dr. Freeman's technique. But Henry, in his paintings, depicts giant winged dragons called Blengins saving girls. Henry has known about Blengins all of his life. They are ferocious creatures, but they love little girls. And their sequined long tails hold a secret at the tip: when pierced by one in the breast, a child becomes immortal.
HENRY WRAPPED A GIRL in pink butcher's paper. He carried her outside, around the corner, and into the local drugstore. On the counter of the Photolab he unwrapped the little girl and asked the clerk to reproduce the drawing in five larger sizes and five smaller ones. Henry has realized, finally, that he can trace instead of cut. It is late in his life. He has hundreds of samples of girls in his collection. He knows that he will never be in search of friends again. From that moment on any girl whom Henry peels off his wall will be exactly the right girl for the space he needs to fill. He'll trace parts of one girl onto bits of others—arms from someone waving, legs from someone leaning, a dress from Cinderella, wings from birds instead—and thus render all the life happening outside his room, outside in the hallway, outside in the trash, outside where our lives are ready for his taking, moot. At the center of everything is a very small, black room; a heart, let's say, beating in the darkness.
A CROWD IS NOT COMPANY, and faces are but a gallery, and talk a tinkling cymbal, where there is no love.
WHEN HENRY DARGER DIED there was something blowing through the city. A breeze hard to distinguish between the now and the then, making Henry's life vanish into the rift therein. Trains, for example, arrived on time and didn't. Trees continued shading Chicago as they grew. The little girls on Henry's walls traded dolls, dated jocks, raised their children, peddled Avon, posed off and on for advertising photos, felt tired under the lights, blew bangs from their eyes. Upon Henry's death, no word blew through the city. No letters from pen pals were left behind when Henry died. No family heirlooms were discovered in Henry's room when he died. No neighbors held gatherings on their front stoops to share, in memorium, anecdotes of Henry's forty years on their hill. No one even knew that Henry lived on that hill. No obituary was written. No wake sat through. No grave. No history. No life. What to do? There is no history, Emerson said. One biography. In the absence of information then, maybe biographers feel the need to fill their own lives sometimes into history's gaps—as if their own pasts could illustrate another's private world. But collage, as Henry wrote, is about collecting trash not dumping it. A biographer may feel the urge to cut from his life divorce. Past it into the essay. Mean by that the war. He may sprinkle in some casualties. Stand back. Wait.
I SPEND A LAYOVER IN CHICAGO in Henry's small room. At noon his landlady brings a white crusty sandwich and a red bowl of soup. She asks how much longer I think I will be. I like the privacy of Henry's room with its foil-shaded window and black-painted ceiling and the eyes of his audience X-ed out with pencil. I like anything leadened. I like his paragraphs stacked, quotes amassed, blocks of prose boarding up the windows of his world. I'd like to stay a few more hours if that's alright, I say. She thinks I'm a reporter. How meticulous you're being. How thorough, she says. By the time dusks starts dropping I've filled a small notebook, read through a few journals, skimmed two volumes of the novel, know exactly what to write. It will all be about Henry's wall of girls, about all their eyes. The little windows Henry boarded before leaving our world. Evening falls and there are no lamps to see by. I stand and gather my pack of notes. Zip up my coat. Lift my bag onto my back. Cars in the alley flip their headlights on. They come into the room through two tears in the foil. Driving up the ceiling, down the wall of girls. One pair of eyes is caught briefly in the headlights. She winks. Or blinks. Maybe I'm dreaming. Then another pair shines as a car sweeps by. Then more open, more shut. The opposite wall is sighing. I look closer: it's the lead. I stand back: it reflects. They're waking up. They're alive. The girls are waiting for Henry.
COLLAGE IS MADE UP OF THE PIECES in the box that are left after following all directions very carefully.
