View allAll Photos Tagged ,Retching
I took a sunrise ocean trip out to where the lava flow is currently hitting the ocean. It's not always doing this- when I was last on Big Island, there wasn't an ocean entry but I did see the lava flow on land. Eager to collect the set of lava experiences, I signed up for an ocean tour.
This may have been a mistake... Despite taking travel sickness pills, I spent the whole time heaving and feeling miserable for myself and I was out of sorts for the whole day. Here is a short video taken in between bouts of hanging my head over the side of the boat retching. Not sure if I will be uploading any photos- maybe but they are all poor due to the fact that I couldn't do much more than generally wave the camera at the lava and hope for the best as I hit the button and then turned to retch some more.
On reflection, I have come to appreciate the subject of sacrifice more.
My family works extremely hard to ensure my security and happiness. Many things are happening behind the scenes that I am ignorant of and I may never know about the trials they have faced to show that they care.
My friends sacrifice a lot of their time and energy to entertain and support me. I can never quite repay them for their kindness, but hope to be a great friend in return.
However, there is one sacrifice that outweighs them all. One act of love that I will never understand. Why should something so beautiful happen to someone so ugly and retched in sin? This thing alone has given me and everyone else the chance of something beyond our wants and desires.
One man, who was born in a stable at the lowest level within society. That man later gave up His life for everyone. He was given a criminals death and descended into hell before rising again, despite all odds.
Christmas is all about sacrifice.
As much as it is nice to remember this Christian story during December, just don't fall into the trap that this is a annual thing. It's constant.
This festival should be about helping and sharing with others. So why only during Christmas? Why not constantly?
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Old pencil sketch from my high school days. I was playing with drawing roots and just kinda got carried away!
Memorial and a CWGC headstone in Hartpury, Gloucestershire.
R.I.P.
08.08.15 Gallipoli (Helles Memorial)
7th Battalion, Gloucestershire Regiment
28.11.16 Contay Cemetery (mostly wounded from 9th & 49th Casualty Clearing Stations), Somme, France
2/5th Battalion, Gloucestershire Regiment
09.05.17 Saulty cemetery (used by 20th and 43rd Casualty Clearing Stations, during the Battle of Arras), Pas de Calais, France
7th Battalion, Queens Own (Royal West Kent) Regiment
Also remembered on Highnam Memorial tablet
28.11.18 Hartpury Wesleyan churchyard
(photo of his headstone is above)
2nd Battalion, Gloucestershire Regiment
15.10.18: Kirkee Memorial, Poona, near Mumbai
The memorial stands at the rear of the cemetery in the photo.
283rd Company, Machine Gun Corps (Infantry)
21.08.15 Green Hill cemetery, Suvla, Gallipoli
1st Royal Gloucestershire Hussars
04.12.17 Wimereux Cemetery (used for burials by the local hospital), Pas de Calais, France (Wimereux was the headquarters of the Queen Mary's Army Auxilliary Corps)
Royal Marine Light Infantry
Private William Jones
1/7th Battalion, West Yorkshire (Prince of Wales Own) Regiment
Company Serjeant Major Reginald Phillips
19.08.16 Somme (Thiepval Memorial), France
10th Battalion, Gloucestershire Regiment
05.09.16 Lahana Military Cemetery (used for burials from the 27th Casualty Clearing Station, to which sick and wounded men were brought from the Struma front), Greece
81st Field Ambulance, Royal Army Medical Corps
04.10.17 Tyne Cot Memorial, Belgium (possibly killed at the Battle of Broodseinde, part of the Third Battle of Ypres)
8th Devonshire Regiment
Cyril J. Wadley (most likely match)
27.08.17 Tyne Cot Memorial, Belgium (He would have died during the earliest encounters of the Third Battle of Ypres, perhaps after the Battle of Langemarck)
2/4th (Bristol Territorial) Battalion, Gloucestershire Regiment (part of 183rd (2nd Gloucester & Worcester) Brigade)
Frank White
George Wilmot
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Gas
The headstone of Sidney Brookes stands in the yard of Wesleyan Chapel in Hartpury. A soldier in the 3rd Battalion Gloucestershire Regiment, he died on the 28th November 1918. Brookes is said to have enlisted on the 7th January 1915, and then been sent, in March, just a few weeks later, to join his regiment in France.
On the 2nd May he was 'gassed' and sent back to the UK.
He died at a V.A.D. hospital at Aylsford in Kent.
I know so little about the soldiers who were wounded in the war. If they died, then their name would have been remembered for ever. Many recovered and if their wounds were slight they probably returned to the front line. Others with more serious wounds seem to have returned home to be 'forgotten' by history and then left to fend for themselves with whatever disability they had.
Will it ever be possible to find out more about what happened to the likes of Sidney Brookes?
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"Battlefield Gas was first employed in April 1915 at the village of Langemarck near Ypres. At 1700 hours the Germans released a five mile-wide cloud of 168 tons of chlorine gas from 520 cylinders, causing panic and death in the French and Algerian trenches."
Soldiers of Gloucester web site
“I had the impression that I was looking through green glasses. At the same time, I felt the action of the gas on my respiratory system; it burned in my throat, caused pains in my chest, and made breathing all but impossible. I spat blood and suffered from dizziness. We all thought we were lost. It grieved us to see poor Cordier. He was purple, incapable of walking.”
"Our eyes were streaming with water and with pain. Luckily again for me I was one of those who could still see. But we had no protection, no gas masks or anything of that kind. All we had was roll of bandages from our first aid kit which we carried in the corner of our tunic.
So we had very little protection for our eyes. And then you had to be sent back. Anyone who could see, like I was, would go in front. And half a dozen or 10 or 12 men each with their hand on the shoulder of the man in front of them and lines – you could see lines and lines and lines of British soldiers going back with rolls of bandages round their eyes going back towards Ypres."
from a podcast about the initial gas attacks at Ypres in Spring 1915 (IWM First World War Centenary web site)
"Reference is made to the 2nd Battle of Ypres, and the 1st gas attack of May 1st 1915. It was exceptionally trying on account of the extraordinarily large number admitted, and the unusually high percentage of deaths, but particularly so as every effort made, seemed of no avail to relieve the sufferings of the patients. Every conceivable remedy was tried, even to the administration of chloroform. The staff worked almost unceasingly, 20 hours on end, but could see little result for their work. The Hospitals at Bailleul were full, the grounds were full, and the fields around were full of patients gasping for breath, shouting out for drinks, and unable to lie still on their stretchers. Large jugs full of Mist. Expect. Stim. (loosely - Mixture Expectorant Stimulant or Cough Mixture) were taken round unceasingly the whole time. It was a dreadful experience for all."
And, if you can bear it, an extract from the 1917 book "Medical Diseases of the War" on Poison Gas.
"The first effect of inhalation of chlorine is a burning pain in the throat and eyes, accompanied by a sensation of suffocation; pain, which may be severe, is felt in the chest, especially behind the sternum. Respiration becomes painful, rapid, and difficult ; coughing occurs, and the irritation of the eyes results in profuse lachrymation. Retching is common and may be followed by vomiting, which gives temporary relief. The lips and mouth are parched and the tongue is covered with a thick dry fur. Severe headache rapidly follows with a feeling of great weakness in the legs; if the patient gives way to this and lies down, he is likely to inhale still more chlorine, as the heavy gas is most concentrated near the ground. In severe poisoning unconsciousness follows; nothing more is known about the cases which prove fatal on the field within the first few hours of the "gassing," except that the face assumes a pale greenish yellow colour. When a man lives long enough to be admitted into a clearing station, he is conscious, but restless; his face is violet red, and his ears and finger nails blue ; his expression strained and anxious as he gasps for breath; he tries to get relief by sitting up with his head thrown back, or he lies in an exhausted condition, sometimes on his side with his head over the edge of the stretcher in order to help the escape of fluid from the lungs. His skin is cold and his temperature subnormal; the pulse is full and rarely over 100. Respiration is jerky, shallow and rapid, the rate being often over 40 and sometimes even 80 a minute ; all the auxiliary muscles come into play, the chest being over-distended at the height of inspiration and, as in asthma, only slightly less distended in extreme expiration. Frequent and painful coughing occurs and some frothy sputum is brought up. The lungs are less resonant than normal, but not actually dull, and fine riles with occasional rhonchi and harsh but not bronchial breathing are heard, especially over the back and sides.
Headache is generally severe, and there is also considerable epigastric discomfort, due partly to the strain of coughing and partly to gastric irritation, as it is increased if an attempt is made to eat.
The intense dyspncea of this asphyxial stage lasts about thirty-six hours, after which it gradually subsides, if death does not occur before. The patient, exhausted from his fight for breath, then falls asleep and wakes up feeling much relieved.
A few hours later acute bronchitis or broncho-pneumonia develops. In severe cases the quiescent interval is short and the bronchitis very severe. The sputum is now viscid, yellow or greenish, and muco-purulent with occasional streaks of blood. Respiration becomes more shallow and rapid, and the rate may finally be even 70 or 80 a minute. The pulse is small and very rapid ; the temperature rises, and is often as high as 104. The patient may now become delirious. Pleurisy may occur, and in some instances empyema and gangrene of the lung have followed. The Medical Aspects of Gas Warfare
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"In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place; and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.
We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved, and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.
Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, through poppies grow
In Flanders fields."
said to have been written by the doctor, Major John McCrae, on 3rd May 1915 at the Field Dressing Station which had to deal with some of the victims of the gas attack
2nd Battalion Gloucestershire Regiment were part of the 27th Division
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"Gas! Gas! Quick, boys! - An ecstasy of fumbling,
Fitting the clumsy helmets just in time;
But someone still was yelling out and stumbling
And flound'ring like a man in fire or lime......."
Dulce et Decorum est: Wilfred Owen
Poetry Foundation: last accessed 5 Nov 2018
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This page was uploaded in 2013.
I have not yet checked that all the links are still current.
5 Nov 2018
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⊙
ИN
Deflowering Eyes
Igigi
www.saatchiart.com/print/New-Media-Deflowering-Eyes-Inna-...
Igigi are the gods of heaven in the mythology of Mesopotamia.
The name has unknown origin. The signs for the names, and one of the options for the etymology of the igigi are i2-gi3-gi3, which are the same signs for 5-1-1 or 5-60-60 5*(60+60)=600 which are by some traditions All the gods.
Another option is to try to interpret the words themselves. Igi means (eye) in the Sumerian language, and it used as logogram in the Akkadian language, gi stands for (penetrate sexually). Therefore, Igigi could be translated to (Eyes in the sky, the watchers, who deflower).
Text is available under the Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike License; additional terms may apply. By using this site, you agree to the Terms of Use and Privacy Policy. Wikipedia® is a registered trademark of the Wikimedia Foundation, Inc., a non-profit organization.
Igigi/Igigu (a group of gods)
This Semitic term describes a group of possibly seven or eight gods. It is likely that the god Marduk was one of them, but the total membership in this group is unclear and likely changed over time.
Functions
Like the term Anunna, the term Igigu is equally complicated and in need of a comprehensive new study. Igigu, which is likely of Semitic origin, indicates a group of gods in the Mesopotamian pantheon. It is, however, not entirely clear what distinguishes the Igigu from the Anunna.
The story of Atrahasis, the Babylonian story of the Flood and a precursor to the flood story in the Gilgameš Epic (Tablet XI), offers some evidence on the relationship between the Annunaki and the Igigu. The poem begins with the lines "When the gods like men bore the work and suffered the toil, the toil of the gods was great, the work was heavy, the distress was much" (lines 1-4) (Lambert and Millard 1999 [1969]: 43). The composition continues: "The Seven great Anunnaki were making the Igigu suffer the work" (lines 5-6) (Lambert and Millard 1969 [1999]: 43). What follows is partly fragmentary, but seems to indicate that the Igigu gods did not want to work any more and therefore the Anunnaki had to find a solution. Ultimately, this led to the creation of humans, who from then on had to bear the gods' work. In this story it appears that the Igigu were subordinate to the Anunnaki (von Soden 1989: 341-2). It is unclear which deities were included in the Igigu group.
In the prologue to the famous Code of Hammurabi it is indicated that the Anunnaki elevated the god Marduk among the Igigu gods (for a translation see Roth 1997: 76-142; also see von Soden 1966: 144), but it is difficult to assess the significance of this passage.
Some mythological texts, such as the Anzu myth, speak of an assembly of the Igigu gods, but whether this might be an institutionalized assembly, as suggested by Kienast 1965: 146, remains doubtful.
Divine Genealogy and Syncretisms
As mentioned above, it is not clear how many and which gods belonged to the Igigu, although the god Marduk appears to belong to this group for certain. It is possible that the group included only seven (von Soden 1966), eight (Kienast 1965: 144) or ten (Black and Green 1998: 106) gods, but this is uncertain as well.
Other gods who may belong to this group are Ištar, Asarluhi, Naramṣit, Ninurta, Nuska, and Šamaš (Kienast 1965: 149). Some gods seem to belong to both the Anunnaki and the Igigu (Kienast 1965: 152), yet more research is needed to gain a better understanding of this situation in the first millennium BCE.
Cult Place(s)
We currently know of no cult places for the Igigu. Kienast (1965; 1976-80) has repeatedly suggested that the Igigu are only attested in literary and mythological texts. However, von Soden (1966) has brought forth some evidence that might indicate that there are very few theophoric personal names TT which invoke the Igigu, thus offering some evidence for their veneration.
Time Periods Attested
The term Igigu is first attested in texts from the Old Babylonian period (Kienast 1976-80: 40; von Soden 1989: 340) and only occurs in Akkadian contexts (Edzard 1976-80: 37). A Sumerian logographic equivalent of the term Igigu is nun-gal-e-ne, to be translated as "the great princes/sovereigns." This term is mentioned in a literary text that has been ascribed to the princess Enheduanna, daughter of king Sargon, the founder of the Old Akkadian dynasty (Inana C, ETCSL 4.7.3 l. 2). This particular composition is only attested in Old Babylonian manuscripts and it is unclear whether an older date can be proven. According to Edzard (1976-80: 39) it is possible that nun-gal-e-ne was originally an epithet of the Anunna gods that later became identified with the Igigu under influence from Akkadian.
The Igigu and Anunnaki are frequently attested in literary, mythological, and religious (incantations and prayers) texts until the end of the cuneiform tradition. The Igigu are mentioned, among others, in the Anzu myth (Foster 2005: 555-578), in Enāma eliš TT (Foster 2005: 436-486), and the Erra poem (Foster 2005: 880-913), all of which are attested in manuscripts of the first millennium BCE.
Iconography
Because this term describes a group of gods, there are no known images of the Igigu.
Name and Spellings
The etymology of this term is unclear. It has been suggested the term is of Old Akkadian (Kienast 1965: 157; 1976-80: 40) or of (Old) Amorite (von Soden 1966: 144) or possibly Arabic origins (von Soden 1989: 340). For the various spellings see Kienast 1965: 142.
Written forms:
logographic: dnun gal-e-ne, dnun-gal-meš;
syllabic and pseudo-logographic: i-gi-gu, i-gi-gi, di-gi4-gi4, di-gi4-gi4-ne, i-gi4-gu, dí-gì-gì (the latter appears first in ninth century BCE);
cryptographic: dgéš-u
Normalized forms:
Igigu, Igigi
Igigu in Online Corpora
The Corpus of Ancient Mesopotamian Scholarship
Nungalene in Online Corpora
The Electronic Text Corpus of Sumerian Literature
Further Reading
Edzard 1976-80, "[Igigu], Anunna und."
Kienast 1965, "Igigu und Anunnakku nach den akkadischen Quellen."
