View allAll Photos Tagged Pulsating
I really liked this Dave & Dave idea, which I got while drifting off to sleep the other night. I probably shouldn't have posted the original version, this one, so soon after posting the other one, because I'll never get to the front page of Explore that way.
(It's my goal for '08, you know.)
[rolls eyes]
Cours Saleya market in Nice is at the heart of the Old Town and it’s always pulsating with life. Striped awnings cover its centre and shelter the products on offer in the daily market. Crowds of locals and tourists come here to do their shopping or sometimes just to look and snap photos of the colourful displays. The scents of fresh produce and flowers seem to put everyone in a good mood and the atmosphere is friendly.*
*https://www.thegoodlifefrance.com/cours-saleya-market-in-nice-france/
For the calibration of relatively short distances the team observed Cepheid variables. These are pulsating stars which fade and brighten at rates that are proportional to their true brightness and this property allows astronomers to determine their distances. The researchers calibrated the distances to the Cepheids using a basic geometrical technique called parallax. With Hubble’s sharp-eyed Wide Field Camera 3 (WFC3), they extended the parallax measurements further than previously possible, across the Milky Way galaxy. To get accurate distances to nearby galaxies, the team then looked for galaxies containing both Cepheids and Type Ia supernovae. Type Ia supernovae always have the same intrinsic brightness and are also bright enough to be seen at relatively large distances. By comparing the observed brightness of both types of stars in those nearby galaxies, the team could then accurately measure the true brightness of the supernova. Using this calibrated rung on the distance ladder the accurate distance to additional 300 type Ia supernovae in far-flung galaxies was calculated.
They compare those distance measurements with how the light from the supernovae is stretched to longer wavelengths by the expansion of space. Finally, they use these two values to calculate how fast the universe expands with time, called the Hubble constant.
More information: www.spacetelescope.org/images/heic1611a/
Credit:
NASA,ESA, A. Feild (STScI), and A. Riess (STScI/JHU)
The Rise of Forbidden Love
by Lara Ronet
It is said that, for a long time, in forgotten times, when the stars were still drawn unknown maps on the infinite sky, there were two worlds that orbit the same bright sun, separated by immeasurable distances and suitable destinies. One was Orion, a floating metropolis where technology had reached perfection, and people lived in comfort and safety, but with hearts thirsty for the true meaning of life. The other was Rominthia, a harsh and wild realm, haunted by ash storms, where every day was a struggle for survival, but also a will of the power of the human soul.
In Orion lived Karen, a woman with a free spirit and mind, but tired of the monotony of a predictable existence. Although surrounded by opulence, he felt a goal that nothing could fill. On the other hand, in the heart of Rominthia, Lara made his way among the ruins of the old temples, a survivor with the heart of scars, but with hope burning like a lighthouse in the night.
Legend has it that in a night when astral alignments opened gates to the unknown, a star explosion created a portal between the two worlds. Karen, attracted by the dance lights in the sky, was swallowed by this cosmic vortex and thrown into Romintia's chaos. Wounded and disoriented, she woke up in the middle of a sandstorm, where the air stuck like thousands of needles.
Lara found Karen under the shadow of an old, almost unconscious monolith. Despite the strict laws that forbade the help offered to foreigners, Lara's heart could not remain indifferent. He hid it from the vigilant eyes of the land of the land, risking everything to save his life.
As the days passed, a deep connection was born between the two women. Under the starry sky of Rominthia, they shared their stories, fears and dreams. In a world where the pain was exchange currency, they found relief in each other. In the shelter of a hidden cave, their love flourished like a rare flower in the desert.
But Rominthia's masters learned of Karen's presence. Fearing the disorder she brought to their order, they decided to sacrifice it to improve the gods of the storm. Lara, finding out about their plans, knew that the only chance to save Karen was to make a supreme sacrifice.
He had heard of an ancient force, an enigmatic entity that could change fate, but with a huge price. Lara sought this antediluvian spirit in the depths of the earth, crossing caves illuminated by pulsating crystals and facing shadows. Finally, he found the entity, a vortex of light and dark.
The spirit, in a voice that echoed in mind: "What are you looking for, mortal?"
Lara, with determination: "The life of the one I love. I am willing to pay any price."
The spirit accepted, asking Lara to sacrifice her memories and physical existence, thus becoming the invisible guardian of Rominthia. Instead, Karen would have been released and protected.
That night, Lara said goodbye to Karen without her knowing about her plan. With tears in his eyes, he looked at her sleeping and whispered:
"Even if you don't remember me, my love will watch over you for eternity."
The sacrifice was fulfilled, and Karen woke up in Orion, without any memory of Romintthia or Lara. But in the depths of her soul, she felt an inexplicable longing, an absence that urged her to seek answers.
Years later, the fragments of memories began to appear in dreams. Lara's face, their laughter under the starry sky, the promises whispered. Determined to discover the truth, Karen researched the forgotten archives and legends of the two worlds. He learned about the unseen guard, a mythical figure that protected Romintthia, and understood the sacrifice made by Lara.
Determined to recover his love, Karen used all the knowledge and resources in Orion to open the portal again. Returning to Rominthia, he felt the presence of Lara in every wind and in every ray of light. In the heart of an ancient temple, he called the ancient spirit.
Karen, full of emotion: "I offer you everything I have, even my life, just to see the one I love."
The spirit, impressed by its devotion: "Your love transcends the barriers of the world. I will allow you to be together, but you will become the eternal guards of these realms."
Accepting without hesitation, Karen and Lara were gathered, their souls twitching in a radiant light. They became twin constellations, shining on the sky of both worlds, protecting the balance between Orion and Rominthia.
People looked at the stars and said that those guiding lights were the souls of two girlfriends who defied destiny. Their legend has become a symbol of hope, courage and unlimited power of true love.
It is also said that in the nights when the sky is clear and the wind whispers among the ruins of the ancient temples, you can hear the echo of their laughter and you can feel the warmth of love that has united worlds and defeated time.
Thus, the legend "ascension of forbidden love" continues as a will that no sacrifice is too great when the heart runs the road. The love between Karen and Lara reminds us that the soul connections cannot be broken by laws, distances or even by the gods, and that true power lies in the courage to love without limits.
the night was very dark... why the sky looks bright? the lampost light was pulsating = double exposure time :-)
A few different auroral forms here: Drifting and pulsating patches, discrete arcs, tall Alfvenic rays, black aurora, corona. This also might be the first time I've used a graduated white balance.
Click for all my aurora photos. And I have more timelapses if you like this one.
' "Chapter one.
He adored New York City. He idolised it all out of proportion. "
Uh, no. Make that "He romanticised it all out of proportion. To him, no matter what the season was, this was still a town that existed in black and white and pulsated to the great tunes of George Gershwin. "
Uh... no. Let me start this over.
"Chapter one.
He was too romantic about Manhattan, as he was about everything else. He thrived on the hustle, bustle of the crowds and the traffic. To him, New York meant beautiful women and street-smart guys who seemed to know all the angles. " '
Title taken from the opening dialogue of the Woody Allen film, "Manhattan".
Taken with my Pentax K1000 with my 28mm lens using Ilford HP5+ 35mm film. I really love the grain you get with this film!
Printed with an Ilford Grade 5 Multigrade filter.
Finally getting round to printing my photos from America! Taken on September 10th 2009.
Only digital PP was to adjust levels to match the actual photo as my scanner reduces contrast.
Taken from the observation deck of the Empire State Building.
I apologise for how long my descriptions have got recently.
EXPLORED - #162
Detroit Metro Airport- Who would have thought that you would get off a plane and walk through a psychedelic tunnel with a light show to pulsating music at the Detroit Airport. Sure made the trip a lot more enjoyable! Straight out of the camera.
un ctrl is an intertwining performance between a musician, a dancer and a visual artist. Using collaborative devices (SOMI-1) provided by Instruments of Things and Ableton as communication tools, they explore and question their relationship with control to the point of its loss. An inner experience that begins with one person recalibrating their inner perception, transitioning into a collective experience of a pulsating club in the Deep Space, while questioning deep-seated desires of our society.
Photo: Martin Hieslmair
Selena Gomez
Alcatraz - Milano
16 Settembre 2013
ph © Mairo Cinquetti
© All rights reserved. Do not use my photos without my written permission. If you would like to buy or use this photo PLEASE message me or email me at mairo.cinquetti@gmail.com
What do you do after striking gold with your first solo album, wrapping your third season starring in a hit series and earning raves for your movie debut? If you're Selena Gomez, you dance. At least, you get the world on its feet with "A Year Without Rain." A follow-up to "Kiss & Tell," Selena’s gold-certified Hollywood Records debut CD, "A Year Without Rain" shows Selena and her band, The Scene, in a whole new light, this one pulsating, multicolored and ready for the mirrored ball.
"I really wanted something that felt good to perform, but had a techno/dance vibe," Selena says. "I wanted something that had meaning and melody, and more empowering lyrics." That’s exactly what she delivers in "A Year Without Rain." Working with top producer/songwriters like Tim James & Antonina Armato, Kevin Rudolf, Toby Gad and Jonas Jeberg, Selena kept to a more quickened tempo, exploring themes of love, freedom and the joy of living for the moment.
Selena credits the album’s neo-techno leanings to her 2010 platinum-certified single, ‘Naturally," which pointed the way for her. That track "really helped me figure out where I want to be," she says. "There’s a feeling when I perform that song that I love, so when I was going back in the studio, I had a better understanding of where I wanted to be musically."
She gets right to it with the opening track, "Round & Round," an upbeat synth-driven song about reaching the limits of indecision in love. The plaintive "A Year Without Rain" may be more subdued, but its beauty impressed Selena enough to make it the title track. "When I got the song, I went through the roof," she recalls. "Everybody has that one person they can’t live without. It was exactly what I wanted to say." That goes double for the Spanish version of the song, Selena’s first recording in that language.
Having turned 18 this year, Selena has matured since making her professional debut at age 7, but girls still wanna have fun, which is what songs like "Spotlight" "Off the Chain" and "Summer’s Not Hot" are all about. "Rock God" features none other than Katy Perry on backing vocals, while "Intuition" boasts a duet between Selena and rapper Eric Bellinger in a tricked-out double-time salute to a positive attitude.
Selena slows things down on "Ghost of You," a ravishing ballad about a breakup so rough, no amount of "living crazy loud" can crush the memory. "It’s very beautiful, very raw," Selena says of the song. "Shelly Peiken co-wrote it. She knows me, knows about everything I go through, and knows how to express it in a beautiful way."
On the flip side, Selena comes back strong with "Sick of You," a Matt Squire-written and produced track about losing a loser ("You know fairy tales don’t come true/ Not when it comes to you"). The album ends with "Live Like There’s No Tomorrow," an epic power ballad expressing the creed by which Selena has built her life and career.
A Dallas native, Selena Gomez started acting at age seven when she landed a role in the popular television series "Barney & Friends," on which was a regular for two seasons. She landed her first film role in the 2003 sci-fi action adventure film "Spy Kids 3-D: Game Over." She made her mark as an actress playing girl wizard Alex Russo in the hit Disney Channel series "Wizards of Waverly Place," which premiered in 2007 and has now completed three seasons. Selena and her cast mates won a 2009 Emmy Award for Outstanding Children’s Program.
Selena then made an indelible impression with her starring role in 2010 comedy "Ramona and Beezus." Says Selena, "I wanted something completely different from my show. All these incredible actors, being able to learn from them and get my feet wet in the film world. It was the perfect way to get into it." Next up, a starring role in "Monte Carlo," in which she plays a teen on vacation in the romantic European principality. And of course, Selena is gearing up for the fourth season of "Wizards of Waverly Place."
Selena has branched out into fashion with the premiere of her new clothing line, Dream Out Loud, sold exclusively at K-Mart. But her instinct for charity remains strong. She is a proud UNICEF ambassador, and will appear for a third year at UNICEF's Trick or Treat bash, this time to kick off UNICEF's 60th anniversary. And with the new album comes a new tour with her band.
Having her own band has been a comfort for Selena as she hits the road with "A Year Without Rain." Scene members; Ethan Roberts (Guitar), Joey Clement (Bass), Greg Garman (Drums) and Dane Forrest (Keyboard) back her on tour and help shape her emerging sound. "On my TV show we have an ensemble cast that’s like a family," she says. "If anyone’s missing, you feel it. I wanted that family feel in my music, and we definitely have that with the Scene."
That family feeling had grown to include fans around the world, each of them all in when it comes to following Selena Gomez on her amazing artistic journey. Where’s she headed? She’ll let you know when she gets there. "I’m still figuring out who I am," she says. "I love expressing that through music, and through film. I feel at this moment in my life I couldn’t be happier."
All sorts of people are fond of repeating the Christian statement that ‘God is love’. But they seem not to notice that the words ‘God is love’ have no real meaning unless God contains at least two Persons. Love is something that one person has for another person. If God was a single person, then before the world was made, He was not love. Of course, what these people mean when they say that God is love is often some- thing quite different: they really mean ‘Love is God’. They really mean that our feelings of love, however and wherever they arise, and whatever results they produce, are to be treated with great respect. Perhaps they are: but that is something quite different from what Christians mean by the statement ‘God is love’. They believe that the living, dynamic activity of love has been going on in God forever and has created everything else.
And that, by the way, is perhaps the most important difference between Christianity and all other religions: that in Christianity God is not a static thing—not even a person—but a dynamic, pulsating activity, a life, almost a kind of drama. Almost, if you will not think me irreverent, a kind of dance.
From Mere Christianity. CS Lewis
------------------------------------------------
Joz..acting again..
Just Pinned to moon daisy videos: Get Harder Boners Tips Get Harder Boners ift.tt/1rcnq3J www.youtube.com/channel/UC9FNvFSGn_y2KTD4LINVXDQ youtu.be/VbfUQTF_G6A youtu.be/TS2T_tmYVBM youtu.be/c9ewm1qHUHc youtu.be/oYCWsr7RCuo youtu.be/Qk8Lfi3RMbM youtu.be/GpCcjIctSKI youtu.be/XRye-T9H6To youtu.be/824Pb_Ev8_c youtu.be/GLMIu5-Rt2Y youtu.be/G54f7R17Xj8 youtu.be/ZR2CamjEB-w youtu.be/1p0-WvO76L8 youtu.be/NKzU9wQhZf4 youtu.be/pCs3-lY9sts youtu.be/LdVSLmBYIzo youtu.be/2E4Slse2v8E youtu.be/cN95g2ZQdZg youtu.be/lfRlTGQk-wQ youtu.be/X0lKI_OhKpQ youtu.be/0wBbw78iKgM youtu.be/xQV1ajHho5Q youtu.be/DSKZDTB74ak youtu.be/qs6QTbUrVwk My name is Max Miller and ED nearly destroyed my life. Ill tell you about my embarrassing (and rather shocking) story in just a moment But first if youre suffering from ED trust me Youre not alone and I totally know how you feel. The good news is that on this page Im going to share with you an unusual and ancient secret method that not only cured my ED But now gives me bulging pulsating Superman- style erections that make my wife the most satisfied woman on earth. Your age doesnt matter. Men from 21 to 88 have raved about the effectiveness of this method We also know for a fact that this secret works especially well for men who are 30 40 50 or even 60 from the thousands of testimonials weve received. It doesnt matter whether youve suffered from ED for years or whether youve recently begun to go soft (or cant get it up at all) And it doesnt matter if youve tried pills pumps or other ED treatments like that because this isnt about that Because what Im about to give you is not a treatment. Its not a temporary fix that helps ease the symptoms... What Youre About To Discover Is A Breakthrough Solution That Addresses ED At Its Core. Keep reading and Ill give you a way to permanently eliminate EDand reverse it back to your teenage years so that you go from limp noodle to Man Of Steel. Imagine the confidence surging through your veins as you instantly achieve thick hard throbbing erections that your wife will gaze upon with wide-eyed wonder... And youll be able to achieve this on command! Now at last this secret method is available to regular guys like you and me. Imagine the sexual freedom youll have when you can instantly command a rock-hard pulsating erection to appear. And not just any erectionone that is even more potent than the ones you sported as a teenager. But unlike your adolescent erections Now YOU will be in complete command of your manhood. You wont pitch a tent at the wrong times But the moment you want to summon an erection itll be ready to make your wife explode with pleasure and scream your name to the heavens Because YOU (and only you) satisfy her like other man possibly could. And youll do this without pills Without pumps And without painful injections or risky surgery. Related search how to get harder erections get harder erections how to have harder erections firmer erections how to get rock hard erections how to get firmer erections cant get hard can t get erect how to achieve harder erections stronger harder erections how to erect longer and harder longer and harder erections how can i get harder erections how to get a hard on how to get really hard erections have harder erections how to have firmer erections ways to get harder erections how can i get stronger erections how to erect harder and longer how to get stiffer erections how to get a hardon and keep it how to get a good hard on get harder boners how to get powerful erections ift.tt/1reJnC7
Jordyn Jones Halloween Night 🌙 Halloween 2017 - Jordyn Jones Photo | Photo Published by Social Media www.facebook.com/jordynonline/photos/a.1771281306233559.1... | Website: www.jordynonline.com - www.jordynjonesofficial.com | Tags: #jordynjones #actress #model #singer #dancer #designer
Back from London with great experiences of busy streets, pulsating markets like Brixton Market and dreamy spring blossom in tranquil parks..........
to start my photo stream of London a capture of the cherry blossoms, Regent's Park
Budapest is the capital city of Hungary. With a unique, youthful atmosphere, world-class classical music scene as well as a pulsating nightlife increasingly appreciated among European youth, and last but not least, an exceptional offer of natural thermal baths, Budapest is one of Europe's most delightful and enjoyable cities. Due to the exceedingly scenic setting, and its architecture it is nicknamed "Paris of the East". The local pronunciation can be approximated by "boo-dah-pesht". In 1987 Budapest was added to the UNESCO World Heritage List for the cultural and architectural significance of the Banks of the Danube, the Buda Castle Quarter and Andrássy Avenue.
The fire that gives light and warmth started with just a single spark. Much like a dream fulfilled started with the deep longing to achieve it. You must not lose your desires. They are the spark that ignites your creativity, the flame that rekindles your love and the pavement that leads you to true life. It is the origin of all triumph and the key to motivation; not just a simple want nor a simple wish, but a great pulsating yearning that engulfs everything. Your great desire for something pushes you to become more than what think you are capable of.
Selena Gomez
Alcatraz - Milano
16 Settembre 2013
ph © Mairo Cinquetti
© All rights reserved. Do not use my photos without my written permission. If you would like to buy or use this photo PLEASE message me or email me at mairo.cinquetti@gmail.com
What do you do after striking gold with your first solo album, wrapping your third season starring in a hit series and earning raves for your movie debut? If you're Selena Gomez, you dance. At least, you get the world on its feet with "A Year Without Rain." A follow-up to "Kiss & Tell," Selena’s gold-certified Hollywood Records debut CD, "A Year Without Rain" shows Selena and her band, The Scene, in a whole new light, this one pulsating, multicolored and ready for the mirrored ball.
"I really wanted something that felt good to perform, but had a techno/dance vibe," Selena says. "I wanted something that had meaning and melody, and more empowering lyrics." That’s exactly what she delivers in "A Year Without Rain." Working with top producer/songwriters like Tim James & Antonina Armato, Kevin Rudolf, Toby Gad and Jonas Jeberg, Selena kept to a more quickened tempo, exploring themes of love, freedom and the joy of living for the moment.
Selena credits the album’s neo-techno leanings to her 2010 platinum-certified single, ‘Naturally," which pointed the way for her. That track "really helped me figure out where I want to be," she says. "There’s a feeling when I perform that song that I love, so when I was going back in the studio, I had a better understanding of where I wanted to be musically."
