text:
Kamatz Alef
by Elisha Porat
Translated from Hebrew by Dalia Bilu
In my first year at school, when I was six or seven, I learned to read Hebrew. I learned very fast. Within a few days I was putting letters together. After a week or two I could pronounce syllables. And at the end of the first month I could already read whole words. At the beginning I would say them out loud, a little broken and separated into syllables. Later I would read them silently, with my lips. And in the end in a whisper, with my tongue, without moving my lips. Today I know how
to read to myself, in my head, or some say: in my heart. With the eyes seeing and the heart reading. For myself, I don't know. Not everything I read today enters my heart. Today there are many words which I read by accident, without meaning to, just because my eyes run over them. Like smells penetrating your nose without your wanting them to. Like irritating noises impinging on your ears just because there's nothing to shut them out.
The first books I read were children's books. With vowel points and illustrations, in big black letters. The books had a special smell. To this day I don't know what it was about their smell that fascinated me. Was it the smell of glue, or the cardboard covers, or the smell of the print? And today too, whenever I pickup a new book, the first thing I do is to lift it to my nose and breathe its special smell deep into my lungs. The smell of new book fresh from the printers is one of the smells I love most, one which never stales and of which I never tire, like the smell of hot rolls in the morning, or the smell of the earth in Summer soaking up the first rain.
After the books I began to read notice-boards, candy wrappers, signposts and newspapers. Everything, every surface bearing the square letters of whose charms and secret I had so recently become aware. With the instincts of a sleuth, indefatigable, I deciphered every notice, every word, every scribble. After a few months I read very fast. I gobbled up all the books in the kindergarten. Over and over again. The kindergarten teacher began bringing me books from the school library. At first, easy, vocalized books, and then gradually harder books too, without vowel signs. Thicker, more serious books, most of which I did not understand.
Reading became a hunger. An insatiable thirst, a passion of the soul. Once I asked the kindergarten teacher for a book, and she said: "Enough. You read too much."
"But I have to read." I said.
"It's wrong to read books you don't understand." She said.
"But I want to terribly, I'm crazy to read." I said stubbornly.
"So read the newspaper."
Years later, when I was an adolescent, I read books with a voracious passion. My teacher disapproved of the speed with which I read. She thought I wasn't digesting what I read properly. The books for young people which my friends read began to bore me. I felt that I was emerging from one world and moving into another. In this new world there were new books. Dark, cruel books, very hard to understand. My teacher disapproved. "Those books aren't for you," she said. "Those are destructive books, and you're too young for them. Wait a few years, until you're more mature, and then you can read them. For the time being you must beware of them, you must keep your distance. Why don't you read Romain Rolland? And what's wrong with Tolstoy?" But I refused to give up. The forbidden books drew me like a magnet. What did they contain these terrible books, to make my teacher so afraid of their destructiveness?
The librarian would not allow me to take the books I wanted: "That's not for you, little boy. You're too young for that." At night I would steal into the library in the grip of a strange excitement and pull the forbidden books down from the shelves. Sometimes I was so eager to begin that I would open the books in the little wood and start reading them there and then, in the light of the moon. I would hide them in my bed, between the sheets, underneath the mattress. My friends would hide pictures of nudes and sex manuals under their mattresses. I would hide Kafka and Camus, and the thrilling books of Dostoyevsky. In class my teacher discussed "The engineers of the Soul", while I thought about "Amerika". My teacher read aloud from "Reach for the Skies", while I concentrated passionately on Sinous movemment of Grushenka. In the evenings the girls spoke ardently of the pure love of Pierre and Natasha, but I was haunted by the strange, provocative behaviour of the brothers Karamazov.
And a few years later, on the eve of my army call-up, I was shocked and upset by an unpleasent incident involving one of my friends. He had problems with property. Property that didn't belong to him. In my innocence I believed that words had the power to change people. All night long I preached to him. He sat there without saying a word. And I grew angrier and angrier. In the end, seething with rage, I rose and took a copy of "Crime and Punishment" from the table. I threw the three volumes at him, one after the other. "Read it!" I yelled furiously, "and start acting like a human being!" His reaction was extreme and astonishing. He grabbed a kitchen knife from the shelf and rushed towards me. A short but stormy chase ensued. Alarmed by the racket our friends came running and separated us by force. After that I stopped reading Dostoyevsky. I lost my faith in him. Fact: he had failed to reform my friend.
At about the same time I fell in love with a girl. A wonderful virgin love. We saw each other infrequently, but we wrote volumes. Love letters and billets doux. Would-be sophisticated comments in the margins of books, and personal interpretations of the love-poems we read. It was while writing one of these letters that I found myself one day in the throes of composing a kind of essay. I no longer remember what it was about, but I remember how one seemed to flow out other, how word followed word, and every thought seemed to grow out of one before it. From the moment I began to write my eyes misted over and there was a kind of buzzing in my ears. I sweated freely and panted for breath. I was in the grip of a strange excitement. And when I had finished, I felt a strange emptiness. A kind of ease, a release from tension and effort. I stretched my legs out in front of me and breathed deeply. Gradually I was filled with a kind of lightness. I began whistling a gay tune, popular at the time, to myself. And suddenly I stood up, went outside and started walking, almost running down the garden paths in the night. And as I walked I loudly sang to myself. For some reason, I was holding my little essay in my hand.
The love letters I wrote then have disappeared. And nobody reads the love poems in whose margins I scribbled so many notes. And the many little billets doux have blown away in the wind, and my first love, the tender love of my youth, lies buried beneath the gray rubble of the years.
Once, by chance, I met a young poet. We got into conversation, and became friends for a while. He showed me his poems, and I showed him my little essay. "Yes, interesting," he said reflectively. "Give it to me, I'll read it again." The next day we met again. We spoke about poetry, about books, about girls, and suddenly he asked me: "Tell me, have you read
Gnessin? Uri Nissan Gnessin?"
"No," I said. "Who's he when he's at home?"
Thus I made the acquaintance of Gnessin. The tormented Uri Nissan. After I had discovered him I drowned myself in him with a passionate, voracious greed. I read his letters, his translations, his first stories. And in the end, his extraordinary later stories too. They bowled me over. I felt as if the words he had written were breaking out of me. I remember that for a time I even copied his strange, beautiful signature. He would sign his letters: From me, Urinissanthine. And I almost fainted with the sweetness of it. And, shamelessly, I began signing my letters to my girl: "With love from me, Elishathine."
On dewy nights we would stroll down the roads between the orange groves together. Her hand in mine, with delicious scents wafting from her hair. My heart would contract within me under the pressure of lust and youth. And my lips would mumble:"... and the flesh, ah the flesh, it gives no peace..." Just as Gnessin had said. And sometimes I would clutch my heart, with my left hand, and I feel such pangs of pain. Love made me sleepless, and my heart skipped to a strange beat. I was sure that, like Gnessin, I too was infected with a fatal disease. For some reason, I decided that it was a heart disease. On restless summer nights I would toss and turn on my bed, unable to fall asleep. And I seemed to hear my beloved whispering behind the wall: "And when he comes home from his wanderings, back to me, I shall be at peace..."
Afterwards, years later, I wandered how Gnessin had come to write these classically feminine lines. And someone told me that the lines were not Gnessin's, but a translation he had made from some Yiddish poetess.
Gnessin's early death was like a prophecy of my own doom. An apocalyptic foreboding. I was sure that I was not long for this world. I thought about it so much that I began to really believe it. I would sit with my beloved, look into her eyes and ask: " If I die, will you emember me?" She would laugh tolerantly. My eccentricities only increased my charms in her eyes. And I asked again: " Tell me the truth: will you remember me?"
"How could I possibly forget you?" she would reply. OH! the sweetness of her tender words, her gentle spirit. In exchange I wrote her wonderful love letters, in long sentences unpunctuated but for emphatic exclamation marks, in order to make her sense my love more keenly. Thus, for example: "...love of my life all I want is to love you for ever and ever until we grow old and even after that..." Then I would go over what I had written and pepper it with exclamation marks, like this: "...love of my life! all I want is to love you!! For ever and ever until we grow old!!! And even after that!..."
Today the volumes of Gnessin are covered with cobwebs on my shelf. I hardly ever touch them. Perhaps I am suspicious of their excessive beauty. Of being crushed by the weight of longings they contain. Today other anxieties gnaw at my heart. And Gnessin's irresistible yearning seem very remote to me.
Not so long ago one of my friends came into my room. We spoke about books, and life, about Josef Haim Brenner who had suddenly come to light again as if resurrected from the dead. It's a strange thing, he said to me, Brenner wrote enough to fill a whole bookcase. And all of Gnessin is contains in three slim volumes. And still, if you weigh them in the balance, the scales will come down on the side of Gnessin.
I laughed a resigned kind of laugh. Today I blush to remember how fanatical I was in the love of my youth. The other day I threw a bundle of old note-books into the fire. As they caught fire, before they burnt, I managed to read on blackening page: "...from the tortured Uri Nissan to the fear-crazed Josef Haim. one is the thorny path between my people's vineyards..." In the impertinence of my love I was guilty of falsifying the written word. For it was not Uri Nissan to whom the poet was referring, but Uri Kovner. And the word he used wasn't "tortured" but "reviled". But what of it? Love does not see with an objective eye and discipleship blurs the memory. And thus I would walk then, chanting to myself, to the rhythm of an ancient melody: "From the tortured Uri Nissan to the fear-crazed Josef Haim..." And my heart, oh my heart, would contract within me the sweetness of it all.