Kienast 1976-80, "Igigu, Anunnakku und."
von Soden 1966, "Die Igigu-Götter."
von Soden 1989, "Die Igigu-Götter in altbabylonischer Zeit."
Nicole Brisch
Nicole Brisch, 'Igigi/Igigu (a group of gods)', Ancient Mesopotamian Gods and Goddesses, Oracc and the UK Higher Education Academy, 2012 [oracc.museum.upenn.edu/amgg/listofdeities/igigi/]
Released under a Creative Commons Attribution Share-Alike license 3.0, 2011.
The Pennsylvania
Sumerian Dictionary
igi [EYE] (1133x: ED IIIb, Old Akkadian, Lagash II, Ur III, Early Old Babylonian, Old Babylonian, unknown) wr. igi; i-bi2; i-gi "eye; carved eye (for statues)" Akk. īnu
psd.museum.upenn.edu/epsd/epsd/e2510.html
The Pennsylvania Sumerian Dictionary Project is carried out in the Babylonian Section of the University of Pennsylvania Museum of Anthropology and Archaeology. It is funded by the National Endowment for the Humanities and private contributions.
____________________________________
Cycles of the earth, winds, Igigi it's all here and no wonder the church has been hiding the text. The smoke sedates the Elohim (judges) they have their Territories, Not demons nor angels but IGIGI; the Watchers the little big eyed guys who have been stealing my eggs while I sleep 1-4.
archive.org/details/bookofenochproph00laur
ia802707.us.archive.org/10/items/bookofenochproph00laur/b...
The book of Enoch the prophet
by Laurence, Richard, 1760-1838
Publication date 1883
Publisher London : Kegan Paul, Trench
Collection Princeton; americana
Digitizing sponsor Internet Archive
Contributor Princeton Theological Seminary Library
Language English.
Addeddate 2008-11-12 13:13:18
Call number 185459
Camera Canon 5D
External-identifier urn:oclc:record:1041620576[WorldCat (this item)]
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Identifier bookofenochproph00laur
Identifier-ark ark:/13960/t16m3hr86
Lcamid
Missingpages
Openlibrary_edition OL23282189M
Openlibrary_work OL16734660W
Pages 244
Possible copyright status NOT_IN_COPYRIGHT
Ppi 500
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en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Watcher_(angel)#Grigori
Philo
According to PrEv 1.10.1-2 of Philo of Byblos, Sanchuniathon mentioned "some living beings who had no perception, out of whom intelligent beings came into existence, and they were called Zophasemin (Heb. șōpē-šāmayim, that is, 'Watchers of Heaven'). And they were formed like the shape of an egg."
The Old Testament Pseudepigrapha, volume 1, Apocalyptic Literature and Testaments
EDITED BY JAMES H. CHARLES WORTH, DUKE UNIVERSITY
DOUBLEDAY & COMPANY, INC. GARDEN CITY, NEW YORK
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: ISBN: 0-385-09630-5 Copyright © 1983 by James H. Charlesworth All Rights Reserved Printed in the United States of America Designed by Joseph P. Ascherl Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Main entry under title: Old Testament pseudepigrapha.
eclass.uoa.gr/modules/document/file.php/THEOL264/James%20...
____________________________________
Livius.org Articles on ancient history
www.livius.org/sources/content/anet/104-106-the-epic-of-a...
The Epic of Atraḥasis
The Epic of Atraḥasis is the fullest Mesopotamian account of the Great Flood, with Atraḥasis in the role of Noah. It was written in the seventeenth century BCE
The text is known from several versions: two were written by Assyrian scribes (one in the Assyrian, one in the Babylonian dialect), a third one (on three tablets) was written during the reign of king Ammi-saduqa of Babylonia (1647-1626 BCE). Parts are quoted in Tablet XI of the Epic of Gilgameš; other influences are in the Babylonian History by Berossus (quote). These texts can be used to reconstruct the lost parts of the Epic of Atraḥasis, while the overall structure is, of course, known from the Bible.
Summary
The conditions immediately after the Creation: the Lower Gods have to work very hard and start to complain
Revolt of the Lower Gods
Negotiations with the Great Gods
Proposal to create humans, to relieve the Lower Gods from their labor
Creation of the Man
Man's noisy behavior; new complaints from the gods
The supreme god Enlil's decision to extinguish mankind by a Great Flood
Atraḥasis is warned in a dream
Enki explains the dream to Atraḥasis (and betrays the plan)
Construction of the Ark
Boarding of the Ark
Departure
The Great Flood
The gods are hungry because there are no farmers left to bring sacrifices, and decide to spare Atraḥasis, even though he is a rebel
Regulations to cut down the noise: childbirth, infant mortality, and celibacy
The translation offered here is adapted from the one by B.R. Foster.
Translation
Complaints of the Lower Gods
[1] When the gods were man
they did forced labor, they bore drudgery.
Great indeed was the drudgery of the gods,
the forced labor was heavy, the misery too much:
[5] the seven great Anunna-gods were burdening
the Igigi-godsnote with forced labor.
[Lacuna]
[21] The gods were digging watercourses,
canals they opened, the life of the land.
The Igigi-gods were digging watercourses
canals they opened, the life of the land.
[25] The Igigi-gods dug the Tigris river
and the Euphrates thereafter.
Springs they opened from the depths,
wells ... they established.
...
They heaped up all the mountains.
[Several lines missing]
[34] ... years of drudgery.
[35] ... the vast marsh.
They counted years of drudgery,
... and forty years, too much!
... forced labor they bore night and day.
They were complaining, denouncing,
[40] muttering down in the ditch:
"Let us face up to our foreman the prefect,
he must take off our heavy burden upon us!
Enlil, counsellor of the gods, the warrior,
come, let us remove him from his dwelling;
[45] Enlil, counsellor of the gods, the warrior,
come, let us remove him from his dwelling!"
[Several lines missing]
[61] "Now them, call for battle,
battle let us join, warfare!"
The gods heard his words:
they set fire to their tools,
[65] they put fire to their spaces,
and flame to their workbaskets.
Off they went, one and all,
to the gate of the warrior Enlil's abode.
...
Insurrection of the Lower Gods
[70] It was night, half-way through the watch,
the house was surrounded, but the god did not know.
It was night, half-way through the watch,
Ekur was surrounded, but Enlil did not know!
[Several lines missing; the great gods send a messenger]
The Great Gods Send a Messenger
[132] Nusku opened his gate,
took his weapons and went ... Enlil.
In the assembly of all the gods,
[135] he knelt, stood up, expounded the command,
"Anu, your father,
your counsellor, the warrior Enlil,
your prefect, Ninurta,
and your bailiff Ennugi have sent me to say:
[140] 'Who is the instigator of this battle?
Who is the instigator of these hostilities?
Who declared war,
that battle has run up to the gate of Enlil?
In ...
[145] he transgressed the command of Enlil.'"
Reply by the Lower Gods
"Everyone of us gods has declared war;
...
We have set ... un the excvation,
excessive drudgery has killed us,
[150] our forced labor was heavy, the misery too much!
Now, everyone of us gods
has resolved on a reckoning with Enlil."
[The great gods decide to create man, to relieve the lower gods from their misery.]
Proposals by Ea, Belet-ili, and Enki
[a1] Ea made ready to speak,
and said to the gods, his brothers:
"What calumny do we lay to their charge?
Their forced labor was heavy, their misery too much!
[a5] Every day ...
the outcry was loud, we could hear the clamor.
There is ...
Belet-ili, the midwife, is present.note
Let her create, then, a human, a man,
[a10] Let him bear the yoke!
Let him bear the yoke!
Let man assume the drudgery of the god."
Belet-ili, the midwife, is present.
[190] Let the midwife create a human being!
Let man assume the drudgery of the god."
They summoned and asked the goddess
the midwife of the gods, wise Mami:note
"Will you be the birth goddess, creatress of mankind?
[195] Create a human being, that he bear the yoke,
let him bear the yoke, the task of Enlil,
let man assume the drudgery of the god."
Nintu made ready to speak,note
and said to the great gods:
[200] "It is not for me to do it,
the task is Enki's.
He it is that cleanses all,
let him provide me the clay so I can do the making."
Enki made ready to speak,
[205] and said to the great gods:
"On the first, seventh, and fifteenth days of the month,
let me establish a purification, a bath.
Let one god be slaughtered,
then let the gods be cleansed by immersion.
[210] Let Nintu mix clay with his flesh and blood.
Let that same god and man be thoroughly mixed in the clay.
Let us hear the drum for the rest of the time.
[215] From the flesh of the god let a spirit remain,
let it make the living know its sign,
lest he be allowed to be forgotten, let the spirit remain."
The great Anunna-gods, who administer destinies,
[220] answered "yes!" in the assembly.
The Creation of Man
On the first, seventh, and fifteenth days of the month,note
he established a purification, a bath.
They slaughtered Aw-ilu, who had the inspiration, in their assembly.
[225] Nintu mixed clay with his flesh and blood.
That same god and man were thoroughly mixed in the clay.
For the rest of the time they would hear the drum.
From the flesh of the god the spirit remained.
It would make the living know its sign.
[230] Lest he be allowed to be forgotten, the spirit remained.
After she had mixed the clay,
she summoned the Anunna, the great gods.
The Igigi, the great gods, spat upon the clay.
[235] Mami made rady to speak,
and said to the great gods:
"You ordered me the task and I have completed it!
You have slaughtered the god, along with his inspiration.
[240] I have done away with your heavy forced labor,
I have imposed your drudgery on man.
You have bestowed clamor upon mankind.
I have released the yoke, I have made restoration."
They heard this speech of hers,
[245] they ran, free of care, and kissed her feet, saying:
"Formerly we used to call you Mami,
now let your name be Belet-kala-ili:"note
[The human population increases and their noise disturbs the gods, who decide to wipe out mankind. The god Enki, however, sends a dream to Atrahasis. When the text resumes, Enki is still speaking.]
Enki explains Atraḥasis' dream
[i.b35] "Enlil committed an evil deed against the people."
[i.c11] Atraḥasis made ready to speak,
and said to his lord:
"Make me know the meaning of the dream.
let me know, that I may look out for its consequence."
[i.c15] Enki made ready to speak,
and said to his servant:
"You might say, 'Am I to be looking out while in the bedroom?'
Do you pay attention to message that I speak for your:
[i.c20] 'Wall, listen to me!
Reed wall, pay attention to all my words!
Flee the house, build a boat,
forsake possessions, and save life.
[i.c25] The boat which you build
... be equal ...
...
...
Roof her over like the depth,
[i.c30] so that the sun shall not see inside her.
Let her be roofed over fore and aft.
The gear should be very strong,
the pitch should be firm, and so give the boat strength.
I will shower down upon you later
[i.c35] a windfall of birds, a spate of fishes.'"
He opened the water clock and filled it,
he told it of the coming of the seven-day deluge.
Atraḥasis and the Elders
Atraḥasis received the command.
He assembled the Elders at his gate.
[i.c40] Atraḥasis made ready to speak,
and said to the Elders:
"My god does not agree with your god,
Enki and Enlil are constantly angry with each other.
They have expelled me from the land.
[i.c45] Since I have always reverenced Enki,
he told me this.
I can not live in ...
Nor can I set my feet on the earth of Enlil.
I will dwell with my god in the depths.
[i.c50] This he told me: ..."
Construction of the Ark
[ii.10] The Elders ...
The carpenter carried his axe,
the reedworker carried his stone,
the rich man carried the pitch,
the poor man brought the materials needed.
[Lacuna of about fifteen lines; the word Atraḥasis can be discerned.]
Boarding of the Ark
[ii.29] Bringing ...
[ii.30] whatever he had ...
Whatever he had ...
Pure animals he slaughtered, cattle ...
Fat animals he killed. Sheep ...
he choose and and brought on board.
[ii.35] The birds flying in the heavens,
the cattle and the ... of the cattle god,
the creatures of the steppe,
... he brought on board
...
[ii.40] he invited his people
... to a feast
... his family was brought on board.
While one was eating an another was drinking,
[ii.45] he went in and out; he could not sit, could not kneel,
for his heart was broken, he was retching gall.
Departure
The outlook of the weather changed.
Adadnote began to roar in the clouds.
[ii.50] The god they heard, his clamor.
He brought pitch to seal his door.
By the time he had bolted his door,
Adad was roaring in the clouds.
The winds were furious as he set forth,
[ii.55] He cut the mooring rope and released the boat.
[Lacuna]
The Great Flood
[iii.5] ... the storm
... were yoked
Anzu rent the sky with his talons,
He ... the land
[iii.10] and broke its clamor like a pot.
... the flood came forth.
Its power came upn the peoples like a battle,
one person did not see another,
they could not recognize each other in the catastrophe.
[iii.15] The deluge belowed like a bull,
The wind resounded like a screaming eagle.
The darkness was dense, the sun was gone,
... like flies.
[iii.20] the clamor of the deluge.
[Lacuna. The gods find themselves hungry because there are no farmers left and sacrifices are no longer brought. When they discover that Atrahasis has survived, they make a plan to make sure that the noise will remain within limits: they invent childbirth, infant mortality, and celibacy.]
Mankind Punished
[iii.45] Enki made ready to speak,
and said to Nintu the birth goddess:
"You, birth goddess, creatress of destinies,
establish death for all peoples!
[iii.d1] "Now then, let there be a third woman among the people,
among the people are the woman who has borne
and the woman who has not borne.
Let there be also among the people the pasittu (she-demon):
[iii.d5] Let her snatch the baby from the lap who bore it.
And etablish high priestesses and priestesses,
let them be taboo,note and so cut down childbirth."
This page was created in 2007; last modified on 12 October 2020.
Home » Sources » Content » ANET » 104-106 The Epic of Atraḥasis
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Brain Magick: Exercises in Meta-Magick and Invocation by Philip H. Farber
archive.org/details/BrainMagic/Brain%20Magic
archive.org/stream/BrainMagic/mega-book-two-volumes-in-on...
"Satana-il was the supreme leader of an extraterrestrial race that accompanied the Anunnaki in their second landing on earth.
This galactic race was physically and genetically different from the An unna ki and the Igigi. Their duty was to serve the Anu nna ki.
They rebelled against the An unna ki and broke the laws of their leader by breeding with the women of the Earth.
Contrary to the general belief, the An unna ki were not the first extraterrestrial race to marry, or the have sexual relations with the women of earth."
____________________________________
archive.org/details/img20190908220021901
Ancient Creation Myths
by Alberta Parish
Publication date 2019-09-08
Topics Enlil, Enki, Anunnaki, Sumerians, ancient myths, Babylonians, Enuma Elish, Atrahasis, Noah, Genesis Flood, Sumerian flood myth
God: The Original Slavemaster by Alberta Parish
Ever since I was a child, I have always believed in a benevolent God called Yahweh and Jehovah that biblical writers claimed created mankind for the express purpose of his will. In a Christianized Western culture, I was taught that only through Jesus Christ could I have eternal life with him and Yahweh. The epic of Atrahasis, an Akkadian tablet dating from the 18th Century BCE, gives a completely different account of mankind's creation and how the universe was formed beginning with the primordial waters.
Atrahasis was the last Sumerian king before the Great Deluge who was saved from the flood by the Anunnaki god Enki who had rulership of the great deep. According to Atrahasis, Homo Sapiens were created to serve the Anunnaki, which were extraterrestrials that landed in the Persian Gulf region about 450,000 years ago in search of gold to repair their home planet Nibiru's ozone.They made the Igigi gods, who were lower gods, mine for gold. Enlil, the ruler of earth and sky, who is also the equivalent of the biblical God Yahweh, also made the Igigi build canals, reedbeds, rivers and mountains. They built the Tigris and Euphrates rivers, and after 3,600 years, rebelled against their oppressor, Enlil.