She gets right to it with the opening track, "Round & Round," an upbeat synth-driven song about reaching the limits of indecision in love. The plaintive "A Year Without Rain" may be more subdued, but its beauty impressed Selena enough to make it the title track. "When I got the song, I went through the roof," she recalls. "Everybody has that one person they can’t live without. It was exactly what I wanted to say." That goes double for the Spanish version of the song, Selena’s first recording in that language.
Having turned 18 this year, Selena has matured since making her professional debut at age 7, but girls still wanna have fun, which is what songs like "Spotlight" "Off the Chain" and "Summer’s Not Hot" are all about. "Rock God" features none other than Katy Perry on backing vocals, while "Intuition" boasts a duet between Selena and rapper Eric Bellinger in a tricked-out double-time salute to a positive attitude.
Selena slows things down on "Ghost of You," a ravishing ballad about a breakup so rough, no amount of "living crazy loud" can crush the memory. "It’s very beautiful, very raw," Selena says of the song. "Shelly Peiken co-wrote it. She knows me, knows about everything I go through, and knows how to express it in a beautiful way."
On the flip side, Selena comes back strong with "Sick of You," a Matt Squire-written and produced track about losing a loser ("You know fairy tales don’t come true/ Not when it comes to you"). The album ends with "Live Like There’s No Tomorrow," an epic power ballad expressing the creed by which Selena has built her life and career.
A Dallas native, Selena Gomez started acting at age seven when she landed a role in the popular television series "Barney & Friends," on which was a regular for two seasons. She landed her first film role in the 2003 sci-fi action adventure film "Spy Kids 3-D: Game Over." She made her mark as an actress playing girl wizard Alex Russo in the hit Disney Channel series "Wizards of Waverly Place," which premiered in 2007 and has now completed three seasons. Selena and her cast mates won a 2009 Emmy Award for Outstanding Children’s Program.
Selena then made an indelible impression with her starring role in 2010 comedy "Ramona and Beezus." Says Selena, "I wanted something completely different from my show. All these incredible actors, being able to learn from them and get my feet wet in the film world. It was the perfect way to get into it." Next up, a starring role in "Monte Carlo," in which she plays a teen on vacation in the romantic European principality. And of course, Selena is gearing up for the fourth season of "Wizards of Waverly Place."
Selena has branched out into fashion with the premiere of her new clothing line, Dream Out Loud, sold exclusively at K-Mart. But her instinct for charity remains strong. She is a proud UNICEF ambassador, and will appear for a third year at UNICEF's Trick or Treat bash, this time to kick off UNICEF's 60th anniversary. And with the new album comes a new tour with her band.
Having her own band has been a comfort for Selena as she hits the road with "A Year Without Rain." Scene members; Ethan Roberts (Guitar), Joey Clement (Bass), Greg Garman (Drums) and Dane Forrest (Keyboard) back her on tour and help shape her emerging sound. "On my TV show we have an ensemble cast that’s like a family," she says. "If anyone’s missing, you feel it. I wanted that family feel in my music, and we definitely have that with the Scene."
That family feeling had grown to include fans around the world, each of them all in when it comes to following Selena Gomez on her amazing artistic journey. Where’s she headed? She’ll let you know when she gets there. "I’m still figuring out who I am," she says. "I love expressing that through music, and through film. I feel at this moment in my life I couldn’t be happier."
Done in Ai, Finalized in Photoshop and Photoscape X
"When the stars flicker and the void sings, he is near."
Behold Xhar’Zhul, a towering alien warlord sheathed in obsidian-black scales and an advanced cybernetic exo-shell. His glowing violet eyes pierce through space-time itself, reflecting the cold intelligence of a mind that commands entire fleets. Ancient, silent, and terrifyingly efficient, Xhar’Zhul stands aboard the Void Bridge, the nerve center of the Celestial Rift Armada — a fleet capable of breaching reality itself.
His armor is a fusion of Rhyzek bio-tech and void-forged alloys, lined with pulsating energy veins and runes lost to time. The ridges along his head echo his reptilian origins, but beneath the surface lies a strategist without equal — a master of quantum warfare and interdimensional dominion.
This piece captures the moment before battle — deep in the heart of his flagship, where alien glyphs glow, nebulae swirl beyond reinforced glass, and destiny is written in stellar fire.
Selena Gomez
Alcatraz - Milano
16 Settembre 2013
ph © Mairo Cinquetti
© All rights reserved. Do not use my photos without my written permission. If you would like to buy or use this photo PLEASE message me or email me at mairo.cinquetti@gmail.com
What do you do after striking gold with your first solo album, wrapping your third season starring in a hit series and earning raves for your movie debut? If you're Selena Gomez, you dance. At least, you get the world on its feet with "A Year Without Rain." A follow-up to "Kiss & Tell," Selena’s gold-certified Hollywood Records debut CD, "A Year Without Rain" shows Selena and her band, The Scene, in a whole new light, this one pulsating, multicolored and ready for the mirrored ball.
"I really wanted something that felt good to perform, but had a techno/dance vibe," Selena says. "I wanted something that had meaning and melody, and more empowering lyrics." That’s exactly what she delivers in "A Year Without Rain." Working with top producer/songwriters like Tim James & Antonina Armato, Kevin Rudolf, Toby Gad and Jonas Jeberg, Selena kept to a more quickened tempo, exploring themes of love, freedom and the joy of living for the moment.
Selena credits the album’s neo-techno leanings to her 2010 platinum-certified single, ‘Naturally," which pointed the way for her. That track "really helped me figure out where I want to be," she says. "There’s a feeling when I perform that song that I love, so when I was going back in the studio, I had a better understanding of where I wanted to be musically."
She gets right to it with the opening track, "Round & Round," an upbeat synth-driven song about reaching the limits of indecision in love. The plaintive "A Year Without Rain" may be more subdued, but its beauty impressed Selena enough to make it the title track. "When I got the song, I went through the roof," she recalls. "Everybody has that one person they can’t live without. It was exactly what I wanted to say." That goes double for the Spanish version of the song, Selena’s first recording in that language.
Having turned 18 this year, Selena has matured since making her professional debut at age 7, but girls still wanna have fun, which is what songs like "Spotlight" "Off the Chain" and "Summer’s Not Hot" are all about. "Rock God" features none other than Katy Perry on backing vocals, while "Intuition" boasts a duet between Selena and rapper Eric Bellinger in a tricked-out double-time salute to a positive attitude.
Selena slows things down on "Ghost of You," a ravishing ballad about a breakup so rough, no amount of "living crazy loud" can crush the memory. "It’s very beautiful, very raw," Selena says of the song. "Shelly Peiken co-wrote it. She knows me, knows about everything I go through, and knows how to express it in a beautiful way."
On the flip side, Selena comes back strong with "Sick of You," a Matt Squire-written and produced track about losing a loser ("You know fairy tales don’t come true/ Not when it comes to you"). The album ends with "Live Like There’s No Tomorrow," an epic power ballad expressing the creed by which Selena has built her life and career.
A Dallas native, Selena Gomez started acting at age seven when she landed a role in the popular television series "Barney & Friends," on which was a regular for two seasons. She landed her first film role in the 2003 sci-fi action adventure film "Spy Kids 3-D: Game Over." She made her mark as an actress playing girl wizard Alex Russo in the hit Disney Channel series "Wizards of Waverly Place," which premiered in 2007 and has now completed three seasons. Selena and her cast mates won a 2009 Emmy Award for Outstanding Children’s Program.
Selena then made an indelible impression with her starring role in 2010 comedy "Ramona and Beezus." Says Selena, "I wanted something completely different from my show. All these incredible actors, being able to learn from them and get my feet wet in the film world. It was the perfect way to get into it." Next up, a starring role in "Monte Carlo," in which she plays a teen on vacation in the romantic European principality. And of course, Selena is gearing up for the fourth season of "Wizards of Waverly Place."
Selena has branched out into fashion with the premiere of her new clothing line, Dream Out Loud, sold exclusively at K-Mart. But her instinct for charity remains strong. She is a proud UNICEF ambassador, and will appear for a third year at UNICEF's Trick or Treat bash, this time to kick off UNICEF's 60th anniversary. And with the new album comes a new tour with her band.
Having her own band has been a comfort for Selena as she hits the road with "A Year Without Rain." Scene members; Ethan Roberts (Guitar), Joey Clement (Bass), Greg Garman (Drums) and Dane Forrest (Keyboard) back her on tour and help shape her emerging sound. "On my TV show we have an ensemble cast that’s like a family," she says. "If anyone’s missing, you feel it. I wanted that family feel in my music, and we definitely have that with the Scene."
That family feeling had grown to include fans around the world, each of them all in when it comes to following Selena Gomez on her amazing artistic journey. Where’s she headed? She’ll let you know when she gets there. "I’m still figuring out who I am," she says. "I love expressing that through music, and through film. I feel at this moment in my life I couldn’t be happier."
Description: Powwows are large social gatherings of Native Americans who follow traditional dances started centuries ago by their ancestors, and which continually evolve to include contemporary aspects. These events of drum music, dancing, singing, artistry and food, are attended by Natives and non-Natives, all of whom join in the dancing and take advantage of the opportunity to see old friends and teach the traditional ways to a younger generation. During the National Powwow, the audience see dancers in full regalia compete in several dance categories, including Men and Women's Golden Age (ages 50 and older); Men's Fancy Dance, Grass and Traditional (Northern and Southern); Women's Jingle Dress, Fancy Shawl, and Traditional (Northern and Southern); Teens (13-17); Juniors (6-12) and Tiny Tots (ages 5 and younger). The drum groups are the heart of all powwows and provide the pulsating and thunderous beats that accompany a dancer's every movement. The powwow is led by three "host drums" that showcase three distinct styles of singing (Northern, Southern and contemporary) and represent the best examples of each style. The drum contest highlights groups of 10 to 12 members each, and they sing traditional family songs that are passed down orally from one generation to the next. The National Museum of the American Indian sponsored the National Powwow in 2002, 2005, and 2007 as a way of presenting to the public the diversity and social traditions of contemporary Native cultures.
Creator/Photographer: Ken Rahaim
Medium: Digital photograph
Culture: American Indian
Geography: USA
Date: 2007
Repository: National Museum of the American Indian
Accession number: 07natl-powwow_0141
Selena Gomez
Alcatraz - Milano
16 Settembre 2013
ph © Mairo Cinquetti
© All rights reserved. Do not use my photos without my written permission. If you would like to buy or use this photo PLEASE message me or email me at mairo.cinquetti@gmail.com
What do you do after striking gold with your first solo album, wrapping your third season starring in a hit series and earning raves for your movie debut? If you're Selena Gomez, you dance. At least, you get the world on its feet with "A Year Without Rain." A follow-up to "Kiss & Tell," Selena’s gold-certified Hollywood Records debut CD, "A Year Without Rain" shows Selena and her band, The Scene, in a whole new light, this one pulsating, multicolored and ready for the mirrored ball.
"I really wanted something that felt good to perform, but had a techno/dance vibe," Selena says. "I wanted something that had meaning and melody, and more empowering lyrics." That’s exactly what she delivers in "A Year Without Rain." Working with top producer/songwriters like Tim James & Antonina Armato, Kevin Rudolf, Toby Gad and Jonas Jeberg, Selena kept to a more quickened tempo, exploring themes of love, freedom and the joy of living for the moment.
Selena credits the album’s neo-techno leanings to her 2010 platinum-certified single, ‘Naturally," which pointed the way for her. That track "really helped me figure out where I want to be," she says. "There’s a feeling when I perform that song that I love, so when I was going back in the studio, I had a better understanding of where I wanted to be musically."
She gets right to it with the opening track, "Round & Round," an upbeat synth-driven song about reaching the limits of indecision in love. The plaintive "A Year Without Rain" may be more subdued, but its beauty impressed Selena enough to make it the title track. "When I got the song, I went through the roof," she recalls. "Everybody has that one person they can’t live without. It was exactly what I wanted to say." That goes double for the Spanish version of the song, Selena’s first recording in that language.
Having turned 18 this year, Selena has matured since making her professional debut at age 7, but girls still wanna have fun, which is what songs like "Spotlight" "Off the Chain" and "Summer’s Not Hot" are all about. "Rock God" features none other than Katy Perry on backing vocals, while "Intuition" boasts a duet between Selena and rapper Eric Bellinger in a tricked-out double-time salute to a positive attitude.
Selena slows things down on "Ghost of You," a ravishing ballad about a breakup so rough, no amount of "living crazy loud" can crush the memory. "It’s very beautiful, very raw," Selena says of the song. "Shelly Peiken co-wrote it. She knows me, knows about everything I go through, and knows how to express it in a beautiful way."
On the flip side, Selena comes back strong with "Sick of You," a Matt Squire-written and produced track about losing a loser ("You know fairy tales don’t come true/ Not when it comes to you"). The album ends with "Live Like There’s No Tomorrow," an epic power ballad expressing the creed by which Selena has built her life and career.
A Dallas native, Selena Gomez started acting at age seven when she landed a role in the popular television series "Barney & Friends," on which was a regular for two seasons. She landed her first film role in the 2003 sci-fi action adventure film "Spy Kids 3-D: Game Over." She made her mark as an actress playing girl wizard Alex Russo in the hit Disney Channel series "Wizards of Waverly Place," which premiered in 2007 and has now completed three seasons. Selena and her cast mates won a 2009 Emmy Award for Outstanding Children’s Program.
Selena then made an indelible impression with her starring role in 2010 comedy "Ramona and Beezus." Says Selena, "I wanted something completely different from my show. All these incredible actors, being able to learn from them and get my feet wet in the film world. It was the perfect way to get into it." Next up, a starring role in "Monte Carlo," in which she plays a teen on vacation in the romantic European principality. And of course, Selena is gearing up for the fourth season of "Wizards of Waverly Place."
Selena has branched out into fashion with the premiere of her new clothing line, Dream Out Loud, sold exclusively at K-Mart. But her instinct for charity remains strong. She is a proud UNICEF ambassador, and will appear for a third year at UNICEF's Trick or Treat bash, this time to kick off UNICEF's 60th anniversary. And with the new album comes a new tour with her band.
Having her own band has been a comfort for Selena as she hits the road with "A Year Without Rain." Scene members; Ethan Roberts (Guitar), Joey Clement (Bass), Greg Garman (Drums) and Dane Forrest (Keyboard) back her on tour and help shape her emerging sound. "On my TV show we have an ensemble cast that’s like a family," she says. "If anyone’s missing, you feel it. I wanted that family feel in my music, and we definitely have that with the Scene."
That family feeling had grown to include fans around the world, each of them all in when it comes to following Selena Gomez on her amazing artistic journey. Where’s she headed? She’ll let you know when she gets there. "I’m still figuring out who I am," she says. "I love expressing that through music, and through film. I feel at this moment in my life I couldn’t be happier."
Selena Gomez
Alcatraz - Milano
16 Settembre 2013
ph © Mairo Cinquetti
© All rights reserved. Do not use my photos without my written permission. If you would like to buy or use this photo PLEASE message me or email me at mairo.cinquetti@gmail.com
What do you do after striking gold with your first solo album, wrapping your third season starring in a hit series and earning raves for your movie debut? If you're Selena Gomez, you dance. At least, you get the world on its feet with "A Year Without Rain." A follow-up to "Kiss & Tell," Selena’s gold-certified Hollywood Records debut CD, "A Year Without Rain" shows Selena and her band, The Scene, in a whole new light, this one pulsating, multicolored and ready for the mirrored ball.
"I really wanted something that felt good to perform, but had a techno/dance vibe," Selena says. "I wanted something that had meaning and melody, and more empowering lyrics." That’s exactly what she delivers in "A Year Without Rain." Working with top producer/songwriters like Tim James & Antonina Armato, Kevin Rudolf, Toby Gad and Jonas Jeberg, Selena kept to a more quickened tempo, exploring themes of love, freedom and the joy of living for the moment.
Selena credits the album’s neo-techno leanings to her 2010 platinum-certified single, ‘Naturally," which pointed the way for her. That track "really helped me figure out where I want to be," she says. "There’s a feeling when I perform that song that I love, so when I was going back in the studio, I had a better understanding of where I wanted to be musically."
She gets right to it with the opening track, "Round & Round," an upbeat synth-driven song about reaching the limits of indecision in love. The plaintive "A Year Without Rain" may be more subdued, but its beauty impressed Selena enough to make it the title track. "When I got the song, I went through the roof," she recalls. "Everybody has that one person they can’t live without. It was exactly what I wanted to say." That goes double for the Spanish version of the song, Selena’s first recording in that language.
Having turned 18 this year, Selena has matured since making her professional debut at age 7, but girls still wanna have fun, which is what songs like "Spotlight" "Off the Chain" and "Summer’s Not Hot" are all about. "Rock God" features none other than Katy Perry on backing vocals, while "Intuition" boasts a duet between Selena and rapper Eric Bellinger in a tricked-out double-time salute to a positive attitude.
Selena slows things down on "Ghost of You," a ravishing ballad about a breakup so rough, no amount of "living crazy loud" can crush the memory. "It’s very beautiful, very raw," Selena says of the song. "Shelly Peiken co-wrote it. She knows me, knows about everything I go through, and knows how to express it in a beautiful way."
On the flip side, Selena comes back strong with "Sick of You," a Matt Squire-written and produced track about losing a loser ("You know fairy tales don’t come true/ Not when it comes to you"). The album ends with "Live Like There’s No Tomorrow," an epic power ballad expressing the creed by which Selena has built her life and career.
A Dallas native, Selena Gomez started acting at age seven when she landed a role in the popular television series "Barney & Friends," on which was a regular for two seasons. She landed her first film role in the 2003 sci-fi action adventure film "Spy Kids 3-D: Game Over." She made her mark as an actress playing girl wizard Alex Russo in the hit Disney Channel series "Wizards of Waverly Place," which premiered in 2007 and has now completed three seasons. Selena and her cast mates won a 2009 Emmy Award for Outstanding Children’s Program.
Selena then made an indelible impression with her starring role in 2010 comedy "Ramona and Beezus." Says Selena, "I wanted something completely different from my show. All these incredible actors, being able to learn from them and get my feet wet in the film world. It was the perfect way to get into it." Next up, a starring role in "Monte Carlo," in which she plays a teen on vacation in the romantic European principality. And of course, Selena is gearing up for the fourth season of "Wizards of Waverly Place."
Selena has branched out into fashion with the premiere of her new clothing line, Dream Out Loud, sold exclusively at K-Mart. But her instinct for charity remains strong. She is a proud UNICEF ambassador, and will appear for a third year at UNICEF's Trick or Treat bash, this time to kick off UNICEF's 60th anniversary. And with the new album comes a new tour with her band.
Having her own band has been a comfort for Selena as she hits the road with "A Year Without Rain." Scene members; Ethan Roberts (Guitar), Joey Clement (Bass), Greg Garman (Drums) and Dane Forrest (Keyboard) back her on tour and help shape her emerging sound. "On my TV show we have an ensemble cast that’s like a family," she says. "If anyone’s missing, you feel it. I wanted that family feel in my music, and we definitely have that with the Scene."
That family feeling had grown to include fans around the world, each of them all in when it comes to following Selena Gomez on her amazing artistic journey. Where’s she headed? She’ll let you know when she gets there. "I’m still figuring out who I am," she says. "I love expressing that through music, and through film. I feel at this moment in my life I couldn’t be happier."
The thing about Rack is that the moment I met her I knew immediately that she would lick her own bottom if she could. 'If only' hung in the air between us. This, of course, made me fall in love with her instantly.
I hadn’t known anybody to be able to do that since I kidnapped Kim by pulling him/her through the hole in that hedge. The mater nearly killed me, banjaxed me with a belt, for making the hole bigger, but Kim was worth it. She/he was my first stolen love. I told the story of beastly dead Kim before, but I will link to it below. We are now in that miraculous epoch where such things can happen, links and the like, I mean, and even liking those links with pulsating red hearts and thumbs-uppery. It’s a brand spanking, and dazzling, new age, indeed.
