Then why don't you post a picture of a RL Kimono instead of asking for an exact redo of the same one Aryanna already sells?

How is that not copying existing content? Apart from the slander you spread about Okiya's what does the location of her shop have to do with anything? Is it because she stood up for us?

Before pointing fingers, your destinguished Okiya is in the middle of a quote: Prison,rp,realistic,mesh,criminal,urban,city,police,entertainment,okiya,geishas,store,fullperm,inmate,cop,correctional,marvel,asylum,mental,medical,doctor,lawyer,police,Geishas." In a general Sim, it is not allowed to have displays of violence, which no doubt happen in a prison. Surely that is the perfect zen environment to enjoy a cup of tea. Isn't that a bit hypocritical?

To smoke, as an act of rebellion, while being a teenager, does not seem rebellious to me at all. It is ignorantly giving in to indoctrination from both the immediate circle of friends and the huge, aggressive cigarette manufacturers assisted by the media.

 

I have often reasoned with myself that if our teenagers want to rebel against society, if they strive to become independent and think for themselves, so why on earth do they fall like flies into the vicious nets of nicotine advertising pushers? Indoctrinators who don't give a damn about anything at all but their greed for money and power?

 

If our children achieve the understanding and grasp the fact that they are being utterly manipulated-- played smoothly like the play-dough they used themselves not too long ago-- in the hands of those guilt-free companies & fancy executives, would they let themselves be used without a fight?

These companies, who despite the hypocritical label "hazardous to your health" on their products, become more sophisticated in masking their bloody claws into trendy, polished palavers, all in order to get our children as fast as they possibly can and turn them into addicts for life, would our children then so easily fall into these well calculated traps? If they saw the catch in time?

 

Wouldn't our beloved children rebel against this despicable wickedness which robs them of their freedom, and in the long run of their heath as well, wouldn't they then boycott all those damned cigarettes? After all our children see us, their role models, adults who try numerous times to quit smoking, yet fail again and again and jeopardize our health. If only they would see the plot when there is still time.

 

My beloved Aunt started to smoke as a joke when she was only 16 y/o. Like everybody else she wanted to appear tougher than she was, she wanted to be popular. Throughout her life she inhaled large amounts of the addictive drug until her lungs were totally pierced and black with tar. She tried to quit smoking time after time, succeeded only for a week or so, went on smoking and continued to struggled for nearly 60 years. All in vain, she was doomed from her very first "supposedly innocent" cigarette.

I saw her agony, I saw her terrible suffering. I saw her die in horrible pain, totally in the merciless arms of the cruel lung cancer caused by nicotine.

 

If only our children could see in time the traps that are put out for them disguised as freedom of choice.

 

I still remember that cigarette which I deliberately took in order to aggravate my mom-- I was only 15 or 16 y/o at the time, it was my job to rebel against her, right?

 

It all started a few days earlier. Two of my high-school mates called me to have a cigarette with them in a hidden corner of the school yard. One of the girls, Yona was her name-- beautiful, thick long blond braid hanging heavily on her back, smart girl, bright in class-- was my idol, someone I looked up to and wanted to be as good as she, especially in mathematics, a subject I had always difficulties with. The other girl, Devorah, was already a smoker, as far as I can recall. Yona had always enough pocket money to buy cigarettes and so she offered me one. I took it and sucked on it, not really knowing what to do, but i didn't want to appear childish so I went on blowing some smoke. After a few minutes my mouth had a disgusting taste and I felt nauseated, however, I still didn't stop, all I wanted was to be like Yona, popular and at the top of our class. If she did it, it was an act of boldness and daring which I admired.

 

I decided to buy a packet of mint flavoured cigarettes, called Polaris at the time, mid 60's, and waited for the moment to confront my mother. The opportunity didn't take long to show up.

That Friday afternoon, after school was done for the week, Mom and I were sitting and discussing something which I can't remember now what it was. I opened my little brown leather purse, took out the unopened package of cigarettes, tore up the cellophane wrapping, pulled out a long, white cigarette, elegantly, so I thought, putting it in my mouth, waiting excitedly for the reaction of my strict disciplinary mother. I was ready for a wild fight and about to lit my liberating cigarette, my act of rebellion, when Mommy said very calmly:

"Alors, Poupetta, tu fumes maintenant?"... So I see that you have taken up smoking, huh..."

"Yes!" I said triumphantly, provocatively, anticipating the big revolution I had in mind, imagining my mother's fuming outburst and uncontrollable anger.

Well, come on, give it to me, Mom, my 15-16 years old energy boiled in me.

 

Well... I sat there, still holding onto that famous cigarette, but the spark from that friction I was delivering so eagerly didn't get on fire. Neither did my cigarette for that matter. It was simply dull. Mom said no more, so unlike her, I thought, she always lectured me, always. Why, only the other day she was praising Yona, who came for a visit, urging me to take after her studious nature, I who had nothing but the Beatles on my mind!

 

It was a total flat disappointment, no reaction was boring and so I didn't see why I should go on pretending I liked smoking when I actually despised the smell and taste of it. And if I couldn't even get Mom aggravated so why on earth bother at all.

 

"Here, Mommy, take it," I said handing her the brand new package of Polaris mint cigarettes.

 

TRIGGER WARNING: I usually try to keep my language here at least PG-13, but the topic I'm discussing in this post requires me to say a particular word enough times to earn me an R rating. Specifically, I say it six times, and, really, considering the stance I'm taking here, not saying the word would be oddly hypocritical. If you do not want to see this word in writing, I strongly advise that you skip the following text.

 

Here's a bland picture I've been holding on to for a little while, because I meant to attach it to a rant. I took this focusing on a flag outside some law enforcement fan's house in the metropolis of Waynetown, Indiana. You can see two flags on this pole. At the top, there's one of those American flags that have been color-shifted over to something that I think's supposed to be pro-cop, only it's hard to tell because it's old, and the colors have all faded. At the bottom, there's a flag that says, "Let's Go, Brandon."

 

I'm posting this because that Brandon flag is the dumbest thing in the world.

 

You might know the history if you pay attention to news of dumb things. It all goes back to a NASCAR race, when a young driver named Brandon Brown won the second-tier, Xfinity Series stock car race last October at Talladega. The Xfinity Series is NASCAR's version of the minor leagues, and it usually runs the day before the big Cup races I pay attention to. But the sports TV guys need practice, too, so they run the Xfinity races for a small audience on some cable channel, and they cover them the same way they cover the big races. And so, when Brandon Brown won his very first Xfinity race, the TV people went to the Winners Circle to interview him live on cable TV. That's when the crowd at Talladega started a chant during this live broadcast that said -- and pardon my English, but this is a quote -- "Fuck Joe Biden." Because, I guess, conservative types have spent the better part of a decade building their entire personalities with cult-like obsession around what they think of the President of the United States, and the most natural thing in the world for them is to celebrate a bush league stock car race by obscenely chanting their political opinions on national television at random and unrelated moments. And sure, this was a cable channel, but it wasn't one of those cable channels, and the FCC still doesn't like having that particular word broadcast on live television to people with overly sensitive ears. So the announcer tried to cover it up, saying something like, "Well, look at how much the crowd is behind Brandon Brown, chanting 'Let's go, Brandon!'"

 

And thus, a meme was born.

 

Conservative rednecks everywhere decided this was funny, so a bunch of them adopted "Let's Go, Brandon!" as their motto, their way of saying "Fuck Joe Biden" without actually saying "fuck," even though these are presumably all adults who've heard the word before without it busting their ear drums. But no, they think this little bit of euphemistic misdirection is the most clever thing ever, and they all cackle like maniacs over it.

 

The thing is, it's all pointless and dumb, because words have meanings, and these meanings translate into thoughts and feelings in a human mind that matter far more than the noise that conveys them. When you say a word, your goal isn't to make a sound. It's to convey a meaning. You want to trigger a particular thought inside somebody's brain and have them picture a certain thing. And it doesn't really matter which sound your mouth makes to convey that thought, whether you say "hell" or "heck," "goddammit" or "gosh dangit," "shoot" or ... something else. You're still putting the same thought in somebody's head. The thoughts and messages are still the same. Like, for instance, when I said "something else" just now, there's a pretty good chance your brain thought of human excrement. I didn't have to say the word to convey the image. A euphemism might avoid a sound we've randomly decided is an ugly word, but it doesn't avoid the ugly thought, and the thought is what matters. So if you're going to convey the ugly thought, you might as well be honest about it and use the ugly word.

 

There's also a certain kind of sniveling weasel quality to the "Let's go, Brandon" thing, like you're too much of a wimp to even stand by your thoughts. There were a lot of times during the administration of Brandon's ... er, Biden's predecessor when I wanted to say, "Fuck Trump." And you know what? I said it, because that's what I meant, so I might as well commit.

 

I'm generally a fan of President Biden's work over the last couple of years, but honestly, I don't care if you or anybody else wants to tell him to fuck off. But have the courage of your convictions. Don't act like you're some middle school kid afraid to have your mommy slap a bar of soap in your mouth for saying a naughty word. And don't act like you're some genius because you figured out a juvenile way to avoid a particular collection of sounds we arbitrarily declared obscene. Fuck that. Don't be a baby. Just say it.

What a cool poster that just showed up in the post! We know nothing about it, aside from a clear inspiration from this photo I took, and the URL: www.thebirdmachine.com

  

Thanks Bird Machine!

 

See Inspirations and Hypocrites for the whole story.

 

be kind

 

don't be a bully

 

or a hypocrite

 

stay open to ideas

even if they are different than your own

 

and, if they are different than yours

does it matter?

 

does that person deserve your ridicule

or disrespect

or derision?

 

just lead by example

 

even when your leaders don't

 

treat others the way you want to be treated

 

and, for those who will not

or cannot do the same

wish them well

 

and let them go

 

be a good human

 

because humanity needs it

The modern West is said to be Christian, but this is untrue: the modern outlook is anti-Christian, because it is essentially anti-religious; and it is anti-religious because, still more generally, it is anti-traditional; this is its distinguishing characteristic and this is what makes it what it is. Undoubtedly, something of Christianity has passed even into the anti-Christian civilization of our time, even the most 'advanced' of whose representatives, to use their own jargon, cannot help, involuntarily and perhaps unconsciously, having undergone and still undergoing a certain Christian influence, though an indirect one; however radical a breach with the past may be, it can never be quite complete and such as to break all continuity. More than this: we even assert that everything of value that there may be in the modern world has come to it from Christianity, or at any rate through Christianity, for Christianity has brought with it the whole heritage of former traditions, has kept this heritage alive so far as the state of things in the West made it possible, and still contains its latent possibilities. But is there anyone today, even among those calling themselves Christians, who has any real consciousness of these possibilities?