I started reading newspapers when I was still a small child, drawn by my passion for the printed word to this new and inexhaustible source of words and letters. The combinations of letters in the newspapers took my breath away. Long, difficult sonorous words. Strange, foreign words in outlandish Hebrew, transliterations, exotic names of faraway places, of unknown men and women, a world and the fullness thereof. In short: politics. Wherever I went, people were holding forth about politics, at the tables in the dining room, in the evenings on the lawns, and in my parent's room. On Saturdays my parents would have visitors, and a constant stream of politics would flow out of their lips, from early evening until after midnight.
Today I know that those were really terrible times. A mighty whirlwind was engulfing the world, and grinding the Jewish people to dust. And I too, a small child who had learned to read, was a witness to these world events. We had an old couple living among us in rather peculiar circumstances. They had an only son who had emigrated to Eretz Israel, and for his sake they had left their home, sold all they possessed and arrived among us empty handed, to be with him. When the war broke out, the son had joined the British army and the old couple were left alone. They hardly knew any Hebrew, nothing but a few simple words. Their sources of Yiddish were blocked by war, and the only newspapers that came their way were in Hebrew.
The old lady made a big, beautiful garden in front of their room. In it she grew fine flowers and a lot of pumpkins. She would hang the dried pumpkin shells from the roof, and when the wind blew they rattled like ancient bells. She would dry the pumpkin seeds in the sun on the lawn. Then she would roast them and divide them up into little bags. And when the children all unwitting, passed her door, she would call them in. In exchange for a bit of weeding and hoeing, scattering fertilizer, or carrying a couple of buckets of water from the tap to the garden, she would shower her gifts upon them. The roasted pumpkin seeds she distributed in their little packets were dry, salty and delicious. She would stand and watch me cracking the seeds and swallowing them. "Good mein kind, good eh?" And then she would sigh, long and low, and add: "Oy, oy, kinderlach, when will this war be over?"
Once the old man called me. I went into their hut with the an apprehensive heart. There was a huge bed in it, taking up the whole wall. You had to climb up steps to get into it, and it was covered with an assortment of strange pillows and quilts and fancy embroidered coverlets. I was overcome with astonishment. It was so different from the flat, spartan beds which were the only kind I had ever known. There were a great many pictures on the walls. Not painted pictures, but photographs of people. Bearded Jewesses with their necks encased in high collars stared at me with stern expressions. There were candles in the bronze candlesticks and milky waterfalls dripped from onto the table.
The old man, in tattered slippers, asked: "You know to read, child?"
"A little," I stammered, "only a little."
"Never mind," said the old man and held out the newspaper. "Nu, let's hear you read." I was shy and I refused. "Read, nu," urged the old man. He drew me to his enormous bed and up the steps, and sank into it opposite me. Slowly I began to read. It was a hard newspaper, without vowels, and there were lots of words I did not understand. The old man said: "Never mind, never mind, go on reading." When I finished I received a reward, a little bag of sweets and a packet of pumpkin seeds.
After that I got into the habit of dropping in on the old couple from time to time. The old man would seat me on the vast bed, stick the newspaper into my hands, put a funny pair of spectacles on his nose and settled down to listen. Sometimes he would call the old woman in from the outside to come and listen too. She would chatter in her Yiddish, wash her hands and dry them on her apron, and join us on the bed. The old couple were the most wonderful audience anyone could wish to have. They would hang onto my every word with baited breath, their eyes following my lips, my finger, my little Adam's apple. Sometimes they would sigh deeply. The old man would remove his spectacles and wipe the misty lenses. And the old lady would wrap up some sweets for me in a piece of paper.
Once, when I already knew how to read writing, they asked me to read them a letter from their son. I tried, but I didn't get far. The writing was still too hard for me, too complicated. The letters were joined together so that I could not tell them apart. "Nu, never mind," said the old man, and he tore the beautiful stamps off the envelope and gave them to me. Sometimes he would stop me in the middle of reading the newspaper, sigh, and say to the old lady: "Nu, what did I tell you? Kamatz Alef - aa..." And the old lady would begin to sing a little song to herself in Yiddish. Rocking herself backwards and forwards in time to the slow rhythm of the song, closing her eyes and allowing her tears to fall unimpeded into her shawl. I no longer remember what was written in the newspapers I read then. Except for the last day. The old man was very exciting and urged me to hurry up and read. Not on the big bed, as usual, but standing up, the moment I came in at the door. And this time the old lady was there too, waiting for me begin.
I read aloud: "War over. Hitler dead." The banner headlines were in huge black letters. They took up half the page.
I didn't have to read any more. The two old people seized each other in a trembling embrace and burst into tears. They did not see me putting the newspaper down softly on the threshold and slipping quietly from the room.
Outside on the lawn my friends were playing with a ball. Their wild cries rose to the sky.
Reading brought me a friend too. Years later, in the army, I was lying and reading in my tent. It was the rare soldier who succeeded in reading a book in the army in those days: newspapers and light magazines were as much as most people could manage.
My favorite poet at that time was Avraham Ben Ytzhak. In the one slim volume containing all his poems I found a hidden treasure of beauty. I would shut myself off from abrasive surroundings and contemplate his poems. Between one poem and the next, I would look wonderingly about me and soar on the wings of my thoughts far from the army camp which so oppressed my spirits. Once I was reading "The Hills joined together around my town", when a soldier pushed past my bed. He stopped and bent down to see what I was reading that so absorbed my attention. When he saw the book his eyes widened. His eyes softened and he sat down on my bed. We introduced ourselves. Something stronger than we were drew us to each other, and we became friends. True, bosom friends.
He had the body of farmer and the soul of a poet. From our posts in Jerusalem we would phone each other on the border line, like a pair of lovers. "Listen, I want to read you something, something great," he would tempt me. "I'm listening, I'm listening." And over the telephone on the local line, he would read me wonderful pages from Yizhar's "Tziklag days", until the switchboard operator would interrupt us with typical military narrow-mindedness: "What's all this then - official business?" "Yes" my friend would yell, "very important business". I pressed the receiver to my ear. I couldn't get enough of S. Yizhar's beautiful words. Nobody had ever read Yizhar to me like this before. Later, years later, when I read the book myself something strange happened to me. The eyes skimming the printed pages were mine, but the voice which I heard reading the words in my ears was his. I laid the book down and closed my eyes tightly. The autumn wind of Jerusalem blew through the leaves on the fig-trees and the flowers on the caper bushes shone like little torches.
On our nocturnal walks he would show me the distant stars, the silhouettes of towers, and all the hills encircling Jerusalem. "Even on the darkest night," he would boast "I identify every dome, every valley, every mountain range." It was as if he had been born in Jerusalem, as if he had never seen another town in his life. I would remind him of the beginning of our friendship. Of the hills joined together around our town. And he would smile wordlessly. We would open our leaves together, wandering about the town. Walking and talking.
It was clear to him that we had some special destiny to fulfill. He was sure that he had something important to say, and that people would have to listen to him. He loved Eretz Israel with a burning passion. He would laugh at the various experts who knew the country by its flora and fauna, its geological formations, its history. "With me, it's in my blood," he laughed. "You can put me down anywhere in the country and I'll know where I am by sticking out my tongue and sniffing the air."
Once we were walking in an orthodox quarter on a Friday evening. The facades of the houses were already steeped in a Sabbath peace, but on the back verandahs, facing the border, men set playing cards with an absorption that looked as if it would last all night long. The sight of these men sitting in their undershirts and playing cards made him furious. "Is that we came to this country for?" "Is that what we joined the army for?" "Is that worth playing the price for?" That night something cracked in him. He told me things about himself which he had never dared to speak of before. He was very agitated, and his voice shook strangely. He told me about a letter he had written to his girl. About the words he had written her in reply to certain fears she had confessed to him. "The debt of blood, you understand? The debt of blood, that's what I believe in!" He seized my hand, my shirt, he came very close to me. "Don't you see, it's impossible to live in this country without some huge debt. A terrible debt we have to pay so that we can go on living here..."
How strange his voice sounded in that orthodox quarter in Jerusalem on the Sabbath eve. If I had compared him then to some prophet, it would have been ridiculous. But his words tore something apart in my soul. From that night on I saw him differently. You could even say that I was a little jealous of him. I thought that he had outstripped the rest of us in some mysterious way. That perhaps he had already begun to grasp things which were deeper, truer, that were perhaps the beginnings of a dimension which I too was seeking then. And seeking with all my soul.
I probed his words to find something which would make sense of the things we had done, some justification - you might almost say, some opening to a new, different faith. "And you," he asked me, "Do you feel that you owe a debt?" "Perhaps, "I said, "I don't know." And afterwards I had a bad feeling, as if I had missed an opportunity which might never return to me again. I could never speak about my private beliefs to anyone else. It seemed to me like something crude, revolting, almost indecent. As if we had come as close as possible to each other without risking collision. And then continued moving apart. Each one on his own course, moving inevitably, endlessly further away.
