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Hard Shells Page 1 2
As a sizing reference: I'm 5'7", 155 lbs (yeah, I'm a little guy), medium build (BDU top medium/regular, BDU pant medium/short), waist 32", chest 43". Keep this in mind when you read my comments with respect to sizing, so you have an idea of how the garments featured below will fit on you. ALL garments in these pages are size Medium, unless stated otherwise.
TO VIEW FULL SIZE IMAGES: USERNAME and PASSWORD are both "mm"
ARC'TERYX LEAF (Law Enforcement and Armed Forces) Products
Note that the product line is subject to change - some of the items below may be discontinued or changed from the time the review is written.
4/23/05 -
Vancouver, BC, Canada-based Arc'teryx
is a well-known name in the outdoor world, producing the latest, high-end
outdoor clothing, gear and accessories. Up till only a few years ago,
military clothing technology has usually been a step behind what's
been available on the civilian market. It makes sense that leading
manufacturers of 'technical' outdoor clothing are entering the military
market but it's more complicated than just producing civilian clothing
in 'military' colours. The Arc'teryx
LEAF (Law Enforcement and Armed Forces) Purchase Program makes
special versions of their product line available to military and LE
Alpha Jacket - The Alpha Jacket shown below is a lightweight, feature-laden waterproof hard shell with stowable hood. The colour featured here is Arc'teryx's 'Crododile', which is an olive drab/khaki shade, depending on whose colour you compare it to. It also comes in black. The main shell material is MI270 Gore-Tex® XCR®, which is a 3 layer fabric with great tear strength and abrasion resistance with a DWR finish for water repellency. Note that the DWR (water repellant treatment) will have to be 'renewed' after some time, with a spray-on or wash-in treatment .
The Alpha is sized more generously than the Bravo or
Combat jackets and will fit over my PCU Level 3 high-loft pullover,
or over the Bravo jacket (which I found provides comparable insulation
to a PCU Level 2 long-sleeved shirt). Another reason for the looser
fit is that it's non-stretchable, so a bit more room is provided in
the right places to allow for freedom of movement without the jacket
being pulled. The extra room can be found in the shoulders, articulated
elbows and under the arms. The elbows have enough room such that bending
the arm doesn't pull the cuff back. In fact, I found that the the
Crye Combat Shirt with integral elbow pads would fit under the Alpha
The 14" water-resistant pit zips under the arms can be opened up from either end for ventilation. The cord zipper pulls have rubber shrink wrap on them to make them easier to locate and pull, especially with gloves. The sleeve cuffs have a slightly stiff, low-profile laminated velcro tab adjuster, which is very easy to use, secure, and forms a tight seal. The one-way main zipper in the front of the jacket is protected by a storm flap, which secures with small, round velcro patches, and snaps at the top and bottom.
When not in use, the hood is folded and stowed inside the zippered, full size compartment that runs the length of the collar. This of course, adds some bulk and stiffness to the collar, but I found that it really doesn't get in the way, as it tends to stand off away from the neck and face. The hood itself is by far the best I've ever used. It's large enough to fit over a helmet (I put it on over my Canadian Gallet), and is completely adjustable for use under a helmet or with no headgear at all.
Adjustments are made via shock-cord pulls with cord-locks. The size of the hood opening is adjusted by pulling down on the two pull-tabs located on each side of the neck at the base of the collar. Pulling on the upper tab in the back of the head adjusts the circumference around the temples, so you have unhindered peripheral vision. The lower tab at the base of the skull pulls the upper tab backwards and down towards the neck, which snugs up the hood and also affects the ride height of the semi-stiff brim. The combination of these adjustments allow me to configure the hood exactly how I want it. No military Gore-Tex jacket hood should be without these features.
The upper arm pocket compartments are about 6"x7", with a 6" water-resistant zipper opening with cord pull. The side-entry hand pocket compartments are 10" tall, and 9" wide at the top, tapering to 7" wide at the bottom. The 9" zipper opening has a molded 'zipper garage' at the top, into which the zipper 'parks' when closed. The hand zippers have rubber wrapped cord pulls. On the inside, a laminated stretch-fabric pocket is located below the chest on each side, for smaller, flat items. Like the other Arc'teryx garments on this page, all the pockets are characteristically low profile and unobtrusive.
The bottom of the jacket has shock-cord waist adjusters, which can be pulled with one hand. Looking inside the jacket, all seams are taped, sealed, and reinforced. The jacket is relatively light weight for a hard shell and compresses into a small enough package to stuff into a medium Kifaru pullout (about the size of a full 50oz camelbak bladder). The typical Arc'teryx attention to quality and detail is apparent from the very neat, high-count stitching and various features.
Arc'teryx LEAF Alpha LT Jacket
12/18/09 - Another new item from the LEAF (Law Enforcement and Armed Forces) division of Arc'teryx is the Alpha LT Jacket. The Gore-Tex Pro Shell Alpha LT isn't simply a lighter version of the Alpha, but more of a very advanced, light weight, Alpine wind shirt that's designed to provide full weather protection in a very packable garment. It was adapted from the civilian line Alpha LT with a change of colour (Crocodile) for the LEAF line, and abounds with high-tech construction features.
Material - The Alpha LT is made from Gore-Tex® 3L Pro, which is a three-layer laminate consisting of a face fabric, the Gore-Tex® membrane, and a Gore Micro Grid backing fabric. It's engineered to excel in extended/extreme conditions while being tough, breathable, waterproof and wind proof. The Micro Grid backer is a thin, low-denier, low-density woven fabric that allows the shell to slide easily over mid layers. It also improves internal abrasion and snag resistance, enhances breathability and decreases garment weight. Compared to the Alpha Jacket, which is made of MI270 Gore-Tex® XCR®, the Alpha LT fabric has a smoother face, feels lighter and more supple, and has less of a 'crinkly' sound when moving. It still has the typical nylon 'swish' sound when moving. There is a very slight hue difference between the Alpha and Alpha LT material. The Alpha LT is ever so slightly greener.
Here's a summary of the features on the Alpha LT Jacket, size medium shown:
Sizing, fit etc - The Alpha LT fits me the same as the Alpha Jacket - which means that my size medium has enough room for a relatively thick mid layer underneath. The Atom Lt jacket featured above is the perfect jacket liner for the Alpha LT, as it's form fitting and very light. The Gore-Tex 3L Pro isn't stretchy, so a bit more room is provided in the right places to allow for freedom of movement without the jacket being pulled. The extra room can be found in the shoulders and articulated elbows. The gusseted underarms prevent the cuffs from riding up when lifting the arms over the head.
General notes and observations - The Alpha LT is referred to as a 'Level 6' garment, which in the SOF-PCU clothing system corresponds to the water proof rain suit. The Alpha LT really isn't just a lighter weight version of the Alpha jacket; there are also design/feature differences that have optimized it for light weight and packability. It is also more technologically advanced. The hood on the Alpha stows while the Alpha LT hood doesn't, and the arm pockets amd velcro of the Alpha are not present on the Alpha LT. While the Alpha isn't bulky, it's twice the weight of the Alpha LT and not as packable. The Alpha LT will fold down into approximately the volume of a USGI 1-quart canteen. Besides the lighter fabric, it achieves this through choice of components (lighter and more pliable water proof zippers, narrower seam tape, mini cord locks etc) and advanced construction technology (extensive use of welded seam and micro seams). This is one of the most technologically advanced garments I've seen, and it's only apparent upon close examination. Wherever possible, stitching has been eliminated in favour of welding and lamination.
The micro seam allowance is a trip. When I examined the Alpha LT closely to see what this meant, I realized that there was no exposed stitching at the seams! Typically, I'll see Arc'teryx's very tight stitching joining the separate panels of the garment together. On the Alpha LT, there isn't any exposed thread to be seen. Instead of overlapping material and stitching it together with thread visible on the outside; on the LT, the two pieces of fabric are sewn together on the inside with a tiny seam allowance, and covered on the inside with seam tape, creating a very flat and non-bulky seam. So, from the outside, no threads are visible, which also means that they're not exposed to abrasion. All you can see is the parting line, and a hint of stitching underneath. See the photo below comparing the Alpha Jacket on the left and the Alpha LT on the right:
The closer I examined the Alpha LT, the more I appreciated the details and technology that go into it. In my informal sink test, the Gore-Tex 3L Pro proved to be water proof - I wouldn't have expected anything different. I lined the sink with the Alpha LT and filled it up with as much water as I could, and left it for more than 24 hours. Water drops on the surface of the fabric beaded up and run off, as the water-repellant treatment (DWR) was still new, but when soaked for a long period along with pressure, the face fabric absorbed some water, which is to be expected. No water penetrated the Gore-Tex membrane, and the inside was dry, which is what counts. The face fabric dried very quickly, as it's very thin and can't hold much moisture. Like other Gore-tex fabrics, the DWR can be renewed with a spray-on renewer (I avoid wash-in as I have no control over where the DWR goes). I've found that in general, the DWR on most hard and soft shells will eventually wear and need renewing, especially on the shoulders and hood.
The hood is very quick and easy to adjust. It's pretty amazing that a hood that is large enough to fit over a helmet can be adjusted down to give you a 'ninja slit' with barely more than my eyes showing. By cinching the adjustments down, I can snug the hood on my head enough so that it moves with my head, instead of my head moving inside it. Except at the extreme ranges of travel at each side, the hood can rotate enough to give me more than 180° of unrestricted vision. While the Alpha LT is not an insulated garment, it definitely provides some warmth from trapped body heat.