Atrahasis had recorded that the Igigi cast off their work tools and surrounded Enlil's temple demanding to be relieved of their hard labor. It was later decided that the Anunnaki would make a species that were intelligent enough to do the work that the Igigi had refused to do. This was mankind's original purpose for being created by these extraterrestrials. It was also decided that an Anunnaki had to be sacrificed to make mankind.
The epic of Atrahasis states, "They slaughtered Aw-ilu, who had the inspiration, in their assembly.
Nintu mixed clay with his flesh and blood.
That same god and man were thoroughly mixed in the clay...After she had mixed the clay, she summoned the Anunna, the great gods.
The Igigi, the great gods, spat upon the clay.
Mami made ready to speak, and said to the great gods: "You ordered me the task and I have completed it!
You have slaughtered the god, along with his inspiration.
I have done away with your heavy forced labor,
I have imposed your drudgery on man.
You have bestowed clamor upon mankind."
With the help of Enki, half-brother of Enlil, the mother goddess Nintu (i.e., Mami) formed seven males and seven females from fourteen pieces of clay. It was also after this event that the human population grew, because the first seven males and females were given the ability to reproduce. When the human population grew, Enlil complained of their noise. He then set about to reduce the population. First, he caused a drought and mankind was destroyed. But it did nothing to reduce the population. Then, pestilence followed. Still, the population continued to grow. Lastly, Enlil caused a great famine. Eventually, the people turned cannibal as a result of the famine. Finally, Enlil proposed a solution to destroy the human population through a flood.
Read the remainder of my essay at www.ancientcreationmyths.com.
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ETCSLtranslation
etcsl.orinst.ox.ac.uk/cgi-bin/etcsl.cgi?charenc=gcirc&...
© Copyright 2003, 2004, 2005, 2006 The ETCSL project, Faculty of Oriental Studies, University of Oxford
Updated 2006-12-19 by JE
Igigi Search the English translations
Result: 3 paragraph(s)
A hymn to Marduk for Abī-Ešuḫ (Abī-Ešuḫ A): c.2.8.5.1
King who gathers up the divine powers of heaven and earth, foremost son of Enki, Marduk, mighty lord, perfect hero, foremost of the Great Princes (a name for the Igigi gods), strong one of the Anuna, the great gods who have given him justice and judgment! Great prince, descendant of holy An, lord who decides destinies, who has everything in his grasp (?), wise, august knower of hearts, whose divinity is manifest, who shows concern for all that he looks upon! Your ancestor An, king of the gods, has made your lordship effective against the armies of heaven and earth.
A hymn to Inana (Inana C): c.4.07.3
The great-hearted mistress, the impetuous lady, proud among the Anuna gods and pre-eminent in all lands, the great daughter of Suen, exalted among the Great Princes (a name of the Igigi gods), the magnificent lady who gathers up the divine powers of heaven and earth and rivals great An, is mightiest among the great gods -- she makes their verdicts final. The Anuna gods crawl before her august word whose course she does not let An know; he dare not proceed against her command. She changes her own action, and no one knows how it will occur. She makes perfect the great divine powers, she holds a shepherd's crook, and she is their magnificent pre-eminent one. She is a huge shackle clamping down upon the gods of the Land. Her great awesomeness covers the great mountain and levels the roads.
The debate between Bird and Fish: c.5.3.5
"You are like a watchman living on the walls (?), ……! Fish, you kindled fire against me, you planted henbane. In your stupidity you caused devastation; you have spattered your hands with blood! Your arrogant heart will destroy itself by its own deeds! But I am Bird, flying in the heavens and walking on the earth. Wherever I travel to, I am there for the joy of its …… named. ……, O Fish, …… bestowed by the Great Princes (a name for the Igigi). I am of first-class seed, and my young are first-born young! …… went with uplifted head …… to the lustrous E-kur. …… until distant days. …… the numerous people say. How can you not recognise my pre-eminence? Bow your neck to the ground."
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A song to Ninimma (Ninimma A): translation
web.archive.org/web/20060925024833/http://www-etcsl.orien...
SEGMENT A
1-18You are the seal-holder of the treasury of the ....... You are the caretaker of the great gods, you are ....... Ninimma, you are the lady of all the great rites in the E-kur. Lady, you are the ...... of Enlil, you are the heavenly scribe. You ...... the tablet of life.
1 line fragmentary
You, who bring the best corn, are the lady of the E-sara. The surveyor's gleaming line and the measuring rod suit you perfectly. You can hold your head high among the great princes. You are ....... You are ......, the cherished one.
1 line fragmentary
......; you are exceptional in wisdom. ...... joy ....... My lady, you were exalted already in the womb; you are resplendent like the sunlight. You are suited to the lapis-lazuli crown (?); you are the heavenly ....... ...... adorned with loveliness .......
1 line fragmentary
approx. 10 lines missing
SEGMENT B
1-11...... like a strong (?) ....... ...... of the E-kur ...... lady ....... ...... the forceful one of Nanna ....... You are profoundly intelligent, one who knows everything. You are the shining light which fills the exalted sanctuary. You are she who ...... by Enlil. You are ....... You are ....... You are most apt for the holy susbu rites and lustration rites.
1 line unclear
Ninimma of the holy divine plans, it is sweet to praise you!
SEGMENT C
1You are .......
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Revision history
22.x.1999 : GZ : adapting translation
06.xii.1999 : JAB : proofreading
13.xii.1999 : GC : tagging
22.xii.1999 : ER : proofreading SGML
22.xii.1999 : ER : converting to HTML 4.0
7.ix.2001 : ER : header and footer reformatted; substantive content of file not changed
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Inly, Bohdan
Young spotted hyeana, photographed in the wild in the Kruger National Park. © Gerda van Schalkwyk. All rights reserved.
About a month ago I stumbled upon the blog of a visitor to the Kgalagadi Transfrontier Park and was stupefied to read that, according to her, she had been the most afraid she has ever been when a spotted hyaena (which incidentally was many meters away cooling down in a waterhole) looked at her!
Adult hyaenas may not be "attractive" animals - as are many adult animals, including humans; it's the babies that make us go "awww" - but why would people consider lions, for example, as majestic and powerful, and hyaenas not. I did a bit of reading and found that hyenas have had bad press since the earliest of times. In fact, members of the IUCN Hyaena Specialist Group have found that one of the largest obstacles to hyaena conservation is the negative image most people hold about them.
• African folklore associates the hyena with witchcraft and the supernatural .
• Hyenas are considered a favourite mode of transportation for witches in Tanzania and India.
• Sudanese folklore and Persian medical writings from the 14th century warn of a combination man and hyena, similar to a werewolf, who attacks people under cover of darkness.
• In the Middle Ages, hyaenas were believed to dig up and consume human corpses.
• In Western culture the skewed perception of hyaenas dates back to the times of Aristotle ((384 BC – 322 BC) who described the species as a necrophagous, cowardly and potentially dangerous animal. He further described how the hyena uses retching noises to attract dogs.
In recent times they have not fared better:
• Ernest Hemingway in Green Hills of Africa (1935), wrote about “Fisi, the hyena, hermaphroditic self-eating devourer of the dead, trailer of calving cows, ham-stringer, potential biter-off of your face at night while you slept, sad yowler, camp-follower, stinking, foul, with jaws that crack the bones the lion leaves, belly dragging, loping away on the brown plain . . ."
• In Yann Martell’s Life of Pi the hyena is the personification of evil. One study guide on the book mentions that the hyena “is a vicious animal and so it shouldn't surprise us that the hyena would eat a zebra and kill an orang-utan”.
• And then there’s the portrayal of hyaenas as scheming, cowardly and skulking in Disney’s classic The Lion King. I was surprised to read that when The Lion King was produced Disney animators visited the University of California, Berkeley, and that scientists there made a plea for showing the predators in a more positive light, but we all know how that turned out.
Sources:
From the belly of the crowd, he emerged, wrapped in fury and paper flames, head dangling like a Chinese dragon, hissing, spitting, retching his hatred onto the mesmerized audience. Behind him, an army of drummers pounded the beat of a thousand hearts.
. . . A Bite of Bonito
Unfortunately that is not true for all my felines. You see, when Gumbo eats bonito he vomits ALL the contents of his belly twenty to thirty minutes later. And I mean ALL. Yuck. And, unfortunately, Gumbo does not get the association. He LOVES bonito. It just doesn't love him. All it takes is one tiny flake of the stuff to produce violent retching. Additionally, apparently, Gumbo is not alone in his reaction. MoMo turns his nose up at the stuff, refuses to eat it. But he accidentally got some on my fingers when I gave him a different treat. Same delayed reaction as Gumbo! Sigh. At least MoMo avoids the stuff. But the rest of the crew love bonito. Just have to make sure the canines clean up every last bit on the floor so Gumbo doesn't sneak a taste. . .
[SOOC, f/1.4, ISO 100, shutter speed 1/400]
Candlestick Park San Francisco, California 1978
The "stick had a reputation as be a retched ballyard. It was but I loved the place. Day games were fine until the late afternoon. Thats when it got real windy and a infield pop up could make the fielders look like buffoons from the Sunday beer leagues. There was no way to know where that ball might land.
Night games were cold as hell and when the Dodgers came to town and the fans were oiled well .......I pity the poor fool in Dodger blue. but the price a box seat was reasonable and the fans were true. The downtown park is swell, but I miss the crappy astro turf and the buck fifty brews. Where have you gone Willie Mac, the Baby Bull ,The Dominican Dandy, Johnnie LeMaster, And the Say Hey Kid
The damned ship lurched and slithered. Quiet and quick
My cold gorge rose; the long sea rolled; I knew
I must think hard of something, or be sick;
And could think hard of only one thing — YOU!
You, you alone could hold my fancy ever!
And with you memories come, sharp pain, and dole.
Now there's a choice — heartache or tortured liver!
A sea-sick body, or a you-sick soul!
Do I forget you? Retchings twist and tie me,
Old meat, good meals, brown gobbets, up I throw.
Do I remember? Acrid return and slimy,
The sobs and slobber of a last years woe.
And still the sick ship rolls. 'Tis hard, I tell ye,
To choose 'twixt love and nausea, heart and belly.
This was the 10th [tenth] motorcycle I owned, purchased circa 1989. This is not my bike but as close as it gets to the example I owned.
My bike was imported in to New Zealand from Queensland in Australia. It was originally owned by a Mr Colin R. Bruce, 146 Union Street, Spring Hill 4001, Brisbane.
The bike's owner's express warranty handbook provides the following details;
PRE-Delivery was at Queensland Bike World, Ipswich Rd, Marooka, date; 2/9/85.
Mechanic: M.S. Brown
The model: ZX 750 G2.
The bike had 2 more service checks at Queensland Bike World. 1. 20/9/85 at 800km/miles & 2. 18/2/86 at 4744km/miles.
Unfortunately on Friday April 27th 1990 at approximately 11.30pm I had my near-death motorcycle accident aboard it. I lost control of the bike after braking heavily at high speed for a right hand bend in the open road, fell, and slid across the road in to a farmer's paddock concrete fence post and instantly amputated my left leg at the knee. I was transferred to a local hospital fortunately within the 'golden hour'. More chance of surviving such an horrific traumatic accident. I had 12 hours of mainly exploratory surgery. My injuries were many and serious and my condition was listed as 'critical'. I had fractured my pelvis on the right side, had massive injury to my left buttock after sliding on tar seal in denim jeans. I had sustained several urological injuries, and a colostomy had been formed with my bowel.
My motorcycle was a write-off as it had chassis damage.
On the 4th day in the Intensive Care Unit I began fitting while in surgery and had developed renal failure. I was transferred to another hospital by ambo 200km east and placed on kidney dialysis. On the second evening in the Intensive Care Unit it was decided a hemipelvectomy operation be performed due to septicemia [blood poisoning] spreading from my remaining left leg stump. If the septicemia spread in to my body's vital organs I would die. So the remaining left leg stump was amputated including my hip joint and left side of my pelvis. It was a massive traumatic operation and I had my near-death experience during the operation. I could see myself from a distance [the ceiling of the surgical theater]. I also traveled through a tunnel at warp speed and met my maker on the other side. I was asked if I liked it there. I replied it was OK. I was then asked if I wanted to stay there or 'return'. I replied 'I'll return please'. I then again traveled at warp speed through a tunnel. I awoke after my operation and wondered what the F @ % & was going on.
I spent 3 weeks in the Intensive Care Unit trying to survive. My body was infused with the maximum dosage of morphine it could take as I was in so much pain. At times I was placed on a ventilator and thought I was Darth Farking Vader. I continually sweated profusely - remember the body's skin is like a car engine's radiator - so hack a piece of radiator off it and naturally the engine can't cool itself as well as if it had all the radiator. My hair began falling out. I experienced wild terrifying hallucinations. At one stage I believed one of my Intensive Care nurses was going to kill me - remember fear of dying is worse than really dying. I had little sleep, and dozed. For a long time I couldn't drink water - and believe me my thirst was greater than Jesus when he was in the desert. I couldn't eat. I was in hell. There was 2 ways out. 1. Death. 2. Life. I felt a presence of 'something' holding the rope I was at the bottom of clinging to. It was just not going to let me go. It was so strong. I began regaining strength. One day I was allowed to eat something. I chose a lettuce and Marmite sandwich. And a pottle of yogurt. Wow it was delicious!
I was transferred to Ward 4A near the nurses station. I couldn't sleep. I felt if I went to sleep at night I wouldn't wake up in the morning. I faked pain and was given 10mg of morphine in the morning around 6am. I slept for 2 hours. Upon waking I dry retched for 1/2 an hour. This regime continued until I began naturally falling asleep at night. I stopped asking for morphine. I was transferred to a room of 4 patients. I began communicating with other patients. I was placed on a 'Tilt Board' to get my body used to being upright again. One time I was assisted out of bed and in to a 'Walking Frame'. I began hopping on my one good right leg in the Walking Frame.
I was transferred to another 4 patient room where sunshine would come through the window curtains in the afternoon. I began being taken by stretcher and wheels on my back over to the Physio Swimming Pool where I was lowered in to the pool by tray on my back. I would be dipped in to the water and my body would then naturally roll off into beautiful warm water OH WOW! I would wade around in the warm water before returning to my hospital ward room and my primary nurse would make up a full 1 liter plastic jug of orange flavored cordial and I would devour it! This regime continued and it wasn't long before I began semi-swimming in the Physio Swimming Pool - remember as I was a very successful local athlete [road cycling, marathon runner/harrier, bi & triathlete] my body was used to exercise and a lot of it. But this was an entirely different sport - the sport of REHABILITATION.
See road cycling career info here: www.flickr.com/photos/35707376@N00/51988007800/in/album-7...
I was also taken across to the Otago/Southland Artificial Limb Center where I was cast and fitted with a hemipelvectomy prosthesis. However as I was so weak I found it very slow and frustrating learning to use the prosthesis. I was also issued a pair of crutches.
Read about how I put my crutches to good use here:
www.flickr.com/photos/35707376@N00/52067220563/in/album-7...
I spent a total of 101 days in hospital and hopped out with a prosthesis over my shoulder. My new life as a trauma hemipelvectomy was about to START.
The Southland Times newspaper article covering my accident:
www.flickr.com/photos/35707376@N00/52037881082/in/album-7...
At The Big Kart Track on the Sunshine Coast in Australia on my honeymoon in 2005:
www.flickr.com/photos/35707376@N00/50403299991/in/album-7...