Years later, in an army camp we had conquered from the Arab Legion, East of Nablus, I remembered him again. In the newspapers coming out after the week of war, the names of the fallen began to appear. I read his name slowly, stammering, joining the syllables together one by one, as if I was beginning to read my first words all over again. I was sorry then that I had ever learned to read. In that orthodox quarter of Jerusalem, under those same balconies, he had fallen. For a moment I seemed to hear his voice at my side, to feel his trembling hand clutching my shirt. "Is that we came to this country for? Is that worth playing price for?" In the hills which had joined together around this town, something had been orphaned. And I seemed to grow a few years older at once.
Sometimes, although I know it's cheating, I continue my conversation with him. From the point at which I had been afraid of exposing myself then. "Yes," I answer him from the distance of the years. "Yes, I feel that I owe a debt." "The debt of blood we spoke of then?" "Any debt you like," I shout at him from my groaning heart. Happy are they who sow and do not reap, happy are they who set forth and do not return.
In the first year after the war, when I was approaching the middle of my life, I learned to read Hebrew on tombstones. I learned fast. Within the space of a few days I could read the names, the dates. After a week or two I could draw a map of gravestones. And after a month I had already covered the whole country in monuments to the fallen. At first I would read the names aloud, in a slightly hesitant voice, syllable by syllable. Afterwards I pronounced them silently, only my lips moving. And today I already know how to read them to myself, in my head, or as some say: in my heart. I myself don't know. In the attic above my room I keep yellowing newspapers from the war. Albums, souvenirs, photographs.
Sometimes, when I hear a voice calling inside me, I pick up the newspaper with the banner headlines taking up half the page. "And do you still know how to read?" the old man asks.
"A little" I stammer.
"Nu, nevermind," says the old man "read, read." And I read: "The war is over. Over forever." And then he interrupts me in the middle of my reading, sighs, and says to the old lady: "Nu, what did I tell you? Kametz Alef - aa..."
Translator's note: * Kamatz Alef: Alef, the first letter of the Hebrew alphabet, and Kamatz, a vowel sign pronounced "a". The old man is drawing the old lady's attention to the fact that in Hebrew the pronunciation of this combination is "a", whereas in Yiddish it is "o".
(c) All Rights Reserved.


text:
A Rude Awakening
By Dave Fox
I have only been out of bed for 40 minutes, which means two things:
1) I should not be blogging yet. It is too early for me to be coherent.
2) You should not read my blog. You will not like me this early in the morning.
I had a dream overnight that an organization surprised me with a $4,416 travel grant. It was a delightful dream. But then I woke up and realized it was only a dream. Sometimes, the aftermath of a delightful dream can really suck.
I do not know why the grant in my dream was for $4,416. I also do not know why I was able to remember the exact amount, $4,416, after I woke up. Usually, I cannot remember anything in the morning. Or the afternoon or the evening. But especially in the morning.
For example, after sobbing in bed for several minutes over the fact that I was not going to get my $4,416, I decided it was time to get up and sob in an upright position. I sobbed my way into the kitchen. I turned on the espresso maker. Then I walked into my office. Then I realized I had forgotten to make my espresso.
I went back to the kitchen. I attempted to operate my espresso machine. It's one of those Nespresso pod systems that does virtually everything for you and does not leave your kitchen counter slathered in espresso grinds. I love my Nespresso machine. It is an easy enough contraption that I can usually operate it, even in a caffeine-deprived state. Unless it gets an air bubble.
The water canister was empty. So I refilled it. Then I attempted to make my espresso. But when I pressed the button that makes the espresso flow from the spiggot, espresso did not flow from the spiggot. The only thing that came out of my Nespresso machine was a loud noise.
This has happened a couple of times before. My wife, Kattina, told me once it's because there's an air bubble in the system. She said she read that in the instruction manual. She also said she read in the instruction manual how to fix this problem.
So I opened the instruction manual. I looked for the part about air bubbles. I could not find anything about air bubbles. All I could find was a warning that while going away on holiday, one should empty the water canister to prevent the formation of frost. Because, you know, here in Singapore, where the low temperature rarely dips below 24 degrees Celcius (which is like 197 degrees Fahrenheit), apparently frost on one's coffee maker can still be a problem.
The instruction manual also included this important safety precaution:
"This appliance is designed to be used in household and similar applications such as: staff kitchen areas in shops, offices and other working environments; farm houses; by clients in hotels; motels and other residential type environments; bed and breakfast type environments.
"Do not use the appliance for other than intended use."
I could not, however, find any information about air bubble removal. This might be because, in skimming the instructions in my early morning state, I think I might have drifted into the Chinese part of the instructions. I have not yet learned the Chinese character for "air bubble."
I eventually got my coffee to flow. Momentarily happy, I stumbled back to my office to get to work.
I don't usually begin work this early in the morning, but I have a deadline today. I was up late last night, writing about Kalahari Bushmen. I was up sufficiently late that my eyes glazed over and I could no longer function. So at half past midnight, I said to myself, "Go to bed, Dave. Wake up early tomorrow and finish your article then."
So now I have done that. My eyes are still glazed over. I am still unable to function.
I opened my windows to let a breeze in before the temperature rises above 24 degrees. (Celcius.) The birds were chirping more loudly than usual.
I don't know what it is about Singapore birds, but they are more boisterous than American birds. And more musical. They are exceptionally perky in the morning. Perhaps this is because they have purchased the deluxe model Nespresso machine. Perhaps the deluxe model Nespresso machine does not get air bubbles. I don't know.
It was time for me to get to work. But I was distracted by something that distracts me here from time to time. Here in the tropics, one faces different health problems from those in Seattle, where I used to live. For example, that thin hinge of skin, where the back of my ears connect to my head, the place that holds up my glasses, sometimes gets dry and itchy. I needed to do something about that before I started writing. I cannot write about Kalahari Bushmen when I have itchy skin behind my ears.
So I stumbled to the bathroom. I rubbed tea tree oil behind my ears. Then I stumbled back to my office. I sat down to write.
But something was missing. It was my glasses. I had taken them off so I could apply tea tree oil.
Or had I? Maybe I had never put them on in the first place. But they were not on my desk.
I stumbled back to the bathroom to look for them. I could not find them in the bathroom. I stumbled back to my office to check my desk again. They were not on my desk. I stumbled back to my bathroom. They were still not there.
I looked in my bedroom. Maybe I had put them on my dresser. But they were not on my dresser. I looked around my office some more. They were not there.I checked by my Nespresso machine. No glasses.
I went to check my bathroom a third time. Then I checked my bedroom again. I found them.
Before entering my bathroom to apply tea tree oil, I had set my glasses on my mattress. Now, as I put them back on my head, I made a mental note that the next time I look for my glasses in my bedroom, finding them will be easier if I turn on the light first.
Speaking of light, the sun eventually came up. The birds quieted down. The Singaporean national anthem blared from loudspeakers at the school across the street. It was really time to get to work.
But before I did, I did what all freelance writers do when faced with a looming deadline. I checked my e-mail. I checked Twitter, and Facebook.
On Facebook, I had a threatening message from my book editor, Linda. Linda wanted me to know that she would not send me any birthday greetings until I wrote the conclusion of last week's story on my blog about apartment hunting in Singapore.
Personal note to Linda:
1) I have a deadline today. I have to finish my article about the Kalahari Bushmen. I do not have time to blog.
2) It is not my birthday yet.
3) When it is my birthday, I do not want wishes. I want presents. I want $4,416.
[Photos: "Dollars" by Tracy Olson – "Espresso" by Leking Smith]
2 Responses to "A Rude Awakening"
Air bubble: 空氣泡沫 – kong qi pao mo
Maybe that will help you solve the machine of evil and horror!
Xie xie (thanks),
Dan (the big one, from Seattle)
Dearest Dave, my father was the former ruler of a state in Africa which you have never heard of, and we need your help to take out millions of dollars of our wealth held in our country. Last year my father's regime was ended, and the country has been taken over by rebels and former Enron employees.
If you send us your bank account details, credit card details and pin numbers, you can earn $4,416. We trust you deeply.

subset: commoncrawl


text:
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text:
Month: July 2015
Cannabis Legalization on Missouri Ballot: Two Paths from Which to Choose…Freedom, or Feudalism?
Cannabis Legalization on Missouri Ballot:
Two Paths from Which to Choose…Freedom, or Feudalism?
©Doreen Hannes
Over the course of the past few months I've been doing a fair amount of investigation on the issue of cannabis and various efforts to legalize the plant for the general benefit of humanity. Initially, I looked at the issue of legalizing cannabis as a simple matter of civil liberties with a massive pseudo criminal front propped up by drug court fees, seizure laws, probation and the expenses paid to the system in that, cheap prison labor and increased family court revenues due to foster care and custody issues…And yes, it also incidentally had benefits for people with serious medical issues.
Honestly, I have had a complete paradigm shift. Complete.