The Alpha Jacket probably has the slight edge in durability, solely based on the thickness of the fabric, and has more load-carrying capability and features like the stowable hood. I see the Alpha Jacket used when wet and cold weather is a certainty, where it is worn most of the time and the extra storage in the shoulder pockets is needed. The role of the Alpha LT, as I see it, is as a garment that is compact and light enough to be packed or carried until it's needed for protection from the elements. It's light and compact enough to be brought along at the mere chance of adverse weather, where bringing a heavier garment might be cause for hesitation due to weight and size. The combination of the super-compressible Atom LT jacket/liner featured above and the Alpha LT are a great choice for covering a wide range of temperature and weather conditions when weight and packability are main concerns.
Arc'teryx LEAF Gryphon Halfshell
8/24/10 - The Gryphon Halfshell is a new offering from the LEAF (Law Enforcement and Armed Forces) division of Arc'teryx. The Gryphon is part of LEAF's new Armour Compatible Layering system. Aptly named after the legendary creature that was a hybrid of a lion and and eagle, the Gryphon is a 1/4-zip, non-insulated pullover hybrid hooded anorak that utilizes softshell fabric in areas that are covered by body armour and hardshell fabric in high-exposure areas like the shoulders and sleeves. It is designed to be armour-compatible. The Gryphon also incorporates Arc'teryx's 'Roll-and-Stow' sleeve system that enables the user to convert the sleeve configuration on the go from long to short during periods of intense physical activity.
Armour Compatible Layering - Arc'teryx's armour-compatible garments are designed to work as part of a synergistic system that includes body armour and gear as part of the layering system. By including armour as part of the system, Arc'teryx created a series of products to work in conjunction with the gear, that increases comfort, performance and versatility across a wide range of activities and environments. Two of the most distinctive features is the use of hybrid construction (soft and hard shell textile combinations), and their Roll-and-Stow sleeve system. The hybrid construction of the Gryphon provides weather-resistant protection for the user, while the stowable sleeves allow a greater range of operating temperatures for the jacket and aids in cooling the user down after hard extertion without having to take off the jacket and armour. The rolled up sleeve store underneath the shoulder pockets, leaving nothing exposed to snag. The separate shoulders, which lay on top of the sleeves give the Gryphon a very distinctive look.
Origin/Development - Now, some readers will probably say 'Haven't I seen a similar concept like this before in the OTTE Gear DK Hybrid Jacket?' Commercially, yes. However, the Gryphon jacket concept started out as the result of a series of conversations with a particular military unit, which started back in early 2007 with operational testing beginning that fall. The current configuration of the Gryphon you see here is the result of feedback on over 50 OCONUS deployed samples, and is actually the 4th generation of this design . None of the previous three versions were offered commercially, which is why they remained sight unseen. The lineage of the hybrid fabric construction of the Gryphon actually comes from the commercial Arc'teryx Alpha Comp Hoody in 2007 (no longer available), with its hybrid hard/soft shell construction.
Material - The Gryphon utilizes three fabrics in its construction (Crocodile shown here):
Tweave® Durastretch 520e for the Torso and sleeve pockets - A technical stretch woven with 92% nylon and 8% lycra spandex. Durastretch is a durable, abrasion resistant, water and wind resistant, low-bulk, breathable fabric with excellent stretch and recovery properties. The Multi-directional (4-way) permanent-stretch spandex has 100% memory for shape retention. The Tweave Duratretch used for the Gryphon is not laminated to a lining fabric - it is a single layer material. It is designed as a breathable shell material for wind and moisture resistance than an insulating material. This means that it can be used in warmer temperatures, and is very packable. It is treated with a DWR (durable water repellant). This is the same fabric used for the Arc'teryx Combat jacket and pants.
MI270 Gore-Tex® XCR® for the Shoulder yoke and sleeves - XCR is a 3 layer fabric with great tear strength and abrasion resistance with a DWR finish for water repellency. It is the fabric used for the Alpha Jacket and bib, and is engineered to excel in extended/extreme conditions while being tough, breathable, waterproof and wind proof. Gore-Tex® XCR® has 25% less resistance to moisture vapour transmission than Classic Gore-Tex which means that you stay drier inside. The fabric has a DWR finish for water repellency. Note that the DWR (water repellant treatment) will have to be 'renewed' after some time, with a spray-on or wash-in treatment. I prefer the spray-on treatments.
Gore-Tex® 3L Pro Shell for the hood - Pro-shell is a three-layer laminate consisting of a face fabric, the Gore-Tex® membrane, and a Gore Micro Grid backing fabric. It's the same material used for the Alpha LT jacket, and is lighter and more packable than XCR, hence the choice for the hood. The Micro Grid backer is a thin, low-denier, low-density woven fabric that allows the shell to slide easily over mid layers. It also improves internal abrasion and snag resistance, enhances breathability and decreases garment weight.
Here's a summary of the features on the Gryphon Half-shell Jacket, size medium in Crocodile shown (also availabe in black):
Sizing, fit etc - The Gryphon feels like it fits exactly like the Arc'teryx Combat Jacket on me. I zipped up my Combat Jacket and donned it over my head like an anorak, then did this with the Gryphon. Both felt the same going on and coming off, and while being worn. This means that the Gryphon has what Arc'Teryx refers to as 'athletic patterning', which in this case means 'more form fitting but unrestrictive' - maybe with a bit more room around the shoulders and chest with a slimmer waist. It's not at all tight on me, nor baggy either. The torso tapers towards the waist, and the Tweave fabric is stretchy enough to make donning it over the head easy, and has low enough bulk to be tucked into the pants. Once on, the Gryphon is very comfortable and non-restrictive. There's ample room in the sleeves, as well. The gusseted underarms prevent the cuffs from riding up when lifting the arms over the head.
General notes and observations - The Gryphon Halfshell is categorized as a 'Level 6' garment, which in the SOF-PCU clothing system corresponds to the water proof rain suit. It's more of a Level 5/6, due to the hybrid fabrics used in its construction.
As mentioned above, the Gryphon was designed to be part of a combat gear system; rather than just a weather-resistant garment designed without consideration for use under gear. The lack of features on the torso, and the breathable soft-shell fabric make the Gryphon a very comfortable garment to be worn under armour or a pack. The hard shell fabric is placed on areas of the jacket that are exposed, and not covered by armour. With the sleeves worn down, the Gryphon is very similar in weight and comfort range to that of the Combat Jacket, which was designed a technical alternative to the standard BDU top in cooler conditions, but more hard wearing, water and wind resistant, abrasion and tear-resistant, and more versatile. The Gryphon can also be worn alone like a BDU top ( over a thin base layer/t-shirt) or as part of a layering system. It's really no more bulky than an enhanced BDU top with shoulder pockets etc, so it's possible to wear it under other jackets if need be. It also packs down to about the same size, and can be stuffed in a pack without issue. Of course, the Gryphon can be worn without armour or gear as a stand-alone wind shirt or rain shell. With the sleeves rolled up, the Gryphon can be worn in warmer temperatures than the Combat Jacket, and also allow more ventilation/cooling under exertion.
The roll and stow sleeve system works very well, and the method of conversion and stowage is quite elegant (it's patent pending). Stowed under the shoulder pocket 'bell', nothing is left to flop around, snag or come loose. You don't really notice the rolled up sleeves, and the under arm loop keeps the shoulder bells stable on the arm. Some guys with big arms may find the loops a bit tight, but that's no different from other form-fitting Arc'teryx tops like the Bravo jacket. The shoulder pockets remain fully accessible and functional with the sleeves up or down. It took a little bit of practice to roll and stow the sleeves up, but it becomes easy enough after a few times. Same thing with stowing the hood. As mentioned above, I'd have liked the small round velcro patches on the hood cover to be a bit larger so they're less likely to come unstuck unintentionally. I don't always line them up perfectly when rolling the hood up and securing the cover by feel, without taking the jacket off, so having larger patches will leave more margin for error when lining them up. Or, snaps would be good as well, just like the ones used to secure the shoulder pockets to the arms.
The weather has been warm during the day (being summer), and dry, so I have not yet used the Gryphon out in the rain with armour at the time of this writing. We did get some June gloom and damp rainy mornings, and while not much of a test, I did wear the Gryphon out whenever I had a chance. Based on the fabrics, I expect it to perform somewhere between the Combat Jacket and Alpha Jacket, with respect to water resistance. With all the zippers closed, it does provide some warmth from trapped body heat. Light rain had no effect on it, which was to be expected. I also wore it out in the desert to try it in the heat, both when it was hot (with the sleeves rolled up) and later with the sleeves rolled down when the temperature dropped after the sun went down. It makes quite a difference, having the sleeves up or down; just like wearing a t-shirt vs. a long sleeved t-shirt in warm weather. I was surprised that I didn't immediately boil in it, as temps were in the 90°F range. It was about the same as how a BDU top feels. You probably wouldn't need the Gryphon if it's hot and dry, but I just wanted to see how effective the sleeves were, up and down.
Where the Gryphon will shine is in wet and slightly cooler weather, where it will have a distinct advantage over a standard BDU top or non-weather resistant garment. While the hard shell material is water proof, the soft shell torso is not water proof, but highly water resistant. The DWR sheds water and it'll take a while for the material to let water through. When it does get wet, however, it dries much faster than a BDU, and doesn't hold as much water weight. If you've been immersed completely in water with BDUs, you know how heavy and sluggish waterlogged BDUs can feel when you come out of the water dripping wet. Like the Combat Jacket, the Gryphon will feel lighter and dry much faster. Like all other Arc'teryx garments in the LEAF line, the Gryphon lives up to the standard of innovation, quality and functionality that we've come to expect.
Update 10/19/10 - Okay, it's fall now and we've had some rainy weather. I've worn the Gryphon around the neighbourhood in the rain, as well as on a drizzly, misty evening/night shoot. In heavier rain, the torso will get wet after a while of repelling the rain, but as I mentioned before, stays light weight and dries quickly. In drizzle and light rain, it kept me dry with armour on. I wore it over the Atom LT jacket, which kept me warm and didn't add much bulk.