 

The West is undeniably encroaching everywhere; its influence first made itself felt in the material domain, since this comes most directly within its reach, working through conquest by violence or through commerce, and by securing control over the resources of other countries; but now things are going still further. Westerners, always animated by that need for proselytism which is so exclusively theirs, have succeeded to a certain extent in introducing their own anti-traditional and materialistic outlook among other peoples; and whereas the first form of invasion only affected men's bodies, this newer form poisons their minds and kills all spirituality. In point of fact, it was the first kind of invasion that made the second one possible, so that it is ultimately only by brute force that the West has succeeded in imposing itself upon the rest of the world, as, indeed, must necessarily be the case, since in this sphere alone lies the superiority of its civilization, so inferior from every other point of view. The Western encroachment is the encroachment of materialism under all its guises and cannot be other than this; none of the more or less hypocritical veils, none of the moralistic pretexts, none of the humanitarian declamations, none of the wiles of a propaganda that knows how to be insinuating the better to achieve its destructive ends, none of these things can gainsay that Western encroachment is the encroachment of materialism; this could be disputed only by the gullible, or by those who have an interest in aiding a process that is truly 'satanic' in the strictest sense of the word.

 

(Satan, in Hebrew, is the 'adversary', the one who 'turns things upside down'; this is the spirit of negation and subversion, which is identical with the descending or 'downward' tendency (tamas) - 'infernal' in the etymological sense of the word - and which governs beings in this process of materialization, upon which the whole development of modern civilization is based.)

 

Excerpts from:

 

René Guénon - The Crisis of the Modern World

 

Another three hours pass by and the clock strikes 9pm exact. Still nothing. Where can he be? Come on you spineless coward. Show yourself and face your punishment. Sure enough no sooner does the thought cross my mind that I get an alert. He’s been spotted. Where?

 

I quickly race to the computer and trace his position. He’s at the county fair. Of course. The perfect place he could hide himself, in the middle of a fun fair. No ordinary person would ever think that he’s in the middle of such a public event, but I know this monster. It’s his way of mocking both me and the GCPD. His gloating will cost him dearly.

 

I hear the elevator coming down from the house. Alfred’s on his way down. No doubt he heard the alert as well, I need to get gone before he tries to stop me. Given that he had Clark try to talk me down he’s clearly against this vendetta campaign. Hypocrite. He had a vendetta against Uncle Marcus for trying to change my Father’s will and was more than willing to kill him when he had the chance to do so. Now the situation arises for me to confront the man I hold a strong vendetta against and he tells me to ignore it. Such a hypocrite.

 

I’ve been preparing the new suit for this moment, and now it’s time to put it to use. After a couple of minutes I’m ready and I walk towards the batmobile. But of course Alfred blocks my path.

 

“Get out of the way Alfred.”

 

“No. I can't let you do this.”

 

“Get out of my way.”

 

“I won’t just sit by and let you make a decision that you shall live with the rest of your life.”

 

“He has to pay for what he’s done. Jason deserves no less.”

 

“This has nothing to do with Jason! This is you wanting a reason to justify what you plan to do!”

 

“Stand aside Alfred, I won’t ask again.”

 

“And I still won’t move. Trust me. I know from experience. Taking a man’s life, that sticks with you for the rest of yours and I won’t let you add that to the burden you already carry.”

 

I have no choice. Alfred won’t move willingly. As much as it pains me to do so, I push him out the way and continue to walk towards the batmobile. Alfred knows he can’t physically stop me, I’m too strong for him to hold back so he’s forced to keep pleading with me to not go.

 

“Bruce please. Think about what you’re doing!”

 

I ignore him. It pains me to do so, but it’s the only choice. If I even stop to acknowledge him he’s got the advantage and will use it to try and stop me going out there. But I cannot let that happen.

 

“This man is a monster yes, but let Gordon know where he is! He can have the fair evacuated and the Joker in chains! This time he can be put in Blackgate where he’ll rot for the rest of his life!”

 

Sorry Alfred. I know you’re trying your best to try and persuade me to not go through with it, but I must. Jason deserves that much from me at least. I climb into the batmobile and lock it. Alfred presses himself against the window.

 

“If you take his life tonight, you’ll be destroying all that you’ve worked so hard for!”

 

I turn on the ignition and prepare the booster for departure. But then Alfred says it. The words of that deliver a punch to my chest.

 

“It’s not what your parents would want of you.”

 

It’s a painful comment. Telling me blatantly how far I’m straying from my parents wishes. I've never wanted to do such a thing since they were taken from me. But I have no choice.

 

“I know Alfred. They would never approve of this. But I will not allow Jason’s sacrifice to go unpunished.”

 

With that I roar the engine to life and race out of the cave. Mother. Father. I’m sorry. But tonight I must avenge my son.

ive just been lolling around all day, thats half term for ya!

 

this idea just popped into my head, i was reading a magazine and it seems like every page you turn theres a new way to make you eyes prettier or you bum seem bigger. im not going to say i never get paranoid about my looks because i do, it just seems crazy that you would go out and do these things just to make yourself a little bit better.

 

love the skin your in ;)

  

i sound like a hypocrite

Stained glass windows keep the cold outside While the hypocrites hide inside With the lies of statues in their minds

The Gilded Cage is the starship of bounty hunter Ciron Duali.

 

When his Serenno noble family made it clear that they didn't want him to lead the family, and when he decided to become a bounty hunter, he used his own considerable funds to procure a custom starship.

 

He decided on a heavily customized Korpik and Laani single-crew long-range scout.

 

To further project the air of a rich dandy playing bounty hunter, he had the outer hull silver-plated. As lavish as the outer shell was, the more spartan was the interior.

 

It had enough room for a bunk bed, very compact storage units, a small armory, room for two carbonite-frozen bounties, and for a small speeder bike.

 

Two heavy blaster cannons, and two droid-controlled defensive dual blaster turrets provided enough offensive capabilities.

 

The ship's name signified his break from the family. Breaking with its traditions, its stifling constraints. Yet, hypocritically, Duali ignored how he had profited massively from his family's riches.

 

Done in Studio.

I normally wouldn't have cared about a BMW X6, but seeing one of these in Havana is way too unusual and... ironic/hypocritical not to shot

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... is the question posed by this beautiful hunk of woman who stars in the TV sitcom "Sex and the City." She asks the burning question, would you rather look at me or an abandoned, trashed piece of condemned real estate?" The message she has for me is, "Look at the beauty in life, not the ugliness. Accept the beauty, not the ugly, Try to make things beautiful, not ugly." Then of course, someone thinks perhaps I'm a hypocrite because I make so many of my people distorted and ugly. That leads me to explain my goal, which is that most of us are neither movie star beautiful, not, as the saying goes, butt-ugly." We vary and we are diverse. We are truly beautiful in our diversity and I celebrate that diversity. In this wonderful, multisensational life we live, here are a few seconds for me to tell you how I see the beauty of God, as opposed to the bloated, pompous, self-righteous hypocracy of so many Pharasitic Bible thumpers. Give Sister Rosetta Tharpe a moment and see if she can explain God to you:

 

www.youtube.com/watch?v=UNq8DejQRN8

 

I received this "testimony" of Sister Rosetta Tharpe from delanceyplace.com and here's what they had to say:

 

In today's excerpt - Sister Rosetta Tharpe, viewed by some as the first rock and roll guitarist. Tharpe first gained widespread attention performing in Barney Josephson's Café Society, a New York City nightclub, in the late 1930s and early 1940s. Josephson's club was the first to both feature black jazz artists and allow black patrons in the audience, and he brought a stellar variety of previously little known black talent to the broader public - including Billie Holiday and Lena Horne. Here Josephson reminisces about Tharpe:

 

"Sister Rosetta Tharpe not only could sing electrifying gospel but what an acoustic guitar she could play. [Jazz promoter] John Hammond explained, 'She is one of the first to use it for melody-plucked lines. Her technically astonishing lead breaks invented the rock and roll guitar.' In his 1938 'From Spirituals to Swing' concert, Sister Tharpe 'was a surprise smash; knocked the people out.'

 

"Rosetta Tharpe was a child star. Born in 1915 in Cotton Plant, Arkansas, she was a baby when her mother took up preaching, traveling from church to church to spread the gospel. As a four-year-old, Rosetta was already singing and playing the guitar. She was the big attraction that brought in the worshippers to her mother's services. Rosetta Tharpe was a pioneer. When she sang gospel on a secular stage she scandalized the sanctified church. They never forgave her. Religious folk opposed singing in cabarets; it was synonymous with the Devil, God's enemy. They told Sister Tharpe that either she serve the devil or God. She would respond that the Lord knew her heart and it wouldn't lead her astray. She was the first gospel singer to sign with a major recording company and to appear in a nightclub - mine. Her song style was filled with blues inversion. ... She bent her notes like a horn player, and syncopated in swing band manner. My secular audiences were fascinated with her blues-oriented gospel, a first for many of them.

 

"[Critic Malcolm Johnson wrote] 'Sister Rosetta Tharpe rates unqualified enthusiasm for the stirring quality of her songs, sung in the spiritual vein of swing tempo. At Cafe Society she is offering some new compositions of her own.' "

 

I have only one rule for learning. "Before you decide what you believe and who you are, remove head from ass."

An Ideal Husband is an 1895 comedic stage play by Oscar Wilde which revolves around blackmail and political corruption, and touches on the themes of public and private honour. The action is set in London, in "the present", and takes place over the course of twenty-four hours. "Sooner or later," Wilde notes, "we shall all have to pay for what we do." But he adds that, "No one should be entirely judged by their past." Together with The Importance of Being Earnest, it is often considered Wilde's dramatic masterpiece. After Earnest it is his most popularly produced play.[1]

  

Background

 

In the summer of 1893, Oscar Wilde began writing An Ideal Husband, and he completed it later that winter. His work began at Goring-on-Thames, after which he named the character Lord Goring, and concluded at St. James Place. He initially sent the completed play to the Garrick Theatre, where the manager rejected it, but it was soon accepted by the Haymarket Theatre, where Lewis Waller had temporarily taken control. Waller was an excellent actor and cast himself as Sir Robert Chiltern. The play gave the Haymarket the success it desperately needed.

 

After opening on 3 January 1895, it continued for 124 performances. In April of that year, Wilde was arrested for 'gross indecency' and his name was publicly taken off the play. On 6 April, soon after Wilde's arrest, the play moved to the Criterion Theatre where it ran from 13–27 April. The play was published in 1899, although Wilde was not listed as the author. This published version differs slightly from the performed play, for Wilde added many passages and cut others. Prominent additions included written stage directions and character descriptions. Wilde was a leader in the effort to make plays accessible to the reading public.

 

Themes

 

Many of the themes of An Ideal Husband were influenced by the situation Oscar Wilde found himself in during the early 1890s. Stressing the need to be forgiven of past sins, and the irrationality of ruining lives of great value to society because of people's hypocritical reactions to those sins, Wilde may have been speaking to his own situation, and his own fears regarding his affair (still secret).[2] Other themes include the position of women in society. In a climactic moment Gertrude Chiltern "learns her lesson" and repeats LORD GORING's advice "A man's life is of more value than a woman's." Often criticized by contemporary theatre analyzers as overt sexism, the idea being expressed in the monologue is that women, despite serving as the source of morality in Victorian era marriages, should be less judgemental of their husband's mistakes because of complexities surrounding the balance that husbands of that era had to keep between their domestic and their worldly obligations.[3][4] Further, the script plays against both sides of feminism/sexism as, for example, Lord Caversham, exclaims near the end that Mabel displays "a good deal of common sense" after concluding earlier that "Common sense is the privilege of our sex."