Not that the prison industry complex and costs to society associated with those issues are irrelevant, but there is a much larger, and much more…
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Akurey Island (Puffin Island) Tours
The Basics
Akurey is uninhabited, which is why it has become such an important place for nesting seabirds, despite how close it is to downtown Reykjavík. Most puffin watching tours depart from Reykjavik's Old Harbor; look for the Ægisgarður pier. Special tours dedicated to seeing the puffins in their natural habitat cruise by Lundey island as well, and have an expert guide on board to narrate interesting facts about the native bird life.
- Bring your zoom lens for great puffin photos.
- Dress warmly, it's chilly on the water even in the Icelandic summer.
- Many whale-watching boats pause at Akurey to see the puffins and their nesting burrows from on board.
How to Get There
Akurey is only accessible via boat; visits to the island are often combined with whale-watching cruises in modern seagoing vessels, RIBs (rigid inflatable boats), or replicas of traditional Icelandic sailboats.
When to Get There
Atlantic puffins spend most of their lives at sea but come to land to breed and nest in Iceland between early April and September every year.
Puffin Spotting and Whale Watching
Aside from the 'puffin express' tours that focus just on the black and white birds, many other tours combine a stop at Puffin Island with a whale-watching excursion. During the same season (April through October), minke, blue, orca, and humpback whales can be seen in abundance.
Tours & Tickets
Puffin Express Cruise to Akurey from Reykjavik
See puffins up close on the puffin express tour from Reykjavik. The specially designed boat takes you close to the rocky shore of Akurey island to see the ... Read more
Location: Reykjavik, Iceland
Duration: 60 minutes (approx.)
Iceland Super Saver: Puffin Cruise plus Whale-Watching Tour from Reykjavik
Get up close to Iceland's majestic wildlife on this Reykjavik Super Saver that combines a 1-hour puffin cruise and a 2.5- or 3.5-hour whale-watching tour for a ... Read more
Location: Reykjavik, Iceland
Duration: 2 days (approx.)
Reykjavik Shore Excursion: Puffin Sightseeing Cruise
When your cruise ship docks at Reykjavik Port, take a 1-hour shore excursion to Akurey Island to see where one of Iceland's largest colony of puffins live! ... Read more
Location: Reykjavik, Iceland
Duration: 60 minutes (approx.)


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Fitness & Cross-Training


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How many times have you heard the saying: "You can't control what happens to you, but you can control how you react to it"? How easy is it for you to take that advice? For most, myself included, remaining tough in the face of adversity is incredibly difficult and mentally exhausting. It can do just about anybody in…but Jessie Wharton isn't just anybody.
At 16 years old, Jessie was diagnosed with a rare form of cancer. She made it through her treatment and came out on the other side victorious…only to relapse in her early 20's.
The first time around, Jessie stayed as strong as she could, with her incredible family supporting her yet a little unsure how to handle the situation at such a young age. At 24-years old, when her scans came back revealing the cancer had returned, Jessie was dumbfounded. It was not supposed to happen again. She'd won once, why did she have to go through it again?
Being faced with this new reality, Jessie had a choice to make: to either be the victor or the victim of her story.
On the day she learned her diagnosis in 2015, Jessie turned to a woman whom has been there with her through everything: her mom. Knowing firsthand the impossibility of accomplishing something without a loving support system behind you, Jessie turned to this woman whom she trusted would not fail her…and, of course, her mother pulled through in the greatest way possible.
"24 hours," she said.
Jessie's mom allotted them 24-hours of sadness, anger, frustration, despair, crying out to God, watching useless television, and eating massive amounts of junk food. The key here, though, was that at the culmination of the 24-hours, they were not allowed to turn back. At 24 hours and 1 minute, they were to begin figuring out a way to move forward and defeat the unforgiving monster that is cancer.
Defeat for Jessie, though, wasn't just beating cancer for a second time before her 25th birthday, it came from choosing how she would lead her life from here on out. How would she present herself to the world? Would she lament about the lot given to her in this life? Or would she prove that light can shine through in even the darkest places, so long as your faith and your will are resilient enough?
You better believe the unstoppable Jessie chose the latter.
I write today in the hopes that you see the beauty in Jessie's story, and that being sad is, in fact, allowed. Even after your 24-hours are up, you are allowed to get angry and feel distraught…but you can't return to the hole from whence you came. You have to climb, little by little, every single day, until you reach the top and pull yourself from the wreckage of those horrible things that are beyond your control. As you do this, never forget the importance of surrounding yourself with those who will hoist you up, throw a rope down, and help you see that there indeed is a light, even when you struggle find it.
As Jessie continues to climb and shine her smiling light upon the world, we celebrate her as this week marks one full year of her scans coming back clear.
Jessie Wharton epitomizes what it means to keep moving forward, and I am honored to be in a world constantly filled with the sunshine she emits.
Keep Moving Forward LIVE Interview with Jessie Wharton!
Keep Moving Forward LIVE Interview with Jessie Wharton!
Posted by Keep Moving Forward on Monday, December 12, 2016


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Are You Losing Instagram Followers Fast?
Today we explore one of the horrific situations that many marketers experience when using Instagram – losing followers. Losing followers happens in two ways, first, you are losing followers but gaining more than what you lose, therefore you won't notice any changes. Another scenario involves losing followers without gaining any new ones. We are referring to the second scenario.
True, not everyone is going to love your content and your brand forever, but it is always a joy to see your account growing day by day. One of the ways you can achieve this is to use automation, an aspect that Fred Harrington writes about extensively. But first things first, let us look at the reasons that are draining your followers from your Instagram account.
Your Posting is Inconsistent
If you have noticed a steady flow of followers in the opposite direction, you might have a problem with your posting schedule. Users are interested in what you post and what you say. If you post haphazardly, you aren't giving your audience a chance to get used to your information.
Don't take ages to post new content, because as you sit and wait, you allow your competitors the chance to get the attention of the audience. On the other hand, if you post every five minutes, you flood your audience with lots of content that might not be so significant. The users get annoyed at the incessant posts and unfollow you.
Solution: The solution is simple – automate your posting. You can use a bot to come up with the right posting schedule for your accounts.
You Present a Poor First Impression
Whether you are going for an interview or you are heading to a blind date, first impressions matter a lot. It also carries a lot of weight on Instagram. The first impression a visitor has about your account dictates whether he continues following you or not.
Many users put so much effort in getting the right images and forget a crucial component of any profile – the bio. An empty bio shows the followers that you don't have the audacity to introduce yourself to the masses. If the bio is complete, what information does it pass across? Can a casual look tell the guest who you are and what you do? Can the guest know where to get you when he needs your services?
If you haven't filled out your profile, you are missing out on a huge opportunity.
Solution: A bot helps you maintain the image you portray on the profile. For instance, you can use the bot to grow your following so that any user that visits your account relates to the level of authority you command.
Hashtags are Not Your Friend
If you aren't using hashtags, you are making a huge mistake. On the other hand, you might be using hashtags but not the right way. Hashtags are essential for your strategy to work best.
Solution: Bots help you localize your hashtags to a location or a keyword.
In Closing
Don't sit and watch as your followers stream away from your account. Take time to get them and retain them using the right tips.


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Posted February 2nd, 2018, 03:01 PM
http://www.wansbroughs-cruise-blog.m...4.jpgYesterday evening we got word that a Spanish Lawyer had called a meeting with fellow passengers to discuss the itinerary changes and limping ship issues. I got there just as everyone was leaving but unfortunately I couldn't find anyone who spoke English to find out what was discussed. I... This short extract has been cross posted from my Wordpress Blog. Should you wish to view the full post in its original format please follow this link. http://www.wansbroughs-cruise-blog.m...-15-a-sea-day/


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Music and children have been two central themes in my beautiful life, so I'm thrilled to begin articulating my point of view as a music educator. In case you don't know, we're at a critical juncture, at least here in Southern California, where arts programming has been of late and remains either scarce or at best vulnerable, and where new catch phrases like "arts integration" are currently going down the wrong road, minus substantive input from seasoned arts specialists. It's essential that we re-focus on time-tested approaches to excellence in arts programming and commit to new ones grounded in what we know. So this piece is, as much as a philosophy statement, a defense of consistent, truly collaborative models for music and arts education.
First, very importantly, my approach is, yes, fundamentally integrative. I don't want the term to become a pejorative! My natural, joyful focus is on providing avenues through which children and young people can express themselves, build musical skills, and perhaps catch the expressive "bug", with its happy itch for deeper musical exploration, while meanwhile benefiting from the musical elaboration of all kinds of curricular themes. This translates to endless excitement, for my students and for me.
I'll also declare here that I'm a generalist, a term I was introduced to beautifully a decade or so ago by my gifted architect/artist collaborator Ricardo Accorsi. (More about the relationship between architecture and music someday, with pleasure.) As a generalist, I provide opportunities to challenge and enrich all students, not just the most musical ones. It's a privilege, and amazing terrain: the positive energy, playfulness, openness, curiosity, and courage of children. They teach, lighten, inspire, and delight me daily. So, with this background info as context, I'll share an overarching educational philosophy that rings true to me these days, within which I'm passionate about integrating music, the arts, and more.