At Australia Zoo catching up with my old mate Skippy on my honeymoon in 2005: www.flickr.com/photos/35707376@N00/50403280721/in/album-7...
Meeting Australian V8 Supercars hero & super driver Rick Kelly here in Invercargill in 2013: www.flickr.com/photos/35707376@N00/24735165364/in/album-7...
This was the 10th [tenth] motorcycle I owned, purchased circa 1989. This is not my bike but as close as it gets to the example I owned.
My bike was imported in to New Zealand from Queensland in Australia. It was originally owned by a Mr Colin R. Bruce, 146 Union Street, Spring Hill 4001, Brisbane.
The bike's owner's express warranty handbook provides the following details;
PRE-Delivery was at Queensland Bike World, Ipswich Rd, Marooka, date; 2/9/85.
Mechanic: M.S. Brown
The model: ZX 750 G2.
The bike had 2 more service checks at Queensland Bike World. 1. 20/9/85 at 800km/miles & 2. 18/2/86 at 4744km/miles.
Unfortunately on Friday April 27th 1990 at approximately 11.30pm I had my near-death motorcycle accident aboard it. I lost control of the bike after braking heavily at high speed for a right hand bend in the open road, fell, and slid across the road in to a farmer's paddock concrete fence post and instantly amputated my left leg at the knee. I was transferred to a local hospital fortunately within the 'golden hour'. More chance of surviving such an horrific traumatic accident. I had 12 hours of mainly exploratory surgery. My injuries were many and serious and my condition was listed as 'critical'. I had fractured my pelvis on the right side, had massive injury to my left buttock after sliding on tar seal in denim jeans. I had sustained several urological injuries, and a colostomy had been formed with my bowel.
My motorcycle was a write-off as it had chassis damage.
On the 4th day in the Intensive Care Unit I began fitting while in surgery and had developed renal failure. I was transferred to another hospital by ambo 200km east and placed on kidney dialysis. On the second evening in the Intensive Care Unit it was decided a hemipelvectomy operation be performed due to septicemia [blood poisoning] spreading from my remaining left leg stump. If the septicemia spread in to my body's vital organs I would die. So the remaining left leg stump was amputated including my hip joint and left side of my pelvis. It was a massive traumatic operation and I had my near-death experience during the operation. I could see myself from a distance [the ceiling of the surgical theater]. I also traveled through a tunnel at warp speed and met my maker on the other side. I was asked if I liked it there. I replied it was OK. I was then asked if I wanted to stay there or 'return'. I replied 'I'll return please'. I then again traveled at warp speed through a tunnel. I awoke after my operation and wondered what the F @ % & was going on.
I spent 3 weeks in the Intensive Care Unit trying to survive. My body was infused with the maximum dosage of morphine it could take as I was in so much pain. At times I was placed on a ventilator and thought I was Darth Farking Vader. I continually sweated profusely - remember the body's skin is like a car engine's radiator - so hack a piece of radiator off it and naturally the engine can't cool itself as well as if it had all the radiator. My hair began falling out. I experienced wild terrifying hallucinations. At one stage I believed one of my Intensive Care nurses was going to kill me - remember fear of dying is worse than really dying. I had little sleep, and dozed. For a long time I couldn't drink water - and believe me my thirst was greater than Jesus when he was in the desert. I couldn't eat. I was in hell. There was 2 ways out. 1. Death. 2. Life. I felt a presence of 'something' holding the rope I was at the bottom of clinging to. It was just not going to let me go. It was so strong. I began regaining strength. One day I was allowed to eat something. I chose a lettuce and Marmite sandwich. And a pottle of yogurt. Wow it was delicious!
I was transferred to Ward 4A near the nurses station. I couldn't sleep. I felt if I went to sleep at night I wouldn't wake up in the morning. I faked pain and was given 10mg of morphine in the morning around 6am. I slept for 2 hours. Upon waking I dry retched for 1/2 an hour. This regime continued until I began naturally falling asleep at night. I stopped asking for morphine. I was transferred to a room of 4 patients. I began communicating with other patients. I was placed on a 'Tilt Board' to get my body used to being upright again. One time I was assisted out of bed and in to a 'Walking Frame'. I began hopping on my one good right leg in the Walking Frame.
I was transferred to another 4 patient room where sunshine would come through the window curtains in the afternoon. I began being taken by stretcher and wheels on my back over to the Physio Swimming Pool where I was lowered in to the pool by tray on my back. I would be dipped in to the water and my body would then naturally roll off into beautiful warm water OH WOW! I would wade around in the warm water before returning to my hospital ward room and my primary nurse would make up a full 1 liter plastic jug of orange flavored cordial and I would devour it! This regime continued and it wasn't long before I began semi-swimming in the Physio Swimming Pool - remember as I was a very successful local athlete [road cycling, marathon runner/harrier, bi & triathlete] my body was used to exercise and a lot of it. But this was an entirely different sport - the sport of REHABILITATION.
See road cycling career info here: www.flickr.com/photos/35707376@N00/51988007800/in/album-7...
I was also taken across to the Otago/Southland Artificial Limb Center where I was cast and fitted with a hemipelvectomy prosthesis. However as I was so weak I found it very slow and frustrating learning to use the prosthesis. I was also issued a pair of crutches.
Read about how I put my crutches to good use here:
www.flickr.com/photos/35707376@N00/52067220563/in/album-7...
I spent a total of 101 days in hospital and hopped out with a prosthesis over my shoulder. My new life as a trauma hemipelvectomy was about to START.
The Southland Times newspaper article covering my accident:
www.flickr.com/photos/35707376@N00/52037881082/in/album-7...
At The Big Kart Track on the Sunshine Coast in Australia on my honeymoon in 2005:
www.flickr.com/photos/35707376@N00/50403299991/in/album-7...
At Australia Zoo catching up with my old mate Skippy on my honeymoon in 2005: www.flickr.com/photos/35707376@N00/50403280721/in/album-7...
Meeting Australian V8 Supercars hero & super driver Rick Kelly here in Invercargill in 2013: www.flickr.com/photos/35707376@N00/24735165364/in/album-7...
from the exhibition "artlanguage" every publishable place, the piece "shelve" by me, made in 1997, now in the collection of dan ormella and jo boag...
[photo by ruark lewis, who curated the show]
another photo of this work in its original context here:
www.flickr.com/photos/bilateral/996461289/in/photostream/
ps - here are some question and answers that the folks at the cross art projects asked me to reply to at the time. i think they were going to put the text on their website but they never got around to it -
---interview---
RE:SHELF ET AL
So that the information remains in your own words, can I ask you a few questions about your piece? called -
SHELF
1. Can you describe how the title of this work evolved
actually its "SHELVE" not "SHELF". The word is the imperative form of the verb. Thus it's a command to SHELVE! The work doesn't really attempt logical sense. I made it during a period when I was obsessed with making shelves in my house, where I didn't have much space to put any of my stuff. I made a lot of domestic work at that time. Here's another photo of another shelving piece from that period (1997-8) where I made my bed into a shelf - flickr.com/photos/bilateral/997419076/. The silly thing about the work from this period was that it was always bouncing back and forth between utility and uselessness.
2. How do the materials you selected/found play a part in the management of the poetic ideas of this work?
Here's a pointless biographical note: everything I made during that period was cut out with a jigsaw I purchased from Cash Converters in Newtown. I had this logic that instead of spending 200 dollars on a wooden bed base, I should buy myself a saw with the same money, and "seize the means of production". That led to all this home made shelving and bed stuff. Since I blew all my money on the saw, there was no more left for materials. The two pieces of wood in SHELVE were scavenged off the street. The wood is the original found length. I just cut away the material to leave the word.
3. how does a politic of play have a role in this work? In your visual
documentation there were images of people standing beneath it at a reception for the work. What sort of issues are there to do with authority, the site, simplicity, fluxus and found materials, the street and the everyday and its human interactiveness. How do these things operate in the way this work is formally recognised in the framework of a gallery?
From memory, SHELVE is mounted too high for any normal person to be able to follow its instruction. Perhaps it sits at exactly the height I can reach with my fingers while standing on tippy-toes. That would make sense, since it was a body-measurement logic I used a lot at that time. Your question is a little too vast and open for me to be able to answer here. Here's an attempt: I've always been interested in play. A "politic" of play, I don't know what that might be. I was only vaguely aware of Fluxus at the time, though I have become obsessed with that stuff since then. But I did do a lot of stuff with instructions, which ties in with the Fluxus "event-scores" - and I had this idea that given a specific enough set of instructions, anyone could follow them and make the work. In this way, the "talent" of the artist and mystery of the creative act were chucked out. I always had this pipe dream of making it seem easy to make art, to get away from the idea of a tortured soul expressing "his" inner self through an ineffable skill - which means that the audience can only faint in appreciation, or (more likely) retch.
4. Are there any external references you would like to mention that relate to this work, things you may have been reading, or activisms or issues this work might signal toward?
Not really. In truth, this work is fairly minor in the history of my art practice. It's a "souvenier" piece - something that exists in an autonomous physical form, independent of me. In the mid 90s I was obsessed with these kind of self-contained conceptual works, you know, inspired by things like Robert Morris' Box with the Sound of its Own Making (1961). Now I prefer messy, open ended and prolonged processes. That's why I don't (can't?) have gallery exhibitions very often.
---end interview---
Best place to hide is in plain sight. Glasses and a huge hat were not enough. Contact lenses, dressed like a beggar, lack of kids, and BATHING in used kitty litter had the searcher's eyes watering! Even Camo was giving me dirty looks.
"Humans are disgusting", one of them retched. A few other searchers were dry heaving enough to agree. Instead of tropical beach, looks like snow is in our future....plenty of snow I thought as I shuffled right past the group.
"I agree, it feels GOOD." Proper bath, change of clothes and a plan gave me hope. Am glad that Flerkens like water, or this would be a very smelly kitty.
OoOoO
Sometimes we are so caught up with our own view, we forget to back up and see it from another perspective. I have been caught up with showing clothing that fits Lara 5.3, because a LOT of us still wear it. A friend asked if it came in Legacy, and I was stumped. Doh, that brainfluff of mine stunk!! Others are going thru the SAME problem, different body.
Thank you for the Likes, View, Faves, and Comments! Huggles
Visit this location at ** Xpressions Ultd Store ** in Second Life
I won't be in this retched city known as Gotham a long amount of time, but in the time period that I'm here I figure I will cause as much destruction and damage as I can do. I'm known as the Gentleman Ghost (for obvious reasons). I've been around for quite some time and I've tussled with the Dark Knight himself on multiple occasions. I've even fought his kid side kick Robin and Nightwing. On one occasion I fought an archer known as the "Green Arrow" and his sidekick speedy or something like that. I've heard that this archer is visiting Gotham for the time being so while I'm here having "my cup of tea" I may pay him a visit as well.
____________________
Well guys, I know it's not much of a MOC and there's nothing too special about the figure but I'm found of it and I decided that i will be playing as the Gentleman Ghost for the first week of GCW. After that I will return to playing as Nightwing. So tell me what you guys think of everything here. Thanks guys!
Jesus is the way, the truth, and the life!
-Jon
Hello good citizens of New York, I'm your host, J. Jonah Jameson, and today we will be taking a look today at the menace known as Spider-man.
Earlier today the retched hooligan Spider-man decided to make an appearance at the Southern end of 53 card next to the old warehouses; after everybody thought he abandoned the city for a number of weeks. It's pretty common to see the wall crawler in the city so it's usually no big deal. But today, spider-man chose to wear a suit that is a bit more fitting for his character, an outlaw, a criminal. Is this the real Spider-man in a new suit, or just a wanna be? Stay tuned until tomorrow to find out.
___________________________________
Spider-man moves from area #59 to neutral area #58
Hey guys! Thought I'd try to start up my MUW mocs again and start putting a story line to it. If anyone can guess the story line the will get a cookie! I'm extremely excited to do this story line, and I'm sure you guys will be too!
OK had to actually try something this week for the Soulpancake wk 4 "Eat something that tests your gag reflexes."
Without a doubt this certainly made me gag. This is tripe.... more specifically Omasum tripe which is the wall of the third stomach compartment of a cow or sheep.
It is ghastly stuff that has the consistency of neoprene to chew.... and it came in pieces way too big to swallow in one go. I chewed it for a while but gave up before swallowing. And the result..... not sure what good this exercise did..... Knew it would be terrible, it was terrible - but so what.
The rest of the Dim Sum meal at the Chinese was phenomenally good - which more than made up for the disgusting tripe dish.
Later in the day we went around the Royal Academy of Arts looking at the sculpture exhibition - Some phenomenal stuff there too.... including another piece that makes one retch.... The Damien Hirst exhibit where thousands of maggots mature into flies... and then feast on abandoned barbecue
Read more: www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-1348845/Damien-Hirsts-la...
Feb ABC - W is for "What a load of tripe"
54/365:2011 - 23rd Feb
1. His Liver
It is not the eternal unravelling
of the viscera, so much as regeneration
which agonises: all that homogenous
flesh, flaccid as a blood-clot,
swelling and re-swelling to fit
the ribcage, while the gaunt birds
look sideways with jaundiced eyes,
cock their heads, stoop, wreck
and rend – and all the while
that sickly refilling, like a tide
of sanguine jelly – the hideous
sucking sound of the abdomen
glutting. Manacled, maimed, unstrung,
I retch, press harder into stone.
2.The Stone
The stone wears his torso like a carbuncle –
a weeping sore – the rusted taint of iron ore
seeps out of it and into him, fills his liver
with a slick of blood that bleeds forever,
and the stone is never drained, plumbed
to his innards by a vein of darker rock:
it sputters from the molten centre, wells
up unstaunchable, a cold, congealing lava.
3.The Eagles
At first, there was great clamour in the sky.
The supply was endless; the ancient wind
was black with eagles silhouetted – only
their eyes gleamed with sulphur. They thrust
their whole heads into the heinous rend
in his abdomen, their bills unravelling
grey intestines, tearing connective tissue
with a guileless blunt dissection, spilling
out the whole package, like opening a sluice.
The liver exposed, they grouped and gorged,
and grew bored with having to gullet
the same slippery offal day after day –
got sick of the stench of it, wearied
of preening off the drying gunk, sneezing
it from their nostrils, yawning great red
spit-bridges of the stuff. They thought
they would rather starve. There was a rush
of pinions. The liver, uneaten, pulsed,
began to spread.
Poem and picture by Giles Watson, 2012.
Wednesday
A day of rain.
And a trip to Newcastle.
Hmmmm, Newcastle.
We woke up at half seven, outside it was overcast with the promise of much rain through the day. We planned to go to Hexham to catch the train into the city, wander round, have lunch, take shots and come back. And it still sounded a good idea in the morning. So, after breakfast, we gathered our stuff, our new waterproof jackets and walking boots, packed the car and set off down the valley to Hexham.
There is an even more local station nearer the cottage, but only has a two-hourly service through the day. A 15 minute drive to Hexham opens the possibility of half hourly trains, if we got bored in the city.
Two pounds to park the car all day outside the station, seven quid for a return ticket. A cheap day it seemed.
We had timed it just right, and 5 minutes after arriving, our train, a class 156, pulled up and we all got on for the half hour trundle into town. The line runs beside the river Tyne, and is very picturesque, even from a rattly diesel DMU.
We pulled into Newcastle, over Stephenson’s high level bridge, with glorious views over the river and city. It had just begun to rain, but we were prepared.
Outside the station, we looked up the wide street in front, and I saw a memorial, which should mean there was a square, maybe the centre of the city, so we set off, dodging shoppers and waiting bus passengers. However, we were thirsty. And hungry. And seeing an Italian ice cream parlour, we go inside to have breakfast.