 

A third theme expresses anti-upper class sentiments. Lady Basildon, and Lady Markby are consistently portrayed as absurdly two-faced, saying one thing one moment, then turning around to say the exact opposite (to great comic effect) to someone else. The overall portrayal of the upper class in England displays an attitude of hypocrisy and strict observance of silly rules.[4]

 

Dramatis Personae

The Earl of Caversham, K.G.

Lord Goring, his son. His Christian name is Arthur.

Sir Robert Chiltern, Bart., Under-Secretary for Foreign Affairs

Vicomte De Nanjac, Attaché at the French Embassy In London

Mr. Montford, secretary to Sir Robert

Mason, butler to Sir Robert Chiltern

Phipps, butler to Lord Goring

James, footman to the Chilterns

Harold, footman to the Chilterns

Lady Chiltern, wife to Sir Robert Chiltern

Lady Markby, a friend of the Chilterns'

The Countess of Basildon, a friend of the Chilterns'

Mrs. Marchmont, a friend of the Chilterns'

Miss Mabel Chiltern, Sir Robert Chiltern's sister

Mrs. Cheveley, blackmailer, Lady Chiltern's former schoolmate

 

Plot

 

An Ideal Husband opens during a dinner party at the home of Sir Robert Chiltern in London's fashionable Grosvenor Square. Sir Robert, a prestigious member of the House of Commons, and his wife, Lady Chiltern, are hosting a gathering that includes his friend Lord Goring, a dandified bachelor and close friend to the Chilterns, his sister Mabel Chiltern, and other genteel guests. During the party, Mrs. Cheveley, an enemy of Lady Chiltern's from their school days, attempts to blackmail Sir Robert into supporting a fraudulent scheme to build a canal in Argentina. Apparently, Mrs. Cheveley's dead mentor and lover, the Austro-Hungarian Baron Arnheim, convinced the young Sir Robert many years ago to sell him a Cabinet secret, a secret that suggested he buy stocks in the Suez Canal three days before the British government announced its purchase. Sir Robert made his fortune with that illicit money, and Mrs. Cheveley has the letter to prove his crime. Fearing the ruin of both career and marriage, Sir Robert submits to her demands.

 

When Mrs. Cheveley pointedly informs Lady Chiltern of Sir Robert's change of heart regarding the canal scheme, the morally inflexible Lady Chiltern, unaware of both her husband's past and the blackmail plot, insists that Sir Robert renege on his promise. For Lady Chiltern, their marriage is predicated on her having an "ideal husband"—that is, a model spouse in both private and public life that she can worship: thus Sir Robert must remain unimpeachable in all his decisions. Sir Robert complies with the lady's wishes and apparently seals his doom. Also toward the end of Act I, Mabel and Lord Goring come upon a diamond brooch that Lord Goring gave someone many years ago. Goring takes the brooch and asks that Mabel inform him if anyone comes to retrieve it.

 

In the second act, which also takes place at Sir Robert's house, Lord Goring urges Sir Robert to fight Mrs. Cheveley and admit his guilt to his wife. He also reveals that he and Mrs. Cheveley were formerly engaged. After finishing his conversation with Sir Robert, Goring engages in flirtatious banter with Mabel. He also takes Lady Chiltern aside and obliquely urges her to be less morally inflexible and more forgiving. Once Goring leaves, Mrs. Cheveley appears, unexpected, in search of a brooch she lost the previous evening. Incensed at Sir Robert's reneging on his promise, she ultimately exposes Sir Robert to his wife once they are both in the room. Unable to accept a Sir Robert now unmasked, Lady Chiltern then denounces her husband and refuses to forgive him.

 

In the third act, set in Lord Goring's home, Goring receives a pink letter from Lady Chiltern asking for his help, a letter that might be read as a compromising love note. Just as Goring receives this note, however, his father, Lord Caversham, drops in and demands to know when his son will marry. A visit from Sir Robert, who seeks further counsel from Goring, follows. Meanwhile, Mrs. Cheveley arrives unexpectedly and, misrecognized by the butler as the woman Goring awaits, is ushered into Lord Goring's drawing room. While she waits, she finds Lady Chiltern's letter. Ultimately, Sir Robert discovers Mrs. Cheveley in the drawing room and, convinced of an affair between these two former lovers, angrily storms out of the house.

 

When she and Lord Goring confront each other, Mrs. Cheveley makes a proposal. Claiming to still love Goring from their early days of courtship, she offers to exchange Sir Robert's letter for her old beau's hand in marriage. Lord Goring declines, accusing her of defiling love by reducing courtship to a vulgar transaction and ruining the Chilterns' marriage. He then springs his trap. Removing the diamond brooch from his desk drawer, he binds it to Cheveley's wrist with a hidden device. Goring then reveals how the item came into her possession. Apparently Mrs. Cheveley stole it from his cousin, Mary Berkshire, years ago. To avoid arrest, Cheveley must trade the incriminating letter for her release from the bejewelled handcuff. After Goring obtains and burns the letter, however, Mrs. Cheveley steals Lady Chiltern's note from his desk. Vengefully she plans to send it to Sir Robert misconstrued as a love letter addressed to the dandified lord. Mrs. Cheveley exits the house in triumph.

 

The final act, which returns to Grosvenor Square, resolves the many plot complications sketched above with a decidedly happy ending. Lord Goring proposes to and is accepted by Mabel. Lord Caversham informs his son that Sir Robert has denounced the Argentine canal scheme before the House. Lady Chiltern then appears, and Lord Goring informs her that Sir Robert's letter has been destroyed but that Mrs. Cheveley has stolen her letter and plans to use it to destroy her marriage. At that moment, Sir Robert enters while reading Lady Chiltern's letter, but as the letter does not have the name of the addressee, he assumes it is meant for him, and reads it as a letter of forgiveness. The two reconcile. Lady Chiltern initially agrees to support Sir Robert's decision to renounce his career in politics, but Lord Goring dissuades her from allowing her husband to resign. When Sir Robert refuses Lord Goring his sister's hand in marriage, still believing he has taken up with Mrs. Cheveley, Lady Chiltern is forced to explain last night's events and the true nature of the letter. Sir Robert relents, and Lord Goring and Mabel are permitted to wed.

 

Reception

 

The play proved extremely popular in its original run, lasting over a hundred performances. Critics also lauded Wilde's balance of a multitude of theatrical elements within the play. George Bernard Shaw praised the play saying "Mr. Wilde is to me our only thorough Playwright. He plays with everything; with wit, with philosophy, with drama, with actors and audience, with the whole theatre."[2]

 

Selected Production History

 

An Ideal Husband was originally produced by Lewis Waller, premiering on the 3rd of January, 1895 in Haymarket Theatre. The run lasted 124 performances. The original cast of the play was:[5]

 

Mr. Alfred Bishop, THE EARL OF CAVERSHAM, VISCOUNT GORING, Mr. Charles H. Hawtrey, SIR ROBERT CHILTERN, Mr. Lewis Waller, VICOMTE DE NANJAC, Mr. Cosmo Stuart, MR. MONTFORD, Mr. Harry Stanford, PHIPPS, Mr. C. H. Brookfield, MASON, Mr. H. Deane, JAMES, Mr. Charles Meyrick, HAROLD, Mr. Goodhart, LADY CHILTERN, Miss Julia Neilson, LADY MARKBY, Miss Fanny Brough, COUNTESS OF BASILDON, Miss Vane Featherston, MRS. MARCHMONT, Miss Helen Forsyth, MISS MABEL CHILTERN, Miss Maud Millet, and MRS. CHEVELEY, Miss Florence West.

 

Oscar Wilde was arrested for "gross indecency" (homosexuality) during the run of the production. At the trial the actors involved in the production testified as witnesses against him. The production continued but credit for authorship was taken away from Wilde.[2]

 

An Ideal Husband was revived for a Broadway production featuring the Broadway debut of film stars Michael Denison and Dulcie Gray. Denison and Gray had earlier starred in a West End Theatre revival that had proved extremely popular for English audiences.[6]

 

Film, television and radio adaptations

 

1935 film

Main article: An Ideal Husband (1935 film)

 

A 1935 German film directed by Herbert Selpin and starring Brigitte Helm and Sybille Schmitz.

 

1947 film

 

Main article: An Ideal Husband (1947 film)

 

A lavish 1947 adaptation was produced by London Films and starred Paulette Goddard, Michael Wilding and Diana Wynyard

 

1998 film[edit]

 

Main article: An Ideal Husband (1998 film)

 

It was adapted for the screen in 1998. It starred James Wilby and Jonathan Firth

 

1999 film

 

Main article: An Ideal Husband (1999 film)

 

It was adapted once more for the screen in 1999. It starred Julianne Moore, Minnie Driver, Jeremy Northam, Cate Blanchett and Rupert Everett. The film adapts the play to some measure, the most significant departure being that the device of the diamond broach/bracelet is deleted, and instead Lord Goring defeats Mrs. Cheavley by making a wager with her: if Sir Robert capitulates and supports the scheme in his speech to the House of Commons, Goring will marry her, but if he sticks to his morals and denounces the scheme, she will give up the letter and leave England.

 

Television and radio

 

The BBC produced a version which was broadcast in 1969 as part of their Play of the Month series. It stars Jeremy Brett and Margaret Leighton and was directed by Rudolph Cartier. It is available on DVD as part of The Oscar Wilde Collection box-set.

 

BBC Radio 3 broadcast a full production in 2007 directed by David Timson and starring Alex Jennings, Emma Fielding, Jasper Britton, Janet McTeer and Geoffrey Palmer. This production was re-broadcast on Valentine's Day 2010.

 

L.A. Theatre Works produced an audio adaptation of the play starring Jacqueline Bisset, Rosalind Ayres, Martin Jarvis, Miriam Margolyes, Alfred Molina, Yeardley Smith and Robert Machray. It is available as a CD set, ISBN 1-58081-215-5.

 

Quotes

LORD GORING: Life is never fair, and perhaps it is a good thing for most of us that it is not.

  

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN: All sins except a sin against itself, love should forgive.

  

SIR ROBERT CHILTERN: It is not the perfect, but the imperfect, who have need of love. It is when we are wounded by our own hands, or by the hands of others, that love should come to cure us – else what use is love at all?

  

LORD GORING: Fashion is what one wears oneself. What is unfashionable is what other people wear. Other people are quite dreadful. The only possible society is oneself.

  

MRS. CHEVELEY: Morality is simply the attitude we adopt towards people whom we personally dislike.

  

PHIPPS: I will speak to the florist, my lord. She has had a loss in her family lately, which perhaps accounts for the lack of triviality your lordship complains of in the buttonhole.

 

LORD GORING: Extraordinary thing about the lower classes in England - they are always losing their relations.

PHIPPS: Yes, my lord! They are extremely fortunate in that respect.

 

****************************************************

This Bit comes from when the Americans were filming their version of the play “an Ideal Husband”

A couple of newspapers picked up on it at the time.

The film was shot on several sites, including an Italian waterfront.

At the end of the week it was their custom to have a “wrap” party celebrating the end of the week’s shoot.

The ball scene had been filmed that day and most of the cast attended the get-together still in costume. This included 3 of the minor actresses who had bonded during the filming.

After the revelry was dying out, these 3 decided to go it alone, leaving the stage room to hit several of the bars and a casino located on the riverfront. Making a decidedly poor decision, they opted to wear the elegant gowns and shimmering jewelry they had donned for the stylish ball act( much of which was later cut from thye movie, including their roles) .