Individualized Learning for Individual Learners
I think about how many times a new declaration of what to teach and test has been made in recent years. In the midst of it all, and armed with everything I've learned since my own early childhood, through teaching, and in raising my three grown sons, it seems to me now that everything comes down to individual learners, to who they each are and what makes each one tick, to going deep into projects that interest them as fulcrums through which all kinds of learning can occur, including critical thinking, analysis, research, synthesis, expository and creative writing, and substantive exposure to relevant technologies.
More than three decades into my life as a mother and educator, this individualized focus feels absolutely right to me now, for our time, for our 21st century learners. Its differences from "one size fits all" models are challenging, but it's also a pragmatic approach, potentially rigorous, and inherently meaningful to each student, facilitating lived experiences of the relationship between personal interests, personal responsibility, and satisfying outcomes. And of course this looks very different in kindergarten than in high school! These days I'm passionately exploring the relationship between an individualized educational vision and curriculum development, the roles of the arts in that "marriage", and the exciting process of constantly crafting—based on actual, individual learners—relevant learning objectives and outcomes in which students have the chance to assess their own progress.
I'm also intrigued these days by little ones who exercise ever more effortless natural capabilities to use smart devices. Clearly something revolutionary is afoot regarding the human experience and technology. Clearly a 21st century education must include creative efforts to connect our students' studies to their larger lives, and to anticipate and prepare them for the ways they'll live and work in the future.
Let's face it, my friends, it's a "no-brainer" now, pun intended: we know that consistent, sequential musical studies in childhood enhance neurological, motor, and social development. And there's a bonus prize: music and the arts can very enjoyably enliven and express all kinds of educational content! I'll share two related beliefs of mine that I find especially inspiring:
1. All of childhood isn't preparation for adulthood. Children, young people, and their families deserve and relish arts experiences as unforgettable life events in their own right, beyond any other inherent value.
2. Arts experiences do in fact prepare children and young people for the future, with all kinds of physical, intellectual, and psychological benefits.
Stop. Read those two statements again. Really, take a moment. Compelling, yes?
So I believe that children and young people have a fundamental human right to consistent exposure to arts disciplines and experiences, with schools one natural bastion of arts awareness and development. I say there's nothing like the creative "buzz" that vibrant arts programs generate in schools in which they're accessible to all students, rather than to a specialized few, and especially when they support and express curricular themes.
An Integrative, Experiential Approach to Music Education
From a movement piece demonstrating the life cycle of a butterfly, to a group rap and dance about simple machines, to a student-written song based on Sadako and the Thousand Paper Cranes, to a dramatized piece by down-and-out gold miners, weaving curricular themes into music instruction is win-win-win! And again, there's a buzz that builds school-wide in the process of creating and preparing to share these kinds of experiences. The ante is upped again when we include in the mix the visual arts, poetry and other literary arts, movement, and theater. And we truly strike creative gold when we go even deeper, to a focused intent to integrate the sciences, math, and technology. More on this auspicious approach shortly.
Meanwhile, in my view all children are musicians, just as they're scientists, builders, storytellers, and artists. Some make straighter lines than others care to, and include more—and more fantastical—details, but I believe the impetus is innate in children to explore the world through their voices, bodies, and imaginations, through evocative objects and media, whether with gusto or quietly, with others or alone. Just as we introduce children to wholesome foods that nourish them, to stories and images that inspire them, and to concepts that whet their natural appetites for more, they deserve to hear, sing, play, create, and move to music that resonates with them and encourages access to the whole of their emotional range. Yes, anger could be expressed like this, and sadness like that, and joy, and fear, and surprise, and silliness, and grouchiness, and tenderness, and… fun!
Music is logical, too, and mathematical, and a language, and a way of building or constructing, much like playing with blocks or clay, all of which children love discovering. They deserve musical experiences that are harmonically, melodically and thematically age-appropriate, while also not '"dumbed down", but rather intentionally chosen and crafted to develop their minds, voices, gross and fine motor skills, and much more.
All of childhood isn't preparation for adulthood. Children, young people, and their families deserve and relish arts experiences as unforgettable life events in their own right, beyond any other inherent value.
And again, continuing brain research on musical training in childhood indicates increased auditory and verbal memory, enhanced language-based learning skills, and augmented connections between the motor and sensory regions of the brain that have lifelong implications. Children's authentic musical experiences encourage them to expand their sense of themselves, of their bodies in space, of what individuals can do alone—I tapped the rhythm/sang that line!—and together—we did the work and saw it through! Do you suddenly flash on an unforgettable childhood experience of yours, or your child's?
Music and Movement – a Happy Marriage
I think it's deeply significant that music naturally engages the body. Children of all personality types and temperaments are ever ready to move to its rhythms, from school to home and home to school, humming as they wiggle-dance in the grocery store check-out line, playing eons-old music games spontaneously on the playground, making big beats as they smash bubbles in the bath and laugh, laugh, laugh. So these days I'm more and more intentional about an integrative approach to music and movement, toward keeping children healthy and happy, enjoying the present, and developing and relating holistically.
Different Strokes for Different Folks
As in the rest of school and life, some children work at music, motivated to master concepts and skills, valuing the content and thus their own efforts toward satisfying progress. Some just want the fun of music, thank you very much, and are primed to learn through their enjoyment if we can catch their vibe: two times ooooone is two. (Rest.) Woooo! Some are moved by the togetherness of musical experiences; some want the separateness of playing distinct parts and characters. Some who challenge us hour by hour with their drive to do and be to the max will readily channel all that energy and intensity into the musical experiences that we facilitate.
STEAM as a Collaborative Model
In my experience so far, the new buzz phrase and acronym STEAM—adding the Arts to an intention to stress Science, Technology, Engineering, and Math—is a holistic mindset that impacts use of human resources, schedule, and technology, and in which creative collaboration across disciplines is the critical puzzle piece. There's that buzz again, born of truly integrating the arts into potentially rigorous STEM programming. Resulting projects and experiences are fresh, relevant, engaging, and can run the gamut from small, daily, and micro to yearlong, school-wide themes and explorations. For me, again, that's win-win-win… win!
And there's a proviso: collaborations between arts and sciences specialists and classroom teachers must, must, must be real, with time taken for buy-in, team-building, and helpful structural changes. This process takes time, and requires support, encouragement, and incentives from administration and the school community. It's a sea change, which takes extra fuel to propel, and teacher life force is a precious commodity. They—we—need practical and emotional support as we work to catch the wave. Once on, it's a very, very satisfying ride. And I believe the second year is the pay-off, so continuity and commitment are key as well. In any new collaborative exploration, have at least a 2-year plan.
Music Education as a Human Right
These days, with so much that I want to do within the limits of time, resources, and an ever-wider body of musical knowledge and multi-cultural awareness, I prioritize rich experiences over more abstract forms of instruction, and I strive to deepen and broaden them in collaboration with classroom teachers and arts and sciences specialists. I'll declare explicitly here that I want these evocative arts experiences available to all children in 21st century, civilized societies, no matter the neighborhood, type of school, or set of overarching educational values. And not seasonally, or once in a while, and not managed by overworked music and arts specialists whose fragmented responsibilities aren't sustainable.
I say let's ensure that all of our natural young musicians are consistently engaged musically, in age-appropriate ways, without downgrading music programming to communal kid-sitting or only offering it to a select, talented few. And in societies that do lip service to valuing the arts, let's fund, support, and cherish arts educators as the "artist-teachers in residence" that they in fact are.
Arts experiences… prepare children and young people for the future, with all kinds of physical, intellectual, and psychological benefits.
And again, let's risk new, collaborative models, in which the work of children and young people is enlivened by opportunities to explore and integrate musical elements into academic studies and goals. Through experiences combining speech, song, body percussion, pitched and un-pitched instruments, story, drama, improvisation, movement, and curriculum-driven and interest-based themes, let's truly facilitate artistic self-expression in childhood, and then reflect on and celebrate what children create as individuals and in collaboration, what they share in school and in the larger community, what they enjoy just for themselves and with one another. Let's demonstrate, with substantive music and arts programming in integrative formats, our commitment to fostering children and young people to be their deepest creative selves—like continuing to love learning—for life.
Finally, two more critical points: first, from that integrative foundation, let's encourage children and young people to pursue musical interests, aptitudes, and careers that they discover along the way, and facilitate their connections to appropriate expert mentors. And very, very importantly, my dears, let's make "grownup time" to experience and support the arts, and to continue expressing ourselves, growing and risking as artists or in whatever ways keep us happy, healthy, and continuing to develop and thrive in our own balanced, enjoyable 21st century lives. Let's practice what we preach, and model healthy pursuit of the deep creative satisfaction that we want for our children. Whew. Gotta go get at all that, here in the beautiful summer of 2014! Thanks for reading, and for your interest in music and arts education. Please share your experiences, insights and feedback with me here! Also, I've published this piece on Amazon and would greatly appreciate your review there.


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- Home
- Core Training
- Body Mind Active Balance Core Health.
Body Mind Active Balance Core Health.