I order sausage roll and a coffee: Jools has quiche. And a coffee. Now, that we did not specify what kind of coffee we wanted should have meant we got a cup of filter. Or so we thought. But what we did get was a cup of milky coffee, the kind that my parents used to drink, made with almost all hot milk, and horrible.
I tried to tell myself this was some kind of retro food experience, but my main thought was to drink it as soon as possible before a skin formed on the top, which would have made me retch.
Further up the street, we saw a sign saying ‘central arcade’; we thought it looked interesting and went in. Just as well we did, as inside it was decorated with splendid tiles, in a fine art deco fashion. In admiring them, we caught the attention of a woman, who engaged us in conversation. Turns out she was a guide, and for four pounds each would take us on a 90 minute tour round the city.
Sounded fair to us, so we paid, and our guide explained the history of the arcade and the surrounding area, all gentrified in the 1830s, which so resembled fine Parisian boulevards. It was a wonderful area, and the style, Tyne Gothic was very nice and almost chic. It has been renovated in recent times, and looks like it did when new, except for the pawnbrokers and other modern shops now occupying the ground floors.
We were shown the indoor market, the Theatre Royal, all the time heading down towards the river. We stop at The Black Gate, the old main entrance to the city, and next to it the Norman, or New, castle. I know that from the top fine views of trains arriving and leaving from the station could be had, and so I planned to return later in the day.
We walk down the old main road, the old Great North Road, as was, now a quit pedestrianised street, leading steeply down underneath two of the 5 bridges that cross the river. More history down there; merchants houses, where wharfs unloaded good from around the world, and just beyond, the once busy river.
That was the tour, we thanked the guide, and she said that along the river we would find many places to have lunch. We walked on, coming to a modern glass and steel building, a posh eateries and bar: looking at the menu, we both decide burgers were in order. So we go in, take a table, order drinks and our meal and watch the people. It is graduation at the university, and many people are in gowns, joyful with their friends and families, out celebrating their degrees and awards.
Our burgers were good, as were the drinks; Jools has a margarita, which was OK, but strong. Once we finish, I leave Jools on a bench as I cross the blinking bridge to snap the views along the river.
As the rain falls again, we walk back up the hill to the castle: I buy a ticket and go straight to the roof of the keep to snap the trains. But no Flying Scotsmen or Deltics this day, just the usual class 91, now rebranded to Branson’s Virgin company.
I take shots anyway, but time is getting away from us. I worry that our tickets will not be valid between four and six, so en route to the station, we stop off at the cathedral, I rattle off a few shots and we press on.
Just missing one train back to Hexham, but another is due to leave before four, a minute before four in fact. So, I pace the platform, snapping the trains that were there, coming and going before our nodding donkey arrives.
The class 142 is a horrible train, loud, even more ratly than the one we rode in the morning. Jools manages to nod off, quite an achievement as we shake our way along the Tyne valley. Half an hour later we pull into Hexham, we get off, and walk to the car, just a 15 minute whiz up the road to the cottage.
Yesterday, we bought a couple of bird feeders and hung them on the washing line and a bush in the garden, and to our delight as we arrived, a half dozen birds were about, feeding well. As we went inside, the heavens opened, and so we looked out the windows as the rain ran down the roof and off the ends of the thatch. That put paid to another evening we hoped to be sitting in the garden watching the owls and bats flying.
The Castle, Newcastle is a medieval fortification in Newcastle upon Tyne, England, built on the site of the fortress which gave the City of Newcastle its name. The most prominent remaining structures on the site are the Castle Keep, the castle's main fortified stone tower, and the Black Gate, its fortified gatehouse.
Use of the site for defensive purposes dates from Roman times, when it housed a fort and settlement called Pons Aelius, guarding a bridge over the River Tyne. In 1080, a wooden motte and bailey style castle was built on the site of the Roman fort, which was the 'New Castle upon Tyne'. It was built by Robert Curthose, eldest son of William the Conqueror, having returned south from a campaign against Malcolm III of Scotland. The stone Castle Keep was built between 1172 and 1177 by Henry II on the site of Curthose's castle. The Black Gate was added between 1247 and 1250 by Henry III.
The site is in the centre of Newcastle, and lies to the east of Newcastle Central Station. The 75 feet (23 m) gap between the Keep and the Gatehouse is almost entirely filled by a railway viaduct, carrying the East Coast Main Line from Newcastle to Scotland. The Castle Keep and Black Gate pre-dated the construction of the Newcastle town wall, construction of which started sometime around 1265, and did not form part of it. Nothing remains of the Roman fort or the original motte and bailey castle. The Keep is a Grade I listed building, and a Scheduled Ancient Monument.
The Keep and Black Gate are now managed by the Old Newcastle Project under the Heart of the City Partnership as one combined visitor attraction, Newcastle Castle.
In the mid-2nd century, the Romans built the first bridge to cross the River Tyne at the place where Newcastle now stands. The bridge was called Pons Aelius or ‘Bridge of Aelius’, Aelius being the family name of Emperor Hadrian, who was responsible for the Roman wall built along Tyne-Solway Gap. The Romans built a fort to protect the river crossing which was at the foot of the Tyne Gorge. The fort was situated on rocky outcrop overlooking the new bridge.[1]
At some unknown time in the Anglo-Saxon age, the site of Newcastle came to be known as Monkchester. In the late 7th century, a cemetery was established on the site of the Roman castle.
In 1080, the Norman king, William I, sent his eldest son, Robert Curthose, north to defend the kingdom against the Scots. After his campaign, he moved to Monkchester and began the building of a ‘New Castle’. This was of the “motte-and-bailey” type of construction, a wooden tower on top of an earthen mound (motte), surrounded by a moat and wooden stockade (bailey).[2]
In 1095, the Earl of Northumbria, Robert de Mowbray, rose up against William Rufus and Rufus sent an army north to crush the revolt and to capture the castle. From then on the castle became crown property and was an important base from which the king could control the northern barons.
Not a trace of the tower or mound of the motte and bailey castle remains now. Henry II replaced it with a rectangular stone keep, which was built between 1172 and 1177 at a cost of £1,444. A stone bailey, in the form of a triangle, replaced the previous wooden one. The master mason or architect, Maurice, also built Dover Castle. The great outer gateway to the castle, called ‘the Black Gate’, was built later, between 1247 and 1250, in the reign of Henry III.[3]
Additional protection to the castle was provided late in the 13th century when stone walls were constructed, with towers, to enclose the town. Ironically, the safety provided by the town walls led to the neglect of the fabric of the castle. In 1589, during the reign of Queen Elizabeth the castle was described as being ruinous.[4] From the early 17th century onward, this situation was made worse by the construction of shops and houses on much of the site.
In 1643, during the English Civil War, the Royalist Mayor of Newcastle, Sir John Marley, repaired the keep and probably also refortified the castle. In 1644 the Scottish army crossed the border in support of the Parliamentarians and the Scottish troops besieged Newcastle for three months until the garrison surrendered. The town walls were extensively damaged and the final forces to surrender on 19 October 1644 did so from the Castle keep.[5]
During the 16th to the 18th century, the keep was used as a prison. By 1800, there were a large number of houses within the boundaries of the castle.
March 10, 2010
a blank page just sits before
me and stares,
in comparison
my marriage
to my pen is imperative
a parasidic parrot preaching
perched on my shoulder
spits verses
cursing jerm in the third person.
i'm worth less
worth less than portraits of
my first steps,
taken on this retched Earth
so where's death
needed it since I was a fetus
so please death, take me
can't tell you how happy you'll make me.
- jerm IX
And so, Richie never ate at Hardee's ever again.
Featured on Life In Plastic: nerditis.com/2013/10/25/life-in-plastic-toy-review-garbag...
Featured on Poe Ghostal's Pic of the Day: www.poeghostal.com/2014/01/pic-of-the-day-richie-retch-by...
Just got back from camping near Quebec City. This is the vista that awaited us after a 2 and a half hour hike up the mountain along a winding trail that passed through dense undergrowth of moss and ferns, skyward reaching yellow birch, maple, elm, and pine. Parc Jaques Cartier was spectacular, except for the bugs ;) of course, which were retched, biting beasts that belong somewhere in the past alongside the dinosaurs. Certainly not in a modern world with skyscrapers and metros and the automobile. Good thing we brought along some technology in the form of aerosol DEET!
The swan arches her body
Into one half of the love-heart
And as her mate completes
The universe . . . uncomprehending
A boy-soldier stands on a mine
In a foreign field . . . unbelieving
As the sun sets fire to the
Swan's ballroom of romance . . . glowing
A girl-child runs from
The napalm baptism
Of “Christian” wings . . . screaming
As the pop-corn crowd elbow into
The giant stadium . . . clamouring
A column of bare-foot refugees
Are caught in a shortfall barrage . . . disintegrating
As the child betrayed by a pervert father
Hides,in pain . . . sobbing
An African father presses his last maize
Into his daughter's hunger . . . shuddering
As the party-goers and night-clubbers
Bow to the tarmac . . . retching
Sweat-shop slaves trudge
Their noisome alley-ways . . . demeaning
As the holiday-jetters
Burn the future . . . ignoring
Emaciated children wear away
Their pencil-bones
Water-pitchers . . . grinding
And almost everywhere brains
Whirl and whir . . . thinking
Whilst from ivory towers
The great powers look-on . . . winking
And thus sets the sun, to rise again
Ever,ever repeating
© Mike Laycock (Silversalt)
www.porsche.com/international/models/911/carrera-models/9...
Anyone who dreams of a Porsche usually has an image in their mind: the 911 has been the epitome of an exciting, powerful sports car with day-to-day usability for 60 years. Take a seat behind the wheel of the new 911 and become part of a unique community.
www.motortrend.com/reviews/2022-porsche-911-carrera-gts-f...
Porsche presently offers 21 available or imminently available variants of the 992-series 911, from the least expensive Carrera to the priciest Turbo S. It's enough to confuse even avowed Porschephiles and to spur cynics to roll their eyes. This fast-food-like approach dishes out calories incrementally, a proven strategy to entice buyers of varying means and to squeeze every available cent from their accounts. But cynicism melts away when you drive the new 2022 Porsche 911 Carrera GTS.
Regular or Medium Size?
The 2022 porsche 911 Carrera GTS is the 911 lineup's middle child, but that's no slight. Since the badge's arrival as a fixture in the range a little more than a decade ago, Porsche has positioned the GTS between the Carrera S and GT3 (and Turbo) in performance and price. The simplest way to think of it is as a Carrera S with every must-have performance option, for less money than you pay by adding them à la carte. The kicker: Not all its hardware is available on lesser versions, making it wallet clickbait for Carrera shoppers who retch at the notion of not having their hands on the most capable offering, whether they need it or not.
en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Porsche_911
The Carrera name was reintroduced from the 356 Carrera which had itself been named after Porsche's class victories in the Carrera Panamericana races in Mexico in the 1950s.
Special car
So glad we bought these rubber gloves. Some of you that know how I really am about touching "stuff". After surviving 2007 I am getting better at it.... and some of you are noticing.... but this called for the gloves.
Seriously some people shouldn't be allowed to exist, must less rent apartments. If your sink AND shower gets to the point where your water isn't draining, what do you logically do? Pack up all your shit and get a new apartment or call the maintenance guy to help you out of your filthy mess that you've created for your nasty skanky self (maybe you're to fucking embarassed to admit you live like a filthy pig)? Maybe if you're paranoid like me and don't like creepy maintenance workers scoping out all your earthly possessions, so you learn how to fix it your damn self.
So here I am, sick of the second or third shower where I have water around my ankles and thinking to myself that my precious Munster shouldn't have to take a bath in this filth either. Then I'm thinking about how the other baby in my life is about his feet (tickle tickle) and I'm getting fed up thinking about just how disgusting some people allow themselves to live. And I wonder why this shit wasn't cleaned up BEFORE a lease was signed. It's like "Who the hell is in charge here?"
I have some time to kill waiting for Sarah to call and Munster needs some socializing so hanging out in the bathroom is the best thing to do right now. I pull about 8 ounces of longer-than-my-hair out of the shower drain, along with razor-head-covers and a few shampoo-lid-seals and I think to myself that if I ever meet this filthy bitch she deserves to have her hair put in a meat grinder.
No I'm not pissed. Not at all. I really don't think that bitch should breed though... much less socialize with other humans. I bet she has stashes of ketchup and old crusty french fries in her car too. (some of you will catch this inside joke)
After retching a few times I call up my mom and ask her why the cork in the sink isn't coming out (as if she can see *MY* sink). I'm wrestling with it over the phone; twisting and turning it this way and that way, getting more frustrated when she tells me to look under the sink and there should be a level. There it is! Fidget with that then go back to twisting ~ when the cork works itself free.
Then I pull the cork out and I tell her "I gotta go Mom, this is nasty." Then I drop the phone and start retching again. Then I wonder.... maybe the maintenance guy idea isn't so bad. Oh hell no. I don't want his leers in my direction. Go away stupid thoughts. I can do this myself.
I can't reach in to pull out whatever is stuck (cause my fingers are not *THAT* long) and I refuse to use a screwdriver or other item... that's not what they're for, and I don't think I could ever use it again if I did that (no matter how much I disinfect it). So I call my brother and ask if he has any draino. He doesn't and hes not home anyway. Damn. That means a trip to the Evil Empire. Well, it's gonna have to wait until after I go out with Sarah.
In the mean time... there she is on the phone. SQUEEEE!
So we hang out with Matt and Taylor, left Dustin at home, ate at some smoky loud bar with a lousy crap-tastic SICK (as in not well) waitress (but good food and awesome company), watched Matt get a tattoo, and went to the best Evil Empire in the country. Matt and Taylor were impressed. Sarah and I were like, they're definately *not* all like this. Just glad we went there and that I didnt have to tread near the one close to the apartment. . . . alone. Have I mentioned how much the evil empire sucks?
Frank was home when I got there, poured down the draino. Problem solved. Then I crashed. Hard.
Munster seemed to keep himself entertained all night with no whining ~ or I was THAT tired.
Left (in the Hillstreet Blues Coffeeshop):
FUQ, Bazuka, Petch, Aurora, Meersau, Veryapeart, CCC, 2 Rombos, Sumbody, Jipzy
Right (in a room of Bob's Hostel): Tarkinson, Oh No John, Tonttu, Seven Logo's, Aurora, Ren CF, Smile, Double You, Merz, Neck One, Ader, Dr. Case, F.F.S.C., Too 8pe, Bustart, Hey Het, Vapr 19, Veryapeart, Encore, Gumb, Strax, G-Rat, Trashisfesch, Cometa Guavaberry, Sam Choi
or, "a portrait of the artist as the stupid bird that flew headlong into your living room windows, repeatedly, and fell to the ground, hemorrhaging." this kind of sums up the past week for me: i flew too close to the sun.
and thus ends the year. the original concept was far different to this, but this seemed somehow more fitting.
Statistics (stolen from ecky_ducky_loves_threadless):
Weeks missed: 0
Equipment used over the year: 2 nikon cameras- a D40X and a D90- and two lenses (50mm & 18-120mm).
Photos I dislike and wish I'd re-shot: 6
Photos I actually hate: 1
Photos taken while drunk: 2
Photos in which my face does not appear: 14
Photo with the most views: This Place is a Prison
Photo with the most faves: Subway Song/Mirror Image, See No Damage.
Photo with the most comments: This Place Is a Prison.
Photo whose reception most confused me: I Know Who Killed Me. I pretty much hated this and then bam, 80 something views and 2 favourites in a week. What.