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text:
On the path,
by this wet site
of old fires-
black ashes, black stones, where tramps
must have squatted down,
gnawing on stream water,
unhouseling themselves on cursed bread,
failing to get warm at a twigfire-
I stop,
gather wet wood,
cut dry shavings, and for her,
whose face
I held in my hands
a few hours, whom I gave back
only to keep holding the space where she was,
I light
a small fire in the rain.
The black
wood reddens, the deathwatches inside
begin running out of time, I can see
the dead, crossed limbs
longing again for the universe, I can hear
in the wet wood the snap
and re-snap of the same embrace being torn.
The raindrops trying
to put the fire out
fall into it and are
changed: the oath broken,
the oath sworn between earth and water, flesh and spirit, broken,
to be sworn again,
over and over, in the clouds, and to be broken again,
over and over, on earth.
I sit a moment
by the fire, in the rain, speak
a few words into its warmth-
stone saint smooth stone- and sing
one of the songs I used to croak
for my daughter, in her nightmares.
Somewhere out ahead of me
a black bear sits alone
on his hillside, nodding from side
to side.
He sniffs the blossom-smells, the rained earth,
finally he gets up,
eats a few flowers, trudges away,
his fur glistening
in the rain.
The singed grease streams out of the words,
the one held note remains-a love-note
twisting under my tongue, like the coyote's
bark, curving off, into a howl.
A round-
cheeked girlchild comes awake
in her crib. The green
swaddlings tear open,
a filament or vestment
tears,the blue
flower opens.
And she who is born,
she who sings and cries,
she who begins the passage, her hair
sprouting out,
her gums budding for her first spring on earth,
the mist still clinging about
her face, puts
her hand
into her father's mouth, to take hold of
his song.
It is all over,
little one, the flipping
and overleaping, the watery
somersaulting alone in the oneness
under the hill, under
the old, lonely bellybutton
pushing forth again
in remembrance,
the drifting there furled in the dark,
pressing a knee or elbow
along a slippery wall, sculpting
the world with each thrash-the stream
of omphalos blood humming all about you.
Her head
enters the headhold
which starts sucking her forth: being itself
closes down all over her,
gives her into the shuddering
grip of departure, the slow,
agonized clenches making
the last molds of her life in the dark.
The black eye
opens, the pupil
droozed with black hairs
stops, the chakra
on top of the brain throbs a long moment in world light,
and she skids out on her face into light,
this peck
of stunned flesh
clotted with celestial cheesiness, glowing
with the astral violet
of the underlife. And as they cut
her tie to the darkness
she dies
a moment, turns blue as a coal,
the limbs shaking
as the memories rush out of them. When
they hang her up
by the feet, she sucks
air, screams
her first song-and turns rose,
the slow,
beating, featherless arms
already clutching at the emptiness.
When it was cold
on our hillside, and you cried
in the crib rocking
through the darkness, on wood
knifed down to the curve of the smile, a sadness
stranger than ours, all of it
flowing from the other world,
I used to come to you
and sit by you
and sing to you. You did not know,
and yet you will remember,
in the silent zones
of the brain, a specter, descendant
of the ghostly forefathers, singing
to you in the nighttime-
not the songs
of light said to wave
through the bright hair of angels,
but a blacker
rasping flowering on that tongue.
For when the Maud moon
glimmered in those first nights,
and the Archer lay
sucking the icy biestings of the cosmos,
in his crib of stars,
I had crept down
to riverbanks, their long rustle
of being and perishing, down to marshes
where the earth oozes up
in cold streaks, touching the world
with the underglimmer
of the beginning,
and there learned my only song.
And in the days
when you find yourself orphaned,
of all wind-singing, of light,
the pieces of cursed bread on your tongue,
may there come back to you
a voice,
spectral, calling you
from everything that dies.
And then
you shall open
this book, even if it is the book of nightmares.
on our faces in the spring
nights, teeth
biting down on hen feathers, bits of the hen
still stuck in the crevices-if only
we could let go
like her, throw ourselves
on the mercy of darkness, like the hen,
tuck our head
under a wing, hold ourselves still
a few moments, as she
falls out into her little trance in the witchgrass,
or turn over
and be stroked with a finger
down the throat feathers,
down the throat knuckles,
down over the hum
of the wishbone tuning its high D in thin blood,
down over
the breastbone risen up
out of breast flesh, until the fatted thing
woozes off, head
thrown back
on the chopping block, longing only
to die.
When the ax-
scented breeze flourishes
about her,her cheeks crush in,
her comb
grays, the gizzard
that turns the thousand acidic millstones of her fate
convulses: ready or not
the next egg, bobbling
its globe of golden earth,
skids forth,
ridding her even
of the life to come.
Almost high
on subsided gravity, I remain afoot,
a hen flower
dangling from a hand,
of my wing,
of my bones and veins,
of my flesh
hairs lifting all over me in the first ghostly breeze
after death,
made only to fly-unable
to write out the sorrows of being unable
to hold another in one's arms-and unable
to fly,
and waiting, therefore,
for the sweet, eventual blaze in the genes,
that one day, according to gospel, shall carry it back
into pink skies, where geese
cross at twilight, honking
in tongues.
I have glimpsed
by corpse-light, in the opened cadaver
of hen, the mass of tiny,
unborn eggs, each getting
tinier and yellower as it reaches back toward
the icy pulp
of what is, I have felt the zero
freeze itself around the finger dipped slowly in.
When the Northern Lights
were opening across the black sky and vanishing,
lighting themselves up
so completely they were vanishing,
I put to my eye the lucent
section of the spealbone of a ram-
I thought suddenly
I could read the cosmos spelling itself,
the huge broken letters
shuddering across the black sky and vanishing,
and in a moment,
in the twinkling of an eye, it came to me
the mockingbird would sing all her nights the cry of the rifle,
the tree would hold the bones of the sniper who chose not to
climb down,
the rose would bloom no one would see it,
the chameleon longing to be changed would remain the color
of blood.
And I went up
to the henhouse, and took up
the hen killed by weasels, and lugged
the sucked
carcass into first light. And when I hoisted
her up among the young pines, a last
rubbery egg slipping out as I flung her high, didn't it happen
the dead
wings creaked open as she soared
across the arms of the Bear?
Sprawled face down, waiting
for the rooster to groan out
it is the empty morning, as he groaned out thrice
for the disciple
of stone,
he who crushed with his heel the brain out of the snake,
I remember long ago I sowed my own first milk
tooth under hen feathers, I planted under hen
feathers the hook of the wishbone, which had
broken itself so lovingly toward me.
For the future.
It has come to this.
Listen, Kinnell,
dumped alive
and dying into the old sway bed,
a layer of crushed feathers all that there is
between you
and the long shaft of darkness shaped as you,
let go.
Even this haunted room
all its materials photographed with tragedy,
even the tiny crucifix drifting face down at the center of the earth,
even these feathers freed from their wings forever
are afraid.
Squatting at the rack
in the Store of the Salvation
Army, putting on, one after one,
these shoes strangers have died from, I discover
the eldershoes of my feet, that take my feet
as their first feet, clinging
down to the least knuckle and corn.
And I walk out now,
in dead shoes, in the new light,
on the steppingstones
of someone else's wandering,
a twinge
in this foot or that saying
turn or stay or take
forty-three giant steps
backwards, frightened
I may already have lost
the way: the first step, the Crone
who scried the crystal said, shall be
to lose the way.
Back at the Xvarna Hotel, I leave
unlocked the door jimmied over and over,
I draw the one,
lightning-tracked blind
in the narrow room under the freeway, I put off
the shoes, set them
side by side
by the bedside, curl
up on bedclothes gone stiff
from love-acid, night-sweat, gnash-dust
of tooth, and lapse back
into darkness.
A faint,
creaking noise
starts up in
the room,
low-passing wing-
beats, or
great, labored breath-takings
of somebody lungsore or old.
And the old
footsmells in the shoes, touched
back to life by my footsweats, as by
a child's kisses, rise,
drift up where I lie
self-hugged on the bedclothes, slide
down the flues
of dozed, beating hairs, and I can groan
or wheeze, it will be
the groan or wheeze of another-the elderfoot
of these shoes, the drunk
who died in this room, whose dream-child
might have got a laugh
out of those clenched, corned feet, putting
huge, comical kisses on them
through the socks, or a brother
shipped back burned
from the burning of Asians, sweating
his nightmare out to the end
in some whitewashed warehouse
for dying-the groan
or wheeze of one
who lays bare his errors by a harsher light,
his self-mutterings worse
than the farts, grunts, and belches
of an Oklahoma men's room,
as I shudder down to his nightmare.
The witness trees
blaze themselves a last time: the road
trembles as it starts across
swampland streaked with shined water, a lethe-
wind of chill air touches
me all over my body,
certain brain cells crackle like
softwood in a great fire
or die,
each step a shock,
a shattering underfoot of mirrors sick of the itch
of our face-bones under their skins,
as memory reaches out
and lays bloody hands on the future, the haunted
shoes rising and falling
through the dust, wings of dust
lifting around them, as they flap
down the brainwaves of the temporal road.
Is it the foot,
which rubs the cobblestones
and snakestones all its days, this lowliest
of tongues, whose lick-tracks tell
our history of errors to the dust behind,
which is the last trace in us of wings?
And is it
the hen's nightmare, or her secret dream,
to scratch the ground forever
eating the minutes out of the grains of sand?
On this road
on which I do not know how to ask for bread,
on which I do not know how to ask for water,
this path
inventing itself
through jungles of burnt flesh, ground of ground
bones, crossing itself
at the odor of blood, and stumbling on,
I long for the mantle
of the great wanderers, who lighted
their steps by the lamp
of pure hunger and pure thirst,
and whichever way they lurched was the way.