- By Phillip Skinner
- Published 03/16/2009
- Core Training
- Rating:
Phillip Skinner
Have you ever seen your dog in a
different way like that of a baby or innocent child instead of a pet or animal?
If so, you will never take time in making your dog learn about dog obedience or
behavior. Dogs are very loyal by nature and yes, they are aggressive too!Â
View all articles by Phillip Skinner
Active Balance Health Through Integration 2009
Imagine this ... you can eat
what you like to eat without breaking all the killing yourself by using the
rule of (everything in moderation body/mind rules) right now has this got your
attention you betcha it has? ... In all these years of following Dennis Bartram's
pathway to better age-agility-ability ... by owning a copy of his book Active
Balance Health Through Integration 1989 edition.
Now twenty years later I've
suddenly picked up this book once again and seen its content through different
eyes ... my inner wisdom eye! within this mind set to use as my flexibility
guide book and have taken my favorite snippets and materialized them into my
daily routine which I do on a daily basis at least once but normally 3 times a
day because its fun it works and its easy to implement into my time management,
my daily bizzy busy schedule.
Ok now you understand this content isn't just about me its about how you to can live a life of not constantly looking and straining your eyes and patience viewing all the calorie count food information you are about to enter into you mouth by using this simple powerful formula I will share with you here at this website.
Starting from my waking up first thing in the morning I don't just jump out of bed I lay for a while on my back with my hands joined fingers interlocked coupling my head from behind as if to float my skull from behind then in a figure of eight lemniscate movement see PDF Here
You will know when your times up doing this wake up exercise it only takes around 5 to 10 minutes then it's a cup of hot water with two teaspoons of lemon honey stirred in I take this to my bathroom to drink while I read a book this is my best and only time to really concentrate most information for this twenty minutes or so really sinks in.
Then it's on to my Master Disk this is the main exercise tool in the simple health exercises training set and is used in almost all body conditioning and toning exercises, the master disk is made from solid wood and is sturdy and durable, just like a expensive piece of furniture and can be used and suitable for any age group.
I do 100 repetitions hip motions I can do this
with ease because this if fun, it gets results and best of all strengthens the
core muscles that also help to eliminate toxins all within these easy twisting
side to side moves, I have also developed videos with Dennis Bartram of
utilizing this disc into other movements we designed to help folks who sit at
there computers a lot and end up with knee pain which I will share at a later
date so stay tuned use the orange syndication button for this RSS feed then you
will be kept in this loop when this page is updated.
Until then get used to drinking plenty of water
Victor Schauberger a natural scientist describes it in the following way: "Were water actually what hydrologist deem it to be – a chemically-inert substance-then a long time ago there would already have been no water and no life on this Earth. I regard water as the blood of the Earth. Its internal process, while not identical to that of our blood, is nonetheless very similar.It is this process that gives water its movement. I would compare this inner motion, the origin of all possible physical movement, to that of a blossoming flower bud. As it unfolds, it creates a vortex-like crown of petals, in the centre and at the end of which stands the true secret of motion-life in statu nascendi, in the form of a concentration of movement".
- 100% of users reporting firmer more toned abs
- An average of 1.4 inch waist reduction
- 3 times more effective than its nearest competitor
Spread The Word
1 Response to "Body Mind Active Balance Core Health."
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A Deployment Ceremony On Veterans Day
153rd Engineer Battalion Heads To Kuwait After The Holidays
In Huron Friday, more than 150 service men and women with the 153rd Engineer Battalion and their families came together for a deployment ceremony.
LTC Trent Bruce said it was significant to hold the event on Veterans Day.
"Veterans Day is an important day for anyone that wears the uniform and for those that are going to be deploying, it does add something to that for their families," said LTC Bruce.
For CPT Joshua Lien, this will be his third deployment.
The father of six boys said he believes his experience helps leaving home.
"I think it helps my family, they've done this before. They know how, kind of, all of this works," said CPT Lien.
His wife, Crystal, however, said it never gets easier.
"My boys and I are trying not think about it. We try not to talk about it, we try not to think about it just so we can get through it without doing the ugly cry," said Lien, with a laugh.
For families who don't know the feeling of a loved one's deployment, Lien said it's a lot of mixed emotions.
"You're immensely proud, you're scared, you're lonely, you miss them, you're overwhelmed. But you're super proud so it's really hard to balance I'm so proud of them, I want to fall into a puddle of tears," said Lien.
PFC Nicholas Shields, 19, is going on his first deployment.
He said he's going into his first mission with a few goals in mind.
"Getting along with my new teammates and staying cool," said PFC Shields.
He said his family supports him "100 percent" and even offered some advice.
"They just say keep the sand out of your pants," said PFC Shields.
For Senator John Thune, he said they appreciated all service men and women, no matter how many deployments they've been on.
"Doing this on veterans day where we have the opportunity to connect the past with the present and this generation of soldiers who are going to answer the call to duty, I think, is especially fitting," said Sen. Thune.
Representative Kristi Noem said the sacrifices these service men and women and their families go through is invaluable.
"These families are leaving us and leaving their homes to go overseas and keep us safe so that we can all go to bed at night and know that we are going to be protected and safe," said Rep. Noem.
On what is a tough day for families, CPT Lien said the message of the day is felt by these troops.
"I think having a ceremony on Veterans Day means a lot to us," said CPT Lien.
The 153rd Engineer Battalion leaves for an eleven month deployment to Kuwait after the holidays.
Some of their mission will include building roads and remodeling barracks on U.S. bases.


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Trinity University
Center for Women in Sports
The Trinity Center for Women and Girls in Sports is a state-of-the-art athletic, recreational, and educational complex located in the heart of Trinity University's campus in Northeast Washington. The Trinity Center is the largest facility in the nation dedicated to women and girls in sports. The center is designed to support Trinity's students, faculty, staff and citizens in the community. Trinity also supports local organized athletic and recreation programs conducted by organizations like DC Scores, the Girl Scout Council of the Nation's Capital, the Washington Tennis and Educational Foundation and DC Public Schools.
The Trinity Center complex includes a 1,600-seat arena for competition basketball and other indoor court sports like volleyball and soccer. The arena seats 2500 for non-sporting events. This arena accommodates summer camps and weekend programs for DC school children, as well as amateur athletic organizations, particularly those that focus on sports and wellness for girls and women.
The fitness center includes a variety of workout equipment, dance and aerobics studios and an indoor track.
The Center also includes a six lane, 25-yard swimming pool which is NCAA competition size but is also available for amateur competitions. Locker rooms for both women and men are located on the pool level.
The NCAA competition field hosts soccer, field hockey and lacrosse. In addition to supporting Trinity's NCAA athletic program, the field is also a venue for outdoor programs, amateur sports and recreational organizations working with children and youth in the Washington region, including Olympic demonstrations and practice.
Six new tennis courts serve Trinity's tennis team, summer tennis camps and the Washington Tennis and Education Foundation.
Trinity will renovate the existing dining hall to create a true campus center that directly links the interior to the athletic facilities. Phase II will support the athletic facilities with food services, lounges, and a campus store that will serve the Trinity collegiate population as well as persons participating in the events and programs of the Trinity Center for Women and Girls in sports.
- Category
- Sports / Recreation / Well-Being
- Location
- Washington, DC
- Size
- 72,000 SF Addition / 6,400 SF Renovation
- Awards
- The Masonry Institute – First Place Design


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Sarah Harkins... Sarah Harkins... That's interesting, I know a Sarah Harkins. The Clay Rosary Girl. How sad about that other Sarah. I'm glad it isn't the Sarah Harkins I know.
I cried a few tears for the unknown Sarah and her unborn baby, Cecilia, who died unexpectedly this week. I prayed and followed the donation link. And at some point, I discovered that it was my Sarah and her baby. I say my Sarah not because I knew her well or because I had even met her in person... but because I did know her for a while. And I did love her.
We talk about our "internet friends" and laugh over how our husbands think we're strange and how it is hard to describe just how much someone can mean to you even if you've never looked into their eyes or shared a hug. But don't we all know the truth? That somehow, even through this limited electronic connection, we are still able to connect with souls.
Sarah is beautiful. She inspires me. She was generous with me. With others. She was generous with God.
I love her work and I am fascinated by the process of creation. How much thought, prayer and work went into even the tiniest of her beads! I waited two years for a reason to purchase one of her rosaries. The rosary now belongs to my 9-year old Button who received it on her First Communion. I brought it out yesterday to see, to touch it, to pray. And that's when I saw Sarah's fingerprints embedded in the beads. I touched them and I wept.
I am the last person who should be writing about Sarah. We were just "internet friends." But truth be told, I am grieving. I remember when she took a leap of faith into the adventure of homeschooling. I remember our emails and the thoughtful comments she left for me. I remember when she donated her work to help me out. I remember when she trusted God and lovingly birthed her gorgeous and special Mary Faustina. I wasn't there, of course, but she let me in by sharing her life. And I became attached.
If you are blessed enough to own one of her rosaries or pieces of jewelry, I encourage you to look for her fingerprints. A connection. A sign of hope. Like the symbol of the anchor that she loved so well. It is proof of God's unique design for her body, her soul, her life. That she loved and lived for God and that... that He Who made her hands to bless, will not forsake the ones left behind. A consolation.