Needless to say the young trio of pretty actresses garnered a considerable amount of male attention as they made their rounds. They left their last stop in the wee early hours of the morning only to discover they taxi they had paid to wait for them had vanished. A dapper young man with a foreign accent that made the girls swoon came upon the young ladies, and after they explained their predicament, offered some aid. He invited them to a back room off a nearby alley to wait while he brought his private car around, suggesting that it would be a place of refuge to stay warm from the cool ocean air( only one of the actresses had a wrap).

About ten minutes after he had left them a masked man burst in brandishing a wicked looking blade. He demanded their ”jools” and “perses” than after receiving their valuables, had them strip down to their silky undergarments. He then bundled the lot and ran off. They could hear tires screeching off in the night. The dapper male never returned, and it was hours before their pitiful cries of help were heard by a passing vagrant, who after making sure they had nothing more of value, disappeared, than must have had a change of heart, for he summoned a patrolman to help them.

Two of the ladies had been wearing prop gowns and rhinestones, but the third, a minor relative of the New York Cabot family, had been waering her own designer gown(worth 2000 pounds) and her family diamonds( worth 55000 pounds sterling) So it was generally regarded that the ladies were scammed by a couple of professionals who had been out on the prowl for such prey, knew where to find it, and how to acquire her valuables.

Then, two weeks later another young lady, again unescorted, had decided to do a tour of the same riverfront establishments. She did so after attending a relatives wedding reception. She had met a rather handsome man while out drinking, and the pair had set off for a second bar when a masked man mugged them of their valuables. Including a 30000 lira ring she had worn, and 10000 Lira of other jewellery. Her friend dropped her off at the bar and went for help, disappearing in the night. Her description of the pair matched the ones who had robbed the Actresses.

 

Courtesy of Chatwick University Archives

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All rights and copyrights observed by Chatwick University, Its contributors, associates and Agents

 

The purpose of these chronological photos and accompanying stories, articles is to educate, teach, instruct, and generally increase the awareness level of the general public as to the nature and intent of the underlying criminal elements that have historically plagued humankind.

 

No Part of this can reprinted, duplicated, or copied be without the express written permission and approval of Chatwick University.

 

These photos and stories are works of fiction. Any resemblance to people, living or deceased, is purely coincidental.

As with any work of fiction or fantasy the purpose is for entertainment and/or educational purposes only, and should never be attempted in real life.

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trying 2make

sense of.her

choices

..heads/tails?

www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZDQ-WxU73Os

  

©MadDreamer 2👽23/ All rights reserved. Do not use without written permission from photographer.... damn it.

LBC: Is this cannabis-growing mother the biggest hypocrite out there? t.co/1BHaSr7JbD t.co/x9DBJFj5RP (via Twitter twitter.com/Luandrew169/status/768066724784668672)

Ornate door knocker of Needful Things, an antique furniture and art business, in St James’s Street, Kemp Town, Brighton, East Sussex.

 

Needful Things is the name of Stephen King novel and film.

 

The kitsch shop is like a splendid part of the Addams Family mansion plonked down onto the street.

 

The local council claim that the shop does not have planning permission for the style of front door, (and would not gain it, even if applied for).

 

There appears to be a hypocritical element in the local council's attitude. In the same street an unlicensed Starbucks has been the focus of protesters as it has been operating for some time despite not having the appropriate planning permission.

Media:

* "Stephen Miller Is an Immigration Hypocrite. I Know Because I’m His Uncle," by David S. Glosser, Politico Magazine, August 13, 2018

* Stephen Miller's uncle: Family were refugees," CNN, August 14, 2018

* "Trump Administration Angel of Darkness Stephen Miller Allegedly Wanted to Bomb Migrant Boats: Report," by Bess Levin, Vanity Fair, June 27, 2023

 

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Hypocrites

 

"You...hate wickedness..." Psalm 45:7

 

“Be angry, and do not sin...” (Eph.4:26) There can hardly be goodness in a man if he be not angry at sin; he who loves truth must hate every false way. How our Lord Jesus hated it when the temptation came! Thrice it assailed him in different forms, but ever he met it with, “Away with you, Satan!...(Mat.4:10)” He hated it in others; none the less fervently because he showed his hate oftener in tears of pity than in words of rebuke; yet what language could be more stern, more Elijah-like, than the words, “Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! for you devour widows’ houses, and for a pretence make long prayers...(Mat.23:14).” He hated wickedness, so much that he bled to wound it to the heart; he died that it might die; he was buried that he might bury it in his tomb; and he rose that he might forever trample it beneath his feet. Christ is in the Gospel, and that Gospel is opposed to wickedness in every shape. Wickedness arrays itself in fair garments, and imitates the language of holiness; but the precepts of Jesus, like his famous scourge of small cords (Jhn.2:15), chase it out of the temple, and will not tolerate it in the Church. So, too, in the heart where Jesus reigns, what war there is between Christ and Belial! And when our Redeemer shall come to be our Judge, those thundering words, “Depart from me, you cursed (Mat.25:41)” which are, indeed, but a prolongation of his life-teaching concerning sin, shall manifest his abhorrence of iniquity. As warm as is his love to sinners, so hot is his hatred of sin; as perfect as is his righteousness, so complete shall be the destruction of every form of wickedness. O you glorious champion of right, and destroyer of wrong, for this cause has God, even your God, anointed you with the oil of gladness above your fellows. (Heb.1:9) Hallelujah, God bless

_____

As PMQs drew near today, Parliament Square was in almost as shambolic a state as Liz Truss's Government as she was struck in traffic, Insulate Britain having glued themselves to the road outside Parliament ensuring all the traffic was gridlocked as were the pavements. All pedestrians were being held back and nobody was allowed on the Parliament Pavement.

 

Still Daniel Hannan, now known as The Lord Hannan of Kingsclere, one of the architects of Brexit ennobled for having destroyed his country with promises of non-existent sunlit uplands, clearly thought he was beyond the realm of the little people, stepping out, despite having been asked to wait by the police officer. He then shimmied past one officer, flashing his House of Lords Pass to prove 'e was not one of the 'oi polloi but was delightfully returned to the prole soup from which he had emerged, politely but firmly by the police officers. We're all in this Trussterfuck together thanks to people like him.

Tre foto a Spoleto sotto il sole di gennaio:

Ombre_la città si muove o sta ferma.

Memoria corta_la città è polemica.

Liberamente_la libertà dell'arte.

 

Three photos of Spoleto under the January sun:

Shadows_the city moves or stands still.

Remembrance Day "short and hypocritical"

Liberamente_the freedom of art.

Will it be so again

that the brave, the gifted are lost from view,

and empty, scheming men

are left in peace their lunatic age to renew?

Will it be so again?

 

Must it be always so

that the best are chosen to fall and sleep

like seeds, and we too slow

in claiming the earth they quicken, and the old usurpers reap

what they could not sow?

 

Will it be so again -

the jungle code and the hypocrite gesture?

A poppy wreath for the slain

and a cut-throat world for the living? That stale imposture

played on us once again

 

Will it be as before -

peace, with no heart or mind to ensue it,

guttering down to war

like a libertine to his grave? We should not be surprised:

we knew it

happen before.

 

Shall it be so again?

Call not upon the glorious dead

to be your witness then.

The living alone can nail their promise to the ones who said

it shall not be so again.

Please keep our badgers in mind, these are the creatures we're fighting for: inquisitive, intelligent, charismatic, playful, feisty and downright beautiful ! The killing continues but we mustn't pretend it's not happening, this weekend is thought to be the biggest one for the butchers, it's thought they'll be out in force slaughtering these magical animals. I appreciate most people can't spend all night out on badger patrol in the week particularly but maybe weekends are easier for anyone living nearby, here's some contact details if you want to get involved :

www.facebook.com/stop.the.cull

 

You've probably been hearing all sorts of horror stories about those on badger patrol being harrassed and persecuted by the police, the killers ( and their bouncers ), the NFU and everyone involved. Reports of people being shot at is hardly surprsising, anyone capable of slaughtering badgers is clearly capable of hurting a person, these dangerous criminals should be put on a register. The people out on badger patrol though are heroes in my eyes, brave souls who fight for what is right no matter the hassle, the cull is failing in every way !!!

 

And yes I know I'm a hypocrite for not getting to the cull zones myself but that's because I'm a neurotic wreck, apologies for not being a great flickrer lately, this is just a total nightmare and it's hard to stay positive. The last badger to come in the video by the way I think is the boar and he certainly wasn't gentle with the cubs, they're built to take that though, he has no way of knowing if the cubs are his or not.

 

PS It's not speeded up by the way !

 

PPS just saw this inspiring story about a woman who flew all the way from the US to help on badger patrol, as the kind comments I get from people from the US and Canada prove there really is global outrage at this :

www.thisisgloucestershire.co.uk/American-mother-arrested-...

I think in Simon's list of 50 best Suffolk churches, Woolpit comes in at number 31. It is now that I remember that I cannot remember why I should go to Woolpit on what would be the last of the EA church visits this year, as Mum was home and in the care of the district nurse, and there was nothing else we could do, not in actions, money or time given. She really has to stand on her own two feet now.

 

Anyway; Woolpit.

 

I decided to go, and after looking on the map I saw that with some create route planning, I could go down the 143, then double back and join the A14 eastwards before turning south down our old friend, the A12.

 

On the way I did also visit Stowlangtoft, which was a wonderful church, a church filled with wonderful things that seemed to hang together as a whole. Woolpit would have to be something special to trup St George.

 

And it nearly did. Nearly. Woolpit is a picture perfect village, all timber framed buildings, narrow lanes and impossible to park in. I drove through it finding a kind of space just past the church. I could see from the tower and building it was a church on which the Victorians had been very busy.

 

Most glorious is Mary's roof; double hammerbeam adorned with 208 angels one of the wardens told me. It had been counted several times during a dull sermon. Or two.

 

The wardens were building the crib for Christmas, so were using a pallet as a base, or something like that. I didn't see it finished, but Ken Bruce was booming out from a radio, preaching the Gospel According to Popmaster to all who would listen.

 

The angels in the roof and on the walls of the church are indeed impressive, as is the rood screen, but not sure if they are original. There are carved pew ends aplenty, but to my eye, not as well carved or as old as at Stowlangtoft. I could be wrong. But I snap a few anyway.

 

But I received a warm welcome here, and it is a fantastic church for me.

 

-----------------------------------------

 

2008: Woolpit is a village which I often visit, and it is always a pleasure to go into the church. But the entry for St Mary was one of the last on the original Suffolk Churches site, making its appearance in late 2001. In fact, I think it was the last of the old-style entries. I was getting a bit wordy by then.

Woolpit was one of the longest entries, and this wasn't just because there is so much to see. I went off at a great tangent about the meaning of medieval iconography, and how it survived the Reformation. It certainly got some thoughts clear in my own head, even if it confused other people. I actually wrote the entry in the back of an old exercise book sitting outside a café on the Cote d'Azur in southern France. Reading that back, it seems a little pretentious, but I really was there. Here in Ipswich on a frosty February evening, I can't help remembering the heat as I scrawled in the pad.