Kim was a dog, in Clondalkin (then a satellite village on the outskirts of Dublin), a beautiful Alsatian, in the very early sixties, another time completely, and Rack was a ‘words fail me’ in Lower Manhattan in 1987.
They are the same person, in my palpitating, née breaking, rancid heart. I don’t know why my heart was born broken, but I guess that’s why I am writing this.
I would bet, ready money even, that Kim died that very same week on which Rack came asqualling© out of her mother's labyrinth. All praise be to that divine ushering. I should say that if you see that copyright thingy after a word, then you should know that I am not at all sure if the word exists, but I am making it mine anyway. Anybody can go ahead and use it anyway; I don’t believe in copyright.
In truth, I don't care if it's true, that ‘samsara’, I mean. In my story I midwifed them both through that scratchy hedge-hole and love just happened to follow on from that sluicing, naturally self-lubricating.
Kim died young, at the tender age of 8 dog-years. Rack seemed/seems to live forever. She is one of them there 'Immortals', apparently. She hates me calling her that, like it’s challenging the very non-bleeders themselves. I can’t help it; it’s how she seems to be to me, or perhaps it’s how I need her to be. I wonder can you expire from wanting, like they say you can die from a broken heart. I suspect you can, especially if you really let yourself down. But that was inevitable from the get-go.
Rack told me she was dying, practically in that first moment we were alone together. She did, respectfully, wait until we were both sitting down though. It was just as well. The waiter, there will be more about him later, had just asked us if we wanted coffee, before handing us the menu. Rack went straight for the jugular, with little or no hesitation. She told me she was dying years before I discovered she was immortal, even. She told me at that precise moment, even before I took my first gulp of that too hot coffee. This caused a certain tension between us, an imbalance. At the same time, I had somehow surmised, simultaneously, that she was the reincarnation of that wonderful own-bottom-licking bitch, Kim. Of course, I don’t really believe in reincarnation, my name isn’t Shirley (of the Beatty, née Beaty, clan). Demonic possession would seem to be somewhat closer to the truthiness of the whole situation.
I had loved both of them from their first yelps, Rack and Kim, though I didn’t really appreciate Rack releasing that snake in my ‘Garden of Eden’. For some clarity here, I will mention that, on the same day that we met, she lost a, luckily, recently fed boa constrictor, a wee squeezer, in my loft on West Broadway and Broome. It remained ‘lost’ there for one month, basically until it became ravenous again.
Rack, my very own demon vampire of Broome Street, that Moondancing Dog Goddess, she would hopefully see me out. But that was way before I got all my own balls in the air, before I became an immortal myself.
And whoever said that Anne Rice is dead?
Ratchet-away rackety Rack, reel me in Hecate, drain me, I am yours. You are your very own everlasting miracle.
Words don't really fail me, I was just pretending, but I am going to continue to pretend for a while longer yet.
So, let’s dress up together and dissimulate, and see wherever this takes us, ‘Wild-Goosing’ perhaps, through Dublin, London, Paris, New York, Chicago, Palm Beach, Helsinki, Amsterdam, and other conurbations. Yes Kim, we ain’t in Clondalkin anymore.
Woof! Lick, laugh, cry, scream, bumbelch. Let’s let those boundaries dissolve, shall we? If they prove insoluble, we can always make a scratchy hedge-hole, to pull each other a-yelping through.
I have to say that there were times too when I absolutely hated her with a passion, terrible times, drugged and addled interludes even, but that’s love, I guess.
No holds, or holes, will be left unturned, un-stoned, or barred, un-soothingly licked, or torn asunder. After all, this is only...
The Beginning.
WhatsApp: [6:41 pm, 20/10/2022]
Rack: Great stuff Ruin. Love that Rack is a reincarnation of a dog. Not to be a pedant, and you may have good reason, but it was 1988, that breakfast break in the ‘Moondance Diner’. Lucky 88 in Chinese culture.
Ruin: Blimey, was it really?
I just changed it (I didn’t). What year were you born? I know it is the 9th of June, but which year? I wonder was 88 the year of the dog... (after some quick googling) It was the buggering Dragon, auspicious, all the same, resplendent with pearl-clutching and all that Chinese imperial yellow.
Rack: I was born in 1962, in Baile Átha Cliath, the year of the Tiger. A year that all Chinese families dread bearing a female child. Female Tigers are considered ghastly. This year is also a year of the Tiger, 2022.
1988 is probably the only date I remember other than the year of my birth. The year of my so-called death.
Ruin: Okay, we are going to have to make you one year younger. Kim died on the 3rd of June, 1963, the very same day as Pope John XXIII's dying. We could always kill off the Pope a year earlier. Or you could be a '63 Rabbit, your call.
Rack: I’m rather sentimental about my 1962, dread year of female Tigers. But your call (back at you).
Ruin: Okay, we'll dump the Pope. Or we could always make it a demonic possession, as opposed to a reincarnation, and keep the Pope.
Rack: Yes! Reverse lycanthropy!
Ruin: Groovy, considered yourself possessed.
Rack: Will do. And have always done so. ♥️
Ruin: Woof! As all the big hairy gay bears say, in a doggy sort of way.
XXX
Rack: Woof woof!
Rack, why did you trust me? I mean, it must have been obvious to you that I was delinquent, that day in 'The Moondance Diner'. The strange thing is that it began with me playing Adam, making Jan’s film, and you were, supposedly, in control of the snake in the ‘Big Apple’, our adopted city. That was, of course, the same snake you lost in my short-term sublet, that 2,000 sq.ft. loft in Soho, and with which I cohabited for a month, eventually recapturing it, with the help of a terrified rodent, on a treadmill, in a cage. For the vegans amongst us, to stymie a panic-attack or whatever, let me just say that the frightened rodent survived, being protected by the bars of the cage. The neighbours, downstairs, had a 2-month-old baby, which I imagined could have easily ended up as a delicately wrapped ready-meal for my hungry nemesis, that boa. The baby survived too. The people from whom I had sublet the space eventually found a complete, discarded, snakeskin in one of their filing cabinets, some months later.
Then you handed me that incredible gift, in a break from shooting, the one I have grappled with for the past 34 years. Why did you decide to tell me?
I have to say that I loved that you constricted me, and, perhaps over time, I even became addicted to those constrictions.
That actress, the one who had a small part in 'Silence of the Lambs’, playing Eve in our film ('The Coil'), she wasn't Eve at all. You were. You see, this is how I am compelled to write, overblown and attaining towards the epic (dare I say biblical?), unfortunately Catholic, even. Why did a 'nice' Irish Protestant girl choose a purple, potty-mouthed, regurgitating, fellow ‘Wild Goose’ post-Catholic to expose her in all her beautifully controlled glory? You were far too smart not to realise that the eejit sitting opposite you had boundary issues, to put it mildly.
This inquiring mind wants to know, needs to know even. You do know that if he doesn't get an answer, he, Adam/Billy, forthwith to be known as Ruin, will invent one. 34 years sitting on, or rather coiled around, a snake egg, now there's a beginning. Ten of those years were spent walking, and screaming, caterwauling and laughing, up and down the cavernous Avenues of Manhattan together, followed by 24 years of compulsive entanglement in that ether called the World Wide Web.
For better or worse, in illness or in health, we bit into that fabled and loaded, apple together. I know, purple, but what can I say other than we might just have to live with it? I can do absolutely nothing about that, I am sure you realise that now, these 34 years further along.
Rack remains ruined, it seems, and Ruin remains wracked. We haven't changed at all, thankfully. My inability to write, and your refusing to, might just 'save' us after all, for whatever salvation there might be in graphomaniacally keeping a record.
But then this was a few days after you had just received that diagnosis, and we were then living through those times when such a diagnosis was still considered to be a death sentence. There was a topsy-turviness about the situation too, me being a promiscuous homosexual, a shirt-lifter extraordinaire, and you being just you, the wonderfully wayward Rack, 25 and already ‘in extremis’. We were opposing turncoats, somewhat stunned into a strange rawness, swapped that morning in that breech birth in the ‘Moondance Diner’.
You completely took my breath away. This, also, has never changed.
But that's just the beginning of this saga. Fast Forward 35 years, embracing ‘WhatsApp’, even.
Rack: I do hope we get to see each other pre-death. Though it seems strangely unimportant as if we really live together in the ether. Like floating souls.
Ruin: yes, it might end up being that, but who knows....we do ether well, and in the ether we get to catfish the bejaysus out of each other.
Rack: I’m thinking about the answer as to why I trusted you. I’d never asked myself. More tomorrow.
Email: early November 1998
Dear Ruin,
What are you up to? My server has been acting up; did you get my last missive?
My pancreas has gone berserk, and I have had to stop all HIV drugs, alarming as this is I am secretly thrilled not to be ramming 28 horse pills down my throat every day. I'm not sure what they will do with me now. I have to go for CAT scan, etc. to make sure I'm not in croaking mode. Anyone who thinks those new-fangled meds are a long-term answer needs their head examined. All this emergency and alarm has me galvanised in an odd way. I am even tempted to write and am polishing up my scamming skills and off to the services that be for multifarious helping hands.
Love to you Ruination, and your Man of La Mancha
Rack x
Dearest Rack,
Now I'm worried about you and glad I'm coming over soon. Don't croak, but I'm sure that's not immediately imminent. Fuck this lurgy! I'm going to phone you this evening because e-mail is not enough, and I want to hear your voice reassuring me or telling me you're scared, or whatever. You know you upset me but that's only because I love you too much and I know you might need a sounding board to share your fears with. Thank God (who?) for ‘Him Indoors’, your Foggy. I hope he's managing OK. I wish you were here, but I recognise that this is just a selfish wish, but I will see you again very soon. Galvanised to write, eh? Write then. Write to me. Let's write an e-mail novel together. A sort of ‘Les Liaisons Dangereuses’ with contemporary STD undertones...sounds a bit like ‘Rent’. It’s strange that the sadly deceased writer of ‘Rent’ was our waiter in the ‘Moondance Diner’ on our ‘first’ day, all those years ago.
Talk to you later
Your Bilious Ruin xxx
The unravelling in cyberspace began almost casually, or in retrospect it seemed casual, even though it began with the spectre of mortality looming. They had already been through this too often together in their history, their shared story. That story embraced tragedy and humour early on, in fact from the first day, or at least from the first day that she impressed herself on his consciousness indelibly. He guessed she had been a presence before that but only one that merged attractively with all that was exciting about negotiating a new and bohemian life in New York City in 1988 (You see, I did fix that date after all). Central to that excitement was a sexually generated plague.
He wasn’t sure why she was telling him. They were taking a break from filming one of those Lower-East-Side Art films that had no aspirations towards being ‘a Movie’. It was definitely ‘a film’ with all the necessary credentials, a slightly depressed and self-knowing, youthful and handsome, Polish director, and lots of nudity, and, of course, no script. Rack was the snake handler, in charge of the reptile, their slithering adversary. Ruin was Adam, or at least one of his alter egos, this was never really explained. Eve was a beauty who later went on to have a small part alongside Jodie Foster and who, invariably, never mentioned ‘The Coil’ in her resume.
Rack never blurted; she always controlled her output. The effect was precise and Protestant,
“I found out I am HIV positive three days ago”.
“Oh Christ”, Ruin blurted, Catholic to the hilt.
The pattern of their relationship was set at that moment. When Rack presented something to him it was like a jewel of great price, his responses were always scattered and overdone, purple in hue and intonation, like a simple sword in an over-wrought scabbard. He had only ever known melodrama and transubstantiation, well that at least was his excuse.
WhatsApp Tiltings. (2022, coming on towards a 34 staggering years since that Moondance ‘Protestant Confession’).
Rack: I am far from dead these days. I’m not sure that I’ve ever felt this alive. Though I do wonder what that pain in my left arm is, heart or artery about to blow. I will, however, admit to being angry. I feel as if it has been there with me for a long time. I remember kicking a bicycle at a tender age, the rebellion against inanimate objects that torment our days.
Happy you are enjoying ‘Clarissa’. And pursuing the ‘Wild Geese’ motif.
Today is one of those perfect NY days. Zero humidity. Crystalline blue skies. A reminder of death in the autumnal light. I do still harbour the illusion that I’ll get my writing out there. And I only write illusion to keep the evil eye at bay.
Ruin: Enjoying ‘Clarissa’ doesn’t quite describe it. It is wonderfully stilted in that 18th century way, all revolving around propriety, the opposite quality that might be useful to the ‘Wild Geese’ that we were. We did our best ‘goose-on-the-hoof’ sort of impression, I guess. I always felt that I wasn’t getting it quite right but managed to fool some people anyway. There wasn’t really any way that Clondalkin or Howth could prepare us for London or New York. But our antecedents took on even more pressing challenges. I am looking at ‘Barry Lyndon’ now, again, but it immediately becomes clear that he was very much the Howth, as opposed to the Clondalkin, type. He, perhaps, came from your side of the tracks, like you, there was also a certain ‘Ascendancy’ there. He had propriety down pat well before he left Ireland, he left fully assured of his privilege, though that was nicely challenged along the way.
Yes, I am enjoying this idea, this ‘Wild Geese’ idea that plonks us down in a pre-determined pattern, creates a sort of mould, or mold, to squirm in. It seems to me that it fits within a possibility of something that might be termed a ‘destiny’. This is strange because I don’t believe in pre-destination, but I do like the idea of patterns we generate and which we have no control over. I am also enjoying the idea of updating the epistolary canon, hence ‘Clarissa’, that looking at those roots.
For the same reason I have been ‘enjoying’ ‘The Sluts’, by Dennis Cooper too.
“'The Sluts' by Dennis Cooper, published in 2005, is 262 pages long. It was written completely in the form of emails and personal reviews of a male whore on an internet site.”
I see them as the same story told centuries apart, at least using the same story-telling device, correspondence.
Rack: I love “a mould to squirm in.” I’d be all for emails versus this phone app. Let’s do it. And yes, I don’t envy the visual artist and their storage problems. I am still confounded as what to do with my father’s oeuvre, the stuff I did not drown in the bath. And my mother’s portfolio of sketches, all unsigned and stained with linseed oil, resonant of her weird messiness, which coexisted with a fastidiousness and exacting perfectionism. A worthless hoard that is not mine to destroy.
Ruin: I want to be awful, and say “feck you, sentimentalise this shit”, with my ass in the air, doing a ‘Wife of Bath’, begging. Driven to it, with no idea where the impetus comes from. Overcome and innocent, but completely unapologetic, not Dickens at all.
Rack: I need to embrace unrestrained. Slough off all that wasted academic shite.
Ruin: I am so tired of moralisers. We are, in our own awful way, magnificent. Or at least were until we unexpectedly became old crones. If the truth be told, I actually love our cronedom. Therein lies the fun, that dried-out and screaming rebellion of the neutered unashamed crones, at that point where we might have been expected to achieve wizened, attaining towards invisibility, dignity. I prefer our withered magnificence, so overlooked that if it was to fully manifest it might be more ferocious than it ever could have been in our callow youth. Goya described them beautifully on the walls of his house, the ‘Quinta Del Sordo’, the house of the deaf man, those gnarled, frightened, outrageous characters, appalled, and celebrating their own impotence. I spent 10 days with them once, those Goyas, some 45 years ago, and they have stayed with me ever since, giving me somewhat of an appreciation for our timely and unexpected withering. Who would have expected, then, that we would have gotten this far.
Welcome to now.
Ruin: Bring it on Rack, bring it on. We are old lushes thoroughly lushed-out with that added benefit of having feck all to lose, a double pandemic, Covid and HIV, dare we even take time to catch our breath?
Rack: When I mentioned you to Jan, he was keen to remind me that he introduced us. I guess it is true. He maintains he met you in ‘The Ludlow Café’ when he was a server. And then we worked on his film.
Ruin: Yes, it’s probably true, thank him profusely. I had forgotten that part, though I have written about that first day on the shoot and your dropping of that ‘bombshell’ in the ‘Moondance Café’. I was so jealous of him for years, he was so bloody cool and tormented, and handsome. You can tell him I said that. We must immortalise us; we have a story to tell, a pandemic story, whilst negotiating a second one, even.
Rack: Yes. We must.
Ruin: I don’t care that we were on the edges of everything, more able to have an overview, perhaps. You know I will use all of this, rape and pillage everything.
Rack: Go right ahead.
Ruin: Nothing you send me is sacred, everything you send me is sacred.
Rack: I know. You fucking plagiarist whore.
Ruin: Lol, Duh!
Rack: ♥️
Ruin: Yes, it is equally strange to be here. We have a duty to tell our story to this fecking sore world. I will do my best to do that.
Rack: Or your worst
Ruin: You need to write, and I will do whatever I can to support or inspire you, make a total fool of myself, even. We have a story, it’s personal, beyond ‘Act-Up’ history, even, and It’s partially hanging in the museum in Dublin. I put us in the ‘Irish Museum of Modern Art’, even. I am proud of that.
Rack: Yes. Agreed.
Ruin: We can go, perhaps, somewhat further. I will never use your photo, or anything that will push you further than you want to go, though, at the same time, I am thinking of a strange hybrid photo book, like a sex-filled ‘Ladybird’ primer on how to survive twin pandemics in a seemingly unravelling world. But is this not how the world has always seemed, especially to us folks who have inadvertently attained a type of seniority? 2022, who would have guessed?
Rack: Peter and I used to argue interminably about the personal and the political. He maintained everything was political. I vehemently argued that all is personal. On his death bed he said, “I changed my mind, you are right.” It made the whole debacle feel worthwhile.
Ruin: I love it! Lovely Peter’s death-bed redemption. I was jealous of him too, what a bloody twat I was (and still am)!
Rack: Sort of, his death was a real kick in the arse for me.
Ruin: I was aware of it when it was happening, your struggle, your day-by-day bedside ministrations.
Rack: He gave up on life long before he died. I do not want to do that.
Ruin was always an outlet for Rack, almost like a delinquent spokesperson, the stuttering utterer of the unutterable. He had the ability to take the private into the realm of the universally available with consummate ease.
Rack didn’t. It was something she greatly feared and something she instinctively grasped that early summer morning in 1988, in the ‘Moondance Café’, on 7th Avenue and Broome. She knew she was making the personal public. She was undoing herself. He possessed that strange gift, the one imposed and imprinted, like the mark of Cain, on the incestuously sexually molested child, of having no facility to recognise boundaries, no ability to be able to tell the personal and private apart from what could be made generally available. She knew that he was her surrogate broadcaster and momentarily shuddered at the stranger she had spontaneously trusted sitting opposite her. This understanding hung between them as they ordered breakfast.
22. November 1998 11:00.
Dear Ruin,
I am feeling so much better after stopping HIV poison. I am eating and putting on some flesh and feeling feisty again and giving ‘Him Indoors’ a hard time. It is so good to feel the life and energy seep back in after weeks of feeling like poisoned lobster in a nuclear sea. After such foul dreariness, every cell feels like it is coming back to life. Am so reluctant to go back on them. New trend here is to give the fucker meds up until you are at death's door. Interesting revolt.
We are having such beautiful mild weather. You might have such an excellent time together here. Best say yes to everything, regret for committed crimes easier than those not undertaken.
Much love to you both,
Feisty Knickers
Their opening was torturous and drove them scurrying apart. It was more than either of them could handle, Rack racked with regret for exposing this opening wound and Ruin incapable of carrying the story alone. Their rehabilitation was slow and arduous. It was a time when to speak these words was a declaration of the almost immediate dissolution of self. It was a time before the hope generated by the “misnomered cocktails”, as Rack called them, and the political agitation, which was to burgeon out of despair and become ‘Act-Up’. It was a time before anything could be done except grasp at straws.
Yes, it was missing a jaunty miniature umbrella, that misnomered cocktail of yours.
So, both started grasping and would occasionally find themselves in the same room drawn to some or other possible panacea. Rack’s volition was desperation, Ruin’s was guilt. They acknowledged each other with some embarrassment and growing affection and, more often than not, turned away from each other and left separately. Ruin knew he loved Rack. Rack was not at all sure.