If you haven't yet donated to Sarah's children, please do so here. She homeschooled her little ones, including her beautiful daughter with downs syndrome. Let's love them well.


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Mike Reiss has won four Emmys as a writer/producer for "The Simpsons."
One of those trophies is currently stuck up the posterior of a disgruntled television comedy writer named Alvin in Reiss' latest stage lark "I Hate Musicals: The Musical."
The show — really more of a play with music, but what kind of crummy title would that get you? — is having its world premiere through Oct. 15 at the Ivoryton Playhouse.
This is Reiss' third show at Ivoryton, and judging from the joke-filled curtain speech he gave on opening night, he's very comfortable on this stage. A bit too comfortable, in terms of sensing whether a script might need a bit more work. He seems happy to just lob jokes around this small, bright theater. It's up to director James Valletti and a hard-working six-person cast to string all the disparate bits into coherent full-length entertainment.
"I Hate Musicals: The Musical" seems depressing on the face of it. Alvin is a divorced, washed-up veteran of classic sitcoms who somehow never won an Emmy and now barely subsists as a New York playwright who's never won a Tony. ("A Tony," Alvin's agent opines, "is just an Emmy for old people — it's an Emmy on Lipitor.")
Act One of "I Hate Musicals" finds Alvin in Los Angeles, on the verge of getting back in the sitcom game, thanks to a network executive who needs to hire someone over 50 to diffuse a pending discrimination lawsuit. Just after he's pitched his bold new idea, a new series called "My Brother the Pope," there's an earthquake. Alvin is pinned under a pile of concrete (and punctured by that sharp-winged Emmy) for the rest of the show. His life flashes before his eyes.
Or maybe it's Rodney Dangerfield's life that he's reliving by mistake. The play becomes a long series of one-liners about disrespect and defensive anger. Alvin rails against the TV industry, agents, marriage, the West Coast, New York, Florida and everywhere in between.
"It was a nasty break-up."
"No, I never bit her. Why would you ask that?"
Most of the topics of his jokes are popular targets of abuse, but Reiss is out to slaughter sacred cows as well, even if they have nothing to do with what's going on in his show at the time. The show's title provides justification for some pokes at Broadway. A Sondheim medley is suggested, but "we can't —he only had two hits."
"Hamilton" is described as something New Yorkers have to see — "it's the law" — then mocked with such an insipid rap that it makes the original look that much mightier.
Most of the music in "I Hate Musicals: The Musical" consists of song parodies. Only a few of these are based on showtunes, though "I'm Flying" from "Peter Pan" does appear, as "I'm Dying." Most of the numbers are reworked pop hits, from Simon and Garfunkel's "The Boxer" to the Village People's "YMCA." Randy Newman's "I Love L.A." is strangely played straight, without parody.
"I Hate Musicals" has a stated distaste for musicals, but it's also not crazy about plot development, continuity or consistent characters. Mike Reiss also dislikes movement. For most of the second act, Alvin is trapped in that rubble. Other characters flit in and out, but the hero is mostly restricted to immobile monologues and phone calls. Keyboardist Michael Morris is there to provide musical accompaniment.
As the beleaguered, Emmy-gouged Alvin, Stephen Wallem must find the throughline between all the random punchlines and a credible depressive character. He works strenuously to sell this material and succeeds despite all the obstacles. The ubiquitous Connecticut comic actor R. Bruce Connelly (whose relationship with the Ivoryton Playhouse goes back decades) nails the most consistently written character in the show, that of Alvin's old, old-school agent.
A four-person ensemble handles all the other roles. The limber dancer Sam Given, in pasted-on facial hair, plays a security guard as well as Sigmund Freud. Amanda Huxtable plays Alvin's unfaithful wife as well as his mother and the Virgin Mary. Ryan Knowles, the slender, deep-voiced actor who was so memorable as Buddy in the national tour of the Queen musical "We Will Rock You" at the Shubert in New Haven in 2014, makes a strong impression as a prissy "Yale professor of Theater History," not to mention as Satan. Will Clark (a Connecticut-raised actor who works with the Cry Havoc Theater Company in L.A.) is the most laid-back of all of them, offering rare moments of calm and nuance amid the vaudevillian frenzy.
Like an L.A. earthquake, "I Hate Musicals: The Musical" just keeps rumbling until it's done. Some of that rumble happily comes from eruptions of laughter. Some comes from too-long routines grinding slowly to a halt — do we really need a long explanation on The Professor's travails on "Gilligan's Island"?
If you hold on long enough, you'll find many mirthful nuggets to sustain you. But even at 90 minutes with no intermission, "I Hate Musicals: The Musical" can also be an endurance test.
I HATE MUSICALS: THE MUSICAL — by Michael L. Reiss with original musical composed by Walter Murphy, directed by James Valletti — continues through Oct. 15 at the Ivoryton Playhouse, 103 Main St., Ivoryton (a village in Essex). Performances are Wednesday at 2 and 7:30 p.m., Thursday at 7:30 p.m., Friday and Saturday at 8 p.m. and Sunday at 2 p.m. Tickets are $17 to $50. 860-767-7318, ivorytonplayhouse.org.


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I never said I was a "real woman" nor did I adhere to your distinctions - the broken knotted world of your categories and gibbets - your essential primacy. Nor did I frivolously saunter here without being drenched in steaming tar - in alienations, agonies and abuses.
Nor did I attempt to rupture your spaces. Nor did I shepherd my body and thoughts into a singular character.
Nor did I assume the dialectic and character of your history. Oh, essential subject.
Nor did I claim the keys to the apparatus of an entirely dismantled ideology.
Nor did I sleep through the night, nor said I was fully awake - those were your claims - you inhabited them and threw them at my body, assumed my history. I did not say that I was brave but I did say that I was beaten in the Men's Room, in the road, but I also said that I was afraid and I also dragged my feet and I also screamed for the deracination of established sex.
We were stockaded, doubled up and gagged then made to speak.
I was lucky and neither was I lucky. I did not ask to be taken into a medical examination, to be a pathologised subject, a piece of transferable data some kind of stabilised example.
Yes, perhaps there were moments of asking to drop out of the universe. There were pleas against the force of stabilised gender norms, but then there were still more pathologists and shitheads and explanations forced into our mouths and our eyes and people throwing around words like "toxic" and "drag" in the indistinct daylight there were mouths crying out against our ideologised bodies so we lurked in the toilets like the filth we were.
And yes, sometimes I do hide there waiting for silence before I can show my face and yes it is a weaponised generality that speaks inside it.
I never asked to join the U.S. Marine Corps. I was party to the mutiny by proxy of thought, there was a derangement of conflicted motions and love was taken out of us.
I did not give my consent to the idea of an opposite, to a world of stupefied duality: That under the Gender Recognition Act 2004 individuals may change their legal sex but require approval from the medical profession, a diagnosis of gender dysphoria and to live as a member of the opposite sex for two years, of who was to conduct this analysis - which upstanding professional with preordained certainty, and what great liberties might be achieved after the tests and cures, the prescriptions and siphons.
Ahead of you is a perfect sequence of rational and professionally state sanctioned grills, routers and sieves. Behind you is a repressed derangement of habitation. Inside you, a screaming barb of lyric, passion, expression and defiance. Now sit tight for the probe. "I never said that I was brave."
Verity Spott. Poet. 'He'd make a big show of sticking the two torn halves in his wallet. When we buried him, Frank and I tossed the last two halves he gave us into his grave. Here ' 'Between the two torn halves of my soul are cities and climates' 'Place those two torn halves of the map together again and you are re-enacting the history of the Silurian to Devonian periods' 'The two torn halves promise but never deliver full restitution'
Thursday, 28 September 2017
Wednesday, 13 September 2017
Two or maybe three summers ago
we left our house and walked
to the other side of the square
into another house. Into a party. Thousands
felt like it had gone into the colourful
projections which seemed to say nothing
but "I am here" - a wall of jostling voids,
the music an extension wherein my thoughts
gathered to die. I was afraid. We tried to find
our place, being introduced as "those ones",
elevated into their society by merit of what
they said that we had done and what it was
it was assumed we now went through. Oh
but how toughly the concepts of individuals
clog up the pipe. These were exactly
the kind of souls my prejudices had shored
me up against:
Maybe the worst but also
the most honest was a man who sat in the garden
sprawling his legs wide over two chairs
his bleached hair framing an embarrassing bandana;
he spoke incessantly about money
and his virtuosic guitar playing, he could
hit the body whilst also nailing down
a tune in complex time. His disposition
towards music and tortured wood
perished back in his sportsmanlike boasts.
He had fifteen bikes, on and off road
and whatever else there was to be said
by any single mouth he had jumped
into it first. You could say there's very little
wrong with this. Judgement is afterall the problem.
In that sense it seems true I have settled
in the wrong city. How it holds my stupid head up.
Hard to be completely unscrupulous are incorrect
refer to the help section.
Then there's another man
of a similar yet entirely unique masonry. He's got
a coat we felt some love for like destitution. It was covered
like the night above the roaring projectors was: In stars.