 

I've left the original entry almost entirely as it was, apart from the removal of one absolute howler, which I won't mention. I am not sure if Woolpit still has a Sunday market, and I am sure that someone will tell me if it has not. Paul Hocking is no longer Rector of Woolpit, but to my eyes the church continues to go from strength to strength, feeling at once busy and at the heart of its community, the still centre of a busy village. I like it very much.

 

2001: The clear blue waters of the Mediterranean swirl around my legs, then past me, buffeting the rocks along the silver beach. Millions of tiny flecks of mica swarm through the current, washed out of the hills of Southern Provence. They shine for a fraction of a second with all the light the high summer sun can give, a universe caught in a moment; then turn, disappearing, making of the water a shimmering skein, an ancient memory.

 

The sea is at the start of all European civilisation. Here, history wells about me. I think of Europe, and the fragmentation of nations. I think of the Balkans, and the Reformation, and the same water surrounding, tending, isolating. I think of time passing.

 

A week before, I'd been standing in the cool nave of the church of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin, Woolpit - or at least, that is what it probably was once, back then. Today, it is dedicated simply as 'St Mary', in common with the majority of Suffolk's medieval churches, among which it is one of the finest, some say. This is mostly by virtue of its beautiful porch, and extraordinary angel roof.

 

But is that true? For there are those who love this church that, perhaps, never look up at the porch or roof. Is it the plethora of 15th century bench ends that captures the imagination? Or could it be Richard Phipson's outrageous 1850s tower and lacy spire, straight out of the Nene Valley, its evangelistic slogans around the side in a Victorian equivalent of Piccadilly Circus neon? It ought not to work, and yet it does. Or is it that supremely articulate view to the east, perfect of proportion despite the stripping away of its medieval liturgical apparatus? Above all else, and above most others, this is a church with presence.

 

It was the bench ends that I was thinking of as I immersed myself out of the intensity of the Provencal sun. A number of questions occured to me, as they have done on other occasions, in other churches. Who made them? What did they mean by them? And how did they survive the iconoclasms of the Protestant Reformation? Here in Southern Europe, I thought I might have found some answers.

 

Woolpit, then. It is perhaps the most perfect of all Suffolk villages. Not sleepy, and chocolate boxy, but to actually live in. Its shops and pubs are arranged around the pleasant village square, and Phipson's crazy spire towers above them. Woolpit still has its school, and you wouldn't need to get in the car every time you needed a loaf of bread, as you'd have to do in some of Suffolk's more famously picturesque villages, like Kersey and Tuddenham. And Woolpit has its Sunday market, beloved of hundreds of non-sabbatarian junk-hunters each week.

 

Further, Woolpit has its mythology; the two green children, who climbed out of the ground, speaking a strange language and afraid of the sunlight. The boy died soon after, but the girl grew up and married; she learned to speak English, and told of St Martin's Land, from where she and her brother had emerged. There are holes in the ground around Woolpit, quarries where bricks were made in the 19th century. But perhaps there was once something much older, for every Suffolk schoolchild knows that the name 'Woolpit' is nothing to do with wool, but with the wolves that once lived in the pits here...

 

So, it is a well-known village. It is because of this as much as anything about St Mary itself that makes this church so well-known to people who haven't heard of the even more interesting and beautiful church of St Ethelbert, Hessett, barely three miles away.

 

Your first sight of St Mary will be Phipson's crazy spire, visible from miles away, and quite unlike anything else in East Anglia. Suffolk is a county where spires are rare enough, anyway. From the far side of the Gipping valley you can see this one and two others, piercing the soft harvest mist in autumn. They are Phipson's equally absurd Great Finborough, and the 1990s blade of St Peter and St Mary, Stowmarket. There are only about a dozen more in the whole of the county. The excuse for this one was that the tower was struck by lightning in 1852, bringing down the previous lead and timber affair (presumably like the one at Hadleigh). The font is contemporary with the tower, suggesting that the old one was destroyed by the fall.

 

In the 1950s and 1960s, the artist John Piper produced a series of screen prints of aspects of Suffolk churches; for most, he used the fine perpendicular tower, ramifying it in bold Festival of Britain primary colours. But for Woolpit, he chose the porch, because it is Suffolk's finest. Cautley thought it the best in all England. It is two-storey, 15th century, contemporary with the nave. Mortlock tells us that they were both built by wealthy Bury Abbey, who owned the living here. As at Beccles, it rises way above the south aisle, tower-like in itself.

 

A rood group of niches surmounts the shields of East Anglia above the door. More flank them. Mortlock says that the work began in the early 1430s, and the niches were filled by a bequest of 1473, suggesting that the porch was forty years in the making. The south aisle and chancel are slightly earlier, the north aisle slightly later, so it is the nave that promises us great things, and doesn't disappoint.

 

You step into cool darkness, and look up. It is breathtaking. This is Suffolk's most perfectly restored angel hammerbeam roof. It may not have the drama of Mildenhall, the exquisiteness of Blythburgh, the sheer mathematics of Needham Market, but it shows us in detail more than any other what the medieval imagination was aiming at. From the still, small silence of the church floor below, you look up into a great shout of praise. Here are hundreds of figures, both angelic and human. The profusion is ordered, as if some mighty hymn were in progress.

 

Paul Hocking thinks that it is a representation of the Te Deum Laudamus: We praise thee, O God, we acknowledge thee to be the Lord... To thee all Angels cry aloud, the Heavens, and all the Powers therein. To thee Cherubim and Seraphim continually do cry Holy Holy Holy Lord God of Sabaoth... The glorious company of the Apostles praise thee, the goodly fellowship of the Prophets praise thee, the noble army of Martyrs praise thee...

 

I know this, because he told me so. I was busy photographing bench ends when this very enthusiastic American bounced in with another visitor, and gave him a whistlestop tour of the church, describing the details with great knowledge and understanding. Solicitously, he talked to me afterwards about what I was doing, and asked me if I'd met the Rector of Woolpit yet. I said that I went out of my way to avoid Rectors wherever possible. He laughed, and replied that, on this occasion, I'd failed, because he was, in fact, the Rector.

 

After I'd coughed miserably, and he'd laughed again, we had a long chat, uncovering a few mutual aquaintances. He described the roof, which he has obviously spent a lot of time exploring. He pointed out the way the wall posts contained Saints, some with apostolic symbols, some with books, and some with martyr's palms. There are angels on the hammerbeams above, and bearing symbols below. John Blatchly counted 128 angels alone. Some of the shields have letters on them. Are they an acrostic, as on the east chancel wall at Blythburgh? Do they indicate individual Saints? The great Henry Ringham completely restored this roof in 1862, but Mortlock thinks that one of the angels is not his, and I agree - you'll find it in the south west corner. Paul Hocking argues that the restoration was nowhere near as complete as has been made out, and that many features are original.

 

Henry Ringham also restored the range of bench ends, by duplicating some of the medieval ones, as he did at Great Bealings and Tuddenham St Martin. All are rendered with his customary skill. If Ringham did restore this roof, then the imagery must have been destroyed at some point. One instinctively thinks of William Dowsing, the Puritan inspector of the churches of Cambridgeshire and Suffolk, who progressed across the counties during the course of 1644. His delight in the destruction of angel roofs was matched only by that at the destruction of stained glass.

 

And Dowsing did visit this church. He arrived here in the afternoon of February 29th 1644. It was a Thursday, and he had come here across country from Helmingham, where he had found much to do. He also planned to visit Beyton that day, but in the end stayed overnight at the Bull hotel, and inspected All Saints there in the morning. He then rested for the weekend - the following week, he had a busy tour of southern Cambridgeshire ahead of him.

 

Dowsing records in great detail what he found to do at each church. In the case of Woolpit, the angel roof is the Dog That Didn't Bark: My Deputy. 80 superstitious pictures; some he brake down, and the rest he gave order to take down; and three crosses to be taken down in 20 days. 8s 6d. There are only two possible reasons why Dowsing doesn't mention the roof. Either he didn't notice it (extremely unlikely) or it had already been destroyed. This second option seems certain; mid-Suffolk was a strongly protestant area, and nearby Rougham, which clearly had a similar roof, was not visited by Dowsing, but was vandalised even more comprehensively than Woolpit. Most likely, the destruction at both churches dated from a hundred years earlier, although it is possible that the Rougham and Woolpit congregations had been puritan enough in the 1630s to do it to their own churches themselves.

 

Beneath the roof, the church is broad, its two aisles giving room for the panoply of medieval liturgical processions. At the east end of the south aisle was once the shrine of Our Lady of Woolpit, a site of medieval pilgrimage in connection with a nearby holy well. Apart from the front rows, many of the benches appear to be in their original positions. Some of the bench ends are 15th century, others are Ringham's 19th century copies. I wandered around the medieval bench ends, running my hands over them, crouching down and engaging them, face to face. For anyone educated in a Marxist or Weberian historical tradition, as most of my generation were, interpreting the less-obviously liturgical or theological features of a medieval church is fraught with difficulties. One possibility is to do a Cautley, and try not to interpret them at all. But it is more fun to try to do so, don't you think?

 

The bench ends of Woolpit are remarkable for their abundance. They are not representations of sacraments, virtues and vices as at Tannington and elsewhere, or Saints as at Ufford and Athelington. They are almost all non-allegorical animals, although not the art objects we find at Stowlangtoft, or the mysterious beasts of Lakenheath. Perhaps a good comparison is the similar body of work at nearby Combs. Indeed, although they do not appear to be from the same workshop, it is likely that their creators knew of each others' work. There are dogs, with geese hanging from their mouths, and another which may be a cat with a rat or lizard. There are lions and bears, and a chained monkey, and birds in profusion. So who did them, and why are they here?

 

There is one school of thought that says that they are simply there to beautify the church, and that they were made by local craftsmen doing what they were best at. If they could do lions, they did lions. If they could render a decent rabbit, then that is what they did. And so on.

 

But I think that there is rather more to it than that. On my journey down through France, I had spent an afternoon in one of my favourite towns, Autun, in Burgundy. One of the reasons I like Autun is its 11th century Cathedral of St-Lazaire; this is Lazurus, raised by Christ from the dead, and until the 18th century his relics were venerated at a shrine here. St-Lazaire is most famous for its great tympanum above the west door, generally recognised as one of the greatest Romanesque art treasures in the world, and with International Heritage status. It was created during the middle years of the 12th century, and shows the Last Judgement. To emphasise Christ's majesty over all the world, it features all manner of beasts, domestic, wild and mythical.

 

Throughout the Cathedral, animals infest the famous capitals, which tell the Gospel story. Abbe Denis Grivot, in his Un Bestiaire de la Cathedrale D'Autun (Lyon, 1973) argues that the 12th century creators of all this filled it with animals to echo the final verse of the 150th Psalm, the crowning point of that great sequence of hymns of praise: Let everything that hath breath praise the Lord!

 

Standing in the nave at Autun, I instantly recalled Paul Hocking's words about the roof at Woolpit, when he said he thought it was a representation of the Te Deum Laudamus. The Te Deum is one of the canticles; another is the Benedicite, traditionally sung through Lent: Oh all ye Works of the Lord, bless ye the Lord; praise him and magnify him for ever... O ye whales, and all that move in the Waters, bless ye the Lord... O all ye Fowls of the air, bless ye the Lord... O all ye beasts and Cattle, bless ye the Lord: praise him, and magnify him for ever!