But when the Crone
held up my crystal skull to the moon,
when she passed my shoulder bones
across the Aquarian stars, she said:
You live under
the Sign
of the Bear, who flounders through chaos
in his starry blubber:
poor fool,
poor forked branch
of applewood, you will feel all your bones
over the holy waters you will never drink.
Having given up
on the deskman passed out
under his clock, who was to have banged
it is morning
on the police-locked, sheetmetal door,
I can hear the chime
of the Old Tower, tinny sacring-bell drifting out
over the city-chyme
of our loves
the peristalsis of the will to love forever
drives down, grain
after grain, into the last,
coldest room, which is memory-
and listen for the maggots
inhabiting beds old men have died in
to crawl out,
to break into the brain and cut
the nerves which keep the book of solitude.
Dear Galway,
It began late one April night when I couldn't sleep. It was the
dark of the moon. My hand felt numb, the pencil went over the
page drawn on its way by I don't know what. It drew circles and
figure eights and mandalas. I cried. I had to drop the pencil.
I was shaking. I went to bed and tried to pray. At last I relaxed.
Then I felt my mouth open. My tongue moved, my breath wasn't my
own. The whisper which forced itself through my teeth said,
Virginia, your eyes shine back to me from my own world. O
God, I thought. My breath came short, my heart opened. O God I
thought, now I have a demon lover.
Yours, faithless to this life,
At dusk, by the blue Juniata-
"a rural America," the magazine said,
"now vanished, but extant in memory,
a primal garden lost forever . . ."
("You see," I told Mama, "we just think we're here . . .")-
the root-hunters
go out into the woods, pull up
love-roots from the virginal glades, bend
the stalks over shovel-handles
and lever them up, the huge,
bass, final
as each root unclutches from its spot.
Take kettle
of blue water.
Boil over twigfire
of ash wood. Grind root.
Throw in. Let macerate. Reheat
over ash ashes. Bottle.
Stopper with thumb
of dead man. Ripen
forty days in horse dung
in the wilderness. Drink.
And when you rise-
if you do rise-it will be in the sothic year
made of the raised salvages
of the fragments all unaccomplished
of years past, scraps
and jettisons of time mortality
could not grind down into his meal of blood and laughter.
And if there is one more love
to be known, one more poem
to be opened into life,
you will find it here
or nowhere. Your hand will move
on its own
down the curving path, drawn
down by the terror and terrible lure
of vacuum:
a face materializes into your hands,
on the absolute whiteness of pages
a poem writes itself out: its title-the dream
of all poems and the text
of all loves-"Tenderness toward Existence."
On this bank-our bank-
of the blue, vanished water, you lie,
crying in your bed, hearing those
fearsome thrumps
of leave-taking trespassing the virginal woods at dusk.
I, too, have eaten
the meals of the dark shore. In time's
own mattress, where a sag shaped as a body
lies next to a sag-graves
tossed into it
by those who came before,
or loving friends,
or strangers,
who loved here,
or ground their nightmared teeth here,
or talked away their one-night stands,
the sanctus-bell
going out each hour to die against the sheetglass city-
I lie without sleeping, remembering
the ripped body
of hen, the warmth of hen flesh
frightening my hand,
all her desires, all her deathsmells,
blooming again in the starlight. And then the wait-
not long, I grant, but all my life-
for the small, soft
thud of her return among the stones.
Can it ever be true-
all bodies, one body, one light
made of everyone's darkness together?
Dear Galway,
I have no one to turn to because God is my enemy. He gave
me lust and joy and cut off my hands. My brain is smothered
with his blood. I asked why should I love this body I fear. He
said, It is so lordly, it can never be shaped again-dear, shining
casket. Have you never been so proud of a thing you wanted it
for your prey? His voice chokes my throat. Soul of asps, master
and taker: he wants to kill me. Forgive my blindness.
Yours, in the darkness,
Dear stranger
extant in memory by the blue Juniata,
these letters
across space I guess
will be all we will know of one another.
So little of what one is threads itself through the eye
of empty space.
Never mind.
The self is the least of it.
Let our scars fall in love.
In the left-
hand sag the drunk smelling of autopsies
died in, my body slumped out
into the shape of his, I watch, as he
must have watched, a fly
tangled in mouth-glue, whining his wings,
concentrated wholly on
time, time, losing his way worse
down the downward-winding stairs, his wings
whining for life as he shrivels
in the gaze
from the spider's clasped
forebrains, the abstracted stare
in which even the nightmare spatters out its horrors
and dies.
Now the fly
ceases to struggle, his wings
flutter out the music blooming with failure
of one who gets ready to die, as Roland's horn, winding down
from the Pyrenees, saved its dark, full flourishes
for last.
In the light
left behind by the little
spiders of blood who garbled
their memoirs across his shoulders
and chest, the room
echoes with the tiny thrumps
of crotch hairs plucking themselves
from their spots; on the stripped skin
the love-sick crab lice
struggle to unstick themselves and sprint from the doomed
and stop,
heads buried
for one last taste of the love-flesh.
of his excavated flesh,
fill of his emptiness,
after-amanuensis of his after-life,
I write out
for him in this languished alphabet
of worms, these last words
of himself, post for him
his final postcards to posterity.
"I sat out by twigfires flaring in grease strewn from the pimpled limbs
of hen,
I blacked out into oblivion by that crack in the curb where the forget-
me blooms,
I saw the ferris wheel writing its huge, desolate zeroes in neon on the
evening skies,
I painted my footsoles purple for the day when the beautiful color
would show,
I staggered death-sentences down empty streets, the cobblestones as-
sured me, it shall be so,
I heard my own cries already howled inside bottles the waves washed
up on beaches,
I ghostwrote my prayers myself in the body-Arabic of these
"If the deskman knocks, griping again
about the sweet, excremental
odor of opened cadaver creeping out
from under the door, tell him, 'Friend, To Live
has a poor cousin,
who calls tonight, who pronounces the family name
To Leaves she
changes each visit the flesh-rags on her bones.'"
Violet bruises come out
all over his flesh, as invisible
fists start beating him a last time; the whine
of omphalos blood starts up again, the puffed
bellybutton explodes, the carnal
nightmare soars back to the beginning.
As for the bones to be tossed
into the aceldama back of the potting shop, among
shards and lumps
which caught vertigo and sagged away
into mud, or crawled out of fire
crazed or exploded, they shall re-arise
in the pear tree, in spring, to shine down
on two clasping what they dream is one another.
As for these words scattered into the future-
is one invented too deep in its past
to hear them.
The foregoing scribed down
in March, of the year Seventy,
on my sixteen-thousandth night of war and madness,
in the Hotel of Lost Light, under the freeway
which roams out into the dark
of the moon, in the absolute spell
of departure, and by the light
from the joined hemispheres of the spider's eyes.
A piece of flesh gives
off smoke in the field-
caput mortuum,
gurry dumped from hospital trashcans.
This corpse will not stop burning!
"That you Captain? Sure,
sure I remember-I still hear you
lecturing at me on the intercom, Keep your guns up, Burnsie!
and then screaming, Stop shooting, for crissake, Burnsie,
those are friendliest But crissake, Captain,
I'd already started, burst
after burst, little black pajamas jumping
and falling . . . and remember that pilot
who'd bailed out over the North,
how I shredded him down to catgut on his strings?
one of his slant eyes, a piece
of his smile, sail past me
every night right after the sleeping pill . . .
"It was only
that I loved the sound
of them, I guess I just loved
the feel of them sparkin' off my hands . . ."
On the television screen:
Do you have a body that sweats?
Sweat that has odor?
False teeth clanging into your breakfast?
Case of the dread?
Headache so perpetual it may outlive you?
Armpits sprouting hair?
Piles so huge you don't need a chair to sit at a table?
We shall not all sleep, but we shall be changed . . .
In the Twentieth Century of my trespass on earth,
having exterminated one billion heathens,
heretics, Jews, Moslems, witches, mystical seekers,
black men, Asians, and Christian brothers,
every one of them for his own good,
a whole continent of red men for living in unnatural community
and at the same time having relations with the land,
one billion species of animals for being sub-human,
and ready to take on the bloodthirsty creatures from the other
I, Christian man, groan out this testament of my last will.
I give my blood fifty parts polystyrene,
twenty-five parts benzene, twenty-five parts good old gasoline,
to the last bomber pilot aloft, that there shall be one acre
in the dull world where the kissing flower may bloom,
which kisses you so long your bones explode under its lips.
My tongue goes to the Secretary of the Dead
to tell the corpses, "I'm sorry, fellows,
the killing was just one of those things
difficult to pre-visualize-like a cow,
say, getting hit by lightning."
My stomach, which has digested
four hundred treaties giving the Indians
eternal right to their land, I give to the Indians,
I throw in my lungs which have spent four hundred years
sucking in good faith on peace pipes.
My soul I leave to the bee
that he may sting it and die, my brain
to the fly, his back the hysterical green color of slime,
that he may suck on it and die, my flesh to the advertising man,
the anti-prostitute, who loathes human flesh for money.
I assign my crooked backbone
to the dice maker, to chop up into dice,
for casting lots as to who shall see his own blood
on his shirt front and who his brother's,
for the race isn't to the swift but to the crooked.
To the last man surviving on earth
I give my eyelids worn out by fear, to wear
in his long nights of radiation and silence,
so that his eyes can't close, for regret
is like tears seeping through closed eyelids.
I give the emptiness my hand: the pinkie picks no more noses,
slag clings to the black stick of the ring finger,
a bit of flame jets from the tip of the fuck-you finger,
the first finger accuses the heart, which has vanished,
on the thumb stump wisps of smoke ask a ride into the emptiness.