Not Flagrant, but beastly dead, Kim (On First Love). That promised ‘link’.
I don’t think it was actually a Post Office calendar. My sister said she received it free in some local Sunday newspaper or other, and she was amazed to find this image of ‘The Heffernans’ there, our neighbours and, much feared, landladies. It must have been some sort of nostalgic calendar about the glories of old Ireland, or the like. This, of course, makes it stranger still. I am sure that the ladies in question had no idea they would end up being ‘posteriteed’© in a Sunday Newspaper, eons after their deaths. Either way they did seem to make some effort in their best frocks, Gaelic ‘gúna(s)’ a lovey word, and smeared lippy.
The lady on the right had three dogs. I loved one of them, Kim, a German Shepard dog. As far as I was concerned, he was my dog. He used to come through the hedge to play with me, and I facilitated that migration by expanding the hole in the hedge. The hole was noticed and frowned upon, but I played dumb and mum. She, Biddy Heffernan, still had Mac and Judy, her Scottish terriers, to play with. I don’t think she ever noticed that I had stolen Kim, who may have been a bitch, but at that point I didn’t seem to differentiate. What did I know of gender at that point, or even now? Either way, he/she was my, gender fluid, bitch/dog. This relationship lasted about two or three years. I remember I was devastated when she was hit by a double-decker bus, the number 51B, to Dublin city centre.
This calamitous loss coincided with the death of Pope John XXIII, that exact same day. It was the 3rd of June in 1963, to be precise. I was 9 years old. It was somehow presumed that my profound keening was on behalf of the pontiff, and this sort of venerated me, momentarily, into the role of a professional ‘Pope Keener’. It might even have convinced my mother that I was well and truly on that thorny road to sainthood, or at least might have had 'a calling', that voice you heard in your head that convinced some young men that they wanted to join the priesthood. I knew that voice well.
I had never had a dog until then, we couldn’t afford one, but I knew that you actually only had to make, or enlarge, a hole in a hedge to get one.
Thankfully, Mac and Judy never took any interest in my hedge-hole. They were too posh for that sort of thing, and I didn't like them at all anyway. There was nothing I didn't love about Kim though. I really didn't care how he/she gender identified either. I vaguely remember that 'she' had female genitals, but I do also remember how she would always drag herself through the hole in the hedge when I called "Here, boy!" I guess they were a non-binary bitch-dog.
I think He/She/they was my first love. I doubt that even she/he/they knew he/she/they was an Alsatian. I loved that about him/her/them. They were a happy universal cis-gender dog/person.
All the same, I was more than blown away when I recognised Kim/Rack sitting in front of me in the ‘Moondance Diner’, and the only thing I knew is that I wanted somehow to be able to reverse the traditional role I had with Kim. It was my turn to lick her better.
That mutual licking, over 35 years, has now generated well over a million un-edited words. Now at the ripe old age of 69, having engendered the same lurgy, HIV, in my own life, I would like to spend the time that is left sorting those words out into something that could be mistaken for a story, a ‘Wild Geese’ escapade, even.
Almost 35,000 Britons in Limbo as Portugal fails to issue post-Brexit ID cards.
28 Oct 2002
Dear Ruin,
Have been thinking about your question as to what I was thinking as you drove towards virusdom.†
I haven't quite sorted it out yet, but I do know that I did find it very difficult to witness.†
It made me feel oddly prudish and disapproving and it was a deeply uncomfortable thing to have been feeling as I do understand the drive, believe me.†
In some respects it seems the only respectable thing to do:†
To go out and contract a life threatening illness through illicit sex.†
I think part of my discomfort was also related to the fact that I felt I had, for fifteen years, been trying very hard to keep myself alive and here you were doing yourself in.†
Coincidentally, at the time I think I was having a very hard time with the whole being infected thing myself (I can't quite remember, but I think I was coming off interferon and felt so cheated as the hep. c had come back).†
There was a lot of bitterness about my situation that leaked out when I watched you. I conveniently forgot that basically I had done the same thing as yourself.†
It's a subject matter that I still find difficult to look squarely at, it's so tied in with the most elemental forces of life and the urge for death.†
I mean at one end of the spectrum it makes perfect sense, why wouldn't one want to self-destruct, it's so much a part of the creative urge.†
On the other hand it is not an easy thing to live with.†
The daily ramifications are not as romantic as the wonderful cliche of the consumptive artist.†
I don't find pill swallowing romantic.†
Or blood tests.†
Or fear of disintegration prior to death.†
The condition we live with, coupled with the medical circumstances surrounding our condition, are equally bewildering.†
There isn't even the opportunity to live some romantic endgame, we are in a post-modern limbo of pills, side-effects, waiting, and guessing.†
Anyway, I'm not sure what I thought.†
It drove me a little mental to watch you, but now it's just faded into another reality of life, of friendship.†
I did try very hard not to be judgmental, but found the only way I could succeed was by removing myself a little.
Love, Rack
xoxo
Ruin: "Stuck in Limbo", or enduring "Travel Hell", take your pick in this diminishment of loaded signifiers heading towards that universal 'reductio ad absurdum', which we seem to be currently enjoying. Bring it on.
I like the crosses after each sentence, I have no idea where they came from. They seemingly generated themselves, a sort of glitch in the matrix, mysteriously created in transferring emails into word documents.
CIGAAUH? (Can I get an Amen up here?)
Rack: I like them too (the crosses). I think all of that was true, but I might also have been jealous that you were having fun getting HIV.
Rock: Okay, I am beginning to get it. Do you think you were a ‘bug chaser’, driven to get this disease 15 years behind Rack? Is that what you are saying?
Ruin: I don’t know yet; I am in the process of working that out. Perhaps that’s why I am writing this, that’s what I am looking to discover. I have said over and over that I am looking to uncover ‘drivers’, perhaps that was one of them.
So, begin again?
Rock: Yes Ruin, a new beginning.
Ruin: Rock, I really had better introduce you here, lest you become confused with Rack. You are not her at all. All the ‘key’ persons in this story, other than ‘family’ perhaps, will be getting a name beginning with the letter ‘R’, partially to set them/us apart, partially to alliterate along with Rack and Ruin. I guess the ‘R’ delineates a hierarchy in my mithered brain. I love the word mithered too, it is particular to that Emerald Isle (I think), and is used to signify confused to somewhat of a debilitating degree. Think generalised ejjitry (Irish speak for idiocy), and you might be there. As per recently usual, our friendship began in cyberspace, through corresponding, you were a Covid friend, a second plague confidant.
Ok Rock, introduce yourself, you know you want to. Where’s that bloody rude e-mail you wrote to me? Hold on a sec, here it is:
24 September 2022
Dear Bottom,
Ruin, Ruin, Ruin, what in god’s name were you up to? Neither of us believes in that geezer with the grey hair, on a cloud, but my exasperation needs letting out, so there he sits omnipotent. Just so you know, I was watching all those 68 years, and I can clearly see the stories you have been telling yourself. It’s almost as if I had nothing better to do than watch over you. But, I guess, someone had to, and that judgmental geezer with his tablet of ten regulations wasn’t really up to that job, now or then, was he? So, I hung around watching, and more or less saw it all, except for those times I might have been comatose in a Ketamine or alcohol haze, beside you. You may have gotten up to some shenanigans at those junctures, when I wasn’t exactly compos mentis. My apologies if I missed out on any of your multitudinous ‘calls for help’.
None of us are perfect, as you well know.
Before we start, get going that is, I should also say that I intend hanging around, watching over you, until your sticky, or otherwise, end. I wouldn’t miss that unravelling for all the gilt bronzes in Tibet. I am in it for the long run, as they say, whoever 'they' might be. I know you are having those memory holes, those vast, and growing, expandable black holes, but don’t worry there, Ruin. I think I can help out with this, even. You see, I kept a written record, I know, sneaky, but it’s the nature of the graphomaniacal beast, one of my own little foibles that might actually aid and abet your storytelling. I believe we might have shared that letter writing mania, that drive to communicate through correspondence, but we have never really written to each other, have we? I suspect that is about to change. I hope so anyway.
Rack, Sorcha and Thalia inspired you to write, I can see that, mostly by being able to tolerate you, it would appear. Perhaps you brought out a mothering aspect in their natures when they saw you in some considerable distress relative to that early abuse. Perhaps it was something else too, some mutual need. There were others too, mostly female others, Pat comes to mind, those correspondents, with the exception of Ray, who would be deserving of a separate story, perhaps. Rack spoke of them as the ‘Good Mothers’, those interventional women, those lifesavers.
Which more or less takes us to the ‘invisible man’, that centre of those black, expanding, holes, those memory lapses, the ‘Good Father’, or any father at all for that matter. He was purportedly there, constantly in the background, and often used as an alcohol sodden threat, but he was there. I seem to remember you even put some photographs of him up on your antiquated internet site, Flickr. I do see that there might be an absence there, a vacuum, and I have seen all the extremes you have gone to fill that infinite hole. So here I am, a Nelson Eddy to your Jeanette MacDonald (I know, camp and hopelessly dated, I am sorry about that), a top to your bottom, as Ray would have it.
Write to me, I will write back. Just don’t call me ‘Daddy’, that’s one step too far, and I know, and understand, your tendency to always overstep those boundaries. I am willing to play at being the ‘Good Father’, until you learn to do that for yourself. I really wouldn't do this for anyone else in this whole wide world, so hopefully this will help you begin to feel better about yourself.
Onwards and upwards as the aforementioned 'they' like to say, tomorrow being the first day of the rest of your life and all that cliched palaver. I will do my very best to rein all that corn in as we proceed, a struggle I know. I do believe we might have a job to do, and it's way beyond time to get on with it.
I've got your back, for what it's worth.
Best Regards,
Top
25 September 2022
Dearest Top,
Embracing the fear of possibly going full Ham, Shem and Japheth, I am going to have to name you. I can’t call you 'Top' for the duration of our correspondence, disregarding the reality that the Top/Bottom synergy thing doesn’t even hold anymore, now that one is post-gay, post-sex, and approaching post-everything, what with oblivion waving tantalisingly, as it is, from the border of that widening gyre (tips hat towards W.B.) of our beloved ‘event horizon’. I think I have even found a name for you. Its partially Catholic, even, from that miasma of childhood memories, that “Thou art Peter, and upon this rock I shall build my church, and I will give to thee the keys of the kingdom”.
Okay Rock, I am giving you the keys. You, for a while anyway, can be the designated driver. Petrus, that's you, that dependable rock, rock of the walk, even, rock of ages, my Tio Pepe port in a storm, my fellow geriatric mariner. Lash me to your, larger than average, mast, we're off.
Welcome to Rack & Ruin, and Rock! It does have a certain alliterative ring, n'est-ce pas? (TYFTC)*. Fasten your seatbelts, we might be in for somewhat of a bumpy ride.
Deliriously yours,
Queerqueg von Lederhosen
PPS: Relative to the acronym used in this photoplay, please see photo in the following chapter, entitled: ‘L.G.B.T.Q.I.A.H.I.V+O.A.P, It ain’t heavy, it’s my acronym’.
Until that chapter is reached and memorised, I can tell you that *TYFTC means ‘Thank you for the correction’. Rock often corrects Ruin. It’s his job, even.
Dearest Ray,
Sorry to hear about your sore t(h)roat. Don’t they be at the doing of the blessing of that same gorge (St. Blaise) anymore, at all, at all? Probably not, I would guess. Perhaps the only church what did it is now boarded up, or turned into a leisure centre where they give Irish dancing lessons to all those young, eager, coiled-springy girls, with the revolving legs and primary-colour gúnas, in plastic ringlets. You know the ones; they make those Dallas Cowboy’s cheerleaders girls look like vestal virgins, pushed on by their mammies, hello Bernadette Peters, to excel in all that leaping and jiggery-pokery, moving downstage like one of those roman phalanxes, putting the fear of God in every ‘daecent catolick’. Anyway, I diverge.
But, having diverged, might I just add that I loved reading, in the ‘Daily Mail’, about the sex scandal rocking the ‘Irish Dancing Community’ there. You really couldn’t make it up, maters offering juicy favours in return for their ringleted offspring mulching the competitive ringleted ones. I am glad that I don’t have to, make it up that is.
Talking of Catholics, no, you ain’t Rock, meaning that Rock is not based on you, nor will he be built around your fine imposing Anglo-Saxon edifice. Rock’s his name, not Peter, or Petrus, or any of those Roman shenanigans you tell me you detest, just clear old plain, and sturdy, ‘Rock’, as in that island lodged between the East River, and the Hudson (where I met my beloved Rack), if you get my drift, and the rock of one’s birth, that emerald green one you are presently lodged up the backside of.
I will admit he is partial to the odd glass of Theo Pepys, Samuel’s tipple, and has been known to take an occasional dash along the boreens of the Adirondacks brandishing that emblematic, blue-striped axe. That Daniel Dye Sluice could play him in a moving picture extravaganza, ‘The Last of the Tops’, or somesuch©, Oscar fodder, no doubt, probably to be found, eventually, in the ‘Science Fiction’ section of our favourite ‘Blokebuster’, down that windy old boreen of a bog road. Occasionally I do be at the putting of that copyright thingy after misspelled words, just to let you know that I know about them, and they were how I used to speak. You know I don’t believe in copyright anyway, and everything I have ever done is open, for whoever who wants to, to be ripped off. If they can make moolah from it fine too, I certainly couldn’t, so more power to their thieving elbows.
And what does every poor Irish boy need, dare I say, what does every boy need? I answer here and now, without much hesitation, other than the time it takes to take a gulp of coffee, with a slice of me iced-duck, so that I can take me slew of morning pilules for me fatal disease. The answer is, of course, that every boy needs a Rock. You can see that I am substituting, intermittently (willy-nilly), the ‘me’ for ‘my’. I do believe I might be enjoying heading for a little regression, and sure why not, on this fine rainy Amsterdam morning? There’s nary a rock here, on this damp sponge of a low-lying place, so a lad would have to be going about inventing his own boulder to support him.
But I regress. Where was I?
I remember. I was in Amsterdam about to take my ‘Daddy’s little helpers’, those much-loved lifesavers (said pilules). All praise science and all that palaver. I sit here pin-cushioned, enjoying the wonderful side-effects of the Monkeypox vaccine, and looking forward to when I can enjoy the same from the latest Covid update. Unfortunately, I have to wait a month for that second one, a recommended period of time between that first and second vaccine to ensure they don’t conjoin in some diabolical conspiracy to turn me into a 4G antenna, or something similar.
Pillar of salt, Lot’s wife’s lot, and how’s your mother?
I don’t think for a minute that that naughty Mr. Gates is out to chip me. As I said, pincushion here, and if he felt a yearning to chip yours truly, he could have had me eons ago. Have at it, Bill. Take me, I was, formerly, anybody’s anyway, writing bad cheques (checks, hello USA) akimbo.
And breathe.
‘Comhbhrú na cruinne in an carraig, agus rolladh i dtreo ceist ró-mhór í’, (trans: Compress the universe into a rock and roll it towards a bloody huge question) as the plagarised/plagarising ancient Irish bard might have warbled, and more than likely did.
No, it isn’t that Rack is non-responsive, it’s more that I am giving her a break from all my 'raiméis' (Gaelic for general doo-doo, shite for want of a better word). It's all been 'ri ra agus ruaile buaile', (gaelic for a gas craic) as far as I am concerned. We have chewed the cud now for 34 long, wonderful, and somewhat excruciating years. That’s not altogether true. We lived on that same rock of Manhattan for 11 years, then wrote to each other for 23 years after that. There are over a million and a half words lurking there. I think that you recognize that I love letter writing, or it’s modern equivalent anyway, the email. The problem is that the unwieldy words are there, and they are just a part of what lurks on my hard-drive, and I suspect it’s going to take my ‘Rock’ to sort them out. Rock has a pithy character, he takes no prisoners, that tough-love stuff, that ability to tell you when you are being an eejit. Anyway, Rack and Ruin could chew the cud relentlessly forever, they could easily become that universal methane generator, much feared of by the powers that do be sitting there, Canute-like, holding the tide back in Brussels.
Carraig is the Irish word for Rock, just so you know. Would that not be a great ‘secret’ name, one to make any mammy proud? “Come on over here, darling Carraig, and let me wipe your nose wit© me sleeve, you’re snottin all over de kip”. It doesn’t get much better than that in my book. Did you know that kip is the Dutch for chicken? - just saying.
I used to love, back on that old Manhattan Rock, when Rack used to croon "It's not your frock my dear", then look at me as if wisdom had been imparted. Rack knew how to make Ruin laugh. It was sort of a mutual thing. It was some 'Hibernafold', sweep me into your embrace my dear, understanding stranded between laughing and screaming, that wondrous type of hysteria, infectious, scary, and lovely. It’s far from the ‘Oxford comma’ that I was dragged up.
Pronouns be damned too, we know who we are. A pox on all your pronouns, here's to universal interchangeability!
Mise Lemas, (Yours Sincerely in Gaelic, though I won’t be repeating that every time I use it.)
Ruin O’ Carraig (Gaelic for Ruin, son of Rock)
Ruin: Hey Rock, I can sense you watching, even when I am not writing to you.
Rock: Go on then, do your damnedest, you know you want to, and it is your ‘book’, or story rather. So, who is going to stop you? That’s most certainly not my job. I know that I can nudge you, and even call 'raiméis' when it’s needed, but otherwise I am here to support you. Let it rip, Ruin, we can always fix it later anyway.
OK Ruin O’ Carraig, I am going to go for the jugular here, tell me what this is about. Put it as concisely as you can, no flourishes, no asides, none of your usual palaver, as you like to call it. Just state your ‘case’, and we can work on your blathering curlicues later.
Ruin: Right Rock, short and sweet then. It’s a story of this character called Ruin. He was sexually abused as a boy, incestuously, by an uncle. It went on for a number of years. His mammy put her brother in his bed. He spent most of his life blaming her for ‘setting it up’. This he wrote about in a piece called ‘My Mother, My Pimp’, to be included later. In 1988 he moved to New York, he was 34, after 15 years in London, and a childhood, until his late Catholic teens, in Clondalkin, part of the greater Dublin conurbation. There, in New York, he met Rack, a 25-year-old Protestant Dubliner, from Howth no less, who within moments of him meeting her told him she had just found out she was HIV positive, some three days before. At this point they were both post-religion, though their having been both steeped in that religious mire which was Ireland, at that time, was profoundly influential on their story as it unraveled.
That’s a ‘begin again’, isn’t it Rock?
Rock: Yes, Ruin, I would say it is. Don’t forget to breathe. I am listening.
#smalltowninertia New story, live.
smalltowninertia.co.uk/market-town-tilney1-watching-a-pla...
It was as though watching a man drowning beneath the ice.
I see him hitching for breath, chest heaving, eyes wild, fingers whipping at the indifferent, almost invisible, wall above.
I can do nothing but witness.
I, as trapped in these moments, as he imprisoned below, our eyes now connected. His fear, his absolute and consuming terror is loud within his gaze, as loud, I imagine, as his frozen water screams, muted by the barrier between us.
His fear resonates, pulsates with the realisation that we are both completely aware of what is happening and both completely helpless to alter a single fucking thing.
It was watching time run out.It was watching a trapped man caught in the throes of desperation.
It was watching a car crash in slow motion.It was watching a plane fall from the sky, aflame.
It was face pressed to the observation slit upon the cell of a forgotten and falsely imprisoned man in solitary confinement.
It was each and all of these things.It was as though they were all real.
It was and is, this real.
Witnessing Tilney1’s battle with Paranoid Schizophrenia over the course of the past 12 months, his medication changes, his endurance in isolation, his fight to exist and to navigate existence with and often without the regular support and contact with professional care teams, has been brutally illuminating.
Living alone can often be a vicious limbo. Coupled with Tilney1’s symptoms, fears and the crippling effects of his diagnosis and medications, life for Tilney1 has been brutal.