IT IS ALSO IN THE ACCIDENT on Interstate 89. In the shopping mall, in the family room, in the battlefield, in the stew. In the library, in the ruins, in the championship fight. In the rough draft, the rough cut, the rough-hewn night. In vaudeville, newspapers, attics, trains, the Internet, entropy, rap-song sampling. Collage occurred in the wondercabinets preceding all museums. It happened when scrolls of aphorisms unraveled into essay. When Henry walked past garbage and felt a jolt: create! Surely the heart must break before it can begin to feel.


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Navigating Car Seats for Kids When Using Car Services
With the advent of smartphones, getting rides while traveling has become much easier, and there are many more options. But traveling with young children comes with a number of unique issues and concerns that separate some car services from others–not just when it comes to price or convenience, but when it comes to your kids' safety.
Choosing Between Taxis, Rideshares & Town Car Services
When using a car service while traveling, your three main choices are taxis, rideshares (like Uber and Lyft) and town cars. Each offer very different accommodations for infants and toddlers who require car seats.
- Taxis. Taxis can be very convenient in large cities, where they can be hailed from the street. But very few taxi services have car seats available, and those that do must be contacted ahead of time. Although some states, including New York, exempt taxis from car seat laws, having a child under 60 pounds ride in a taxi without a car seat or booster seat could be devastating in the event of an accident.
- Rideshares. App based services will not allow families to ride without a car seat for young children. They have recently launched an option in which a person can select a ride that has a car seat installed for an extra fee, but these options are only available in select cities. They also come with several limitations. One one car seat is available per ride, leaving families with two children out of luck. Also, the car seat cannot be used with children who are younger than 12 months, lighter than 22 pounds, or shorter than 31 inches. Finally, a driver with a car seat may not be available in your area at the time you need a ride.
- Black car services. Towne car car seat services vary significantly from company to company. At Ground Link, customers can select an infant, toddler, or booster car seat before you ride for a small additional fee. Riders can rest assured that you will be picked up at a specific time and place.
Optimizing Safety & Convenience When Mixing Car Seats & Car Services
In most cities, you will have several options when traveling with children regarding their comfort and safety in cars. Here are a few things to know before making car seat travel decisions:
- Car seat laws vary by state. Be sure to read up on the car seat law for the state or states you are visiting. Laws vary by state, both about specific height/weight car seat requirements and about car services and car seat use.
- Safety is important, even if laws are lax. Just because some states exempt some car services from following car seat laws doesn't mean that it is safe for your child to ride in a car without a car seat. Studies show that children under 60 pounds are much more likely to sustain serious injuries in a car accident if they are not in a car seat or on a booster.
- Make sure seats are installed correctly. Always to make sure the seat is securely and correctly installed before buckling in your child. In some states, you may be required to install the seat yourself for legal reasons. Even if a driver reports that he or she has been trained in car seat installation double check to make sure the seat is properly secured.
- Check for car seat services in the specific areas you are traveling. Although national rideshare or black car services may advertise car seat options, they may not be available nationwide. Likewise, smaller cities may have significantly fewer vehicles equipped with car seats.
Riding with GroundLink While Traveling with Children
At GroundLink, our customers can select the car seats they need either on our app, on the website, or over the phone. They can also add notes to their driver about their needs related to traveling with children–we are here to make your ride as safe, convenient, and comfortable as possible.


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Oceans 11 producer Jerry Weintraub reveals Cannes inspiration for charity
While for many, Cannes Film Festival represents the height of Hollywood glamour, for award-winning producer Jerry Weintraub, it's also the birthplace of his relief charity Not On Our Watch.
Speaking to me ahead of next weekend's fundraiser at London's Sandown Racecourse, Jerry, 75 - the man behind the famous Oceans movie series -revealed the precise moment that he, along with Don Cheadle, George Clooney, Brad Pitt and Matt Damon, first came up with the idea for the charity.
'It was 2007 and we were premiering one of the Oceans movies in Cannes and I remember sitting on the back of a yacht, drinking champagne with George [Clooney] and he turned to me and said: 'We should do something with this.',' the 75-year-old told me.