Stars and moons in an ocean of blue fabric oh what a mouth.
From this side of the room the drawl ran in,
the Dandelion dancing near the French window kicked
some records down onto the floor but if they were anything
like those swaying in our ears I hoped his clipped steel toes
would grind them into the 40% introductory discount. Or
anyway his voice and all the things he said or (Jersey) Law
1991 and investment and general insurance mediation, that's
not it. These were all the kind of Bohemians we knew
from the worst stories; all in their expensive robes playing out
pretences of excess. Another, who showed a dot of kindness
omnidirectional or slit right down from the bottom of my throat
to the top in his long coat the artery began to heave out or
facing the cheque for the sum of £365.20 is attached below
his coats, for there seemed to be a few, were like dressing gowns
and he took us under the stars with a proud pair of binoculars
which he just had to explain first, then gifting our eyes to the sea
of tranquility.
I felt like a joke. The moon was burning
my eyes because silver water etc. The cold air was hot
the acrid smell replaced with beautiful perfumes
even the way they stood and as I think now of the silent discos
or the early morning yuppie raves I'd railed against
where sobriety and appropriation
are the cherished excesses are you likely to move on or
the remains of wasps in a tin or the shredded
tarpaulin. Used to be a hotel. And again
spreading bad energy comes to eat my legs as I'm sitting
alone on a train with a false ticket enjoying the silence
when those same yuppies, reader, they come and sit
all around me and as I listen it transpires that one of them
is an organiser of such an event. A 6am rave
for London's anti-workshy-development-ombudsmen
to go along sometimes before work
and kickstart the week. He talked about their USP;
spiritual shit like Reiki. He said it was a load of bollocks
but people loved it. A little like his life. Bohemia
is a country without land or borders. Wanderers!
Adventurers! Vagabonds! How the muscular
nature of their pursuits has haunted me,
coming to think that the placement is wrong.
His name, the man in the starry coat, I think it was Indy.
I met him a couple of times in places
I like to go.
One of these times or the first time
he patiently enlightened me of his philosophy:
"The greatest thing you'll ever learn
is just to love and be loved in return."
I'd never seen that film and assumed he was just
some kind of dick, but that in him here
was at least what maybe seemed like an original
thought. But later when you told me where it came from
and we laughed I saw back into his eyes
the desperation for a signifier bigger than us both
and pissed all over myself in the realisation
of our sameness: Shame! Just identical to how Aaron
told me that "we keep our confessions long
and when we pray we keep it short", circulated back
into this slippery diet of how fucking undelightful
actually is it or James paints a colourful yet gritty
picture of seaside life. Pick, pick, pick.
In fact there is something specifically disgusting
in this place called Bohemia. The constant
battles for approval and the isistance
on caricature - those are two miniatures. Overlapping
that is the pretence that anyone's there
beyond a libidinal desire to remain
in spite of everyone. A banker has a keen sense
of honesty in comparison. Executioners
covered in real blood. Of course hatred
for them as well.
No absolute wonder the estrangement
seems to gas up. Bitterness in rapture at its arrangement parallels.
Sugar. Oh, how I wish to forgive you, matterless
bandana and chains circling the moon. O gather
now in wonder. It for the sake of it or it even
when it stands there dead in the street. Next
to it a dormant shovel. It is not good for the world
to simply do things. We all somehow knew that.
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Cultural Tour in Nepal ( 17 days )
Trip Overview
Nepal offers captivating, cultural, religious and friendly tour destination for its travelers. Nepal is the best Cultural and religious tours destination of the world and its capital, Kathmandu valley is generally packed with people flowing in from all parts of the world. Plan a holiday trip to Nepal with Himalayan Planet Adventures. If you never been to this beautiful country Nepal. Don't miss the chance! Apart from sightseeing tours of its splendid monuments, the country offers numerous other options to the tourists to enjoy themselves fully. For instance, one can indulge in trekking, hiking, camping, mountain biking, river rafting, fishing, etc. There are also a number of national parks and wildlife sanctuaries in Nepal, which serve as a treat for nature lovers. Saw some beautiful waterfalls or explore the wonders of Nepal including local cuisine. Nepal is the preferred tourist destination for those coming to Asia on Adventure tours.
Explore the world heritage sites in Kathmandu, enjoy the sunrise on the Himalayas from Nagarkot or relax in the beautiful lake town of Pokhara. Visit Lumbini, the birthplace of the Buddha or for a more exciting experience find our Nepal holidays combined with soft adventures like elephant back safari or river rafting. And last but not the least; join our spectacular Mt Everest flight tour aimed to show you Mt Everest by flight. How can a tour to Nepal be complete without seeing Mt Everest?
Outline ItineraryDay 01: Arrival day in Kathmandu (1,300m/4,264 ft)
Day 02: Visit Kathmandu valley
Day 03: Mountain flight for 1 hour & visit Bungmati & Khokana
Day 04: Kathmandu valley sightseeing and drive to Nagarkot
Day 05: Sunrise view and Changu Narayan Sightseeing and drive to Dhulikhel
Day 06: Drive to Kathmandu & free day in Kathmandu
Day 07: Kathmandu – Gorkha [150 Km – 5 Hours]
Day 08: Full Day Sightseeing in Gorkha
Day 09: Gorkha to Bandipur.
Day 10: Bandipur to Pokhara.
Day 11: Pokhara Sightseeing
Day 12: Drive from Pokhara to Lumbini
Day 13: Full Day Lumbini Sightseeing
Day 14: Lumbini to Chitwan
Day 15: Full day Jungle activities
Day 16: Chitwan – Kathmandu [160 Km – 5 Hours]
Day 17: Departure from Kathmandu
Outline Itinerary
Trip Highlights
trip summary
Detail Itinerary
Day 01: Arrival day in Kathmandu (1,300m/4,264 ft)
Namaste and welcome to beautiful Himalayan country of Nepal. Upon your arrival at the Tribhuvan international airport our representative welcomes you and assists to transfer in your hotel in Kathmandu. After check in your hotel relax until evening and we'll pick up you from your hotel and transfer to our head office and after briefing about your tour we take you for the welcome dinner in finest typical Nepalese restaurant in Kathmandu with cultural program and overnight at hotel.
(Welcome dinner & requested categories hotel accommodation included)
Day 02: Visit Kathmandu valley
This morning after a breakfast you'll have a luxury guided trip as we take you
- Detail Itinerary...
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Kathmandu,The political, commercial and cultural hub of Nepal is the first stop for the ma...
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Sales stats - the addiction
I know many microstock photographers became addicted to check
their stats. That is quite easy, being the numbers there at disposal. In the traditional agencies is not so, that's why there is this danger of becoming 'badly' addicted to check earnings in microstock.
One thing most people do is comparing month to month earnings. How many times in forums come out the topic of 'bad/good sale this month'? Bad thing to do! Really.
You cannot compare month to month, that is simply a measure of 'increase' (providing you have submitted at least a good amount of new good images).
The real statistic that count is to see improvement in portfolio efficicency, measured with sufficient data at disposal. That is: this year month compared to the same month in previous year(s).
Is consequent of my reasoning that is almost useless to follow day to day fluctuations. You can see in Yuri Arcus website a week pattern(that is the same for everybody, I'm pretty sure) that shows how Monday is slow start, Tue-Wed-Thu are the peak of the week, Friday start to decline and Saturday is usually the lowest. Sunday sometimes can be higher than Sat.
This to say that apart this pattern, instructive anyway, there is no reason to follow day to day earnings/sales, or do it just as a matter of curiosity and not as a reason to start wining or cry out that sales are down or celebrate sales up.
The success in microstock is built with years of hard work, not days or months. So measure of success is better made after one year not after one month or week.
|© Frenc
Photo credits: Andres Rodriguez, Frenc, Saniphoto.
6 Comments
Your article must be written in EnglishPublish
Dear Saniphoto,
First of all, let me begin by saying that I enjoy looking at your stock photography. I would like to know if you accommodate requests for custom stock photography. The reason I ask is that I am looking for a variation on a photo that is already in your portfolio, but I cannot use your photo in its current format. Please let me know. Thank you.
Thank you Dabobabo! :-)
We photographers are all about numbers, so to check some numbers with $$$ signs in front of them are the best numbers to be addicted to. Business is business.
:-)) I understand perfectly your point dear ladies.. and in fact I agree that to look at stats with that intention (boosting ego, simple pleasure, and so on...) is not bad.
What I would consider addiction is checking statistic 10 times a day! :-)
good day to all three of you!
i do check my stats often, and for the same reason below i think, that i love seeing i have made a new sale!!
I admit to being a stats addict...
AND I also agree that it is not for much use other than boosting the ego, every time someone buys something ;-)


text:
Erasmus Coordinator of Political Science and Public Administration Department:
Assist. Prof. Senay ERAY
Phone: +90272 228 1292 – 13264
E-Mail: email@example.com
Frequently Asked Questions:
Click here to download.
Faculty Leaflet for Erasmus Incoming Students:
Click here to download.
Erasmus Partner List:
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*For further information, please look through the web page of International Relations Office. Click here to direct web site.