In the Twentieth Century of my nightmare
on earth, I swear on my chromium testicles
to this testament
and last will
of my iron will,
my fear of love, my itch for money, and my
In the ditch
snakes crawl cool paths
over the rotted thigh, the toe bones
twitch in the smell of burnt rubber,
the belly
opens like a poison nightflower,
the tongue has evaporated,
the nostril
hairs sprinkle themselves with yellowish- white dust,
the five flames at the end
of each hand have gone out, a mosquito
sips a last meal from this plate of serenity.
And the fly, the last nightmare,
hatches himself.
I ran
my neck broken I ran
holding my head up with both hands I ran
thinking the fumes the flames
may burn the oboe
but listen buddy boy they can't touch the notes!
A few bones
lie about in the smoke of bones.
effigies pressed into grass,
mummy windings,
sags incinerated mattresses gave back to the world,
memories left in mirrors on whorehouse ceilings,
angel's wings
flagged down into the snows of yesteryear,
on the scorched earth
in the shapes of men and animals:
do not let this last hour pass,
do not remove this last, poison cup from our lips.
And a wind holding
the cries of love-making from all our nights and days
moves among the stones, hunting
for two twined skeletons to blow its last cry across.
This corpse will not stop burning!
You scream, waking from a nightmare.
When I sleepwalk
into your room, and pick you up,
and hold you up in the moonlight, you cling to me
as if clinging could save us. I think
you think
I will never die, I think I exude
to you the permanence of smoke or stars,
even as
my broken arms heal themselves around you.
I have heard you tell
the sun, don't go down, I have stood by
as you told the flower, don't grow old,
don't die. Little Maud,
I would blow the flame out of your silver cup,
I would suck the rot from your fingernail,
I would brush your sprouting hair of the dying light,
I would scrape the rust off your ivory bones,
I would help death escape through the little ribs of your body,
I would alchemize the ashes of your cradle back into wood,
I would let nothing of you go, ever,
until washerwomen
feel the clothes fall asleep in their hands,
and hens scratch their spell across hatchet blades,
and rats walk away from the cultures of the plague,
and iron twists weapons toward the true north,
and grease refuses to slide in the machinery of progress,
and men feel as free on earth as fleas on the bodies of men,
and lovers no longer whisper to the presence beside them in the
dark, O corpse-to-be . . .
And yet perhaps this is the reason you cry,
this the nightmare you wake screaming from:
being forever
in the pre-trembling of a house that falls.
In a restaurant once, everyone
quietly eating, you clambered up
on my lap: to all
the mouthfuls rising toward
all the mouths, at the top of your
voice you cried
your one word, caca! caca! caca!
and each spoonful
stopped, a moment, in midair, in its withering
you cling because
I, like you, only sooner
than you, will go down
the path of vanished alphabets,
the roadlessness
to the other side of the darkness,
your arms
like the shoes left behind,
like the adjectives in the halting speech
of old men,
which once could call up the lost nouns.
And you yourself,
some impossible Tuesday
in the year Two Thousand and Nine, will walk out
among the black stones
of the field, in the rain,
and the stones saying
over their one word, ci-gît, ci-gît, ci-gît,
and the raindrops
hitting you on the fontanel
over and over, and you standing there
unable to let them in.
If one day it happens
you find yourself with someone you love
in a cafe at one end
of the Pont Mirabeau, at the zinc bar
where white wine
stands in upward opening glasses,
and if you commit then, as we did, the error
of thinking,
one day all this will only be memory,
as you stand
at this end of the bridge which arcs,
from love, you think; into enduring love
learn to reach deeper
into the sorrows
to come-to touch
the almost imaginary bones
under the face, to hear under the laughter
the wind crying across the black stones. Kiss
the mouth
which tells you, here,
here is the world. This mouth. This laughter. These temple bones.
The still undanced cadence of vanishing.
In the light the moon
sends back, I can see in your eyes
the hand that waved once
in my father's eyes, a tiny kite
wobbling far up in the twilight of his last look:
and the angel
of all mortal things lets go the string.
Back you go, into your crib.
The last blackbird lights up his gold wings: farewell.
Your eyes close inside your head,
in sleep. Already
in your dreams the hours begin to sing.
Little sleep's-head sprouting hair in the moonlight,
when I come back
we will go out together,
we will walk out together among
the ten thousand things,
each scratched too late with such knowledge, the wages
of dying is love.
In the red house sinking down
into ground rot, a lamp
at one window, the marled ashes letting
a single flame go free,
a shoe of dreaming iron nailed to the wall,
two mismatched halfnesses lying side by side in the darkness,
I can feel with my hand
the foetus rouse himself
with a huge, fishy thrash, and re-settle in his darkness.
Her hair glowing in the firelight,
her breasts full,
her belly swollen,
a sunset of firelight
wavering all down one side, my wife sleeps on,
far away, in some other,
newly opened room of the world.
Sweat breaking from his temples,
Aristophanes ran off
at the mouth-made it all up,
nightmared it all up on the spur
of that moment which has stabbed us ever since:
that each of us
is a tom half
whose lost other we keep seeking across time
until we die, or give up-
or actually find her:
as I myself, in an Ozark
Airlines DC-6 droning over
towns made of crossroads, headed down
into Waterloo, Iowa, actually found her,
held her face a few hours
in my hands; and for reasons- cowardice,
loyalties, all which goes by the name "necessity"-
left her . . .
And yet I think
it must be the wound, the wound itself,
which lets us know and love,
which forces us to reach out to our misfit
and by a kind
of poetry of the soul, accomplish,
for a moment, the wholeness the drunk Greek
extrapolated from his high
or flagellated out of an empty heart,
that purest,
most tragic concumbence, strangers
clasped into one, a moment, of their moment on earth.
She who lies halved
beside me-she and I once
watched the bees, dreamers not yet
dipped into the acids
of the craving for anything, not yet burned down into flies, sucking
the blossom-dust
from the pear-tree in spring,
we two
lay out together
under the tree, on earth, beside our empty clothes,
our bodies opened to the sky,
and the blossoms glittering in the sky
floated down
and the bees glittered in the blossoms
and the bodies of our hearts
under the knowledge
of tree, on the grass of the knowledge
of graves, and among the flowers
of the flowers.
And the brain kept blossoming
all through the body, until the bones themselves could think,
and the genitals sent out wave after wave of holy desire
until even the dead brain cells
surged and fell in god-like, androgynous fantasies-
and I understood
the unicorn's phallus could have risen, after all,
directly out of thought itself.
Of that time in a Southern jail,
when the sheriff, as he cursed me
and spat, took my hand in his hand, rocked
from the pulps the whorls
and tented archways into the tabooed realm, that underlife
where the canaries of the blood are singing, pressed
the flesh-flowers
into the dirty book of the
police-blotter, afterwards what I remembered most
was the care, the almost loving,
animal gentleness of his hand on my hand.
Better than the rest of us, he knows
the harshness of that cubicle
in hell where they put you
with all your desires undiminished, and with no body to appease
And when he himself floats out
on a sea he almost begins to remember,
floats out into a darkness he has known already;
when the moan of wind
and the gasp of lungs call to each other among the waves
and the wish to float
comes to matter not at all as he sinks under,
is it so impossible to think
he will dream back to all the hands black and white
he took in his hands
as the creation
touches him a last time all over his body?
Suppose I had stayed
with that woman of Waterloo, suppose
we had met on a hill called Safa, in our own country,
that we had lain out on the grass
and looked into each other's blindness, under leaf-shadows
wavering across our bodies in the drifts of sun,
our faces
inclined toward each other, as hens
incline their faces
when the heat flows from the warmed egg
back into the whole being, and the silver moon
had stood still for us in the middle of heaven-
I think I might have closed my eves, and moved
from then on like the born blind,
their faces gone into heaven already.
We who live out our plain lives, who put
our hand into the hand of whatever we love
as it vanishes, as we vanish,
and stumble toward what will be, simply by arriving,
a kind of fate,
some field, maybe, of flaked stone
scattered in starlight
where the flesh
swaddles its skeleton a last time
before the bones go their way without us,
might we not hear, even then,
the bear call
from his hillside-a call, like ours, needing
to be answered-and the dam-bear
call back across the darkness
of the valley of not-knowing
the only word tongues shape without intercession,
yes . . . yes . . . ?
On the path winding
upward, toward the high valley
of waterfalls and flooded, hoof-shattered
meadows of spring
where fish-roots boil
in the last grails of light on the water,
and vipers pimpled with urges to fly
drape the black stones hissing sheet! sheet!-land
of quills
and inkwells of skulls filled with black water-
I come to a field
glittering with the thousand sloughed skins
of arrowheads, stones
which shuddered and leapt forth
to give themselves into the broken hearts
of the living
who gave themselves back, broken, to the stone.
I close my eyes:
on the heat-rippled beaches
where the hills came down to the sea,
the luminous
beach dust pounded out of funeral shells,
I can see
them living without me, dying
without me, the wing
and egg
shaped stones, broken
war-shells of slain
fighting conches,
dog-eared immortality shells
in which huge constellations of slime, by the full moon,
writhed one more
coat of invisibility on a speck of sand,
and the agates knocked
from circles scratched into the dust
with the click
of a wishbone breaking, inward-swirling
globes biopsied out of sunsets never to open again,
and that wafer-stone
which skipped ten times across
the water, suddenly starting to run as it went under,
and the zeroes it left,
that met
and passed into each other, they themselves
smoothing themselves from the water . . .
I walk out from myself,
among the stones of the field,
each sending up its ghost-bloom
into the starlight, to float out
over the trees, seeking to be one
with the unearthly fires kindling and dying
in space-and falling back, knowing
the sadness of the wish
to alight
back among the glitter of bruised ground,
the stones holding between pasture and field,
the great, granite nuclei,
glimmering, even they, with ancient inklings of madness and war.