Both George Clooney and Brad Pitt are founding members of the charity
'So we did. We realised that we had the power to do so much more – simply because we had people around us who wanted to spend time with us because of who we are. When we're in Cannes we can bring in the big names to support us and that's a really powerful thing. In among all these parties, we can do something great – and that's what we have done.'
Since then, Not On Our Watch has gone from strength to strength, helping to bring global attention and resources towards putting an end to mass atrocities around the world, something which Jerry believes is made all the more possible by its founders and the media's interest in them.
'We can go to Washington and meet the president, or we can go to London and meet the Prime Minister and all because we have cameras with us,' he explained. 'The politicians love the cameras! It's the same thing in Cannes. Instead of doing things to celebrate ourselves however, we're doing things to help a charity.'
The Oceans 11 cast came up with the idea for the organisation while at Cannes Film Festival
While Jerry and his co-founders have yet to storm the doors at No 10 Downing Street, he admits that he wouldn't say no to the opportunity to meet Mr Cameron in order to chat with him about the charity's work.
'I think it would be great to meet with your Prime Minister and, even though we don't have a meeting with him planned, it's something that I think we should definitely do in the future!'
Jerry may get his chance later this month when he travels to the UK for the Not on Our Watch Race Day on June 15th at Sandown Racepark, the charity's first major event to be held on British soil.
Hosted by Heloise Agelou, Prudence McNellis, HH Princess Nauf Al Bendar Al Saud and Carol Joy Hatton, it will feature exclusive private performances from pianist Daniel Grimwood, renowned concert violinist Nazrin Rashidova and British Soprano Laura Wright.
Fine Artist Ben Mosley will also be working on his Genocide painting during the luncheon which will be donated for the auction.
This will be followed by an afternoon of racing and a silent auction.
An afterparty hosted by Cleo Rocos, Prudence McNellis and Heloise Agelou will then be held at The Brompton Club.
For more information about the Not on Our Watch Race Day at Sandown Racepark on June 15, visit: http://prudenceproduction.com/sandown.php
Report by Charlie Lankston


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There was more gridlock today, but despite that, it was a good day.
We went to a Christmas Party, Martha, Evie, myself and Bert. Was at the Oldpark Road, with the girl's friends - Caitlin, Cara and Maria and our oldest friends Robin & Lorraine, also known as the Wees. The food was good and the craic was mighty, I'd forgotten how much fun hide and seek was, not that the grands played it, we just lied a lot as to where certain small people may or may not be hiding.
On the way back I headed for Cullybackey instead of Galgorm and there was Gridlock. I allowed a huge tractor and trailer in front of me just for the fun of it. As Bert said, it might cut a swathe for us. No such luck. The tractor and trailer pulled out, all optimism and the Peugeot van (us) behind it, all filled with Christmas spirit and then - everything stopped. Then - a steady stream of small cars driven by small people mounting the pavement and edging slowly past the tractor. All it would have taken would have been just one considerate, mannerly and decent soul to wait until the tractor, the Peugeot van, and a few other vehicles to pass and we'd all have moved towards our final destinations. What is it about Cullybackey drivers that brings churlishness to the fore? As always, there was the usual ignorantly parked drivers outside Boots the Chemist. This would be Boots that actually has an underused car park at the back of its premises. See sick people? See so called sick people with big free prescription needs? These are people that believe themselves to be so entitled. Let someone else pay for my paracetamol only 25 pence per packet at most leading stores. I'll park wherever I like. I'm an invalid. Who cares if delivery trucks and other humans are inconvenienced? Not I.
Enz-way - rant over. I'm glad I don't work in a chemist shop. I think I might get to suffer those killing people fantasies I had when I worked at that Dunclug hostel.
Which reminds me, last night's waking dream was Prince Harry dying from a wasting disease in a squalorous building and tended in his last hours by my brothers, Eamon and Joseph. What the hell's that all about?
Christmas preparation - presents wrapped and given. Party attended and human beings treated in a loving and Christmas-spirited manner.