 

Could it be that the bench ends at Woolpit, and elsewhere in Suffolk, were intended to reflect and represent the praise defined in the canticles and psalms? Both would have been central to the liturgy of the medieval Catholic church. Perhaps the bench ends of Woolpit are liturgical and theological after all.

 

How would a carpenter, or group of carpenters, go about creating a set of benches like the ones at Woolpit? Who were they? Almost certainly, they were locals. They might have been itinerant jobbing carpenters, but I don't think so. The bench ends at adjacent Tostock are clearly by the same hand. But those at nearby Stowlangtoft and Norton are not, and a third hand seems to be responsible for those at Combs, as I previously mentioned. I do not think that the mutilated ones at Rougham and Elmswell are either; they were probably from the same workshop as each other.

 

So, we have a conscious attempt by skilled members of a community to create a hymn of praise in carved oak, by representing as many beasts as they felt capable of making. Where did they get their ideas from? They would have had no problems with oxen, cocks, conies - these were all around them, in their daily lives. The person who carved the hunting dog here was very familiar with it. Perhaps it was his own. What about monkeys and lions? These are more problematic. In medieval bestiaries, exotic creatures had fabulous legends attached to them, which gave them a theological symbolism.

 

But this symbolism doesn't usually seem intended when we see them on bench ends. Sometimes they are rendered accurately, but more often wild animals are fairly imaginary; I think particularly of Barningham's camel, and Hadleigh's wolf. It isn't enough to say that the carvers could have seen pictures of exotic beasts. This is fairly unlikely. Probably, the ordinary people of Woolpit never saw a book other than the missals, lectionaries and hagiographies used in church.

 

They might have seen pictures of lions and monkeys in wall paintings, either in other churches or here at Woolpit. They might have seen them carved in bench ends, for the same reason. In fact, the representation of wild animals varies so much as to suggest that this is not the case - compare, for example, the lions of Combs with those of Stowlangtoft. Probably, they were created in the imagination from descriptions and attributes in stories. But I think that there is a strong possibility that the woodcarvers of Woolpit did see lions and monkeys in real life.

 

Here in Catholic Southern Europe, there are many remote small towns which, by virtue of being so very far from each other, take on a rich and complex life of their own. Even small villages have their shops, their craftsmen, their tradespeople; they replicate a situation that existed in Suffolk until well into the 19th century, and in some cases beyond, before the great industrialisation and easy transport swept it away. Further, there are traditions here still that we have lost. Whenever I come here, I am fascinated by the itinerant entertainers, who move from village to village, giving a single performance befre moving on. This must also once have been true of England. The thing that fascinates me most is the multitude of small family circuses.

 

Many of them seem to be of Italian or Romany origin; all family members have multiple roles, from the oldest grandparent to the youngest child, selling tickets, doing acrobatics, being the straight men to the clown (who is typically Grandpa). They all put up the tent before the performance, and take it down afterwards. They move on, through the remote hills of Provence and the Languedoc, performing on village greens, wastegrounds, the corners of fields, even traffic islands.

 

As I say, I am fascinated, and can rarely resist them, even though I am shocked, even appalled, by the easy cruelty to animals. Performing animals are still often chosen for their curiosity value, if you can call running around in a circle to the crack of a whip 'performing', poor things.

 

The choices are strange indeed; camels and zebras often feature; I have seen an old bear on a chain, and at one circus in remote Languedoc a hippopotamus of all things - it caught bread thrown by the crowd. There was no safety fence between the seats and the ring, no Health and Safety Executive to penetrate these lost valleys. I do not know if such circuses existed in medieval Suffolk. But I think that they probably did. Suffolk is a maritime county, and exotic animals were widely known and exhibited in medieval Europe. Before the Protestant Reformation cut us of from the mainland, clerics and merchants thought of themselves as European, and travelled widely - English sovereignty was a hazy concept at best, and 'Britishness' was still centuries away from being formulated as an idea. People owed allegiance to their village, their parish, and their lord, not to the Crown and Parliament in London.

 

Were the woodcarvers of Woolpit and Tostock remembering this? A circus visit, perhaps back in their childhood? Exotic animals rendered inaccurately, to be sure, but with an enthusiastic nostalgia for that exciting moment in their lives? Was there a lion? A monkey, or a bear? How much more powerful if they also knew the fabulous legends about the beasts - and had seen them in real life!

 

Some of the carvings at Woolpit are allegorical. One shows a monkey dressed in monk's robes. This, I think, is a joke at the expense of the itinerant friars who went from parish to parish, preaching repentance in the streets. They were sanctioned by the Pope, but were beyond the jurisdiction of the local Bishop. They didn't always go down well with the local Priest and congregation, who considered the Friars nosey and hypocritical. A monkey is often a symbol of foolish vanity - hence, a Friar thinking he was better than anyone else. What better way to make the point than to slip him in as one of the creatures praising the Lord?

 

How did they survive? But why should they have been destroyed? We make the mistake of thinking of the Puritans as vandals. But the more you read about William Dowsing, the more he emerges as being a principled, conservative kind of chap, despite his clearly flawed and fundamentalist theological opinions. He had no reason to destroy animal bench ends. They weren't superstitious - even Dowsing didn't think Catholics worshipped animals. If he didn't think they were meant to represent the canticles, he wouldn't even have considered them religious. Amen to that.

 

So much for the 17th century. What about the 19th? St Mary is one of the most enthusiastically restored of Suffolk's churches, despite its survivng medieval detail. But it was done well. Mortlock thought that the 19th century pulpit was the work of Ringham - but the brass lectern is pre-Reformation, a fine example. The rood screen dado panels have sentimental 19th century Saints on them, that may or may not duplicate what was there before. They are actually very good, particularly the gorgeous Mary of Magdala. They have their names painted on the cross beams for the less hagiologically articulate Victorians - from left to right across the aisle they are Saints Barbara, Felix, Mary of Magdala, Peter, Paul, Mary, Edmund and Etheldreda. It is unlikely that Saint Felix would have been on a medieval roodscreen, and Mary almost certainly wasn't - it would have relegated her to a position of no more importance than the others. If it reflects anything of what was there before, it was probably St Anne with the infant Virgin.

 

The top part of the screen was renewed in 1750, and dated so. The gates are probably a Laudian imposition of 120 years earlier, as at Kedington. This may suggest that, by the time of Dowsing's visit, the chancel was being used for some other practical purpose. Above, high above, set in the east nave wall over the chancel arch, is one of the wierdest objects I've seen in a medieval church. It was installed in the 1870s, and is clearly meant to echo the coving of a rood loft. Goodness knows what it actually is, but it is painted in garish colours, and inscribed with texts. In one of those moments where Cautley and credibility part company, he describes anyone who doesn't think it is a genuine medieval canopy of honour as 'stupid'. I suppose that it has a certain curiosity value.

 

The three-light window above it would have given light to the rood. The east window contains one of Suffolk's best modern Madonna and child images which was made by the artist Ian Keen for the King workshop in the early 1960s. Ian Keen was also responsible for the beautiful St Margaret in St Margaret's church in Norwich, and for the memorable window of St Francis with a labrador at Somerleyton near Lowestoft.

 

I turned back westwards, past a superb medieval bench end of the three Marys. This is a delight, and you'd travel to London to see it if it was in the V&A. Mary the mother of Jesus, Mary the mother of James and Mary of Magdala huddle together, perhaps on the morning of the Resurrection. One of them has a lily of the Annunciation. One head is destroyed - but was it vandalised? Or is it the result of carelessness, the wear and tear of the centuries? Would 17th century puritans have destroyed it if they'd seen it?

 

Dowsing rarely mentions bench ends, so perhaps few were left by then anyway. So how could it possibly have survived the violent zeal of the 16th century Protestants, battering the Church of England into existence with their axes, pikes and bonfires? How, even after the 1540 edict of Edward VI which ordered the destruction of all statues and images of Saints, especially those of the Blessed Virgin Mary, is it still there at all?

Still more questions than answers, I suppose. I dived beneath the water, and there was beneath me a restless current, shifting and reshifting the silver sand into unique patterns, the work of millennia, still changing, never the same.

 

- le Rayol Canadel, Cote d'Azur, August 2001.

 

www.suffolkchurches.co.uk/woolpit.htm

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The revenge upon her would be sweet, even though it was purely theoretical.

She was the very epitome of every stuck up girl who ever passed judgment on those she refused to view as an equal. And I? I possessed the subtle skill to knock her smirking ego down a few pegs.

  

**********************************************************************

  

In late spring of the year 1952, a, bank rented safety deposit lockbox, dusty from many years gone by, was opened. The box had laid unclaimed, the banks records having been destroyed during the Nazi blitzes of World War Two. When its existence became known, an attempt was made to contact the owner, whose family surname was well known in the county. The name turned out to be an alias, no such person ever existed.

 

Please read the account below to learn more about the person who was believed to have rented the strongbox, as well as what he had placed inside……….

 

**********

  

Case Study 84 :

 

Warning, these are the raw, bare unusual facts as originally recorded. Some names, times, places and some facts have been altered for obvious reasons.

Exerted from the private letters of Mr. Harley Q. circa early 1900’s.

 

Name: Harly Q. circa 19 …

 

Subject: Seemingly a rather dexterous scoundrel

 

Place: A large coastal metropolis

 

Time: A period of time in late autumn

  

**************

 

Harly’s story as related:

  

The following affair occurred during my younger days when my youth and its’ raw passions were still a strong pull on my reactions! Now, how do I start?

  

The Blonde dancing in front of me was was dressed up like a movie star on a red carpet. Only about nineteen, her slinky gown created the impression of having been poured along her curvy, voluptuous figure, like shimmering liquid satin, fluidly swishing as she swirled about the massive chamber! It all made her appear far older and mature than she obviously thought she was. For some, her looks and personality may have been seen as charming and fun. “But for me personally, the only thing charming about her was the way her abundant sparkling jewellery played with the lights from the large chandeliers which held my upmost command!

  

But wait, I may be placing the carriage before the steed…….

 

Allow me to restart:

  

I had taken a long train into town with the intention of spending a few days relaxing from my previous month of hectic “professional” affairs. Rewarding myself, I located my lodging in a fancy upscale hotel situated across the street from a cavernous Ballroom, checking in for a fortnight. Since my social calendar was unusually light, with only the one high society event, a wedding that I was planning to attend the following Sabbath, at a “chapel” located in one of the cities sprawling suburbs. I spent the first day perusing the cultural calendar of the local papers, and ended up circling one or two events of interest that would be taking place later that month. I than took care of my remaining personal business, locating a reputable bank and renting out one of their lockboxes, before allowing myself some time off from my endeavors.

  

I than spent the first portion of my week taking in moving picture shows, visiting stores and hanging out at the local museums and antique shoppes. It felt great not worrying about work, although I will did admit that my mind scoped out a few prospects as I was out and about, walking amongst the great masses..

  

It was mid-week during my stay, while making my way back to the hotel suite, that I decided on a whim to pop into the Ballroom to see what it was all about. I walked into the massive lobby full of activity and wandered about, looking into the massive main ballroom, meeting rooms and various party rooms. As I was leaving I discovered a wall containing posters for all the upcoming events. One poster caught my eye. It advertised the occurrence of a Halloween Ball to take place that very weekend, Tickets still available. The Ball seemed to be the very type of party I was partial to, combining all of my favorite types of affairs, a large gathering frequented by the rich, and everyone attending would be in costume.