My personal favourites:
Ugh. Um
Icarus. Elektra Therapy. This Place is a Prison. Bloodbeat.
Times I genuinely thought of giving up: 0. There were times of desperation, but I never wanted to give this up.
What did I get out of 52 weeks? I got better at photography, I think, and a weekly drive for inspiration.
-
Starting this all again next week for the new year!
lyrics by Jason Webley
---
I wake up every morning,
to the sound of motors roaring,
they are drowning out these voices in my head.
At night while I am sleeping,
I can hear the angels speaking,
but I can't recall a single thing they said.
I see their lips move clearly,
I feel their presence near me
but each word they try to tell me just slips through the cracks.
I PUSH, I STRAiN, I wrestle with my brain,
and then I hear a voice from somewhere whisper to relax.
I'll say a word for sickness,
she is my favorite mistress,
yes she knows my body like no other can.
My flesh and spirit keep colliding,
when her fingers are inside me,
oh my god oh my god lady i'm your man.
Fever flu malaria,
come near me do not spare me,
I just long to spend another night under attack.
I retch, I shake, I cry until I break and then I feel something release and I relax.
(relax)
I bang my head for days,
against these walls inside this maze,
I've never been to good at this damn kind of thing.
I'm in here with my father,
I'm just pacing but he's smarter,
he's been building a fantastic set of wings.
And like that I'm up and flying
with the labyrenth behind me
but I go to high the sun is melting through the wax.
It BURNS, it HURTS, I tumble to the earth, and as I fall I feel myself relax.
Am I letting go?
Am I letting go?
I hope I'm letting go
I must be letting go.
Am I letting go,
I think I'm letting go
I've got to let it go
I wanna got to let it go,
Am I letting go,
I think I'm letting go
I gotta let it go
I wanna let it go,
I'm letting go
I'm letting go
I'm letting go,
you've got to let it go let go let go,
let go,
let go let it go let go let go let go let go,
let go.
I wake up every morning,
of sounds of motors roaring,
their still drowning out these voices in my head.
At night while I am sleeping,
I still hear these angels speaking,
but I can't recall a single thing they've said.
I see thery lips move clearly
I feel their presence near me
but all their unearthly wisdom just slips through the cracks,
I PUSH, I STRAIN, I wrestle with my brain,
I retch, I shake, I cry until I break,
It BURNS it HURTS I tumble to the earth,
and as I fall I feel myself relax.
Not a flattering photo of me I know, but it was hand held at a low-lit wine tasting and I thought it was interesting, so am posting it anyway.
I guess you can tell how much I've thought about this one by its excessive length.
. . . . . . . . . .
Both of my parents were extremely social creatures, and both could certainly hold their own in a conversation. The big difference between them was that my mom preferred her conversations to be intimate tete a tetes, while my dad needed a good sized audience. Not that he wouldn't share the stage with others, but any drama queen tendencies I have certainly came from him.
One way he assured himself of an adequate audience was to have parties. And since my mom enjoyed putting them together as much as he enjoyed throwing them, we had a lot of them. Parties with the neighbors. Parties with family. Parties with the poker buddies. Parties with the people from work. Parties with anyone, and on the pretext of any minor occasion. My mom made the food, and my dad was in charge of the liquor.
I have a vague recollection of beer being part of the proceedings-never wine- but in the 50s the big thing seemed to be the highball. Rum and Coke. Gin & Tonic. Bourbon & Soda. Sometimes a Manhattan or a Grasshopper "for the ladies". And the one I remember being most popular... the Seven & Seven. I don't actually remember what was in that last one, though I suspect the second seven stood for 7-Up, but I do remember how it tasted because as a precocious child I was allowed to take "sips" from the adults glasses. As they had suspected, I didn't much like it, so there are no lurid descriptions of tipsy six year olds in the family mythology.
Anyone who's spent significant time with young children will tell you what incredibly smart and observant little sponges they are. So I was certainly not the first child who figured out early on that daddy got just a wee bit too loud when he was drinking. That he refused to lose an argument when he had a drink in his hand. That mom was always mad at him after the parties. That he usually didn't feel tip top the next morning. By the time I finished grade school it was pretty clear to me-and anyone else who was sentient- that my father was over-fond of alcohol. Not that he wasn't a nice guy, he wasn't a nasty drunk or anything, but it was definitely more of a priority for him than was healthy.
There are even funny memories about it. Like the year he was off partying in some bar late on Christmas Eve with some co-workers and my mom was fuming at home because a bicycle had to be put together before it could be wrapped and put under the tree. I was not supposed to know that, of course, but my mom's angry whispering downstairs to the neighbor who came over to try to help her figure out the instructions carried up the stairs to the over-curious child listening for Santa. After an hour or so of them swearing and moaning and not figuring out the instructions, my dad comes home three sheets to the wind, sits down on the floor, and has it put together in about 10 minutes. From my clandestine perch upstairs I couldn't tell if afterward she was more mad because he'd been out drinking, or because he'd put the thing together drunk when they couldn't do it at all.
Luckily dad was a very functional drunk, so work and obligations were generally not a problem. Or if they were I didn't know about it. But the fights between him and my mom over it because more and more frequent, and by the time I was in junior high school it was clear to everyone that it was causing problems in my parents marriage, and affecting all of our lives. The best example I can think of was the time I was having friends in for a sleep-over and my dad was supposed to come home after work to take us all bowling or some such activity. We waited and waited and finally reluctantly gave up and disappointedly pulled out the board games and made popcorn. To add insult to injury, when we got up the next morning and everyone was leaving the house to head home, there was my dad asleep in the car in the attached garage; he'd made it home but not into the house. I was embarrassed and angry, but also, as always, just so incredibly sad for him. And, of course, seriously worried for years afterward that some night he'd make it into the garage but not turn off the car, and then we'd all be dead.
Despite it all, though, I loved him. We all did, but as his firstborn I was often his defender in the "alcohol fights". And as the oldest, the one my mom sent into town to the gin mill whenever he decided to celebrate on a Friday night with the guys before bringing her home the grocery money. In a funny way it made us even closer when I was in high school. By then he and my mom were getting along so badly that he stayed out either working or drinking-maybe both-until he knew she was in bed. I was usually the only one up, sitting at the kitchen table doing homework when he arrived, so we'd sit up and have late night chats about this that and everything. And even though I knew it was because of his drinking, I cherished the alone time we had those four years.
Knowing what I did about my dad, though, it kinda kept me on the straight and narrow when it came to high school drinking. I just avoided it altogether by avoiding the crowds and cliques who hung out behind the football field or in the soda shop parking lot drinking vodka out of thermoses. And by the time I left for college, I understood enough about addictive personalities to know that children of alcoholics have a pretty good chance of following in their footsteps,
I can hardly say I didn't drink in college, but I can absolutely say that I was petrified of becoming addicted. The first year I abstained, but that just made me seem like a freak to potential beaus, so I started nursing a single drink all evening at parties. Not only was there the fear factor, but there was also the fact that I hated being anything but hyper-responsible. And I didn't like all that much how the stuff tasted anyway. But then the other English majors-especialy the attractive upper class guys- started having those late night get-togethers at the local beer & pizza joint to wax poetic about writing, so there was nothing to do but tag along. I even had a couple of rare- and memorable- bouts with drunkenness.
The first time I had been answering phones for the college radio station's annual marathon fundraiser and, with my low tolerance for liquor ( I'm still a cheap date) and the fact that I'd not eaten much for two days, got so drunk on three shots of tequila that I a) woke up the next day on the couch in the basement of a dormitory I'd never been in next to a guy I'd never met (luckily with all our clothes on), b) was so sick from the alcohol I had to practically crawl to my nearby dorm and take to my bed for a week-missing mid-terms (a source of amusement to friends and faculty since I was always the GOOD girl), and c) couldn't even smell tequila for about 20 years after without retching.
The other incident was scarier. As a grad student in drama, there were all those opening night bashes, and since they happened when you were totally exhausted from getting the show up, a little liquor went a very long way. After one show where my design work had been the big hit of the night (the review in the local paper said something like "the acting leaves much to be desired but go anyway because you walk out of the theatre singing the costumes") I stayed longer than usual, and was so caught up in a moment of glory that I didn't pay attention to how much I was drinking. When I finally headed for my car I knew I shouldn't get behind that wheel. But I did. At least I knew enough to avoid the main drag in favor of the tiny winding rural back roads that led from campus to our farmhouse a few miles away, but those roads were treacherous when you were sober, and this was icy winter. So that ten minute drive took what seemed like an eternal half an hour, with me simultaneously gripping the wheel for my life, trying to subdue the nausea that came with every curve, and praying that I didn't encounter another car or kill some animal unlucky enough to cross my path, I wept with relief when I hit my driveway.
That latter incident was a real crisis for me because I'd spent a lifetime worrying that some night we'd get a call telling us that my dad had killed someone with his car, and now here I was no better than him. It was almost 30 years before I'd find myself drunk again.... and then it was an accident because I didn't notice the host refilling my wine glass all night. Before I tried to stand up I thought I'd been nursing a single drink all night. Surprise. Also surprising that it hadn't affected my speech or thought processes. I really am an incredibly cheap date... two drinks and I'm on my ass.
So, to sum up a couple of decades in a sentence or two, for most of my life I've barely been what you might call an occasional drinker. 10 drinks in a year was pretty typical. The more I watched my dad climb into that bottle, the less I wanted to join him. At one point he didn't talk to me for over a year because I was the first of his children-but hardly the last- to confront him about his problem, but eventually even he had to admit he drank too much. I don't know for sure, but I think he tried 12 step programs. Lost a couple of jobs. Lost a couple of girlfriends (he'd already lost the marriage). Finally he stopped arguing with me about the driving and handed me the keys whenever he'd meet me at the train station for a visit.
He travelled a bit but came back to help elderly parents, and then drowned those troubles with more vodka. But... and I know this is not always the case... he was still the father I loved unconditionally. He was funny. He worked hard. He shoveled snow for elderly neighbors, and fed the buddies who were out of work. Took in strangers who were down on their luck. Fed the birds in his backyard. He had a lot of friends. Everybody loved him. And we all worried about him. One time, at a graduation party when he'd had way too much to drink, I went to the bartender and asked if they could either shut him down or start watering his drinks. "Darlin', he said, we've known your dad a long time. We always water down his drinks."
And so it went. We all moved away and lived our lives and called him in the mornings so we wouldn't have to hear him drunk. Without being at all conscious about it, I chose men who didn't drink for relationships, so there was never alcohol at home. I fretted that friends who drank more than two drinks in a night might have a problem. I volunteered whenever practical to be the designated driver, and never got in a car with someone who'd had a few. I enjoyed the few drinks I had, and developed an inordinate fondness for wassail at christmas, but you could usually still count on two hands the number of drinks I had a year.
Then my dad got himself in a profound peck of trouble. I'm not going to go into it here, my siblings sometimes read these posts and it was pretty traumatic for all of us each in our own way, but because of it we learned about a deep dark secret my dad had held inside for a lifetime that, while it didn't cause the drinking, explained a lot about my dad to all of us. It also took him away from us for four years, and kept him off the bottle for the same amount of time. Just before then he'd unsurprisingly had a bout with liver problems, though he was otherwise shockingly trim and healthy his whole life, and for all the trauma of the situation, we were pleased he would be forced into abstinence, assuming that four years off the sauce would keep him off it forever. He came back to us at 70 and we expected he'd live 'till near 90 like his parents.
But human nature is human nature. Once he was back he fell into old habits, taking in folks who needed help, and one of them was a drinker. It wasn't two months after the drinking began again that he was rushed to the hospital with liver failure, and he died of cirrhosis a couple of weeks later. He was always such a funny man, and there was much laughter among us at his bedside... like it was his last party. When the smile left his face we knew he was gone.
So here is the weird twist to the story. Since my dad died it's as if a huge weight has been lifted from my shoulders, and I'm able to drink again. Not in an excessive way... I still don't like the out-of-control feeling of being drunk. But it's like somehow I no longer live in fear of becoming an addict like him. And I can see that the friends I worried about all those years are hardly alcoholics. And my relationship now is with someone who enjoys drinking in the same low-key way that I do. He's a connoisseur of beers, which I don't like at all, but I'm rekindling a love of hard cider that I developed when I worked in England all those years ago.
So for the first time in my life, I'm enjoying wine with dinner on a Saturday and I'm beginning to learn about wines. We're figuring out which bars in town make the best margaritas and gaining an appreciation for the better tequilas. I'm learning- very slowly- to sip scotch now and again. Will make that wassail at my brother's house at christmas. And I'm enjoying drinking in the way that most people have for years. Just one more small pleasure among many. I even, a few weeks ago did something I have never ever ever done... had a glass of wine by myself one night when Matt was out to a show with a friend. Drinking alone is one of those warning signs of alcoholism, so I spent most of 54 years never doing it. But I think by now I'm finally safe. And if I talk just a wee bit too much when I've had a drink? Well that part of the genetics I can handle. And I talk so much anyway that maybe my friends don't notice. (yeah, right!)
"Short Stack" buttermilk pancakes, English bacon & smoked maple syrup / plus a fried egg AUD13 / AUD16
We opted for the plain stack of fluffy buttermilk pancakes, sans egg. You would not believe how light these buttermilk pancakes were, almost souffle-like, even if it was a tad undercooked and mushy in the centre. The contrast of salty bacon and smoky sweet maple syrup resulted in another magnificent breakfast!
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They must get it a lot. Silly, ignorant, wishful customers hoping for a taste of The famous Snickers, by Queen of Desserts Philippa Sibley, at all hours of the day. Well, I can confirm that they don't serve it at breakfast, even if the polite waitress humoured me by "asking the kitchen", and then feigned empathy when she told me the bad news.
Just as well, the breakfast was still as good as I remembered it, and they added Black Pudding as an optional side. Bonus!
Il Fornaio
(03) 9534 2922
2 Acland St
St Kilda VIC 3182
Reviews:
- Il Fornaio, by Larissa Dubecki, The Age, September 7, 2010
NOT since the invention of the Peach Melba has there been such a kerfuffle about a dessert. ''The famous Snickers'', as the menu at Il Fornaio calls it, and for once I'm inclined not to retch over the food-related use of the adjective. ''Famous'' on a menu usually means the dish in question isn't famous at all - but the Snickers? The Snickers is famous. The Snickers is so famous it should have its own agent, a magazine deal and a coke habit.
The Snickers and its creator, Philippa Sibley, have moved around a fair bit but they took up a new permanent residence recently at this former bakery-cafe in St Kilda, where they've conspired to capitalise on Sibley's reputation (''dessert queen'', ''queen of pastries'', ''passionate pastry whiz'', as Google attests) by trading at night-time primarily as a dessert restaurant (during the day things are far more cafe-like).
- Not just desserts, by Larissa Dubecki, The Age, August 24, 2010
Philippa Sibley’s Snickers dessert needs little introduction. An instant hit when she first put it on the menu at Circa five years ago, her signature dish recently found a new lease of life at her new St Kilda digs, IlFornaio, and through being showcased on MasterChef.
‘‘Oh my god, straightaway it was a monster,’’ recalls Sibley of her take on the peanut and caramel chocolate bar first released by the Mars company in 1930. ‘‘We had a table of five come in and order eight of them, at $25 a pop [the IlFornaio version costs $19]. We sold 700 of them in one week.’’