A way opens
at my feet. I go down
the night-lighted mule-steps into the earth,
the footprints behind me
filling already with pre-sacrificial trills
of canaries, go down
into the unbreathable goaf
of everything I ever craved and lost.
An old man, a stone
lamp at his forehead, squats
by his hell-flames, stirs into
his pot
chopped head
of crow, strings of white light,
opened tail of peacock, dressed
body of canary, robin breast
dragged through the mud of battlefields, wrung-out
blossom of caput mortuum flower-salts
it all down with sand
stolen from the upper bells of hourglasses . . .
Always nothing. Ordinary blood
boiling away in the glare of the brow lamp.
And yet, no,
perhaps not nothing. Perhaps
not ever nothing. In clothes
woven out of the blue spittle
of snakes, I crawl up: I find myself alive
in the whorled
archway of the fingerprint of all things,
skeleton groaning,
blood-strings wailing the wail of all things.
The witness trees heal
their scars at the flesh fire,
the flame
rises off the bones,
the hunger
to be new lifts
off my soul, an eerie blue light blooms
on all the ridges of the world. Somewhere
in the legends of blood sacrifice
the fatted calf
takes the bonfire into his arms, and he
burns it.
As above: the last scattered stars
kneel down in the star-form of the Aquarian age:
a splash
on the top of the head,
on the grass of this earth even the stars love, splashes of the
sacred waters . . .
So below: in the graveyard
the lamps start lighting up, one for each of us,
in all the windows
of stone.
The skinny waterfalls, footpaths
wandering out of heaven, strike
the cliffside, leap, and shudder off.
Somewhere behind me
a small fire goes on flaring in the rain, in the desolate ashes.
No matter, now, whom it was built for,
it keeps its flames,
it warms
everyone who might wander into its radiance,
a tree, a lost animal, the stones,
because in the dying world it was set burning.
A black bear sits alone
in the twilight, nodding from side
to side, turning slowly around and around
on himself, scuffing the four-footed
circle into the earth. He sniffs the sweat
in the breeze, he understands
a creature, a death-creature
watches from the fringe of the trees,
finally he understands
I am no longer here, he himself
from the fringe of the trees watches
a black bear
get up, eat a few flowers,trudge away,
all his fur glistening
in the rain.
And what glistening! Sancho Fergus,
my boychild, had such great shoulders,
when he was born his head
came out, the rest of him stuck. And he opened
his eyes: his head out there all alone
in the room, he squinted with pained,
barely unglued eves at the ninth-month's
blood splashing beneath him
on the floor. And almost
smiled, I thought, almost forgave it all in advance.
When he came wholly forth
I took him up in my hands and bent
over and smelled
the black, glistening fur
of his head, as empty space
must have bent
over the newborn planet
and smelled the grasslands and the ferns.
Walking toward the cliff overhanging
the river, I call out to the stone,
and the stone
calls back, its voice hunting among the rubble
for my ears.
As you approach an echoing
cliffside, you sense the line
where the voice calling from stone
no longer answers,
turns into stone, and nothing comes back.
Here, between answer
and nothing, I stand, in the old shoes
flowed over by rainbows of hen-oil,
each shoe holding the bones
which ripple together in the communion
of the step,
and which open out
in front into toes, the whole foot trying
to dissolve into the future.
A clatter of elk hooves.
Has the top sphere
emptied itself? Is it true
the earth is all there is, and the earth does not last?
On the river the world floats by holding one corpse.
Stop here.
Living brings you to death, there is no other road.
This is the tenth poem
and it is the last. It is right
at the last, that one
and zero
walk off together,
walk off the end of these pages together,
one creature
walking away side by side with the emptiness.
is brightness. It is the brightness
gathered up of all that went before. It lasts.
And when it does end
there is nothing, nothing
in the rust of old cars,
in the hole torn open in the body of the Archer,
in river-mist smelling of the weariness of stones,
the dead lie,
empty, filled, at the beginning,
and the first
voice comes craving again out of their mouths.
That Bach concert I went to so long ago-
the chandeliered room
of ladies and gentlemen who would never die . . .
the voices go out,
the room becomes hushed,
the violinist
puts the irreversible sorrow of his face
into the opened palm
of the wood, the music begins:
a shower of rosin,
the bow-hairs listening down all their length
to the wail,
the sexual wail
of the back-alleys and blood strings we have lived
still crying,
still singing, from the sliced intestine
of cat.
This poem
if we shall call it that,
or concert of one
divided among himself,
this earthward gesture
of the sky-diver, the worms
on his back still spinning forth
and already gnawing away
the silks of his loves, who could have saved him,
this free floating of one
opening his arms into the attitude
of flight, as he obeys the necessity and falls . . .
Sancho Fergus! Don't cry!
Or else, cry.
On the body,
on the blued flesh, when it is
laid out, see if you can find
the one flea which is laughing.

subset: commoncrawl


text:
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EVE Online is going through some changes that are 'out-of-this-world' so to speak.
As opposed to the bi-yearly releases in the form of a summer and a winter expansion, CCP are progressing with a new release form – smaller incrimental changes that happen more frequently.
Scrapping the well known release model for something that had a larger impact on a long term basis as well as offered a more scalable and adjustable patch schedule, so new fixes could be pushed out more often just makes more sense.
Lets recap some of the major changes that was implemented and is on the loading dock:
- Force Projection
The ideal situation for any defender of large areas, is to have an unlimited supply of rocks to immediately hurl at infinite distances to scare off attackers. Now think of Titans as the launching platform for fleets and you get the idea. Due to Titan proliferation and Titan's ability to "project force" (ie. bridge fleets) across vast distances, bypassing the dangers of gate travel to "inject" them directly into a fight (also allowing fights such as the recent "Bloodbath of B-R5RB" involving several thousand pilots) is no longer a great conflict driver. The expectation is that smaller alliances will be able to get into Null-sec sovereighnty more easily, produce more good-fights and have less people hot-drop them with capital fleets. While we might see more fights, there will likely be less off the type of fights like the "Bloodbath of B-R5RB"
- Multiple item sales
Sell your entire inventory with a few clicks, rather than selling item-per-item. This is a feature that has been requested since beta and will be wildly anticipated as it affects every combat pilot out there doing any kind of salvaging for an extra ISK.
- Opt-in keyboard ship controls
EVE has never been a twitch based ship simulator, but now its a step closer.
- More ships!
New Tactical Destroyers class (T3) and more haulers to ferry ships around in. So now, we can fly ships while we fly ships!
- Wormhole changes
More wormhole changes are coming. Recently adressed was a rebalance of the wormhole effects, C4's receiving an extra static and more different types of connections (frigate sized holes that are impractical to close) – and a slew of other type of changes.
- Burner missions
A special type of Level 4 PVE mission where the pilot(s) get pitched against a specially difficult pirate faction NPC, for a small chance of a faction drop – and generally a chance of pace for most Level 4 grinders.
- Extras
Unlimited skill queue, polished UI, notification system, more options, more industry and invention that is easier to understand, balancing different ship classes, balancing more exploration sites, sensor overlay, easy fitting import/export, module rebalance, cloaking effect, incursion changes and finally something about CREST.
Yet remaining of this titanic release-fest is the remainder:
Tethys, Iapetus, Themis, Mnemosyne, Coeus, Theia and the next in line – which is Rhea.
We are nearly halfway through the release schedule. Who/what will come after these?
Fly sillilyy! o7


text:
Please review three items that accompany these questions – the NYT article about Nike, the Dry Idea
ad, and the Chevy ad. All are located in this folder. Successful completion of the following questions
will require you to integrate information from the Chapter 7 readings. Please provide your answers to
the following questions in the Web Exercise submission area within this folder.
1. In periods of downturns in the economy (like the recent recession), many companies greatly
reduce their advertising and promotions budgets (think of the Nike article). However, this is
not always the best strategy to pursue—think about this and briefly explain the downside of
slashing these budgets.
2. Chapter 7 addresses how budget allocations to various media are expected to change over the
next few years. Why are some media likely to receive more monies while others stay the same
or decline? How does this apply to the Nike article? How will they refocus their media
attention if they reduce their budget?
3. Different companies believe that various media are more important than others for their
marketing purposes. Briefly discuss the various perspectives taken by these companies, and
explain why everyone may not agree on the same level of importance for media.
4. View the Dry Idea ad image in this folder as an example of an ad with a sales objective.
Briefly discuss the specific types of objectives the marketer has for this ad.
5. View the Chevy ad image in this folder as an example of an ad with a communications
objective. Briefly discuss the specific types of objectives the marketer has for this ad.


text:
Here it is, a super simple yet surprisingly effective granny stripe scarf (I'm all over crochet colour block stuff at the moment). My arm doesn't stretch far enough to allow all the scarf to get in on the action I'm afraid but I do show it off a bit more in Episode 20 of my crochet podcast. I shan't dilly dally, it's the pattern you're after isn't it?! Here goes…
You will need around 350g dk yarn, a 4mm hook and marginal approximations of brain power. I used Drops Lima: 2x dark grey mix, 2x powder pink, 3x dark blue. I'm not sure it's the best idea to use something that's not machine washable, maybe I should have gone for the super wash merino…
If you wanted to, you could go down a hook size for the ribbing, I did (you can see the effect in the above photo). However, it isn't necessary and I sort of wish I hadn't.
If you would like to support my crochet adventures, please consider supporting me on Patreon. It would mean the world. Thank you. x
- Multiples of three are what's needed. Chain as many as you like, I chained 54.