  

Purchasing a pair of tickets (less questions asked) I went out the very next morning scouting various shops in search of my own costume. I finally settled on a highwayman’s attire. It seemed appropriate, and the ribbon style “ masque” over my eyes set off the vacation beard that had been growing quite nicely since my last outing. On my way out to pay for the costume I spied a half off bin. On top of the pile was a phantom of the opera mask. On impulse I added it to my bundle and went to the checkout.

  

Although I really didn’t have the feeling that this concern would lead to anything, I mean, who wears good jewellery with a costume ? But a little bored by the inactivity, I was none the less growing excited about the venture. I still decided to play it cautious by setting up my usual safe guards, just in case.

  

A few blocks away from the Ballroom and my hotel suite I found a small chain style motel. Going to the desk I purchased rent for a room for the night, paying in advance. Going into the small room I laid down my purchases and headed back out to the street via a back stairwell, bypassing the registrars chambers. I headed back to my hotel suite to prepare for the evening.

  

After showering, I changed into a suit, shirt and tie. I then headed out onto the street a couple of hours before the ball was set to begin. Regaining my small quarters in the chain motel I changed into my new persona for the evening’s festivities and left via the same back door I had used earlier. I walked back to the Ballroom, getting my share of looks until I reached my destination, where I blended right in with the other arriving costumed guests.

  

I followed the stream to the ballroom proper. The main doors leading inside were large, made of a fancy scrolled oak, held open, and guarded by a pair of burly security types.

Apparently which, I soon gathered, was appearing to be the only security present for the evening’s festivities. Capital, I thought, smirking to myself as I joined my fellow guests.

  

I walk onto a landing, immediately in front of a long bannister guarding a set of wide stairs ascended downwards. I went off to one side, and paused at the railing, starting to survey with eager anticipation, the crowded room below.

  

All was quite glittering, as large chandeliers set off a spectrum of colors with any crystal or glass it touched. It especially created shimmers as it played off the colorful jewelry the lavishly costumed ladies present were wearing. Several dozen couples were dancing in front of a 17 piece orchestra, a slow dance, and many were dancing almost too close. Many more people were mingling around tables of appetizers. A large, chattering crowd was also gathered at the long oak bar that took up one whole side of the huge room. It was to the bar that I headed, to observe the merry proceedings.

  

But the Ball, as it turned out, was a bust, so to speak. Although several attempts were made to ask a number of charming (to me) ladies to add me to their dance cards, they all were, unfortunately, full. I should have suspected it would turn out this way, but I still harbored an all too familiar nagging feeling in the back of my head that something was still going to happen, call it intuition if you need to label it. So I nursed my drink, reminiscing about how I had reached this point in my then still young life…..

  

Ralph Waldo Emerson, one of my favorite poets, once said” Do not go where the path may lead, go instead where there is no path and leave a trail.”

Long before the the time I discovered this quote I found that my life’s path had already been heading that way.

  

Without boring anyone with far too many details of my rather complicated youth, I discovered while quite young that I had a certain knack for adeptness at being able to nimbly pick pockets. When I was eighteen ( having graduated high school at seventeen) and out on my own in the world, I found this skill quite useful. But it was at a wedding reception in my early twenties where I became of age, so to speak.

  

She was older than me, resplendent in a sleek black satin gown with bright white frills, long white satin gloves upon which graced a pair of diamond bracelets. She was very tipsy and would not take no for an answer when asking for a dance partner. She cornered me and before I could catch my wits, we were in a close embrace on the dance floor. I was totally mesmerized by the feel of her warm figure emitting through the sensuous satin gown. My eyes feasted upon the dazzling show put on by her flashy twin bracelets. When the exquisitely long dance ended and she moved on: I was left with a lot of pleasantly mixed feelings, I was also left with my first trophy, the Lady’s appealing necklace of pearl that I had ever so delicately sipped off her throat, using the sleekness of her satin gown to its fullest advantage.

  

I found myself enthralled with my new “hobby”, and over the course of the next couple of years sought out fancy dress affairs to better learn how to master the art of attracting and dancing with any lady I chose. Along the way I managed to accumulate quite a few trophies for my efforts. I stayed under everyone’s radar by picking out only those females who had been enthusiastically imbibing and by allowing myself to acquire only one trophy per gathering, two if the function was large enough.

  

During this period I made two discoveries: One was that most women would rather assume their jewel had been merely lost long before ever considering that they had been robbed of it. The second was that most of my collection of pretty trophies carried an equally pretty price, and could quite acceptably be turned into ready cash.

  

So, by the tender age of twenty two, my life started to lead where there had ever been but few tracks. And thus we finally come to this particular branch of my rather unique, lengthily crooked trail….

  

So, there I was, on a bar stool, alone and growing more bored by the minute, wishing something interesting would happen. I can remember thinking, as I looked over my fellow partiers about a saying that I had always found to be amusingly true. “If you want to know what God thinks of money, just look at the people he gave it to.” I don’t know who first said it, but brother, the person was right on the money. As I had witnessed for myself time and time again. So I just settled in and watched the amusing antics of the wealthy among the crowd, especially those of …“the girl!’

The girl was a stunning young blonde who was probably just fresh out of high school, with the maturity level of a grade schooler!

  

I kept catching my eye on her all evening, and once or twice, was sure she caught mine looking. But I was not watching her for the reasons she would think were mine. To her I was just some male face in the crowd, exhibiting his lust. But, the reason my eyes kept traveling upon her was for an entirely different one. I just found nothing to be more annoying than a sulky, immature young whelp who believes she is the apple of everyone’s eye, making an absolute nuisance of herself. She was running around, making silly remarks about people, sometimes to their face. Hanging out with her group of friends whom seemed to be of the same mold as my blonde, one girlfriend was even dressed appropriately enough, as a willowy witch.

  

The Blonde was dressed up like a movie star on a red carpet. Only about nineteen, her slinky gown created the impression of having been poured along her curvy voluptuous figure, like shimmering liquid satin, fluidly swishing as she bounced about the massive chamber, slipping in and out amongst the guests! It all made her appear far older and mature than she obviously thought she was. For some, her looks and personality may have been seen as charming and fun. “But for me personally, the only thing charming about her was the way her abundant sparkling jewellery played with the lights from the large chandeliers which held my command! But I had decided, as far as I could tell, that she was wearing nothing but cheap rhinestones, which like her, appeared totally fake. But, as they say, appearances can sometimes be deceiving!

   

This girl was the epitome of every condescending stuck up high society girl that probably everyone has had the misfortune to be the victim of. The girl, who mainly because of her looks, was popular with everyone like her, and had no use for those who, forever what reason they deemed, was ostracized by those of her type. In high school I knew girls like this one, and was a witness, sometime victim, to many a scene of arrogance displayed by girls like her. This one was young, too young to be acting the way she was. Her mannerisms were just a beacon, reaching out out to be taught a lesson.

  

Wallowing in my boredom, a spark began to kindle into flame deep within my brain. Determined not to let the evening be a total loss, I decided act upon it. My plan being to theoretically get revenge on all those smirking girls who tormented me during high school, by knocking this cocky little scamp down a few pegs, using the best of my abilities..

  

Now, I’m not one normally to act as judge, jury, and executioner in most situations, in my selected line of work it would be hypocritical. But obviously old wounds’ had been opened, this long haired girl scampering about reminded me of ones whom had ridiculed me, another lifetime, one that I had left behind A long time ago. The opportunity for bittersweet revenge had presented itself for the taking, and the pull to obtain a little solace by using my unique talents was far too great to resist. Talk about mixing pleasure with business I though wickedly to myself, smiling with the inviting thought.

  

Believe me, this girl would be no innocent victim, and nothing I was about to attempt would leave her with any type of lasting impression, or harm. But if I could cause her at least some considerable discomfort to ruin the rest of her evening out, it would be reward in and of itself! I again eyed her sparkling jewels with all the seriousness I would have given any I was really interested in acquiring. Although she didn’t fit my favorite pre-requisite, she certainly was not drunk on alcohol, she was merely just intoxicated in her own questionable self-esteem, which can work just as well.

  

I waited until her friends had all apparently deserted her for the evening and leaving her, quite vulnerably, alone. I walked up behind her and tapped her shoulder. She whirled facing me, her eyes going from happy expectations to a glare! “What do you want!? she snipped disdainfully”. Calmly I held her gaze, “I was hoping you would help me win a bet” I asked in what I hoped was my most wily voice. She was curious, but wary of me, “as you should be my pretty miss”, I remember thinking to myself. Her eyes sized me up and down, and I seized the moment to take in her jewels, not at all disappointed in them, but my curiosity was aroused about her necklace, I definitely needed to get a closer look to appraise them! “Why should I help you,” she practically spitted out he words like daggers.

  

“It’s this way miss, a couple of boys over at the bar bet me 50 quid that I could not get a dance with the prettiest girl here.” “Me?” she asked primping, no I confessed, I picked you, they had wanted me to dance with someone far less pretty, in my opinion.

I don’t think so; she said with a slight hint of hesitation, my card is full. Just for fifteen minutes I implored. That’s all I need (which was the truth), and Ill split my winnings with you on top of it. She finally bought it, hook line, sinker and pound signs in her adorable violet coloured eyes. Fifteen minutes she specified, before, be-grudgingly, allowing me to lead her to the dance floor.

  

Now, as I took her stiff body in my arms, I was able to satisfy my curiosity about the girl’s necklace, and it caused a dilemma to rear its thought provoking head. While she was busy looking around to make sure none of her friends saw her dancing with me, I allowed myself a couple of precious minutes to think. Her long rhinestone earrings were clip held, and an easy pick. I wanted to try for them both,( I knew how I would do it), and losing a pair of earrings would send a message that they had not just fallen away. Also, I would be suspected by her, which suited me just fine. However, my dilemma was caused by the vixen’s pretty necklace. While the rest of her plentiful jewels were cheap rhinestones as I had suspected the row of diamonds that rippled blazingly around her throat were in fact, the real McCoy. So, which should I go for? The necklace would be profitable and easy but she may just suspect its clasp had broken. The earrings would be just for a sporty trophy, not worth anything but for the knowledge that she would know she had been a victim. Ah, life’s precious little quandaries!

  

So, I continued with the dance, my partner still rigid, so very true to her character. Then, with five minutes left, I made up my mind on what she would not be leaving the ball still wearing. She was a charmer, this disdainful one. Her stiff figure was warm to the touch, underneath the scintillating slippery gown. The show her sparkling jewels produced was most pleasing to the eye. All in all quite a pretty portrait, a shame it was that I was not allowed to appreciate it. Which was fine by me! I was able to concentrate freely on the task at hand. I looked around, the coast was still clear. Then eyeing for one last time her mesmerizingly swaying long earrings and the flickering diamonds that graced her pretty little throat, I executed my move..

  

By the time the final five minutes were up I had the selected jewelry in my pocket without even the slightest notice from my unwilling dance partner. Then, fifteen minutes to the second (good thing I had been keeping track of the time) she broke it off. “Thank you”, I said, to which she mumbled, “my money, sir!” I told her I had to collect it, and would meet her by the ladies powder room. I left her waiting, smiling inwardly to myself at the empty space from which the missing jewelry was glaringly gone from her.