Monument " to the memory of John Willis MD, second son of the Rev Francis Willis MD www.flickr.com/gp/52219527@N00/8487L2 and Mary www.flickr.com/gp/52219527@N00/567C0R his wife. (daughter of Rev John Curtois of Branston) He was born at Dunston in the county of Lincoln September 28th 1751
Was educated at Brazenose College Oxford and died at Longhills near Branston in the same county, at the house of his relative Rev Peregrine Curtois (by whom this monument is erected) September 25th 1835 aged 83 ............ death seized him unexpectedly when unimpaired in mind and body"
John assisted his father in the treatment of George lll during his initial madness in the 1780s, and continued to do so after his father's death aided by his younger brother Robert www.flickr.com/gp/52219527@N00/v1YECh . He was rewarded with a pension of £650 for life.
A RECORD OF HIS DEATH
"Sept. 25th-Dr. Willis was called as usual: at 8 o'clock he desired Gane to tell the Miss Curtoises that he had had a very good night, and never felt better in his life." He desired Gane to order horses for the carriages for the ball, and also begged the breakfast might be punctual, as he wished to go to Lincoln to see his horses. About 20 minutes before 9, Miss M. Curtois, whose room was opposite to his, thought she heard him retching, and went and listened at his door, but all was quiet; and on the maid's coming in, she instantly asked her how Dr. Willis had passed the night, when the maid gave her the message sent by Dr. Willis at 8 o'clock; but added, Gane was very much surprised his master had not rung, and that he was going up to see the reason. A few minutes after 9, Gane's voice was heard screaming for Mr. Curtois. On rushing up stairs, Mr. Curtois found him lying on the floor, half dressed, apparently dead, but not cold. Mr. Curtois and Gane tried to pour brandy down his throat-his legs were put into hot water, he then was lifted into a hot bed, and his body was rubbed with vinegar. A groom was sent off instantly for Dr. William Cookson. Mr. Curtois, becoming most impatient for his arrival, rode off to meet him, and saw Mr. Hett passing the gate, and brought him in. Mr. Hett pronounced that all was over, and that the cause of the sudden death was water at the chest, of which Dr. Willis' father had died. A bottle of camphorated spirits of wine was found by him, without the cork, and it appeared that while he was rubbing his back with the spirits, the water had gone to the heart; that he had slipped from his chair onto the floor and died without a struggle; his countenance was perfectly placid and unchanged. Dr Cookson arrived in about an hour and a half; Mr. Curtois was not in the house, so after going up to see Dr. Willis, he came into the drawing room to the Miss Curtoises, and informed them that the death was occasioned by water on the chest. An inquest was considered but decided agains. No one had entered Dr. Willis' room that morning, excepting his valet Gane, unless it might be the housemaid to light the fire. Dr. Willis' medicine chest was always kept in his own room."
After his death rumour arose that he did not die "from natural causes, as was at the time alleged and believed, but from the effects of more subtle agents" - chradams.co.uk/willis/johndeath.html
Dying unmarried and very rich he left property worth c£300,000. - His estates at Greatford and Shillingthorpe to his nephew Dr. Francis Willis; £20,000 each to his nieces, the Misses Curtois; £10,000 to Mr. Bowman his chief assistant & the residue worht c£100,000 to Rev Curtois,
Peregrine Curtois was an executor of the will, and apparently decided to interpret it to his own best advantage. Dr Willis had kept his notes from his attendance on the King and had them bound, and as the will bequeathed to Dr Francis Willis ‘all and every the books about his house in Tenterden Street’ the question arose as to whether this was simply ‘printed books as were sold in booksellers’ shops’ or whether the bound notes fell into this category as well. The decision of the Rolls Court was that they did, and they passed to Dr Willis rather than the Rev Curtois
chradams.co.uk/willis/johnmd.html - Church of St Thomas Becket, Greatford Lincolnshire
Sargent painted a number of watercolours of British Tommies at rest during WWI. There is an excellent collection of these along with his master work "The Gassed" at the Imperial War Museum, London.
Note: If in London make every effort to see "The Gassed" at the IWM. Monumental, classical, modern and gut retching by turns the painting is something that will stay with you. Abandoning the chilly and fussy neo-classicism of his BMFA murals he creates an image rooted in classical imagery but approachable to the viewer on a visceral level. Not the beautifully rendered social dilettantes we expect but our fathers, sons and lovers rendered wounded but noble.
or Armeria maritima (sea pink) to give it it's posh name. I thought I'd throw a bit of bokeh *retch* in as well.
Are secret foods held in the deepest dark black aisles of the long dead cyclopean supermarkets in the farthest reaches of madness? The truth of this has left my mind reeling into fragments. The awesome abominations I have learned of can do the same to you, but here I document only one.
It happened in fall of my 3rd year in the Research and Development Department at the Nabisco Food Corporation that I found the journal of one Prof. T. N. McCready. McCready had been the East Asian correspondent for the R&D department, visiting and reporting on the cuisine of the Mongol's Steppes and the deepest jungles of French Indo-China, but it is one unusual entry, timed and dated... his last odd and vexing entry, that has left a constant dread in the bottom pits of the cockles of my soul:
Dec 13th
9 PM
The Isles of Zippon are filled by flavorful delights and tasty oddities that make the tongue and the soul leap in delight. I have found many an exotic concotion that are sure to make the lads and lasses in the Occidental hemisphere spend many a shiny new penny. But most intriguing is this tale that my matron has said breaks down into "the burned flesh/bindings of that Honorable He Moss Beareded One of the many arms/cylinders/appendages that Sleeps Ocean Bottomed." Certainly a terrible tongue twister, but surely the boys in marketing can conjure up a more appetizing name. I have yet to sample some and I have only heard of it this morning from the elderly groom of the sweetshop that laughed and muttered about it. I noticed everyone in the room, my matron included, had blanched at the naming of it, and it took a long and weary argument to convince them to take me the journey to the lone place it is prepared. Seemingly it is a guarded delicacy and they must fear to let the unwashed caucasian devils have their taste of it. Fortunately the place that it is prepared is not far away, but it is remote, on the other far end of the rocky cape that no roads go to, my party must travel the long route around by boat. My party starts out early tomorrow morning.
Dec 14th
10 AM
After much ado our vessel has launched into the bay. Nary a boatsman could be found keen for us to make use of his craft as taxi around the small cape. It seems tale of my journey did go from tavern to tavern last night and all souls are now opposed to my tasting of the delicacy. Only in paying a large sum of the local currency to one of the young seaman could my party convince a vessel to set forth.
Noon
At the brink of the cape the skies have turned a noisome grey and horrible gales began to make a great howl.
4pm
Inexplicably our craft had been caught in some subsurface estuary or current and it took many hours to correct the course. The now dark, stinking clouds have completely veiled the good mother sun.
8pm
Due to the inclement climate, the inhospitable ferrymen, and the strange tides of this island country, a journey that should have been a half a days travel has taken us now into the dark of night. Luckily my party has sited the lamps and torches of the inhabits of the far side of the cape and the young seaman assures us that the party can touch land soon. A strange reek emanates from this side of the bay. Faint now, but growing more odorous and more potent.
Midnight
The STENCH! The Stench! I all but gagged upon the rotting sweet tang in the thick thick air. I cannot see how this horrible stench is emitted, perhaps some local vegetation or fruit native to this side of the island (my matron lies retching in the boat from it) but out guide and boatman seem indifferent to it, if not perhaps, reverent and desiring of it. I can only best describe it as the smell that Alexander the Great must have left Thebes rotting in. My Guide has suggested the party tarry till morning to seek out the craftsmen of the delicacy, and even though my olfactory senses beg of me to leave this horrible place soon, the murk-some dark that lurks beyond the light of our torches is more the horrible.
Dec 15th
Dawn
I have seen the origin of the stench. Strewn on the beach. Rows upon rows upon rows upon ranks. Like the vast lines at the Battle of Agincourt. Dried and shriveled by the hot rays of good mother sun. Shrunken. Shining. Squid. Their vast brows dried up. Those eight appendages gnarled and twisted , as if affixed in a frozen seizure. The Eyes. The eyes. DAMN THEIR EYES!
People have come forth from the tree-line at the edge of the beach. Carrying baskets they are going through the rows and ranks and taking some squids and leaving the others. Females carry deep clay buckets containing a slop they sludge on the squid corpses then men have not taken. It is surely that this is the base of that food I am supposed to eat. I have come so far to quail now. I must.
Noon
After much haggling my guide (my matron remains a pale quailing mess at the bottom of our boat) has convinced one of the men to take us to their home in the forest and allow me to sup upon the delicacy. The path to their village is lined by foul effigies of wood and stone. Idols depicting half squid and half human abominations of both sexes. Some engaging in blasphemies to our Lord. I question this Madness I have been put into.
1pm
There is some argument. I am sitting awaiting for them to bring me a sample of their concoction. A few moments ago the apparent chief looked in my direction and gave a horrible grin and shout, all the others going silent and all filing out. My guide patted me on the shoulder, laughed, and said "Yes! Good! Food!" The limit of his English.
Dec 18th
3am
Just awakened. I have had a feverish nightmare. three days gone, I think. The taste. the smell. They showed me the thing I ate! THEY SHOWED ME THE THING I ATE! NOT THAT SQUID ON THE BEACH!
They brought it to me on a plate. One complete piece. Small, pale and shriveled. I admit I saw no resemblance. I saw NO resemblance. It was tough. certainly. My delicate teeth could not rip or tear easily. I had to expend all my jaw strength, like chewing and biting into a rawhide bucker. Rotting horrible rotting flesh. maggotty, foul, sour, and yet sweet like yellow bile. As if they had captured the essence of the five humors in this food. Sweat broke on my brow, and the horrible churning in my tract belied vomitus but no... no... nausea soon turned to desire! I quickly ravaged the little that had been left and demanded MORE. MORE! I stood up and pointed beckoning and demanding for more like a savage Aurrang-u-Tan man. And they brought me more, heaps, piles, mountains. And like a mad thing I ate, laughing. Everyone laughing. screaming, cackling. An orgy broke out around me. And then there was no more and I demanded more. And then he showed me, the mad chieftain brought me deeper into the forest. A large barn like structure is there.
You can find it there still! Now I realized how the curing squid on the beach had reminded me of the ranks and files of military! Human heads! but not humans! Not the heads of squids but CHILDREN! but not children. FOUL BLASPHEMIES BEFORE GOD! Inside not squid, not man, but caged abominations at once both the small supple pink flesh of human and the heads of squids! tentacly beards trailing across the chin and down to the chest! All chained, all savage, some being slaughtered before my eyes. Their horrible heads chopped from that that had once been human!
And the man kept laughing! laughing! laughing!
HBC note ** Don't I feel a proper berk! This should have been episode 2, but for one reason or another it wasn't. ** So here's Elina reflecting on how she first met Skarr in the first place...**
From “My encounters with the Barbarians blade”, by Lady Elina Greypepper
Being bound in slavery has a strange effect on one’s being…and as Skarr and I found ourselves in greater difficulties than ever before, I began to remember how Skarr and I had first met. Rather than being mere weeks ago, It seemed like years since I had arranged an expedition to Arlaheim for rare ingredients, and ran into trouble with slavers for the first time. I recall that I first met the Cock o’ the North shortly after she defeated the wyrm…
“The screams and catcalls of the forest had died down a little over the last few hours of Skarr’s trek. She was grateful, the wound in her thigh needed more attention than her ministrations of water and a bit of rag to tie round could give, and she felt it going numb. She was slowing slightly on her trek, but her fury carried her along. She repeated the names in her head, Gunnerson, Macleish, Taggarhey and Bunds, over and over, Gunnerson, Macleish, Taggarhey and Bunds. Four names that made her blood rise and carry her on through the forest. Gunnerson had been the one to hold her down, Macleish had bound her, Taggarhey had wrestled her into a sack and Bunds had thrown her into the icy ocean. Her four warlords, the terror of the north. Gunnerson she would kill first. When the Northmen had been routed along the banks of the Green road, he had fled over the hills into Samaria. She had found this out from a band of marauders shortly after being washed ashore, gasping for life. He would die first, Doomsayer would have the kill. Bunds she would save until last. He had been her closest ally, her friend since her childhood; they had been of the same tribe, the Tanra. She had been securely tied and sealed within the burlap sack; he had been the one to stab her, a callous and cruel act. For that, Bunds would pay. She would kill him the last of all. Skarr would make sure he heard of the deaths of his murderous dishonourable friends, and then she would kill him. Not with Doomsayer. With her own bare hands.
As she walked, she heard a cry from just off the forest path.
“Help”, came the voice, “please, traveller!” it cried.
Skarr entered the forest clearing and saw the figure, a female, bedraggled and shoeless, chained securely to a tree.
“Undo me traveller!” cried the girl, “the Panther women have me. They intend to sell me into slavery. They sell us to Samarian traders! I am an apothecary and valuable to them!”
Skarr thought for a moment, considering her response,
“But”, she began in her thick accented broken Imperial tongue, “if I was to free you, you would die at the hands of either the Panthers, of at the hands of the beasts that roam here! If I leave you tied, the Panthers will look after you and keep you safe, dushka! I will not be the one who causes your death. Farewell.”
Skarr turned on her heel and walked off through the forest, ignoring the girl’s plaintive cries and the clanking of her chains as she struggled.
After a few minutes, Skarr became aware of someone tracking her from beyond the path, and she tensed her lithe body slightly. She continued to walk, smelling the air. Human, definitely human, she decided. She moved to the other side of the path, so to draw the attacker out onto the path. Suddenly a figure clad in furs leapt with speed at her and the two of them collapsed onto the dirt. The Panther girl wrestled herself on top of Skarr with a ferocious energy.
“These are our lands!!” the Panther spitted at her, “We get a good price for you, Norther bitch. You make good strong slave for Samaria!”
Skarr relaxed her arm muscles and let the Panther pin her arms to the ground. Then she quickly raised her leg, delivering a knee to the girl’s stomach, making her retch. Skarr threw the Panther woman onto her back, delivering an uppercut to the jaw, before standing and delivering a swift kick in her side.
Skarr surveyed her whimpering opponent,
“Pah!” she exclaimed, “I would not sully the steel of Doomsayer with your hide. Tell your tribe to stay away from me, or I will make a mountain of your severed heads!”
The girl attempted to crawl away into the forest with a whimper, but Skarr kicked her in the side harshly again, and she fell still.
Muttering a Norther curse under her breath and shaking her head, Skarr began to retrace her steps to where the prisoner had been. Sure enough, there she was, securely chained to the tree. She had given up her struggles and stood quietly.
“It would appear, Dushka, “Skarr began, “That I have either frightened away or killed your captor”.
“You can’t just leave me here!” the girl cried.
“No. I cannot!” Skarr said, thinking, “Or you will die here”.
“May I travel with you?” the girl asked, “The beasts will tear me apart, unless the other Panthers get me first!”
“Keep up the pace, and look after yourself”, Skarr replied brusquely, “I’m not a nursemaid. If you slow me, I will kill you myself.”
The girl nodded, and watched as Skarr, with three quick tugs, snapped the girl’s chains, letting them tumble to the ground with a clatter.
“Thank you”, said the girl with relief, “I’m Elina. I make potions and incantations. I can look at your wound if you’d like.”
Skarr muttered another Norther curse, before spinning on her heel and stomping off along the path, cursing in her own tongue. Elina ran along after her, suddenly feeling hundreds of eyes watching her and the barbarian as they moved through the forest. Had she just jumped from the frying pan into the fire? Elina didn’t know.”
Suddenly, Elina was shaken from her thoughts by the barking order of a slaver...
Circles - circles everywhere!