A change in C.P.N’s (Community Psychiatric Nurse) home visits from crisis teams dwindling, due to their own battle with staffing and budget cuts to local mental health services, led to Tilney1 missing medication.
It began, slowly. A missed pill here, a skipped pill there. Soon, bags of unopened medication were stockpiled within his bathroom. With each pill missed, a little more of Tilney1’s character traits, for years suppressed by medication, would rush to the surface.
It was a dangerous game, addictive. With each pill missed, a little more self-confidence and a little more, a little more, a little more. A dangerous game, for soon, without correct and timetabled medication, with no medicinal brakes nor physical checks to slow his diagnosis and it’s multiple symptoms, this initial rush of confidence, of euphoria, would lead to mania and manic episodes.
A potent and cruel trick, being so close to a remembered self, to be led by a hand, so soothing, to seem in reality to be escaping the trap of the prison within the self, yet all the while being led to the inevitable crash.
Especially cruel as Tilney1 was able to watch all this happening to himself, to have that insight, possess that awareness, yet to be completely incapable of intervening, of stopping, to be trapped beneath the ice, screaming for a way out.
9.4.09
The flight arrived on time; and the twelve hours while on board passed quickly and without incident. To be sure, the quality of the Cathay Pacific service was exemplary once again.
Heathrow reminds me of Newark International. The décor comes straight out of the sterile 80's and is less an eyesore than an insipid background to the rhythm of human activity, such hustle and bustle, at the fore. There certainly are faces from all races present, creating a rich mosaic of humanity which is refreshing if not completely revitalizing after swimming for so long in a sea of Chinese faces in Hong Kong.
Internet access is sealed in England, it seems. Nothing is free; everything is egregiously monetized from the wireless hotspots down to the desktop terminals. I guess Hong Kong has spoiled me with its abundant, free access to the information superhighway.
11.4.09
Despite staying in a room with five other backpackers, I have been sleeping well. The mattress and pillow are firm; my earplugs keep the noise out; and the sleeping quarters are as dark as a cave when the lights are out, and only as bright as, perhaps, a dreary rainy day when on. All in all, St. Paul's is a excellent place to stay for the gregarious, adventurous, and penurious city explorer - couchsurfing may be a tenable alternative; I'll test for next time.
Yesterday Connie and I gorged ourselves at the borough market where there were all sorts of delectable, savory victuals. There was definitely a European flavor to the food fair: simmering sausages were to be found everywhere; and much as the meat was plentiful, and genuine, so were the dairy delicacies, in the form of myriad rounds of cheese, stacked high behind checkered tabletops. Of course, we washed these tasty morsels down with copious amounts of alcohol that flowed from cups as though amber waterfalls. For the first time I tried mulled wine, which tasted like warm, rancid fruit punch - the ideal tonic for a drizzling London day, I suppose. We later killed the afternoon at the pub, shooting the breeze while imbibing several diminutive half-pints in the process. Getting smashed at four in the afternoon doesn't seem like such a bad thing anymore, especially when you are having fun in the company of friends; I can more appreciate why the English do it so much!
Earlier in the day, we visited the Tate Modern. Its turbine room lived up to its prominent billing what with a giant spider, complete with bulbous egg sac, anchoring the retrospective exhibit. The permanent galleries, too, were a delight upon which to feast one's eyes. Picasso, Warhol and Pollock ruled the chambers of the upper floors with the products of their lithe wrists; and I ended up becoming a huge fan of cubism, while developing a disdain for abstract art and its vacuous images, which, I feel, are devoid of both motivation and emotion.
My first trip yesterday morning was to Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal Gunners. It towers imperiously over the surrounding neighborhood; yet for all its majesty, the place sure was quiet! Business did pick up later, however, once the armory shop opened, and dozens of fans descended on it like bees to a hive. I, too, swooped in on a gift-buying mission, and wound up purchasing a book for Godfrey, a scarf for a student, and a jersey - on sale, of course - for good measure.
I'm sitting in the Westminster Abbey Museum now, resting my weary legs and burdened back. So far, I've been verily impressed with what I've seen, such a confluence of splendor and history before me that it would require days to absorb it all, when regretfully I can spare only a few hours. My favorite part of the abbey is the poets corner where no less a literary luminary than Samuel Johnson rests in peace - his bust confirms his homely presence, which was so vividly captured in his biography.
For lunch I had a steak and ale pie, served with mash, taken alongside a Guinness, extra cold - 2 degrees centigrade colder, the bartender explained. It went down well, like all the other delicious meals I've had in England; and no doubt by now I have grown accustomed to inebriation at half past two. Besides, Liverpool were playing inspired football against Blackburn; and my lunch was complete.
Having had my fill of football, I decided to skip my ticket scalping endeavor at Stamford Bridge and instead wandered over to the British Museum to inspect their extensive collections. Along the way, my eye caught a theater, its doors wide open and admitting customers. With much rapidity, I subsequently checked the show times, saw that a performance was set to begin, and at last rushed to the box office to purchase a discounted ticket - if you call a 40 pound ticket a deal, that is. That's how I grabbed a seat to watch Hairspray in the West End.
The show was worth forty pounds. The music was addictive; and the stage design and effects were not so much kitschy as delightfully stimulating - the pulsating background lights were at once scintillating and penetrating. The actors as well were vivacious, oozing charisma while they danced and delivered lines dripping in humor. Hairspray is a quality production and most definitely recommended.
12.4.09
At breakfast I sat across from a man who asked me to which country Hong Kong had been returned - China or Japan. That was pretty funny. Then he started spitting on my food as he spoke, completely oblivious to my breakfast becoming the receptacle in which the fruit of his inner churl was being placed. I guess I understand the convention nowadays of covering one's mouth whilst speaking and masticating at the same time!
We actually conversed on London life in general, and I praised London for its racial integration, the act of which is a prodigious leap of faith for any society, trying to be inclusive, accepting all sorts of people. It wasn't as though the Brits were trying in vain to be all things to all men, using Spanish with the visitors from Spain, German with the Germans and, even, Hindi with the Indians, regardless of whether or not Hindi was their native language; not even considering the absurd idea of encouraging the international adoption of their language; thereby completely keeping English in English hands and allowing its proud polyglots to "practice" their languages. Indeed, the attempt of the Londoners to avail themselves of the rich mosaic of ethnic knowledge, and to seek a common understanding with a ubiquitous English accent is an exemplar, and the bedrock for any world city.
I celebrated Jesus' resurrection at the St. Andrew's Street Church in Cambridge. The parishioners of this Baptist church were warm and affable, and I met several of them, including one visiting (Halliday) linguistics scholar from Zhongshan university in Guangzhou, who in fact had visited my tiny City University of Hong Kong in 2003. The service itself was more traditional and the believers fewer in number than the "progressive" services at any of the charismatic, evangelical churches in HK; yet that's what makes this part of the body of Christ unique; besides, the message was as brief as a powerpoint slide, and informative no less; the power word which spoke into my life being a question from John 21:22 - what is that to you?
Big trees; exquisite lawns; and old, pointy colleges; that's Cambridge in a nutshell. Sitting here, sipping on a half-pint of Woodforde's Wherry, I've had a leisurely, if not languorous, day so far; my sole duty consisting of walking around while absorbing the verdant environment as though a sponge, camera in tow.
I am back at the sublime beer, savoring a pint of Sharp's DoomBar before my fish and chips arrive; the drinking age is 18, but anyone whose visage even hints of youthful brilliance is likely to get carded these days, the bartender told me. The youth drinking culture here is almost as twisted as the university drinking culture in America.
My stay in Cambridge, relaxing and desultory as it may be, is about to end after this late lunch. I an not sure if there is anything left to see, save for the American graveyard which rests an impossible two miles away. I have had a wonderful time in this town; and am thankful for the access into its living history - the residents here must demonstrate remarkable patience and tolerance what with so many tourists ambling on the streets, peering - and photographing - into every nook and cranny.
13.4.09
There are no rubbish bins, yet I've seen on the streets many mixed race couples in which the men tend to be white - the women also belonging to a light colored ethnicity, usually some sort of Asian; as well saw some black dudes and Indian dudes with white chicks.
People here hold doors, even at the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes it appears as though they are going out on a limb, just waiting for the one who will take the responsibility for the door from them, at which point I rush out to relieve them of such a fortuitous burden.
I visited the British Museum this morning. The two hours I spent there did neither myself nor the exhibits any justice because there really is too much to survey, enough captivating stuff to last an entire day, I think. The bottomless well of artifacts from antiquity, drawing from sources as diverse as Korea, and Mesopotamia, is a credit to the British empire, without whose looting most of this amazing booty would be unavailable for our purview; better, I think, for these priceless treasures to be open to all in the grandest supermarket of history than away from human eyes, and worst yet, in the hands of unscrupulous collectors or in the rubbish bin, possibly.
Irene and I took in the ballet Giselle at The Royal Opera House in the afternoon. The building is a plush marvel, and a testament to this city's love for the arts. The ballet itself was satisfying, the first half being superior to the second, in which the nimble dancers demonstrated their phenomenal dexterity in, of all places, a graveyard covered in a cloak of smoke and darkness. I admit, their dance of the dead, in such a gloomy necropolis, did strike me as, strange.
Two amicable ladies from Kent convinced me to visit their hometown tomorrow, where, they told me, the authentic, "working" Leeds Castle and the mighty interesting home of Charles Darwin await.
I'm nursing a pint of Green King Ruddles and wondering about the profusion of British ales and lagers; the British have done a great deed for the world by creating an interminable line of low-alcohol session beers that can be enjoyed at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner; and their disservice is this: besides this inexhaustible supply of cheap beer ensnaring my inner alcoholic, I feel myself putting on my freshman fifteen, almost ten years after the fact; I am going to have to run a bit harder back in Hong Kong if I want to burn all this malty fuel off.
Irene suggested I stop by the National Art Gallery since we were in the area; and it was an hour well spent. The gallery currently presents a special exhibit on Picasso, the non-ticketed section of which features several seductive renderings, including David spying on Bathsheba - repeated in clever variants - and parodies of other masters' works. Furthermore, the main gallery houses two fabulous portraits by Joshua Reynolds, who happens to be favorite of mine, he in life being a close friend of Samuel Johnson - I passed by Boswells, where its namesake first met Johnson, on my way to the opera house.
14.4.09
I prayed last night, and went through my list, lifting everyone on it up to the Lord. That felt good; that God is alive now, and ever present in my life and in the lives of my brothers and sisters.
Doubtless, then, I have felt quite wistful, as though a specter in the land of the living, being in a place where religious fervor, it seems, is a thing of the past, a trifling for many, to be hidden away in the opaque corners of centuries-old cathedrals that are more expensive tourist destinations than liberating homes of worship these days. Indeed, I have yet to see anyone pray, outside of the Easter service which I attended in Cambridge - for such an ecstatic moment in verily a grand church, would you believe that it was only attended by at most three dozen spirited ones. The people of England, and Europe in general, have, it is my hope, only locked away the Word, relegating it to the quiet vault of their hearts. May it be taken out in the sudden pause before mealtimes and in the still crisp mornings and cool, silent nights. There is still hope for a revival in this place, for faith to rise like that splendid sun every morning. God would love to rescue them, to deliver them in this day, it is certain.
I wonder what Londoners think, if anything at all, about their police state which, like a vine in the shadows, has taken root in all corners of daily life, from the terrorist notifications in the underground, which implore Londoners to report all things suspicious, to the pair of dogs which eagerly stroll through Euston. What makes this all the more incredible is the fact that even the United States, the indomitable nemesis of the fledgling, rebel order, doesn't dare bombard its citizens with such fear mongering these days, especially with Obama in office; maybe we've grown wise in these past few years to the dubious returns of surrendering civil liberties to the state, of having our bags checked everywhere - London Eye; Hairspray; and The Royal Opera House check bags in London while the museums do not; somehow, that doesn't add up for me.
I'm in a majestic bookshop on New Street in Birmingham, and certainly to confirm my suspicions, there are just as many books on the death of Christianity in Britain as there are books which attempt to murder Christianity everywhere. I did find, however, a nice biography on John Wesley by Roy Hattersley and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis. I may pick up the former.
Lunch with Sally was pleasant and mirthful. We dined at a French restaurant nearby New Street - yes, Birmingham is a cultural capitol! Sally and I both tried their omelette, while her boyfriend had the fish, without chips. Conversation was light, the levity was there and so was our reminiscing about those fleeting moments during our first year in Hong Kong; it is amazing how friendships can resume so suddenly with a smile. On their recommendation, I am on my way to Warwick Castle - they also suggested that I visit Cadbury World, but they cannot take on additional visitors at the moment, the tourist office staff informed me, much to my disappointment!
Visiting Warwick Castle really made for a great day out. The castle, parts of which were established by William the Conquerer in 1068, is as much a kitschy tourist trap as a meticulous preservation of history, at times a sillier version of Ocean Park while at others a dignified dedication to a most glorious, inexorably English past. The castle caters to all visitors; and not surprisingly, that which delighted all audiences was a giant trebuchet siege engine, which for the five p.m. performance hurled a fireball high and far into the air - fantastic! Taliban beware!
15.4.09
I'm leaving on a jet plane this evening; don't know when I'll be back in England again. I'll miss this quirky, yet endearing place; and that I shall miss Irene and Tom who so generously welcomed me into their home, fed me, and suffered my use of their toilet and shower goes without saying. I'm grateful for God's many blessings on this trip.
On the itinerary today is a trip to John Wesley's home, followed by a visit to the Imperial War Museum. Already this morning I picked up a tube of Oilatum, a week late perhaps, which Teri recommended I use to treat this obstinate, dermal weakness of mine - I'm happy to report that my skin has stopped crying.
John Wesley's home is alive and well. Services are still held in the chapel everyday; and its crypt, so far from being a cellar for the dead, is a bright, spacious museum in which all things Wesley are on display - I never realized how much of an iconic figure he became in England; at the height of this idol frenzy, ironic in itself, he must have been as popular as the Beatles were at their apex. The house itself is a multi-story edifice with narrow, precipitous staircases and spacious rooms decorated in an 18th century fashion.
I found Samuel Johnson's house within a maze of red brick hidden alongside Fleet Street. To be in the home of the man who wrote the English dictionary, and whose indefatigable love for obscure words became the inspiration for my own lexical obsession, this, by far, is the climax of my visit to England! The best certainly has been saved for last.
There are a multitude of portraits hanging around the house like ornaments on a tree. Every likeness has its own story, meticulously retold on the crib sheets in each room. Celebrities abound, including David Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted several of the finer images in the house. I have developed a particular affinity for Oliver Goldsmith, of whom Boswell writes, "His person was short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. It appears as though I, too, could use a more flattering description of myself!
I regretfully couldn't stop to try the curry in England; I guess the CityU canteen's take on the dish will have to do. I did, however, have the opportune task of flirting with the cute Cathay Pacific counter staff who checked me in. She was gorgeous in red, light powder on her cheeks, with real diamond earrings, she said; and her small, delicate face, commanded by a posh British accent rendered her positively irresistible, electrifying. Not only did she grant me an aisle seat but she had the gumption to return my fawning with zest; she must be a pro at this by now.
I saw her again as she was pulling double-duty, collecting tickets prior to boarding. She remembered my quest for curry; and in the fog of infatuation, where nary a man has been made, I fumbled my words like the sloppy kid who has had too much punch. I am just an amateur, alas, an "Oliver Goldsmith" with the ladies - I got no game - booyah!
Some final, consequential bits: because of the chavs, Burberry no longer sells those fashionable baseball caps; because of the IRA, rubbish bins are no longer a commodity on the streets of London, and as a result, the streets and the Underground of the city are a soiled mess; and because of other terrorists from distant, more arid lands, going through a Western airport has taken on the tedium of perfunctory procedure that doesn't make me feel any safer from my invisible enemies.
At last, I saw so many Indians working at Heathrow that I could have easily mistaken the place for Mumbai. Their presence surprised me because their portion of the general population surely must be less than their portion of Heathrow staff, indicating some mysterious hiring bias. Regardless, they do a superb job with cursory airport checks, and in general are absurdly funny and witty when not tactless.
That's all for England!
Pencil on A4 Heavyweight Paper.
This is a crop of the image. The full image is a bit frisky so you can check it out in my shop if you like ;) www.docart.bigcartel.com
2017 marks the 39th annual Carnaval San Francisco parade and festival. The Mission District transforms into an enormous celebration pulsating with dancing, drumming, live music, brilliant costumes and delicious food. The annual event attracts more than 400,000 people who come to enjoy the revelry and soak up the pageant of color and culture.
Amongst the non-Baul groups there were Bauls, not great singers, backed by electronic keyboards, and very poorly reproduced through stacks of speakers with volume turned up too high. Each booth was right up against its neighbours, so you had to hear two or even three at the same time. It didn't seem to matter. Several had child performers.
By 3 am, i was weary of that alley. I went back to the main stage, found it closed down, but before leaving i thought to check out an alley to the left of the temple. And I found Bauls. Booth after booth. This was where the serious stuff was happening. Still not the quality of the evening before, more of a spectacle than a musical or spiritual experience, and much spoiled by poor audio equipment, but pulsating with energy, joy, life! Bauls singing, dancing, gesturing their words, spinning. And half the audience sleeping! I had to tread carefully not to trip over anyone, or stand on their blankets or polythene sheeting.
By 4:30 am, i thought i should leave, even though the performances carried on. Thankfully the causeway wasn't as packed as when i arrived. Because there was no backlighting, it was pretty well totally dark. People could only be seen a few feet away. The thing to do is walk slowly, and stay calm. That was an extraordinary night, where else but in India?
Tonight I know better where to go. I wish I had my little three legged stool...
She wasn't ready to be completely faded out in to the dark and out of his memory, so from within she pulsated beads of sweat out of her body that glistened within the night and flickered in his mind.
Delicious statement necklace made from 1940-60s rhinestone components. All but one brooch have all there stones. A fabulous, glistening piece. Rhinestone repurposed chain around the neck. Finishes with a lobster clasp.
The third brooch on the left measures 2.25inches/5.75cms.
The necklace measures 27inches/68.75cms. This necklace cannot be expanded or shortened.
Orchha, Madhya Pradesh, India.
This temple was built in 1622 by Vir Singh Deo. The condition of the temple soon worsened due to inadequate maintenance. It was reconstructed by Prithvi Singh during 1793. Built using lime mortar and bricks, the architecture of temple exceptional blend of temple and fort architecture. The temple has a rectangular plan with four multi-faced projecting bastions at its four corners. The walls of this charming shrine are elaborately decorated with fabulous mural paintings, which show pulsating compositions from mythological themes. This temple also houses the very famous post mutiny paintings.
Though the temple is dedicated the Goddess Laxmi, there is no idol of the Goddess in the temple. - extracts from www.liveindia.com/orchha/laxminarayana-temple.html
Selena Gomez
Alcatraz - Milano
16 Settembre 2013
ph © Mairo Cinquetti
© All rights reserved. Do not use my photos without my written permission. If you would like to buy or use this photo PLEASE message me or email me at mairo.cinquetti@gmail.com
What do you do after striking gold with your first solo album, wrapping your third season starring in a hit series and earning raves for your movie debut? If you're Selena Gomez, you dance. At least, you get the world on its feet with "A Year Without Rain." A follow-up to "Kiss & Tell," Selena’s gold-certified Hollywood Records debut CD, "A Year Without Rain" shows Selena and her band, The Scene, in a whole new light, this one pulsating, multicolored and ready for the mirrored ball.
"I really wanted something that felt good to perform, but had a techno/dance vibe," Selena says. "I wanted something that had meaning and melody, and more empowering lyrics." That’s exactly what she delivers in "A Year Without Rain." Working with top producer/songwriters like Tim James & Antonina Armato, Kevin Rudolf, Toby Gad and Jonas Jeberg, Selena kept to a more quickened tempo, exploring themes of love, freedom and the joy of living for the moment.