- OK, this is the (sort of) tricky bit but it is important. It will make one teeny little difference depending on whether you have an even or odd number of multiples, it will determine whether you land on a Front Post st or a Back Post st on the second to last stitch of the row. It really doesn't matter but it will change what you work first on the next row. All you have to remember is to work a BP in an FP and an FP in a BP. That's what creates the rib effect.
- UK terms are used here but I use both in the video. A UK treble is a US double.
- I changed colour after I ran out of each ball. I counted to double check that the end mirrored the beginning (you never know, your tension might change a bit).
- Go here to check out the YouTube tutorial
Row 1. 1 tr in 4th ch from hook, 1tr along, turn. For neatness, work in the back bumps of the chain.
Row 2: Chain 3 (counts a first stitch), *1BP, 1FP; rep from * to second to last st. 1 tr in last st, turn (please read notes about BP & FP).
Row 3-8: Rep row 2 making BPs & FPs accordingly, turn
Row 9: (1dc, 1ch, 1tr) in first st, *miss 2st, 3tr in next st; rep from * finishing with 2tr in the end st, turn.
Row 10: (1dc, 1ch) in first st, *3tr in next space between clusters; rep from * to end, finish with 1tr in last st, turn.
Row 11: (1dc, 1ch, 1tr) in first st, *3tr between each cluster; rep from * to end, finish with two tr in last st, turn.
Repeat rows 10 & 11 until you're happy with the length. End on Row 11.
Row 12. Chain 3, 1tr in each st along to end, turn.
Row 13-19. Rep row 2 (remember what I said in the notes!!). Fasten off and sew in ends.
Check out the quick tutorial to see exactly where those BP and FP stitches go! Thanks ever so much.
Tell me when you've made one. Here I am on Instagram. #grannystripescarf #zeensandroger or add it to Ravelry!
This scarf was inspired by the colour block jumper by cleck heaton, which I love! My scarf is a free pattern, you're welcome to make as many as you like but please let people know where you got the pattern from. No, you can't reproduce the pattern, or sell it. Nor can you pretend it is yours. It stings when people claim your things as their own. And it ain't legal!
Don't forget to come and say hi!! x
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text:
A week after Facebook introduced new tools to limit bullying and harassment incidents on its platform, Instagram today announced the same move. The Facebook-owned photo and video-sharing service has begun rolling out new tools that use machine learning to identify instances of bullying in photos, including captions, shared on its platform.
As part of the new measure, the photos in question will be sent to Instagram's team of reviewers who will then remove the content found to be in violation of its anti-bullying policy. Instagram stressed that the new tools will help the company in ensuring the safety of teen users whom it believes experience online bullying most of the time.
Adam Mosseri, who was appointed as head of Instagram last week after the resignation of Mike Krieger and Kevin Systrom as co-founders, said in a blog post:
While the majority of photos shared on Instagram are positive and bring people joy, occasionally a photo is shared that is unkind or unwelcome.
Beyond photos, Instagram has also added a bullying comment filter to live videos as part of efforts to keep a fun platform for all users. The feature was actually launched in May to remove bullying comments from Feed, Explore, and Profile.
While Instagram sees the act of curbing bullying incidents an important step, it also wants to take things further by introducing a new camera effect to spread kindness on the platform. To start using the new effect, open the Instagram camera and tap the face icon at the bottom. Over the long term, Mosseri vows to continue working to protect Instagram users from hostile behavior.


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Happy Mid-Autumn Festival
September, 24th(namely lunar August 15th) is the Mid-Autumn Festival of this year. In fact, every year on the 15th, August of lunar calendar is the traditional Mid-Autumn Festival, which is also the second largest traditional festival in China after the Spring Festival to commemorate Sauna on Moon in the legend. Because this is the middle of Autumn, so it is called Mid-Autumn Festival. LZZG wish you all a happy Mid-Autumn Festival in advance.
In the Chinese lunar calendar, the year is divided into four seasons, each season is divided into three parts: Meng, Zhong and Ji, so the Mid-Autumn Festival is also called Zhongqiu. The moon on August 15 is more round and brighter than the full moons of other months, so it is also called "Moonlight" and "August Festival". This night, the moon is full, symbolizing reunion. The wanderer far away from home is also relying on his own thoughts about his hometown and his loved ones. Therefore, the Mid-Autumn Festival is also known as the "Reunion Festival."
The Mid-Autumn Festival date from in the early years of the Tang Dynasty and flourished in the Song Dynasty. By the time of the Ming and Qing Dynasties, it had become one of the major Chinese festivals in the same name as the Spring Festival. Influenced by Chinese culture, the Mid-Autumn Festival is also a traditional festival for some Chinese in East Asia and Southeast Asia, especially local Chinese. Since 2008, the Mid-Autumn Festival has been listed as a national legal holiday. On May 20, 2006, it was listed in the first batch of national intangible cultural heritage by the State Council.
Since the ancient times, the Mid-Autumn Festival has had customs such as worshiping the moon, enjoying the moon, eating moon cakes, enjoying osmanthus flowers, and drinking sweet-scented osmanthus wine. It has been passed down to the present and around for a long time. Mid-Autumn Festival is a reunion of people with the full moon, to carrying the emotions of missing hometown and loves, and praying for a harvest and happiness. It has become a colorful and precious cultural heritage, with the Dragon Boat Festival, the Spring Festival, and the Ching Ming Festival are also known as the four traditional festivals in China.


text:
Thank you girls for the awards! Check out these great blogs:
Wearing Mascara
Less of a Marilyn, More of a Jackie
Preppy Sue
Tales of a Northern Belle
Monday, November 3, 2008
Shout out part 2
Posted by Kate at 12:45 PM
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Important information
Prior to visiting us, always please make an appointment with our receptionist.
We want to be responsive to your questions or issues. Please help us by filling out the necessary information in the areas below.
Driving Directions
The Medical Centre is situated in the Pendadromos Centre in the heart of Limassol. From Nicosia, Paphos or Larnaca, take the highway to Limassol and exit at the Mesa Yitonia. The road crossess the Spyrou Kyprianou avenue, the Makarios avenue and leads directly to the Pendadromos junction.


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"High rates of alcohol consumption have been reported in both the Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal population. Aboriginal women are more likely than non-Aboriginal women to consume alcohol in pregnancy at harmful levels. Australian research indicates that maternal alcohol use is a significant risk factor for stillbirths, infant mortality and intellectual disability in children, particularly in the Aboriginal population."
FROM NACCHO NEWSPAPER APRIL 2016 DOWNLOAD 24 Pages PDF
Fetal Alcohol Spectrum Disorder (FASD) is an umbrella term used for a spectrum of conditions caused by fetal alcohol exposure. Each condition and its diagnosis is based on the presentation of characteristic features which are unique to the individual and may be physical, developmental and/or neurobehavioral.
Health professionals asking and advising all women of child bearing age about the consequences of alcohol consumption in pregnancy is an essential strategy in preventing FASD.
Based on this evidence, NACCHO in partnership with Menzies School of Health Research and the Telethon Kids Institute have developed and implemented a flexible, modular package of FASD Prevention and Health Promotion Resources (FPHPR) to reduce the impacts of FASD on the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander population. The package has been designed for the 85 New Directions: Mothers and Babies Services (NDMBS) across the country which are made up of Aboriginal Community Controlled Health Services (ACCHO's), State and Territory Government bodies and Primary Health Networks (PHN's).
Northern Territory urged to act on foetal alcohol spectrum disorder
"Fourteen months after a report into the condition's effects, the government is yet to implement a single recommendation"
Our thanks to Helen Davidson in Darwin for allowing us to publish her Guardian Article
The Northern Territory government is yet to implement a single recommendation from a report into the effects of foetal alcohol spectrum disorder, 14 months after it was handed down.
A conference on the health of rural children this week heard from Caterina Giorgi, director of policy and research at the Foundation for Alcohol Research and Education, who called on the government to explain its inaction and address the recommendations.
FASD is an umbrella term for a range of permanent behavioural, learning and developmental disabilities resulting from exposure to alcohol in utero. There is no national data on prevalence but studies have found higher rates among Indigenous Australians, according to the Australian Institute of Health and Welfare.
The select committee's report made 26 recommendations including "alcohol management and support services, sexual health, pregnancy support, early childhood support and education services, and FASD diagnostic and support services".
"However, the greatest gains are to be obtained through prevention, and key to prevention is alcohol management and restriction of supply."
Giorgi, who addressed the Country Kids conference in Alice Springs on Monday, said the NT government's implementation of policies and programs had been unacceptably slow, or non-existent.
"Many Australian states and territories have taken action to prevent, manage and diagnose FASD over the last five years and there is an increased awareness of the need to take a whole-of-community approach to FASD," Giorgi said.
"But the NT government is dragging its feet in responding to the FASD inquiry report and is fixated on punitive approaches that ignore the evidence."
The alcohol policy has been criticised as unfairly targeting Indigenous people and going against the recommendations of the royal commission into Aboriginal deaths in custody.
In March he told the Guardian he was disappointed the inquiry did not address "the one issue I wanted them to look at" – an idea of "confining pregnant women who are knowingly drinking while they are pregnant".
Speaking in the context of an Aboriginal woman with FASD, Roseanne Fulton, who had been detained without conviction because she was unfit to stand trial, Elferink acknowledged there was "a massive problem coming down the tube towards governments" with FASD cases.
He predicted an increase in manifestations in the NT. "The reason for that is we now have a society that tells people they're not responsible for their actions," he said.
"And they engage in getting free money through a passive welfare system, they sit around in parks and gardens, they drink to their hearts' content, knowing they're pregnant, knowing they're causing a massive problem into the future and they just don't care."
In parliament Elferink said the recommendation relating to a diagnostic tool was concerning because he "suspected they may not be able to develop" one, but Giorgi told reporters a diagnostic tool would be finalised and in use among health workers from May this year.