It's perhaps only after spending a good few minutes leaning directly over a bowl of spaghetti hoops that you realise how disgusting they smell. I can't put my finger on what the smell is but certain words come to mind : artificial, chemicals, retch, gag, repulse, and so on. Maybe they smell better when heated up but I doubt it. Still, they're a cheerful colour (which may also show up in the dark).
This photo has nothing whatsoever to do with new year but,
Happy New Year to all my Flickr friends :o)
'Is anyone there?' She felt foolish.
The total absence of sound was infinitely more frightening than if she had heard a voice reply. She looked down at the glowing dial of her watch and all she could think of was: Terry will be home soon.
As if drawn towards the unknown, she went slowly across the living-room until she was standing at the doorway. She peered in, trying to see in the gloom; the curtains were closed and here, at the back of the house, the trees of the back yard intervened behind the closed windows, the working air-conditioner, vitiating the lamps from the neighbouring houses.
She went into the bedroom, her hand feeling along the wall for the light-switch. But before she got to it, she heard the click of the stereo from the other room; heard, after a tiny delay, Mancini's piano and the double bass begin a jazz duet. Soon the drums joined them and then the strings. Last of all was the sax, a crying, almost human voice among the myriad instruments. The music was filled with tension.
She whirled towards the doorway, could not see through it. Something or someone blocked her view. She took a step forward and gasped as something slithered towards her in a blur, wrapped itself around her right wrist.
Crying out inarticulately, she stumbled backwards. She flung up her arm in an attempt to free herself but the thing - whatever it was - followed her silently, relentlessly; the grip on her wrist tightened until she thought her bones might break.
'What do you want?" she said inanely. 'What do you want?' Her mind, numbed by fear, could think of nothing else to say. It was as if the night, through some magical incantation, had become a sentient being.
She felt the edge of the bed against the backs of her knees and, as if this solid barrier brought her back to reality, she launched herself forward. She did not believe in ghosts, not even in the fomi of her ancestors, as tangible objects able to grasp out at the living. Her mouth opened and she bared her teeth, ready to bite into whatever had hold of her.
She felt the solidness of pressure in front of her and bit down. But at that moment her head was jerked backwards and upwards and her teeth snapped together painfully.
'Oh, my God!' she heard herself say. It seemed to come from another world.
She stared into a face. The head, as, she supposed, was the body, swathed in matt black fabric. A tight hood and a mask that left only the eyes exposed. These were no more than six inches from her own. They were as dead as stones in a pond.
'Oh, my God I' She felt so vulnerable, bent back in a grip she had no hope of breaking, and this, more than anything else, terrified her.
When he moved he was upon her before she could even cry out. She felt his grip shift and it seemed that she was in the grasp of something elemental, like a whirlwind, a force of nature. For surely no man - nothing that was human - could have so much power.
Where his gloved fingers dug into her, they seemed to dissolve her flesh and pulverize the bone beneath. All air was abruptly gone from her lungs; it felt as if she had been thrust to the bottom of the sea. Her insides turned to water. Death rose up on all sides like a spectre on an enormous poster. Her gorge rose and she tried to vomit. She retched pathetically against the restraint to her mouth. She tried to swallow and could not. Her eyes were blurry with tears. She blinked wildly, began to choke on her own vomit.
His face was quite close to hers, but it was as if she had been attacked by an inanimate object suddenly given life. She could smell nothing, see nothing; 'she had no clue as to what he was feeling, what he might want. She could not even turn her head from side to side, so intense was his grip upon her. Still she struggled merely to swallow and she did, given life once more. But now she saw before her the sloping mountainside in the south of Japan where she had stayed as a child during the last days of the war. She saw as clearly as if she were there again the tall stately pines swaying in the westerly winds, the straggle of so\aij'm toiling up the long slope, a thin battered line, an exhausted snake that seemed to have no end, no beginning, merely one vast body. She thought of the zosui, the vegetable stew, which had become their staple; the taste of it was strong in her mouth, the smell of the mountain turnips filled her nostrils. She had never thought that she would recall them with such full-bodied accuracy; it was in the nature of human beings to remember pleasure with more clarity than pain.
There was swift movement above her and her silk teddy shredded, parting from her body. She was naked now. Her mind was filled up with Terry now because she was quite certain that this terrifying being would rape her; this secret knowledge of why he had come outraged her and calmed her at the same time. Death seemed to stand away, only a visitor at this feast instead of the guest of honour.
She felt his body over hers, not hot, not cool, but somewhere in between. His was not flesh, but neither was it marble. She felt somehow as if she were being lifted into a cradle, the position familiar. She closed her legs, locking her ankles, resisting him still.
So it was with a great sense of shock that she felt him grasp the pool of her thick hair, pulling it up, winding it with one hand into a long twisted cord.
She stared upwards, above her head. There was sufficient light for her to see it, standing straight as a sword, blacker than the night.
Then, guided by him, it came down, wrapped around her neck. Until, nooselike, it began to tighten about her throat, however, she failed to understand what was about to happen. But as she fought for every breath, her nostrils flaring because his other hand still covered her mouth, 'she knew that her body was far from his mind. Was he hard? Would he come? Her mind was like a pond filled with squirming eels, monstrously debating these lewd questions while her lungs filled less and less with air.
No! Please! Take me, don't kill me! Don't! Please! She tried to scream what her mind formed but the words only came out as animal grunts, further terrifying her. It was as if his inhumanity had somehow managed to strip her of her humanity.
The cord of her hair tightened as he heaved on it, arcing his back precisely as if he were making violent love to her. The muscles of her throat spasmed involuntarily; her lungs burned as if with a corrosive. This can't be happening, she thought. I can't die. I won't! No no no no - I
And then she was fighting, fighting to perform the most basic of functions which had become as difficult as climbing a mountain. Each breath was the most desperate of struggles.
She fought like a tigress, clawing at him with her nails, punching and slashing, using her knees and thighs in an effort to dislodge him, to deflect him from his monomaniacal purpose, but it was as useless as if she were fighting a brick wall. She was powerless against him. He was beyond the living. He was death.
As she choked on her own vomit, rising again like an inexorable tsunami, before her eyes bloomed the final firestorm. As her lungs filled with fluid, as she laboured still for life, Eileen heard clearly the whistling, abrupt and diabolical, directly over her head and, looking skyward, saw the shadow of the lone bomber, coming like an unexpected eclipse, riding before the sun, saw part of it falling away towards the earth, as if it had contemptuously defaecated on the Floating Kingdom, blossoming like a black flower in the bright blue and white sky.
excerpt from the novel The Ninja written by Eric Van Lustbader
Wednesday
A day of rain.
And a trip to Newcastle.
Hmmmm, Newcastle.
We woke up at half seven, outside it was overcast with the promise of much rain through the day. We planned to go to Hexham to catch the train into the city, wander round, have lunch, take shots and come back. And it still sounded a good idea in the morning. So, after breakfast, we gathered our stuff, our new waterproof jackets and walking boots, packed the car and set off down the valley to Hexham.
There is an even more local station nearer the cottage, but only has a two-hourly service through the day. A 15 minute drive to Hexham opens the possibility of half hourly trains, if we got bored in the city.
Two pounds to park the car all day outside the station, seven quid for a return ticket. A cheap day it seemed.
We had timed it just right, and 5 minutes after arriving, our train, a class 156, pulled up and we all got on for the half hour trundle into town. The line runs beside the river Tyne, and is very picturesque, even from a rattly diesel DMU.
We pulled into Newcastle, over Stephenson’s high level bridge, with glorious views over the river and city. It had just begun to rain, but we were prepared.
Outside the station, we looked up the wide street in front, and I saw a memorial, which should mean there was a square, maybe the centre of the city, so we set off, dodging shoppers and waiting bus passengers. However, we were thirsty. And hungry. And seeing an Italian ice cream parlour, we go inside to have breakfast.
I order sausage roll and a coffee: Jools has quiche. And a coffee. Now, that we did not specify what kind of coffee we wanted should have meant we got a cup of filter. Or so we thought. But what we did get was a cup of milky coffee, the kind that my parents used to drink, made with almost all hot milk, and horrible.
I tried to tell myself this was some kind of retro food experience, but my main thought was to drink it as soon as possible before a skin formed on the top, which would have made me retch.
Further up the street, we saw a sign saying ‘central arcade’; we thought it looked interesting and went in. Just as well we did, as inside it was decorated with splendid tiles, in a fine art deco fashion. In admiring them, we caught the attention of a woman, who engaged us in conversation. Turns out she was a guide, and for four pounds each would take us on a 90 minute tour round the city.
Sounded fair to us, so we paid, and our guide explained the history of the arcade and the surrounding area, all gentrified in the 1830s, which so resembled fine Parisian boulevards. It was a wonderful area, and the style, Tyne Gothic was very nice and almost chic. It has been renovated in recent times, and looks like it did when new, except for the pawnbrokers and other modern shops now occupying the ground floors.
We were shown the indoor market, the Theatre Royal, all the time heading down towards the river. We stop at The Black Gate, the old main entrance to the city, and next to it the Norman, or New, castle. I know that from the top fine views of trains arriving and leaving from the station could be had, and so I planned to return later in the day.
We walk down the old main road, the old Great North Road, as was, now a quit pedestrianised street, leading steeply down underneath two of the 5 bridges that cross the river. More history down there; merchants houses, where wharfs unloaded good from around the world, and just beyond, the once busy river.
That was the tour, we thanked the guide, and she said that along the river we would find many places to have lunch. We walked on, coming to a modern glass and steel building, a posh eateries and bar: looking at the menu, we both decide burgers were in order. So we go in, take a table, order drinks and our meal and watch the people. It is graduation at the university, and many people are in gowns, joyful with their friends and families, out celebrating their degrees and awards.
Our burgers were good, as were the drinks; Jools has a margarita, which was OK, but strong. Once we finish, I leave Jools on a bench as I cross the blinking bridge to snap the views along the river.
As the rain falls again, we walk back up the hill to the castle: I buy a ticket and go straight to the roof of the keep to snap the trains. But no Flying Scotsmen or Deltics this day, just the usual class 91, now rebranded to Branson’s Virgin company.
I take shots anyway, but time is getting away from us. I worry that our tickets will not be valid between four and six, so en route to the station, we stop off at the cathedral, I rattle off a few shots and we press on.
Just missing one train back to Hexham, but another is due to leave before four, a minute before four in fact. So, I pace the platform, snapping the trains that were there, coming and going before our nodding donkey arrives.
The class 142 is a horrible train, loud, even more ratly than the one we rode in the morning. Jools manages to nod off, quite an achievement as we shake our way along the Tyne valley. Half an hour later we pull into Hexham, we get off, and walk to the car, just a 15 minute whiz up the road to the cottage.
Yesterday, we bought a couple of bird feeders and hung them on the washing line and a bush in the garden, and to our delight as we arrived, a half dozen birds were about, feeding well. As we went inside, the heavens opened, and so we looked out the windows as the rain ran down the roof and off the ends of the thatch. That put paid to another evening we hoped to be sitting in the garden watching the owls and bats flying.
The Castle, Newcastle is a medieval fortification in Newcastle upon Tyne, England, built on the site of the fortress which gave the City of Newcastle its name. The most prominent remaining structures on the site are the Castle Keep, the castle's main fortified stone tower, and the Black Gate, its fortified gatehouse.
Use of the site for defensive purposes dates from Roman times, when it housed a fort and settlement called Pons Aelius, guarding a bridge over the River Tyne. In 1080, a wooden motte and bailey style castle was built on the site of the Roman fort, which was the 'New Castle upon Tyne'. It was built by Robert Curthose, eldest son of William the Conqueror, having returned south from a campaign against Malcolm III of Scotland. The stone Castle Keep was built between 1172 and 1177 by Henry II on the site of Curthose's castle. The Black Gate was added between 1247 and 1250 by Henry III.
The site is in the centre of Newcastle, and lies to the east of Newcastle Central Station. The 75 feet (23 m) gap between the Keep and the Gatehouse is almost entirely filled by a railway viaduct, carrying the East Coast Main Line from Newcastle to Scotland. The Castle Keep and Black Gate pre-dated the construction of the Newcastle town wall, construction of which started sometime around 1265, and did not form part of it. Nothing remains of the Roman fort or the original motte and bailey castle. The Keep is a Grade I listed building, and a Scheduled Ancient Monument.
The Keep and Black Gate are now managed by the Old Newcastle Project under the Heart of the City Partnership as one combined visitor attraction, Newcastle Castle.
In the mid-2nd century, the Romans built the first bridge to cross the River Tyne at the place where Newcastle now stands. The bridge was called Pons Aelius or ‘Bridge of Aelius’, Aelius being the family name of Emperor Hadrian, who was responsible for the Roman wall built along Tyne-Solway Gap. The Romans built a fort to protect the river crossing which was at the foot of the Tyne Gorge. The fort was situated on rocky outcrop overlooking the new bridge.[1]
At some unknown time in the Anglo-Saxon age, the site of Newcastle came to be known as Monkchester. In the late 7th century, a cemetery was established on the site of the Roman castle.
In 1080, the Norman king, William I, sent his eldest son, Robert Curthose, north to defend the kingdom against the Scots. After his campaign, he moved to Monkchester and began the building of a ‘New Castle’. This was of the “motte-and-bailey” type of construction, a wooden tower on top of an earthen mound (motte), surrounded by a moat and wooden stockade (bailey).[2]
In 1095, the Earl of Northumbria, Robert de Mowbray, rose up against William Rufus and Rufus sent an army north to crush the revolt and to capture the castle. From then on the castle became crown property and was an important base from which the king could control the northern barons.
Not a trace of the tower or mound of the motte and bailey castle remains now. Henry II replaced it with a rectangular stone keep, which was built between 1172 and 1177 at a cost of £1,444. A stone bailey, in the form of a triangle, replaced the previous wooden one. The master mason or architect, Maurice, also built Dover Castle. The great outer gateway to the castle, called ‘the Black Gate’, was built later, between 1247 and 1250, in the reign of Henry III.[3]
Additional protection to the castle was provided late in the 13th century when stone walls were constructed, with towers, to enclose the town. Ironically, the safety provided by the town walls led to the neglect of the fabric of the castle. In 1589, during the reign of Queen Elizabeth the castle was described as being ruinous.[4] From the early 17th century onward, this situation was made worse by the construction of shops and houses on much of the site.
In 1643, during the English Civil War, the Royalist Mayor of Newcastle, Sir John Marley, repaired the keep and probably also refortified the castle. In 1644 the Scottish army crossed the border in support of the Parliamentarians and the Scottish troops besieged Newcastle for three months until the garrison surrendered. The town walls were extensively damaged and the final forces to surrender on 19 October 1644 did so from the Castle keep.[5]
During the 16th to the 18th century, the keep was used as a prison. By 1800, there were a large number of houses within the boundaries of the castle.
I'm so pleased to report to my dear friends, who have prayed for Kucuk, and sent their good wishes for her recovery; that she is lots better today . Not fully better yet, but she slept on my bed last night instead of on her own bed within striking distance of her cat loo....so she must have felt better! She still had a couple of episodes of diarrhoea, and occasional dry retching, but she is more alert, and even showed interest at the packet of treats rattling...a very good sign! I tried her with a few small pieces of soft treat stick...which she slowly chewed much to my delight. Never did I think I'd ever get excited at my cat eating treats, but at least its a start towards proper food . Small mercies lol...now let's see if she can keep them down..if so then we could well be on a roll x A pic of her taken today..she got herself up on the cat tree for the first time since she became sick...she looks thinner in the face, showing she had lost about 400 grams of weight so far, and she doesn't look very bright-eyed, but she's doing well, she was very sick indeed, and I'm SO grateful for all your prayers and concern, I know they helped! xxx