Selena credits the album’s neo-techno leanings to her 2010 platinum-certified single, ‘Naturally," which pointed the way for her. That track "really helped me figure out where I want to be," she says. "There’s a feeling when I perform that song that I love, so when I was going back in the studio, I had a better understanding of where I wanted to be musically."
She gets right to it with the opening track, "Round & Round," an upbeat synth-driven song about reaching the limits of indecision in love. The plaintive "A Year Without Rain" may be more subdued, but its beauty impressed Selena enough to make it the title track. "When I got the song, I went through the roof," she recalls. "Everybody has that one person they can’t live without. It was exactly what I wanted to say." That goes double for the Spanish version of the song, Selena’s first recording in that language.
Having turned 18 this year, Selena has matured since making her professional debut at age 7, but girls still wanna have fun, which is what songs like "Spotlight" "Off the Chain" and "Summer’s Not Hot" are all about. "Rock God" features none other than Katy Perry on backing vocals, while "Intuition" boasts a duet between Selena and rapper Eric Bellinger in a tricked-out double-time salute to a positive attitude.
Selena slows things down on "Ghost of You," a ravishing ballad about a breakup so rough, no amount of "living crazy loud" can crush the memory. "It’s very beautiful, very raw," Selena says of the song. "Shelly Peiken co-wrote it. She knows me, knows about everything I go through, and knows how to express it in a beautiful way."
On the flip side, Selena comes back strong with "Sick of You," a Matt Squire-written and produced track about losing a loser ("You know fairy tales don’t come true/ Not when it comes to you"). The album ends with "Live Like There’s No Tomorrow," an epic power ballad expressing the creed by which Selena has built her life and career.
A Dallas native, Selena Gomez started acting at age seven when she landed a role in the popular television series "Barney & Friends," on which was a regular for two seasons. She landed her first film role in the 2003 sci-fi action adventure film "Spy Kids 3-D: Game Over." She made her mark as an actress playing girl wizard Alex Russo in the hit Disney Channel series "Wizards of Waverly Place," which premiered in 2007 and has now completed three seasons. Selena and her cast mates won a 2009 Emmy Award for Outstanding Children’s Program.
Selena then made an indelible impression with her starring role in 2010 comedy "Ramona and Beezus." Says Selena, "I wanted something completely different from my show. All these incredible actors, being able to learn from them and get my feet wet in the film world. It was the perfect way to get into it." Next up, a starring role in "Monte Carlo," in which she plays a teen on vacation in the romantic European principality. And of course, Selena is gearing up for the fourth season of "Wizards of Waverly Place."
Selena has branched out into fashion with the premiere of her new clothing line, Dream Out Loud, sold exclusively at K-Mart. But her instinct for charity remains strong. She is a proud UNICEF ambassador, and will appear for a third year at UNICEF's Trick or Treat bash, this time to kick off UNICEF's 60th anniversary. And with the new album comes a new tour with her band.
Having her own band has been a comfort for Selena as she hits the road with "A Year Without Rain." Scene members; Ethan Roberts (Guitar), Joey Clement (Bass), Greg Garman (Drums) and Dane Forrest (Keyboard) back her on tour and help shape her emerging sound. "On my TV show we have an ensemble cast that’s like a family," she says. "If anyone’s missing, you feel it. I wanted that family feel in my music, and we definitely have that with the Scene."
That family feeling had grown to include fans around the world, each of them all in when it comes to following Selena Gomez on her amazing artistic journey. Where’s she headed? She’ll let you know when she gets there. "I’m still figuring out who I am," she says. "I love expressing that through music, and through film. I feel at this moment in my life I couldn’t be happier."
dear friends!! i have loved victorian houses since my family lived at a lighthouse on the california coast ~ the light was in an 1880s victorian that pulsated with presence... and so, to have my work in the jung association gallery in columbus is a deep joy for me. here is one installation photo, showing two of the framed digital photo collages. if you know the work of magic fly paula, you might recognize the image on the left... a collaboration between paula and me. reflected in the glass is another work ~ a finger painting that i created during coursework for art therapy... and the beloved trees. happiness.
may all travelers find joy!!
jeanne
digital photo, september 8, 2011
Removes up to 300% more plaque along the gumline* *vs a regular manual toothbrush
Clinically proven superior 3D Cleaning Action oscillates, rotates and pulsates to break up and remove more plaque than a regular manual toothbrush
Rechargeable with 1 mode: Daily Clean
www.gadgetgiga.com/product/oral-b-pro-1000-power-recharge...
Giving the blue Bayeux a run for its money, even. Now with pulsating heart(s), come what may.
🎵You've gotta have heart
Miles 'n miles n' miles of heart🎵_ Peggy Lee
Only 63 meters to go. Hey Penelope, do get with the knitting.
Artificial Intelligence and how's your mother? I ask ye.
Amirite?
What is Johnny Kitties? See my blog, melissaconnolly.blogspot.com, for all the details and more photos from the show.
Things changed in Season 3 of 21 Jump Street. Everyone seemed older. They all grew out their hair (except for Holly Robinson, who cut all of hers off). Peter Deluise’s Penhall stopped acting like the class clown, got a new job over the summer as an intelligence officer, grew a beard, and looked like a mountain man for the first few episodes. In his place, a new officer, Dennis Booker (Richard Grieco), was introduced as Hanson’s partner.
I never liked Dennis Booker. I admit, it was an instantaneous, irrational reaction. Fox advertised their new co-star with pulsating flashes of competing last names: DEPP! GRIECO! DEPP! GRIECO! DEPP! GRIECO! The in-your-face repetitive ads were shown so often that Saturday Night Live even made fun of them. I found them irritating for other reasons: Who is this guy? How dare he even try to be as cool as Johnny?! How do they compare?!
For Johnny Kitties, I decided to wipe the slate clean and give Booker another chance. Watching these episodes again now, I found that--to my surprise--Hanson couldn't stand Booker either! I have no memory of that being the case in the '80s, but Hanson’s lack of endorsement must have solidified my opinion of his new partner. Booker was a wiseguy; Hanson didn't trust him. At the end of his first episode, Booker takes him to a seedy bar for a beer. “I’ve got a question for you, Booker.” Hanson says. “Do you act like a creep because you really are a creep or it’s just fun to act like one?” He never gets a straight answer.
I learned recently that Richard Grieco was brought into the cast because of Johnny's increasing frustrations with the show. (Fascinating!) Johnny started refusing to participate in episodes that he felt didn't adequately cover topics or had story lines that he was against. Some cases Booker took on involved the killing of an innocent teen and hate crimes. Okay, the addition of Dennis Booker may have had a legitimate purpose, but I will never forgive him for getting Hanson arrested for murder by the end of the season. Thanks for ruining my summer!
Season 3 of 21 Jump Street continued to tackle such subjects as racism, gangs, and drug use. But many of the episodes delved into the personal lives of the main characters. Aside from Hanson's little legal problem, Penhall struggles with his new job, Blowfish cheats on his wife, Hoffs becomes a victim of sexual harassment, and Ioki is shot while undercover.
This season's guest stars included Dom and Michael Deluise, Bridget Fonda, Peri Gilpin, Kelly Hu, Christopher Titus, and Russell Wong.
Here, The Kitties share the highlights from 21 Jump Street, Season 3.
Episode 36. Fun with Animals: The first episode of the season reveals a noticeably aged cast. Maybe the stress of having Hanson's new partner Dennis Booker around caused this change.
Episode 37. Slippin' into Darkness: In this episode, Hoffs and Ioki join a gang of vigilantes dedicated to keeping the streets crime-free. Check out Ioki's cool moves here! This show also marks the first of many times that Captain Fuller gets in on the action. From now on, he becomes much more involved in all of the cases, checking in on his officers, making arrests, and generally helping to save the day.
Episode 38. The Currency We Trade In: Aside from an annoying new partner, Hanson also gets a new girlfriend this season. Jackie (Yvette Nipar) and Tom hate each other at first, but then they decided to go for it. Jackie, who works in the DA office, lasts for quite a few episodes, and I even started to like her. But then, she shared some private information from Tom with her co-workers. While her intensions were good, she gets Captain Fuller in trouble, and Tom can't forgive her for that. They break up.
Episode 41. Hell Week: This episode, in which Hanson and Ioki go undercover on a college campus to investigate a fraternity, is one I remember very clearly. During initiation into this fraternity, Hanson is forced to eat several raw eggs, drink excessively while climbing a ladder (and carrying the drunk guy who passed out before him), and slide into a pool--blindfolded with his hands and feet bound. He ends up saving someone from drowning after that. No wonder I never joined a sorority.
Episode 44. Swallowed Alive: In one of my favorites, Hanson is left undercover in juvenile lock-up and begins to question what good he's doing by sending teen offenders there.
Episode 45. What About Love?: While Hoffs deals with the serious problem of an angry ex-boyfriend, the comic relief in this episode came from Penhall and Ioki. Recently kicked to the curb by his girlfriend Dorothy, Penhall has been crashing on Ioki's couch. A real odd couple, the arguments are on the rise. Undercover here to catch a flasher, Penhall asks for Ioki's forgiveness for his latest batch of messes.
Episode 46. Wooly Bullies: In another favorite episode, everyone recounts their worst case of school bullying. In fourth grade, little Tommy Hanson was tortured by the taller and meaner Maureen Moroney. Despite being rejected during dance practice, as pictured, he wins her over in the end. Did you ever doubt it?
Episode 51. High High: The best scene in this drug-related episode is the morning Hanson reports to work in a disheveled suit with his hair pointing in every direction, kind of like Beethoven after a rough night. His reasons remain a mystery.
Episode 52. Blinded by the Thousand Points of Light: This story follows a group of teenage runaways, one of whom goes missing. He meets an disturbing end. The good that came out of it is that his girlfriend--played by Bridget Fonda--decides to go back home. Here, she and Hoffs muse about the stars in her backyard.
Episode 54. Partners, Part 2: In an ongoing story, Booker wrongly arrests Hanson for murdering another police officer while investigating gang shootings--during one of which Ioki is critically injured. In his last episode for the season, Hanson is convicted and sent behind bars. Oh the horror!
If you have a favorite episode from Season 3, please share!
So, will Hanson ever get out of jail? Will Johnny ever get off this show? To find out, tune in next month for highlights from Season 4 of 21 Jump Street!
To Infinity and Beyond: This Is the Afterlife ~
Turning inside out, the young shaman falls though a long swirling tunnel formed of his inverted self, his unbodied mouth and eyes agape in a primal rush toward extinction.
He accelerates t
hrough a tightly wound vortex that shifts and bends to accommodate his course, always centred in the swirling tube which never touches his falling, disembodied perspective. The tunnel is made of light, and of his own bloodstream, and of all the memories and unremembered details of materiality and personality that made up his life – yet not merely ‘his’ life.
Every human, fish, bird, animal, insect, cell and blood corpuscle that has ever lived is there with him, all at once – the dying shaman can feel their bright fear and ecstasy pouring through him as they all rush toward an unseen destination around the curving, translucent bends of the primal vortex. Even though every being dies alone – no matter if a multitude of witnesses is present – the moment of death itself is one great screaming orgasm experienced simultaneously by every one, every single thing that has ever lived – all our eyes and mouths and ganglia agape at the same simultaneous culmination of our material existence.
The tunnel is an eternally vivid living record of past events and future dreams, all memories and visions embroidered into the seamless fabric of its swirl – and Ram’yana’s private past and the panoply of his personal memories are displayed most prominently to him, brightly livid episodes which emerge from the tubular walls as he passes. His strongest experiences – the most impressive ones, that imprinted themselves most brightly into the palimpsest of his being – leap out at him in high relief as he turns and twists and falls and flies, a singular eye of consciousness accelerating toward the endless end of the convoluted time tunnel that’s leading him home.
As the world we experience slips past us at the periphery of our sensoria, an ongoing tunnel vision moves with us at the extremity of our perceptions, whether dying, dead or alive. Journeying out of the physical plane, outside the material matrix of the world, Ram’yana is beyond time and the ken of time-bound beings; as he leaves four dimensional Timespace and approaches the speed of light everything twists into a tunnel which lengthens fore and aft.
He sees his grandfather and grandmother, Mickey Mouse and Pluto, all the dogs and cats and mice and goldfish that shared his boyhood years, the smells of his houses and the flavours of his lovers. He hears the laughter of his kindergarten friends, their bright faces visible all around him singing ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’, while pretty little Abigail jumps over a spinning rope twirled by Gina and Hannah, her long blonde pink-ribboned pigtails rotating around the sides of her head.
He holds his mother’s huge hand, grasping her finger through the wooden bars of his bassinet while she sings to him in the sultry evening air. He witnesses the expression of semi-resigned shock on his father’s face during the Cuban missile crisis and again when Kennedy was shot, sees the squashed remains of mosquitoes on the wall above his crib, watches the strange lights moving in the sky while all the neighbours point and speculate, sinks again with a collapsing sandbank on Bondi Beach, swept away with hundreds of panicking faces being pulled out to the deep sea along with him, while hundreds of man-eating sharks are driven off by the beating, splashing oars of desperate lifesavers.
He sees his mother’s eyes for the first time all over again and screams at the hard slap on his bottom as he hangs before Doctor Traub’s thick-lensed glasses in the bright, antiseptic birth theatre. His paternal grandmother smiles at him as she leans over and obscures his view of the magnificent giant yellow flowers of the magnolia tree while she wheels him in his pram; he can still smell the cloying fragrance of the flowers. His mother’s mother screams as he holds a dingo puppy up for her inspection and she tumbles over backward in her bedroom, breaking her hip while his eight year old eyes wash the scene away with tears that burn through the illusory years.
The Cat in the Hat and the Mighty Thor; the smell and Hungarian accent of alcoholic Uncle Tony, putting him off beer for years with his first taste of bitter ale at the age of six, and the bright laughing face of his babysitter Wendy by the blazing wood fire; the spray of blood when he cut his wrist falling onto a broken bottle at the age of three and the dizzying view from the emergency surgeon’s high private balcony; the first time he kissed a girl and the first time he dreamed of kissing a girl, all bound up together; flying through the sky in a propeller-driven passenger plane, watching circular rainbows following him in the clouds below.
White sulphur-crested cockatoos and sparrows circle his yard while kookaburras laugh in the gum trees; the first terrifying time his father holds him up high in the air to place him in the fork of a tree; his first night after he ran away from home, reclining on a beanbag in a Kings Cross commune reading Philip Jose Farmer’s pertinent To Your Scattered Bodies Go – everything is there, each scene and sensation embedded within and revealing a multitude of others. Everything. His dying mind seeks out everything he’s ever experienced, seeking a way back into the womb of living as he falls through something else entirely, riding a rollercoaster beyond the imagination of the most topologically tormented tycoon.
As Ram’yana falls he flashes before the eyes of his whole life – as others fall with him, many others, all others, sharing the time tunnel with his self-judging awareness. In the eternity of the Fall everything hidden or repressed is exposed in the Divine Light of clear sight and each being is their own Judge, emerging from the blindfold of their material existence to weigh their own soul on the ineradicable scales of justice and mercy. Conscience is the soul and the soul is immortally, inescapably honest with itself when released from the fetters of self-deceit and delusion.
Beyond time, at the singular moment of the great primal rush that is the birth and death canal leading from one world to the next, everyone experiences the same thingat the same time. We all come and go together in a mind-blowing orgasm; dreaming or screaming, laughing or crying, all emotion quails and pales before the rush of unstoppable motion that dwarfs any and every trivial concern.
No thought of gods or devils, life or death in the primal scream toward the Light at the end of the tunnel – the only thing that matters is holding onto your headless hat and the wordless regrets felt toward all the people, animals and conscious entities you ever knew deeply, or ever loved – and still love, deeply, tenderly, with a perspective of forgiveness, understanding and compassion never vouchsafed to your flesh-bound, in-coiled, emotion-embroiled mortal personality.
Ram is every human who ever lived and died, every fish ever caught in a current to swirl down into lightless depths beyond its control, every bird caught in a whirlwind that flings it to flinders, every animal diving for cover into cloaking vegetation from an inescapable predator, every individual blood corpuscle flinging itself on the way to the crushing pressure at the heart of its warm, pulsating cosmos. As he pours through the end of the world the tunnel twists and whirls, always hiding the point of it all, the point of no return, the heart of the matter, the source of every thing and being – and his mind expands to simultaneously see his spiraling course as a single thread in a vast interwoven image.
The tunnel is one thread among myriad drab and colourful strands in a great uncharitable tapestry, an inextricable part of its intricate pattern. The dying shaman follows the course of his life along its undulating strand and sees that his thread rises and falls above and beneath uncountable other interlocking threads, a spectrum of hues and textures in the enormously unfathomable tapestry. As his thread rises above another he is ‘conscious’, while the thread it occludes is ‘dreaming’; where his strand is covered by another thread, his mortal body sleeps and dreams while the other strand lives their waking life. Everyone and everything is there, all at once, simultaneously, lain out and displayed before him with no need for the flow of time to elucidate the infinite multiplicity of being.
Turn the tapestry around. The thought comes unbidden and the cloth reverses itself around him in a loopy topological twist; the implicately shared complementary nature of consciousness becomes apparent to his blown mind as he sees himself dreaming the lives of others, and others dreaming through his waking eyes and flesh. The intermingling pathways wind around the curving delineaments of their divine co-creation, which turns into itself like a Moebius strip until the beginning of one thread seamlessly winds into the end of another. The falcon is the hunter is the arrow is the feather is the truth. All is alive and whole; nothing is partial or frayed.
The tapestry is vast, but he’s able to follow his individuated thread through the colourful patterns and sees that the enormous conglomeration of dreams and lives is incomplete – not completed by the path of the single thread that is his experience of existence, rising from the tapestry to enter him as him. At the same timeless moment, Ram’yana approaches the plexus of light that is the destiny of all nations, women and men – the future and past of all that are born to fall along with him, minds blown in the blinding light of the immortal portal.
An immaculate blazing white-hot sun glows at the end of the tunnel. He can see it ever more clearly through the transparing walls of the vortex, thinning and fading in the face of the overwhelmingly brilliant source and core of existence. Ram sees the arcs of a trans-finite net spreading outward from the source, sees an infinitude of other vortices approaching its plexus from more angles than he can wrap his bodiless head around. They pass through each other in ways that defy and tease his mortal three-dimensionally entrained mind – but the arrangement makes subtle sense to a higher form of his being, trembling on the edge of an unchartable metamorphosis into something so much greater as to be intrinsically unimaginable. Simultaneously, on another level, the individual personality of the shaman approaches its ultimate rebirth and transformation in his flight toward the blinding light of the central sun.
The source of all is the hot, bright core and central axis of the centreless multiverse, the eternal end of every tunnel; the maw of a transdimensional creature about to swallow him up, the Infinite Light of God and his own silent heart gently glowing in timeless repose. He flies around a final bend in the dissolving tunnel, surging toward the arcane net that veils the core – which flares into him as the tunnel widens, opening into the final straight.
Ram’yana flashes toward the weave that’s flung to the ends of the cosmos, spreading himself to embrace the Light – and as he reaches it, he encounters the safety net. A web-like sieve is strung across the open maw of All, and as Ram’yana passes though it a great, resounding BOUMMB fills the boundless universe – the sound of one heartbeat, as loud as the boom that eternally creates the unborn, ever-living universe; the sound of Shiva’s eye opening and of one hand clapping.
Before your time, he hears and feels, not ready, not yet – unfinished – and he feels himself shrinking toward an infinitesimally small spot in the multitude of multiverses – back into the weave, where plan net X marks the spot where all things meet in his current-bound primate life.
Boumb… Boom…. Boom!
That’s why I’m here, writing this to you ‘now’ – the same ‘now’ that you are reading it in, really. I and eye remember it all vividly, not as something to slowly forget or avoid in the unfocused mind’s eye, but as an ongoing experience that is with me now, always, dynamically imprinted. It is with me as it is with you, when you close your eyes and open your memory to see truly through the waters of forgetfulness, to the infinite waters of eternal life.