The Labor MLA Gerry McCarthy told Elferink in parliament the committee – of which McCarthy is a member – had given him more a holistic view than simply recommending the law he was looking for.
"The time is now, minister, and time is ticking as it has been for decades," he said. "It has been your opportunity as a minister for the crown, and the Giles CLP government, to address this."


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Tuesday, April 27, 2010
Miscellaneous Stuff
The doc said everything is looking great, he is growing and measuring right on target. The only two things of concern were my thyroid gland is still not in range (TSH should be between 1 - 5, and mine came back at 22.32), and my placenta is really low. She's not overly concerned about the second thing right now, but says she'll need to keep her eye on it.
Poor Elise got her MMR shot today, and I think it finally caught up with her tonight. We had some moderately high (mid 200s) numbers right after, but then she went low-ish (71) while in bed tonight. She's been crying in her sleep off and on too, so it looks like we're in for a long night.
I'm glad we were able to get her the shot (had to delay because of the strep throat) because my Mom says there's a measles outbreak in some Vancouver schools right now... YIKES! We're only about a month away from our trip up there, so I'm hoping it's all cleared up by then.
As for the World Diabetes Day shirts, we have enough people saying they're in to do an order (printer has a 12 shirt minimum), so I should have some more info on that soon. I am so excited to be able to do this again, I can't even tell you! I loved getting all those pictures of people wearing the shirts in my email last year, and I'm looking forward to seeing more!
And that's all I have to report from my corner of the world... time for bed! Good night, and good numbers!
4 comments:
Congrats on your boy! I'm having a boy too in July. The Bean is starting to ask why we have so many brothers (we'll have 3!) and other people have so many sisters. Poor girl needs a sister. And even though I'm weeks away from having this baby, we're less decided on a name now than we were months ago! *sigh*ReplyDelete
I knew it !!! a little fred jr , just kidding LOL !!! Im so glad you are doing so well with the pregnancy . Yes glad elise got her shot . seems like once a yr there is always a break out of something . LOL !!! take care dear and get plenty of rest .ReplyDelete
WOOT WOOT...a little Fred Jr.?!!! How did I miss this post? Congrats! There is nothing like a son's love of his mother. I am so excited for you friend.ReplyDelete
(((HUGS))) and love coming at you from Vermont.
Oh BOY!! :) Boys are so much fun....so different than girls from the very beginning! Congrats Joanne and hope those numbers are better today for sweet Elise!ReplyDelete
Comment moderation now in effect because of jerky comment spammers.
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text:
Fracture Resistant Modules
The picture to the left shows a crack in a module housing caused by over tightening a module mounting bolt. This crack can progress into a fracture as shown in the next picture. A module with a fractured flange is insecurely mounted and could cause a failure. The picture to the left shows how fracture resistance is improved by contouring the module housing around the bolt hole.


text: On 12/25/11 10:15 PM, Martin Dimitrov wrote: > Sorry for being out of topic but is there another option for turning > this feature on except compiling the modules with the smart exceptions > package? Yes! Use R15B - which among other nice things has line numbers in stack traces for exceptions and so on. -- Jesper Louis Andersen Erlang Solutions Ltd., Copenhagen, DK


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Chikungunyais caused due to a viral infection. That's why it is also known as a vector disease. When an infected Aedes mosquito bites the victim, the chikungunyavirus is injected into the blood of the human being through the skin. Stagnant water- bodies, small and big, are the breeding grounds for the Aedes mosquito.
Every parent will agree it is difficult to keep children indoors at all times. They need to go out and play in the parks, gardens or society parking. And these are exactly the places where the Aedes mosquito finds its habitat and children's exposed limbs make them an easy prey for it. Once bitten, it takes a fortnight for the child to completely recover from the disease.
Schools, Bus Stops, Playgrounds, Parks and Gardens are the places where our children spend most of the time with their friends and play things. We need to see that the time spent here is cherished in the form of happy long lasting memories. Let's try and keep the mosquito and the chikungunya out of it.


text:
The Easy Riser Plate for RED DSMC2 Cameras is a riser shim plate designed to work with the RED Weapon, EPIC-W, SCARLET-W, RAVEM or any other DSMC2 camera. Combined with the LW 15mm Bracket, it provides correct correct lens height with 15mm lightweight rods for mounting lens support, follow focus or matte box systems.
When you combine it with a bridge plate, you can achieve correct lens height 19mm or 15mm studio rods.
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EPD Stock: Collect 6.5% Yield from This High Dividend Stock
1 High-Dividend Stock for Income Investors
Due to the downturn in oil and gas prices, large-cap energy stocks don't really receive much investor enthusiasm. And when they do make headlines, it's often about production cuts, layoffs, and even dividend cuts. But does that mean it's time to ditch energy stocks altogether?
Not really. For instance, Enterprise Products Partners L.P. (NYSE:EPD) is a name worth considering for income investors.
Headquartered in Houston, Texas, Enterprise Products Partners is a master limited partnership that provides midstream energy services. With a market cap of nearly $57.0 billion, Enterprise is one of the largest publicly traded partnerships in the U.S.
The number-one reason for income investors to consider Enterprise Products Partners is its generous payout. With a quarterly distribution rate of $0.42 per unit, the partnership has an annual yield of 6.5%. This makes EPD a true high-dividend stock in today's market.
Of course, a high yield in the energy sector could simply be a warning sign. For income investors with a long-term horizon, it wouldn't be a smart idea to put money into a stock that might cut its payout soon.
Fortunately, Enterprise Products Partners' high yield is not really a sign of trouble. This is because the partnership is actually running a rock-solid business.
You see, despite being a huge player in the oil and gas business, the partnership doesn't actually do any exploration or production. Instead, it focuses on the transportation of energy products. The partnership's midstream assets consists of approximately 50,000 miles of natural gas, natural gas liquids (NGLs), crude oil, refined products, and petrochemical pipelines. It also owns and operates storage terminals capable of storing 14-billion cubic feet of natural gas and 260-million barrels of NGL, refined products, and crude oil.
With these midstream assets, the partnership is running a fee-based business that generates stable cash flows. And being able to generate stable cash flows is one of the key reasons why Enterprise deserves income investors' attention.
Growing Distributions
In fact, the partnership's fee-based business has allowed it to pay not just a steady dividend, but an increasing one. Since EPD stock's initial public offering (IPO) in 1998, the partnership has raised its payout 61 times. Moreover, the most recent 52 dividend hikes were consecutive quarterly increases. (Source: "Distribution Payments," Enterprise Products Partners LP, last accessed September 5, 2017.)
There are companies with longer dividend track records. But by delivering such consistent payout increases despite the downturn in oil and gas prices, EPD has proven its value to income investors.
Furthermore, the partnership has been growing its financials. In the second quarter of 2017, EPD earned $666.0 million in net income, representing a 16.8% increase year-over-year. The partnership also generated $1.1 billion in distributable cash flow, which provided 1.2-times coverage of its $0.42-per-unit distribution for the quarter. In the first six months of 2017, EPD stock's distribution coverage ratio was also 1.2 times. (Source: "Enterprise Reports Results for Second Quarter 2017," Enterprise Products Partners LP, August 3, 2017.)
In other words, this high-dividend stock paying out less than what it earned, leaving a margin of safety.
At the end of the day, keep in mind that it may take a while for oil and gas prices to recover. But with a fee-based business, Enterprise Products Partners should have no problem continuing to generate oversized cash flows and returning some of that to investors.
Also Read:
The Best Pipeline Stocks for Retirement Income
Pipeline Stock List: Collect Reliable Dividends from These Pipeline Stocks


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A Romney/Ryan supporter said he found the signs in his yard shredded this week.
Bob Centamore and his wife said they were hit not once, but twice. They said someone shredded their Romney support sign, left it in a baggie and left their own note behind.
"I don't mind disagreement," said Centamore. "In fact, it's good to be able to debate the topics, but to do it like a thief in the night, in the cover of darkness, it's cowardly."
It appears the same person then came back and left another note on their porch Thursday morning.
They have already reported the incidents to authorities. They said they are leaving the sign up to show that they are not backing down.
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(I'm the one in the dress.)
Hurray! It was a small affair on a beach with just two dozen guests. A pretty darn happy day.
Now I'm back with, ironically, another installment of Words That Should Get a Divorce: "shock" and "hair." Came across that one on in a beach read on my honeymoon. Is there no other quantity of hair that writers can think of?


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Daerma Adventures uses a spell point system for all casters.
These rules are still in flux as I settle how this exactly will work in the new campaign. I do like how the 5e content (that I have seen via the beta) worked spells, but I still prefer spell points.
- Maximum Spell Points = Spellcasting Ability * Spellcasting Class Level
- Example: 1st level Cleric with 16 (+3) Wisdom: 1 * 3 = 3 SP
- Example: 5th level Wizard with 18 (+4) Intelligence: 4 * 5 = 20 SP
- Example: 10th level Bard with 20 (+5) Charisma: 10 * 5 = 50 SP
- Spells cost 1 spell point per spell level to cast.
- If you want to cast a spell at a higher caster level you have to pump more spell points in it appropriately.
- Cantrips cost 0 spell points to cast unless you try to cast it higher.
- All casters get a small number of cantrips (based on the class descriptions) that they can cast at will.
- Spells can not be cast at a level higher than the maximum spell level you can normally cast.
- The >Insert Custom Feat Name< feat can change this restriction.
- Casters can ready the number of spells per day as listed in the PHB.
- A caster can have as many spells as they want in their spell book or divine selection.
- A caster may spend 1 round per spell level in mediation at anytime to change one of their readied spells.
- Powermasters have surpassed this restriction and can cast any spell they know without any preparation.