Life and death, sensory wakefulness and supersensory dreaming are the same thing, appearing as the warp and weft of the reversible tapestry of existence. And everyone, each of us, is the whole tapestry, inextricably interwoven – everyone is everyone, and that’s about as close as this constraining corsetry of early third millennium Inglesh needs to get at this point in infinite time – xcept, perhaps, for the most important thing of all -
Every one you truly touch and are touched by, in every way, leaves the deepest and most prominent engravings in your heart, mind and soul. What we do unto others is what we do to ourselves – and other living beings are more than mere memory mirrors or handy usable tools. That’s what draws us back for more, and more again – the need to do better by our selves – over and over, until we do it right. Then we get another choice – or another chance to ride the carousel Wheel of Fortune again, if we so choose.
The multiple layers of ascendant consciousness are a self-filtering system of co-evolution – a system of slowly developing focus and perspective that leads our awareness to other dimensions, already inextricably interwoven with the relatively ‘familiar’ bounds of our largely unknown but ever-present reality. There’s no dim-witted hierarchy of order-givers or sword-wielding guardians barring the doors of higher perception – the gateway to Heaven on Earth. There’s just you – and me, and all of us, together. We all have our time to shine, and that time is always now.
Yet Death is not Dying. In the Bardo spaces between thy flowering carnations of existence, all the bright religious hopes and turgid superstitious terrors await the untrained monkey mind in its ongoing fall toward dissolution or reintegration. The Bardo Realms are entire worlds or pocket universes as apparently solid as the full-blown reality ye imagine around thee, right where thou art sitting, right now. How do ye know thou art alive, not dreaming this experience, right here and now? Do ye think that’s air you’re breathing?
A true story
By Ram Ayana @ hermetic.blog.com/2012/03/13/to-infinity-and-beyond-this-...
Description: Powwows are large social gatherings of Native Americans who follow traditional dances started centuries ago by their ancestors, and which continually evolve to include contemporary aspects. These events of drum music, dancing, singing, artistry and food, are attended by Natives and non-Natives, all of whom join in the dancing and take advantage of the opportunity to see old friends and teach the traditional ways to a younger generation. During the National Powwow, the audience see dancers in full regalia compete in several dance categories, including Men and Women's Golden Age (ages 50 and older); Men's Fancy Dance, Grass and Traditional (Northern and Southern); Women's Jingle Dress, Fancy Shawl, and Traditional (Northern and Southern); Teens (13-17); Juniors (6-12) and Tiny Tots (ages 5 and younger). The drum groups are the heart of all powwows and provide the pulsating and thunderous beats that accompany a dancer's every movement. The powwow is led by three "host drums" that showcase three distinct styles of singing (Northern, Southern and contemporary) and represent the best examples of each style. The drum contest highlights groups of 10 to 12 members each, and they sing traditional family songs that are passed down orally from one generation to the next. The National Museum of the American Indian sponsored the National Powwow in 2002, 2005, and 2007 as a way of presenting to the public the diversity and social traditions of contemporary Native cultures.
Creator/Photographer: Katherine Fogden
Medium: Digital photograph
Culture: American Indian
Geography: USA
Date: 2005
Repository: National Museum of the American Indian
Accession number: 081305KFPWc241
Standard equipment on NYPD RMPs in the 1960s were this set of Federal Model 17 Beacon Ray and the Federal Model 66 siren with Pulsator attachment.
My left arm has morphed into taffy, my brain is pulsating with fractured leaking cracks, and my body is fighting both sides of a civil war. I pushed myself a bit the past few days.
I decided (or some part of me did at least) that a good way to destress would be to double up on my raptor training sessions this week. Yesterdays session the raptor I was working with (a male Eurasion Eagle Owl) was just a complete butthead and in one of the nastiest moods imaginable. He tried out every intimidation trick he knows hoping to bluff me into giving up. Unfortunately those are the times when you can not give in at all.... they remember who can be bluffed and will use it against you everytime. He tried beaking my hand, biting my finger, hissing, throwing half a mouse at me, letting me get one snap on an anklet and yanking back so it dropped on the ground and he'd fly to another branch when I bent to get it. After about 10 min of rotten behavior, he gave in and let me put on his anklets, jesses, and swivel and stepped up onto the gauntlet. He then 'hooed' at me over and over as I took him across the grounds to the education building. Both me and the trainer knew we were in for a difficult session, but i'd rather learn to deal with him on his moody days so i'll know what to do if he crabs out somewhere during an outreach.
One of the things that can happen when handling raptors is called 'baiting', where they decide to jump off the glove and try to take flight. If the jesses came unhooked or you lost control and he got loose, holy hell would break open. Well he decided to put me through the paces and the first time he was so quick and strong he yanked my arm so hard I almost stumbled. Let me tell you that 6 foot wingspan gives him amazing power and lift, and he spent the next 45 min testing every bit of my reactions in as many ways as he could. In the end we called a truce, he was over heating and my arm was a rubber noodle.
I was on adrenaline rush and he was on excellent behavior as I returned him to his pen for the evening about 9:30pm. Here's where I lost a little sanity because I scheduled myself another session for today right after work. Apparently i became super woman or something in my mind right then because why the hell else would I think I could do that two days in a row? Maybe I thought I had gotten past him testing and challenging me already..... like I was a special case and won him over with my charm. Well did I have another thing coming today. He decided tonight to try a whole new bag of tricks to test me on. We'll despite my arm being a wet noodle at the end, I managed to pass again.... but decided to give myself a few days break so I can learn to use my arm again. I must admit though I am curious what he'll try on me next time.....
I know I must be delirious, but I think we may be learning to understand each other. Most raptors are solitary and don't bond with people, but they will interact individually, and though i haven't earned his respect so to speak, he seems to be deciding I can be tolerated at least.
This has been one of the most mentally, physically, and emotionally challenging things I have subjected myself to in a very long time, but I am loving every minute of it!
The combination of disc brakes and a 6S/6M ABS configuration (six-wheel speed sensors and six modulators that transmit pulsating air when a wheel locks) provides all-wheel and individual-wheel braking control. Because it can respond to each wheel individually, ABS provides better performance in split-coefficient situations where one wheel is on a slippery surface like a steel plate and another is on dry pavement.
“Waves of Love” - a stunning collector piece of Rhodochrosite from Argentina, pulsating electrical energy of love.
I was reading in The Guardian, that (non red-topped) pulsating organ, that no one starts out wanting to be a narcissist. Obviously I was reading it to see if I had graduated from common or garden narcissist to this newly emerging creature, the 'Subtle Narcissist'. I think I have that one down pat too, but more of that later. I just wanted to extrapolate here, a little, before I ate my morning slice of 'duck', and had my coffee.
No one sets out to be a dick. But that's doubly bad, as no one actually sets out to have a dick either. Happenstance forces it upon you, unless you believe, as some do, that you choose your parents, and by extension, choose your own penis. If this were true why wouldn't everyone choose a huge one? (These questions need to be asked). I don't believe we choose anything. I don't believe in 'Freedom of Choice'. It's just a shoddy leftover from religions of every ilk.
Unfortunately by the time you realise you have a dick, it has mesmerised you. The one eyed trouser, or nappy in this case, snake has hypnotised you. This is also true of assholes, no one ever started off making the decision to become one of those either (or to even have one, for that matter), and they too hypnotise a sizeable subset of people. That they have the tendency to wink at you only makes it worse.
I could go on, and I will, but me coffee is getting cold. No one sets out to be an exhibitionist, mass murderer, objectifier, artist, 'Spine-sucker', dictator, petty thief, employee at Goldman Sachs, or whatever. There is always that horror to face, that Tabula Rasa. This suggests that nothing is in need of pardoning or punishing. That might be the point that I want to start from.
I have known some gloriously exhibitionistic women too, I am thinking the likes of Annie Sprinkle, one amongst many. I have also known hesitant exhibitionists, those who love the frisson and the ensuing uproarious laughter shared on long walks.
My preference is for the latter of these two, but that's just me, and I never set out to be me.
What does a person from Synecdoche, New York call themselves anyway? A fictional everyone, great title, great film. Gays never set out to take over either. Thankfully, I won't be around by the time we pull it out and off.
I feel like I have been a giant Scolaro all my life, in my dreams, an exposed dick in training. I also like the idea of a 'Private Dick', those wonderful 'Film Noir' staples, but have never managed to be one myself.
I am suspicious of the very notion of 'privacy'. It is possibly over-rated, and secretly we might know everything about each other anyway. Everybody does, it's no secret at all, perhaps.
Might I add, that your admittance to having straight friends is testament to you tolerance, and to be admired. I admit that I do also still have some straight friends, but I do try their patience, so who knows how long that will continue.
I hope they remember that no one sets out to be objectionable (at birth), well hardly anybody anyway.
And finally (like heck), I might add that this young stripling had a very attractive member, as far as I can remember (unfortunately it's a very dim memory, but that's more age related), and I would not like to disparage it in any way. It was, however, enough of a memorable pecker to inspire a sort of reverie in me, and that's nothing to shake one's appendage at. That sexually it did nothing for me had nothing to do with its attractiveness or otherwise. This is something youth often misunderstands completely, They get the wrong end of the stick, or prick, as in this case. I hope this young man, and his todger, founder a happy home, wherever that dark lair might be.
As far as I am concerned all 'front bottoms' and 'back bottoms' will always be equal.
I am still struggling to find the opening line for this monumental act of 'subtle narcissism' I seem to be working on. I am also not editing at all, at all. Shoot one's wad and clean it up later seems to be my modus operandi. I might just leave all that for time to sort out, in its own peculiar way. Why change the habit of a lifetime, eh?
9.4.09
The flight arrived on time; and the twelve hours while on board passed quickly and without incident. To be sure, the quality of the Cathay Pacific service was exemplary once again.
Heathrow reminds me of Newark International. The décor comes straight out of the sterile 80's and is less an eyesore than an insipid background to the rhythm of human activity, such hustle and bustle, at the fore. There certainly are faces from all races present, creating a rich mosaic of humanity which is refreshing if not completely revitalizing after swimming for so long in a sea of Chinese faces in Hong Kong.
Internet access is sealed in England, it seems. Nothing is free; everything is egregiously monetized from the wireless hotspots down to the desktop terminals. I guess Hong Kong has spoiled me with its abundant, free access to the information superhighway.
11.4.09
Despite staying in a room with five other backpackers, I have been sleeping well. The mattress and pillow are firm; my earplugs keep the noise out; and the sleeping quarters are as dark as a cave when the lights are out, and only as bright as, perhaps, a dreary rainy day when on. All in all, St. Paul's is a excellent place to stay for the gregarious, adventurous, and penurious city explorer - couchsurfing may be a tenable alternative; I'll test for next time.
Yesterday Connie and I gorged ourselves at the borough market where there were all sorts of delectable, savory victuals. There was definitely a European flavor to the food fair: simmering sausages were to be found everywhere; and much as the meat was plentiful, and genuine, so were the dairy delicacies, in the form of myriad rounds of cheese, stacked high behind checkered tabletops. Of course, we washed these tasty morsels down with copious amounts of alcohol that flowed from cups as though amber waterfalls. For the first time I tried mulled wine, which tasted like warm, rancid fruit punch - the ideal tonic for a drizzling London day, I suppose. We later killed the afternoon at the pub, shooting the breeze while imbibing several diminutive half-pints in the process. Getting smashed at four in the afternoon doesn't seem like such a bad thing anymore, especially when you are having fun in the company of friends; I can more appreciate why the English do it so much!
Earlier in the day, we visited the Tate Modern. Its turbine room lived up to its prominent billing what with a giant spider, complete with bulbous egg sac, anchoring the retrospective exhibit. The permanent galleries, too, were a delight upon which to feast one's eyes. Picasso, Warhol and Pollock ruled the chambers of the upper floors with the products of their lithe wrists; and I ended up becoming a huge fan of cubism, while developing a disdain for abstract art and its vacuous images, which, I feel, are devoid of both motivation and emotion.
My first trip yesterday morning was to Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal Gunners. It towers imperiously over the surrounding neighborhood; yet for all its majesty, the place sure was quiet! Business did pick up later, however, once the armory shop opened, and dozens of fans descended on it like bees to a hive. I, too, swooped in on a gift-buying mission, and wound up purchasing a book for Godfrey, a scarf for a student, and a jersey - on sale, of course - for good measure.
I'm sitting in the Westminster Abbey Museum now, resting my weary legs and burdened back. So far, I've been verily impressed with what I've seen, such a confluence of splendor and history before me that it would require days to absorb it all, when regretfully I can spare only a few hours. My favorite part of the abbey is the poets corner where no less a literary luminary than Samuel Johnson rests in peace - his bust confirms his homely presence, which was so vividly captured in his biography.
For lunch I had a steak and ale pie, served with mash, taken alongside a Guinness, extra cold - 2 degrees centigrade colder, the bartender explained. It went down well, like all the other delicious meals I've had in England; and no doubt by now I have grown accustomed to inebriation at half past two. Besides, Liverpool were playing inspired football against Blackburn; and my lunch was complete.
Having had my fill of football, I decided to skip my ticket scalping endeavor at Stamford Bridge and instead wandered over to the British Museum to inspect their extensive collections. Along the way, my eye caught a theater, its doors wide open and admitting customers. With much rapidity, I subsequently checked the show times, saw that a performance was set to begin, and at last rushed to the box office to purchase a discounted ticket - if you call a 40 pound ticket a deal, that is. That's how I grabbed a seat to watch Hairspray in the West End.
The show was worth forty pounds. The music was addictive; and the stage design and effects were not so much kitschy as delightfully stimulating - the pulsating background lights were at once scintillating and penetrating. The actors as well were vivacious, oozing charisma while they danced and delivered lines dripping in humor. Hairspray is a quality production and most definitely recommended.
12.4.09
At breakfast I sat across from a man who asked me to which country Hong Kong had been returned - China or Japan. That was pretty funny. Then he started spitting on my food as he spoke, completely oblivious to my breakfast becoming the receptacle in which the fruit of his inner churl was being placed. I guess I understand the convention nowadays of covering one's mouth whilst speaking and masticating at the same time!
We actually conversed on London life in general, and I praised London for its racial integration, the act of which is a prodigious leap of faith for any society, trying to be inclusive, accepting all sorts of people. It wasn't as though the Brits were trying in vain to be all things to all men, using Spanish with the visitors from Spain, German with the Germans and, even, Hindi with the Indians, regardless of whether or not Hindi was their native language; not even considering the absurd idea of encouraging the international adoption of their language; thereby completely keeping English in English hands and allowing its proud polyglots to "practice" their languages. Indeed, the attempt of the Londoners to avail themselves of the rich mosaic of ethnic knowledge, and to seek a common understanding with a ubiquitous English accent is an exemplar, and the bedrock for any world city.
I celebrated Jesus' resurrection at the St. Andrew's Street Church in Cambridge. The parishioners of this Baptist church were warm and affable, and I met several of them, including one visiting (Halliday) linguistics scholar from Zhongshan university in Guangzhou, who in fact had visited my tiny City University of Hong Kong in 2003. The service itself was more traditional and the believers fewer in number than the "progressive" services at any of the charismatic, evangelical churches in HK; yet that's what makes this part of the body of Christ unique; besides, the message was as brief as a powerpoint slide, and informative no less; the power word which spoke into my life being a question from John 21:22 - what is that to you?
Big trees; exquisite lawns; and old, pointy colleges; that's Cambridge in a nutshell. Sitting here, sipping on a half-pint of Woodforde's Wherry, I've had a leisurely, if not languorous, day so far; my sole duty consisting of walking around while absorbing the verdant environment as though a sponge, camera in tow.
I am back at the sublime beer, savoring a pint of Sharp's DoomBar before my fish and chips arrive; the drinking age is 18, but anyone whose visage even hints of youthful brilliance is likely to get carded these days, the bartender told me. The youth drinking culture here is almost as twisted as the university drinking culture in America.
My stay in Cambridge, relaxing and desultory as it may be, is about to end after this late lunch. I an not sure if there is anything left to see, save for the American graveyard which rests an impossible two miles away. I have had a wonderful time in this town; and am thankful for the access into its living history - the residents here must demonstrate remarkable patience and tolerance what with so many tourists ambling on the streets, peering - and photographing - into every nook and cranny.
13.4.09
There are no rubbish bins, yet I've seen on the streets many mixed race couples in which the men tend to be white - the women also belonging to a light colored ethnicity, usually some sort of Asian; as well saw some black dudes and Indian dudes with white chicks.
People here hold doors, even at the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes it appears as though they are going out on a limb, just waiting for the one who will take the responsibility for the door from them, at which point I rush out to relieve them of such a fortuitous burden.
I visited the British Museum this morning. The two hours I spent there did neither myself nor the exhibits any justice because there really is too much to survey, enough captivating stuff to last an entire day, I think. The bottomless well of artifacts from antiquity, drawing from sources as diverse as Korea, and Mesopotamia, is a credit to the British empire, without whose looting most of this amazing booty would be unavailable for our purview; better, I think, for these priceless treasures to be open to all in the grandest supermarket of history than away from human eyes, and worst yet, in the hands of unscrupulous collectors or in the rubbish bin, possibly.
Irene and I took in the ballet Giselle at The Royal Opera House in the afternoon. The building is a plush marvel, and a testament to this city's love for the arts. The ballet itself was satisfying, the first half being superior to the second, in which the nimble dancers demonstrated their phenomenal dexterity in, of all places, a graveyard covered in a cloak of smoke and darkness. I admit, their dance of the dead, in such a gloomy necropolis, did strike me as, strange.
Two amicable ladies from Kent convinced me to visit their hometown tomorrow, where, they told me, the authentic, "working" Leeds Castle and the mighty interesting home of Charles Darwin await.
I'm nursing a pint of Green King Ruddles and wondering about the profusion of British ales and lagers; the British have done a great deed for the world by creating an interminable line of low-alcohol session beers that can be enjoyed at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner; and their disservice is this: besides this inexhaustible supply of cheap beer ensnaring my inner alcoholic, I feel myself putting on my freshman fifteen, almost ten years after the fact; I am going to have to run a bit harder back in Hong Kong if I want to burn all this malty fuel off.
Irene suggested I stop by the National Art Gallery since we were in the area; and it was an hour well spent. The gallery currently presents a special exhibit on Picasso, the non-ticketed section of which features several seductive renderings, including David spying on Bathsheba - repeated in clever variants - and parodies of other masters' works. Furthermore, the main gallery houses two fabulous portraits by Joshua Reynolds, who happens to be favorite of mine, he in life being a close friend of Samuel Johnson - I passed by Boswells, where its namesake first met Johnson, on my way to the opera house.
14.4.09
I prayed last night, and went through my list, lifting everyone on it up to the Lord. That felt good; that God is alive now, and ever present in my life and in the lives of my brothers and sisters.
Doubtless, then, I have felt quite wistful, as though a specter in the land of the living, being in a place where religious fervor, it seems, is a thing of the past, a trifling for many, to be hidden away in the opaque corners of centuries-old cathedrals that are more expensive tourist destinations than liberating homes of worship these days. Indeed, I have yet to see anyone pray, outside of the Easter service which I attended in Cambridge - for such an ecstatic moment in verily a grand church, would you believe that it was only attended by at most three dozen spirited ones. The people of England, and Europe in general, have, it is my hope, only locked away the Word, relegating it to the quiet vault of their hearts. May it be taken out in the sudden pause before mealtimes and in the still crisp mornings and cool, silent nights. There is still hope for a revival in this place, for faith to rise like that splendid sun every morning. God would love to rescue them, to deliver them in this day, it is certain.
I wonder what Londoners think, if anything at all, about their police state which, like a vine in the shadows, has taken root in all corners of daily life, from the terrorist notifications in the underground, which implore Londoners to report all things suspicious, to the pair of dogs which eagerly stroll through Euston. What makes this all the more incredible is the fact that even the United States, the indomitable nemesis of the fledgling, rebel order, doesn't dare bombard its citizens with such fear mongering these days, especially with Obama in office; maybe we've grown wise in these past few years to the dubious returns of surrendering civil liberties to the state, of having our bags checked everywhere - London Eye; Hairspray; and The Royal Opera House check bags in London while the museums do not; somehow, that doesn't add up for me.
I'm in a majestic bookshop on New Street in Birmingham, and certainly to confirm my suspicions, there are just as many books on the death of Christianity in Britain as there are books which attempt to murder Christianity everywhere. I did find, however, a nice biography on John Wesley by Roy Hattersley and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis. I may pick up the former.
Lunch with Sally was pleasant and mirthful. We dined at a French restaurant nearby New Street - yes, Birmingham is a cultural capitol! Sally and I both tried their omelette, while her boyfriend had the fish, without chips. Conversation was light, the levity was there and so was our reminiscing about those fleeting moments during our first year in Hong Kong; it is amazing how friendships can resume so suddenly with a smile. On their recommendation, I am on my way to Warwick Castle - they also suggested that I visit Cadbury World, but they cannot take on additional visitors at the moment, the tourist office staff informed me, much to my disappointment!
Visiting Warwick Castle really made for a great day out. The castle, parts of which were established by William the Conquerer in 1068, is as much a kitschy tourist trap as a meticulous preservation of history, at times a sillier version of Ocean Park while at others a dignified dedication to a most glorious, inexorably English past. The castle caters to all visitors; and not surprisingly, that which delighted all audiences was a giant trebuchet siege engine, which for the five p.m. performance hurled a fireball high and far into the air - fantastic! Taliban beware!
15.4.09
I'm leaving on a jet plane this evening; don't know when I'll be back in England again. I'll miss this quirky, yet endearing place; and that I shall miss Irene and Tom who so generously welcomed me into their home, fed me, and suffered my use of their toilet and shower goes without saying. I'm grateful for God's many blessings on this trip.
On the itinerary today is a trip to John Wesley's home, followed by a visit to the Imperial War Museum. Already this morning I picked up a tube of Oilatum, a week late perhaps, which Teri recommended I use to treat this obstinate, dermal weakness of mine - I'm happy to report that my skin has stopped crying.
John Wesley's home is alive and well. Services are still held in the chapel everyday; and its crypt, so far from being a cellar for the dead, is a bright, spacious museum in which all things Wesley are on display - I never realized how much of an iconic figure he became in England; at the height of this idol frenzy, ironic in itself, he must have been as popular as the Beatles were at their apex. The house itself is a multi-story edifice with narrow, precipitous staircases and spacious rooms decorated in an 18th century fashion.
I found Samuel Johnson's house within a maze of red brick hidden alongside Fleet Street. To be in the home of the man who wrote the English dictionary, and whose indefatigable love for obscure words became the inspiration for my own lexical obsession, this, by far, is the climax of my visit to England! The best certainly has been saved for last.
There are a multitude of portraits hanging around the house like ornaments on a tree. Every likeness has its own story, meticulously retold on the crib sheets in each room. Celebrities abound, including David Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted several of the finer images in the house. I have developed a particular affinity for Oliver Goldsmith, of whom Boswell writes, "His person was short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. It appears as though I, too, could use a more flattering description of myself!
I regretfully couldn't stop to try the curry in England; I guess the CityU canteen's take on the dish will have to do. I did, however, have the opportune task of flirting with the cute Cathay Pacific counter staff who checked me in. She was gorgeous in red, light powder on her cheeks, with real diamond earrings, she said; and her small, delicate face, commanded by a posh British accent rendered her positively irresistible, electrifying. Not only did she grant me an aisle seat but she had the gumption to return my fawning with zest; she must be a pro at this by now.
I saw her again as she was pulling double-duty, collecting tickets prior to boarding. She remembered my quest for curry; and in the fog of infatuation, where nary a man has been made, I fumbled my words like the sloppy kid who has had too much punch. I am just an amateur, alas, an "Oliver Goldsmith" with the ladies - I got no game - booyah!
Some final, consequential bits: because of the chavs, Burberry no longer sells those fashionable baseball caps; because of the IRA, rubbish bins are no longer a commodity on the streets of London, and as a result, the streets and the Underground of the city are a soiled mess; and because of other terrorists from distant, more arid lands, going through a Western airport has taken on the tedium of perfunctory procedure that doesn't make me feel any safer from my invisible enemies.
At last, I saw so many Indians working at Heathrow that I could have easily mistaken the place for Mumbai. Their presence surprised me because their portion of the general population surely must be less than their portion of Heathrow staff, indicating some mysterious hiring bias. Regardless, they do a superb job with cursory airport checks, and in general are absurdly funny and witty when not tactless.
That's all for England!
***UPDATE*** Very seriously...Morgan and Kristina have cornered the market on all the great Kent Coffey pieces.
So tough to find.....and a pair. Haven't seen these in years.
9.4.09
The flight arrived on time; and the twelve hours while on board passed quickly and without incident. To be sure, the quality of the Cathay Pacific service was exemplary once again.
Heathrow reminds me of Newark International. The décor comes straight out of the sterile 80's and is less an eyesore than an insipid background to the rhythm of human activity, such hustle and bustle, at the fore. There certainly are faces from all races present, creating a rich mosaic of humanity which is refreshing if not completely revitalizing after swimming for so long in a sea of Chinese faces in Hong Kong.
Internet access is sealed in England, it seems. Nothing is free; everything is egregiously monetized from the wireless hotspots down to the desktop terminals. I guess Hong Kong has spoiled me with its abundant, free access to the information superhighway.
11.4.09
Despite staying in a room with five other backpackers, I have been sleeping well. The mattress and pillow are firm; my earplugs keep the noise out; and the sleeping quarters are as dark as a cave when the lights are out, and only as bright as, perhaps, a dreary rainy day when on. All in all, St. Paul's is a excellent place to stay for the gregarious, adventurous, and penurious city explorer - couchsurfing may be a tenable alternative; I'll test for next time.
Yesterday Connie and I gorged ourselves at the borough market where there were all sorts of delectable, savory victuals. There was definitely a European flavor to the food fair: simmering sausages were to be found everywhere; and much as the meat was plentiful, and genuine, so were the dairy delicacies, in the form of myriad rounds of cheese, stacked high behind checkered tabletops. Of course, we washed these tasty morsels down with copious amounts of alcohol that flowed from cups as though amber waterfalls. For the first time I tried mulled wine, which tasted like warm, rancid fruit punch - the ideal tonic for a drizzling London day, I suppose. We later killed the afternoon at the pub, shooting the breeze while imbibing several diminutive half-pints in the process. Getting smashed at four in the afternoon doesn't seem like such a bad thing anymore, especially when you are having fun in the company of friends; I can more appreciate why the English do it so much!
Earlier in the day, we visited the Tate Modern. Its turbine room lived up to its prominent billing what with a giant spider, complete with bulbous egg sac, anchoring the retrospective exhibit. The permanent galleries, too, were a delight upon which to feast one's eyes. Picasso, Warhol and Pollock ruled the chambers of the upper floors with the products of their lithe wrists; and I ended up becoming a huge fan of cubism, while developing a disdain for abstract art and its vacuous images, which, I feel, are devoid of both motivation and emotion.
My first trip yesterday morning was to Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal Gunners. It towers imperiously over the surrounding neighborhood; yet for all its majesty, the place sure was quiet! Business did pick up later, however, once the armory shop opened, and dozens of fans descended on it like bees to a hive. I, too, swooped in on a gift-buying mission, and wound up purchasing a book for Godfrey, a scarf for a student, and a jersey - on sale, of course - for good measure.
I'm sitting in the Westminster Abbey Museum now, resting my weary legs and burdened back. So far, I've been verily impressed with what I've seen, such a confluence of splendor and history before me that it would require days to absorb it all, when regretfully I can spare only a few hours. My favorite part of the abbey is the poets corner where no less a literary luminary than Samuel Johnson rests in peace - his bust confirms his homely presence, which was so vividly captured in his biography.
For lunch I had a steak and ale pie, served with mash, taken alongside a Guinness, extra cold - 2 degrees centigrade colder, the bartender explained. It went down well, like all the other delicious meals I've had in England; and no doubt by now I have grown accustomed to inebriation at half past two. Besides, Liverpool were playing inspired football against Blackburn; and my lunch was complete.
Having had my fill of football, I decided to skip my ticket scalping endeavor at Stamford Bridge and instead wandered over to the British Museum to inspect their extensive collections. Along the way, my eye caught a theater, its doors wide open and admitting customers. With much rapidity, I subsequently checked the show times, saw that a performance was set to begin, and at last rushed to the box office to purchase a discounted ticket - if you call a 40 pound ticket a deal, that is. That's how I grabbed a seat to watch Hairspray in the West End.
The show was worth forty pounds. The music was addictive; and the stage design and effects were not so much kitschy as delightfully stimulating - the pulsating background lights were at once scintillating and penetrating. The actors as well were vivacious, oozing charisma while they danced and delivered lines dripping in humor. Hairspray is a quality production and most definitely recommended.
12.4.09
At breakfast I sat across from a man who asked me to which country Hong Kong had been returned - China or Japan. That was pretty funny. Then he started spitting on my food as he spoke, completely oblivious to my breakfast becoming the receptacle in which the fruit of his inner churl was being placed. I guess I understand the convention nowadays of covering one's mouth whilst speaking and masticating at the same time!
We actually conversed on London life in general, and I praised London for its racial integration, the act of which is a prodigious leap of faith for any society, trying to be inclusive, accepting all sorts of people. It wasn't as though the Brits were trying in vain to be all things to all men, using Spanish with the visitors from Spain, German with the Germans and, even, Hindi with the Indians, regardless of whether or not Hindi was their native language; not even considering the absurd idea of encouraging the international adoption of their language; thereby completely keeping English in English hands and allowing its proud polyglots to "practice" their languages. Indeed, the attempt of the Londoners to avail themselves of the rich mosaic of ethnic knowledge, and to seek a common understanding with a ubiquitous English accent is an exemplar, and the bedrock for any world city.
I celebrated Jesus' resurrection at the St. Andrew's Street Church in Cambridge. The parishioners of this Baptist church were warm and affable, and I met several of them, including one visiting (Halliday) linguistics scholar from Zhongshan university in Guangzhou, who in fact had visited my tiny City University of Hong Kong in 2003. The service itself was more traditional and the believers fewer in number than the "progressive" services at any of the charismatic, evangelical churches in HK; yet that's what makes this part of the body of Christ unique; besides, the message was as brief as a powerpoint slide, and informative no less; the power word which spoke into my life being a question from John 21:22 - what is that to you?
Big trees; exquisite lawns; and old, pointy colleges; that's Cambridge in a nutshell. Sitting here, sipping on a half-pint of Woodforde's Wherry, I've had a leisurely, if not languorous, day so far; my sole duty consisting of walking around while absorbing the verdant environment as though a sponge, camera in tow.
I am back at the sublime beer, savoring a pint of Sharp's DoomBar before my fish and chips arrive; the drinking age is 18, but anyone whose visage even hints of youthful brilliance is likely to get carded these days, the bartender told me. The youth drinking culture here is almost as twisted as the university drinking culture in America.
My stay in Cambridge, relaxing and desultory as it may be, is about to end after this late lunch. I an not sure if there is anything left to see, save for the American graveyard which rests an impossible two miles away. I have had a wonderful time in this town; and am thankful for the access into its living history - the residents here must demonstrate remarkable patience and tolerance what with so many tourists ambling on the streets, peering - and photographing - into every nook and cranny.
13.4.09
There are no rubbish bins, yet I've seen on the streets many mixed race couples in which the men tend to be white - the women also belonging to a light colored ethnicity, usually some sort of Asian; as well saw some black dudes and Indian dudes with white chicks.
People here hold doors, even at the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes it appears as though they are going out on a limb, just waiting for the one who will take the responsibility for the door from them, at which point I rush out to relieve them of such a fortuitous burden.
I visited the British Museum this morning. The two hours I spent there did neither myself nor the exhibits any justice because there really is too much to survey, enough captivating stuff to last an entire day, I think. The bottomless well of artifacts from antiquity, drawing from sources as diverse as Korea, and Mesopotamia, is a credit to the British empire, without whose looting most of this amazing booty would be unavailable for our purview; better, I think, for these priceless treasures to be open to all in the grandest supermarket of history than away from human eyes, and worst yet, in the hands of unscrupulous collectors or in the rubbish bin, possibly.
Irene and I took in the ballet Giselle at The Royal Opera House in the afternoon. The building is a plush marvel, and a testament to this city's love for the arts. The ballet itself was satisfying, the first half being superior to the second, in which the nimble dancers demonstrated their phenomenal dexterity in, of all places, a graveyard covered in a cloak of smoke and darkness. I admit, their dance of the dead, in such a gloomy necropolis, did strike me as, strange.
Two amicable ladies from Kent convinced me to visit their hometown tomorrow, where, they told me, the authentic, "working" Leeds Castle and the mighty interesting home of Charles Darwin await.
I'm nursing a pint of Green King Ruddles and wondering about the profusion of British ales and lagers; the British have done a great deed for the world by creating an interminable line of low-alcohol session beers that can be enjoyed at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner; and their disservice is this: besides this inexhaustible supply of cheap beer ensnaring my inner alcoholic, I feel myself putting on my freshman fifteen, almost ten years after the fact; I am going to have to run a bit harder back in Hong Kong if I want to burn all this malty fuel off.
Irene suggested I stop by the National Art Gallery since we were in the area; and it was an hour well spent. The gallery currently presents a special exhibit on Picasso, the non-ticketed section of which features several seductive renderings, including David spying on Bathsheba - repeated in clever variants - and parodies of other masters' works. Furthermore, the main gallery houses two fabulous portraits by Joshua Reynolds, who happens to be favorite of mine, he in life being a close friend of Samuel Johnson - I passed by Boswells, where its namesake first met Johnson, on my way to the opera house.
14.4.09
I prayed last night, and went through my list, lifting everyone on it up to the Lord. That felt good; that God is alive now, and ever present in my life and in the lives of my brothers and sisters.
Doubtless, then, I have felt quite wistful, as though a specter in the land of the living, being in a place where religious fervor, it seems, is a thing of the past, a trifling for many, to be hidden away in the opaque corners of centuries-old cathedrals that are more expensive tourist destinations than liberating homes of worship these days. Indeed, I have yet to see anyone pray, outside of the Easter service which I attended in Cambridge - for such an ecstatic moment in verily a grand church, would you believe that it was only attended by at most three dozen spirited ones. The people of England, and Europe in general, have, it is my hope, only locked away the Word, relegating it to the quiet vault of their hearts. May it be taken out in the sudden pause before mealtimes and in the still crisp mornings and cool, silent nights. There is still hope for a revival in this place, for faith to rise like that splendid sun every morning. God would love to rescue them, to deliver them in this day, it is certain.
I wonder what Londoners think, if anything at all, about their police state which, like a vine in the shadows, has taken root in all corners of daily life, from the terrorist notifications in the underground, which implore Londoners to report all things suspicious, to the pair of dogs which eagerly stroll through Euston. What makes this all the more incredible is the fact that even the United States, the indomitable nemesis of the fledgling, rebel order, doesn't dare bombard its citizens with such fear mongering these days, especially with Obama in office; maybe we've grown wise in these past few years to the dubious returns of surrendering civil liberties to the state, of having our bags checked everywhere - London Eye; Hairspray; and The Royal Opera House check bags in London while the museums do not; somehow, that doesn't add up for me.
I'm in a majestic bookshop on New Street in Birmingham, and certainly to confirm my suspicions, there are just as many books on the death of Christianity in Britain as there are books which attempt to murder Christianity everywhere. I did find, however, a nice biography on John Wesley by Roy Hattersley and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis. I may pick up the former.
Lunch with Sally was pleasant and mirthful. We dined at a French restaurant nearby New Street - yes, Birmingham is a cultural capitol! Sally and I both tried their omelette, while her boyfriend had the fish, without chips. Conversation was light, the levity was there and so was our reminiscing about those fleeting moments during our first year in Hong Kong; it is amazing how friendships can resume so suddenly with a smile. On their recommendation, I am on my way to Warwick Castle - they also suggested that I visit Cadbury World, but they cannot take on additional visitors at the moment, the tourist office staff informed me, much to my disappointment!
Visiting Warwick Castle really made for a great day out. The castle, parts of which were established by William the Conquerer in 1068, is as much a kitschy tourist trap as a meticulous preservation of history, at times a sillier version of Ocean Park while at others a dignified dedication to a most glorious, inexorably English past. The castle caters to all visitors; and not surprisingly, that which delighted all audiences was a giant trebuchet siege engine, which for the five p.m. performance hurled a fireball high and far into the air - fantastic! Taliban beware!
15.4.09
I'm leaving on a jet plane this evening; don't know when I'll be back in England again. I'll miss this quirky, yet endearing place; and that I shall miss Irene and Tom who so generously welcomed me into their home, fed me, and suffered my use of their toilet and shower goes without saying. I'm grateful for God's many blessings on this trip.
On the itinerary today is a trip to John Wesley's home, followed by a visit to the Imperial War Museum. Already this morning I picked up a tube of Oilatum, a week late perhaps, which Teri recommended I use to treat this obstinate, dermal weakness of mine - I'm happy to report that my skin has stopped crying.
John Wesley's home is alive and well. Services are still held in the chapel everyday; and its crypt, so far from being a cellar for the dead, is a bright, spacious museum in which all things Wesley are on display - I never realized how much of an iconic figure he became in England; at the height of this idol frenzy, ironic in itself, he must have been as popular as the Beatles were at their apex. The house itself is a multi-story edifice with narrow, precipitous staircases and spacious rooms decorated in an 18th century fashion.
I found Samuel Johnson's house within a maze of red brick hidden alongside Fleet Street. To be in the home of the man who wrote the English dictionary, and whose indefatigable love for obscure words became the inspiration for my own lexical obsession, this, by far, is the climax of my visit to England! The best certainly has been saved for last.
There are a multitude of portraits hanging around the house like ornaments on a tree. Every likeness has its own story, meticulously retold on the crib sheets in each room. Celebrities abound, including David Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted several of the finer images in the house. I have developed a particular affinity for Oliver Goldsmith, of whom Boswell writes, "His person was short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. It appears as though I, too, could use a more flattering description of myself!
I regretfully couldn't stop to try the curry in England; I guess the CityU canteen's take on the dish will have to do. I did, however, have the opportune task of flirting with the cute Cathay Pacific counter staff who checked me in. She was gorgeous in red, light powder on her cheeks, with real diamond earrings, she said; and her small, delicate face, commanded by a posh British accent rendered her positively irresistible, electrifying. Not only did she grant me an aisle seat but she had the gumption to return my fawning with zest; she must be a pro at this by now.
I saw her again as she was pulling double-duty, collecting tickets prior to boarding. She remembered my quest for curry; and in the fog of infatuation, where nary a man has been made, I fumbled my words like the sloppy kid who has had too much punch. I am just an amateur, alas, an "Oliver Goldsmith" with the ladies - I got no game - booyah!
Some final, consequential bits: because of the chavs, Burberry no longer sells those fashionable baseball caps; because of the IRA, rubbish bins are no longer a commodity on the streets of London, and as a result, the streets and the Underground of the city are a soiled mess; and because of other terrorists from distant, more arid lands, going through a Western airport has taken on the tedium of perfunctory procedure that doesn't make me feel any safer from my invisible enemies.
At last, I saw so many Indians working at Heathrow that I could have easily mistaken the place for Mumbai. Their presence surprised me because their portion of the general population surely must be less than their portion of Heathrow staff, indicating some mysterious hiring bias. Regardless, they do a superb job with cursory airport checks, and in general are absurdly funny and witty when not tactless.
That's all for England!