  

She had no doubt that I would be back with her money, was I not merely like one of her household servants, who routinely, without question or error, existed to do her bidding. It would be a major jolt to her system when she realized I was not coming obediently back to her. I had no doubt she would spend some time searching me out for her money once she realized I was not coming back forthwith, with the intention of lecturing me on how I should act around my betters. So I knew that her immediate attention would be elsewhere upon realizing I was tardy, and that it would take quite a bit of time before she recieved a second shock of an altogether different sort.

  

I left with my prize, walking past the two guards with such a carefree air that even they would never have suspected that I could possibly have been up to any mischief. I made good time getting back to the dingy motel room. Changed out of my costume and back into the shirt and tie I had worn. The highwayman costume, which had served me well, I rolled in a bundle under my arm, I again left by the back stairwell and retraced my earlier steps, whistling, back to the suite in the hotel. Along the way the costume was stuffed unceremoniously into a handy trash bin. My little operation had been a complete success. The evening was after all, not going to be a total loss.

  

Back in my suite I stowed the newly acquired jewels the girl had worn into one of my many secret hiding spots. There they would be safe until I could convey it to my banks lockbox on Monday. As I finished I, spied the phantom of the opera mask lying discarded on top of a table. A shame it would not be used….

 

A thought washed over me that would not be denied! Risky, but it would make my evening complete. I quickly shaved off the thin beard, and restyled my hair. I changed from my suit into my tux and tails. Scooping up the phantom mask I headed back to the costume ball. Placing the mask on before entering, I presented my second ticket( not very often did the opportunity arise to use both of the pair of tickets I customarily purchased!) I walked past the two security types without a second glance from them, they absolutely did not recognize me, which meant I had passed that test. My objective now was to try and catch the second half of the show; namely the shimmering liquid satin gowned brats squawking reaction when she first discovered her jewels were gone.

  

I regained a bar seat just in time.

  

She did not disappoint!

  

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Epilogue

 

When, in the presence of both bank and county officials, the strong box was opened, it was found to contain a fairly large collection of the Kings currency, equaling roughly £500 , and a selection unmatched jewelry, rings, single earrings, bracelets, and necklaces, worth a almost £3.000. Also inside was small a bundle of papers. The papers, old and yellowed, appeared to contain the partial handwritten journals of a certain Mr. Harly Q___ , esq. The papers were examined, but gave no clues to who Harley was, or to his current whereabouts. But the journals presented clues as to Harly’s nature, and as a consequence the money and jewels were considered stolen goods and handed over to the authorities. No one knows what became of them, as for the papers, they were handed over to a relative of one of the government officials, and also, for a period of time, lost.

 

The journal was rediscovered amongst the personal files of the late Professor Sedwig Dermitt phd, llc.a dex,

Recovered, restored, and now kept in the human behavioral archives of the criminology dept, Chatwick U.

  

Courtesy of Chatwick University Archives

 

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All rights and copyrights observed by Chatwick University, Its contributors, associates and Agents

 

The purpose of these chronological photos and accompanying stories, articles is to educate, teach, instruct, and generally increase the awareness level of the general public as to the nature and intent of the underlying criminal elements that have historically plagued humankind.

 

No Part of this can reprinted, duplicated, or copied be without the express written permission and approval of Chatwick University.

These photos and stories are works of fiction. Any resemblance to people, living or deceased, is purely coincidental.

As with any work of fiction or fantasy the purpose is for entertainment and/or educational purposes only, and should never be attempted in real life.

We accept no responsibility for any events occurring outside this website.

 

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yeah, yeah......I KNOW some of you are going to roll your eyes and go, "REALLY?"

But I can't kill ANYTHING!

I've been "Disneyized". (Jaq and Gus happen to be 2 of my favorite Disney characters!)

I can't look at a mouse (or any animal for that matter), and not imagine that it has a whole life going on with it's family and friends. They'd wonder and worry what happened to "cousin Mickey" if he suddenly disappeared, and be sad, even grief stricken!

I can't be responsible for that!

 

I know it's a bit hypocritical.....when the cats get them, somehow I can rationalize that .....after all, cats will be cats, but there's just no way I could use one of those horrid traps that break their necks or backs.

Only the humane traps for me!

 

There's been lots of construction going on a few doors up the street from us and I think it's been stirring the little critters up. We normally don't have a mouse problem during the season, they wait until it starts to get cold to find their way inside.

I try to clean thoroughly before we close up for the season, so as not to leave any crumbs or goodies they'll be attracted to, but I always find signs of a few that have over-wintered inside.

Sorry little guys, but you just CAN'T stay here....at least while I'm in residence!

 

I'm taking them up and letting them loose at an old house that's slated to be sold and probably torn down....waaaay up the street!

It looked like the kind of place I'd want to live if I were a mouse. Hopefully, I can relocate the entire clan and they can be reunited in their new digs!

 

I’ve been dwelling on the “extras,” lately. The additional layers I use to cover and hide. The inessentials I’ve built up to mean more than they really merit.

I have become synonymous with lipstick. It’s a mask, and I have to be critically aware of it. Why do I feel more myself with it on? How do I feel without it? What does it translate to?

It is a personal, hypocritical challenge to wholeheartedly believe in rejecting social constraints of the body and femininity while sheepishly subscribing to a remaining handful. There are leftover imprints of these influences that I still hold onto, some twisted and stereotypical security blanket.

I feel more “beautiful” with lipstick. My knee-jerk defense is that I wear it “for me,” because I “feel better with it on.” But I feel “better” with it because I have been conditioned to believe there is something missing from me without it. That I need something extra, however dictated or defined, in order to be myself.

But we cannot be apologetic for our bodies.

Lipstick is a trivial metaphor for a greater problem. There are rules and expectations modern feminists believe they are reclaiming - but I worry we are not zooming out far enough. We are “reclaiming” smaller modes of functioning within a system that has stripped us of the fundamental: an innate sense of value irrespective of the physical and external. We have to dive deeper, question more, reject more. Whatever you are wearing or doing or performing “for you,” take a beat and reflect: What convinced you of it in the first place? Are you also enough without it? Are you still you?

I am not throwing away my lipstick - I’m wearing it in bed as I write this (forgot to take it off.) But I am questioning where this “empowerment” comes from, why I have attached to it in this form, and what wearing it “for me” really means. Thinking critically about the extras I attach myself to, and where the harmful juxtapositions are.

Day 28

After cooking myself real food for breakfast in the hostel's kitchen, I took the trolley into town to get a few supplies that I had forgotten the previous day. After I got the supplies I needed I walked to the trolley stop and waited. When the trolley arrived I boarded and rode it to last stop at Mammoth Mountain Ski Resort (which at this time of year is all dirt and mountain biking) before it turns around. I had planned on hitchhiking the rest of the way to Devil's Post Pile trail head, near Red's Meadows. On any other late summer weekend I would have had no problem with that, but as I soon found out that was not possible this particular weekend because of Labor Day. The road into Red's Meadow was closed because of the heavy flow of holiday traffic. Before I realized that I had started to walk in the direction I needed to go. Then I saw the road block. I asked one of the people who was directing traffic how I was suppose to get to the trail head. He told me I needed to buy a bus ticket since only the tour buses were allowed into Reds Meadow and Devils Post Pile until tomorrow.

Wandering back to the where the trolley dropped me off, I purchased a bus ticket, then I waited in line for a while before it was my turn to board the bus. I put my pack on the gear rack by the door and sat in the first seat. Another backpacker, Jose, sat down next to me after putting his pack next to mine. On the ride there we talked. It was his first time backpacking. And from what he told me he was very unprepared. The worst part was he had no water filter and no map. He was going to Lake Ediza and was taking the same trail as me for the first few miles, so we decided to hike together until the the trail split.

When the bus arrived at the visitor center, at the trail head, we got out and were engulfed by a swarm of tourist here for the holiday. The sky had been dull with monotonous cloud cover all morning, so I went into the visitor center to ask about weather conditions for this week. According to the ranger no rain was expected. While I inquired about weather, Jose purchased a trail map because of my recommendation to do so, then, we started on trail. Once we crossed the bridge over the creek and reached a trail junction on the other side and we took the direction that said JMT/PCT this way, all the tourist and other people disappeared behind us. The trail started a gradual uphill climb through an open forest of pine, and because of the heavy use of this path the trail was very dusty.

As we ascended I slowed down my pace so Jose could keep up. While we hiked, we talked and he asked for my advice on many backpacking and wilderness scenarios. The next creek crossing we came to we crossed a wooden bridge that was erected over the water. I made the comment, “ I expected the first bridge back at the beginning, but not this one, we're getting spoiled on this trail.” but I don't think he got my attempt at humor.

Just on the other side of the bridge was a bush, and upon closer inspection I got really excited. It was full of big juicy blueberries! This was the first major blueberry crop I had found on the journey so far. We stopped and ate our fill.

As we ate, Jose asked, "Don't we need to wash them first?”

“No.” I replied “We only wash our fruits and vegetables in the city because of all the pesticides and stuff that get sprayed on them.”

I picked some for later and put them in a zip-lock bag. After the wonderful snack I thanked the bush and we continued.

Once we crossed that second creek the openness of the forest began to subside and became more full and lush, as the forest became thicker. As we continued we passed a meadow, partly hidden behind a wall of pines and thorny gooseberry bushes. There was a group of three resting in the meadow apparently reorganizing their packs. They were to far away to acknowledge, so we passed by without saying a word. The gooseberries however were different. We stopped and I told him what they were. He picked one and tried it. I could tell by the look on his face he didn't much care for it, so I helped myself.

It wasn't that much later when we came to the trail junction where we split and went our separate ways. He thanked me for all the information and knowledge I shared with him. I wished him safe travels and happy trails, and reminded him to boil all his water before drinking. Then I was alone again at last.

It didn't last long. A short distance later I came across a lone backpacker with a fishing pole sticking out of the top of his pack who was headed in the same direction as me. As we passed we greeted each other. I continued and after a while I stopped for a quick break, during which he passed me. A little bit later I started hiking again, I caught up and passed him again not long after. It was then that we stopped to chat.

“Where are you headed?” He asked

“Minaret Lake.” I replied, “Then onto the meadow lands above Ediza...”

“Me too,” he interjected. “The rest of my group stopped back at the meadow for a break.”

I told him that I remember seeing them through the trees, then I mentioned the gooseberries.

His face lit up and he asked excitedly, “You know the edible plants around here?”

“I know a few.” I responded.

“Can you show me?” he asked.

“I'll point them out when I see them.” I answered. “Here,” I said, pulling the zip-lock bag of blueberries out of my pack, “I found these a ways back.”

I handed him the bag.

“Are these blueberries?” he asked excitedly as he popped some in his mouth.

“Yep.” I said as he gave the bag back.

Still glowing he asked, “Do you mind if I hike with you to Minaret Lake?”

“That would be great!” I said, “But we should wait for the rest of your group first.”

As we waited for them to catch up we talked more. His name was Logan and I found out that it was him and his groups first backpacking trip and first time in the High Sierras, they had been doing day hikes for years in the mountains surrounding Los Angeles, but they had never done anything of this magnitude. They were more prepared than Jose had been, at least they had water filters and a map.

When the rest of the group caught up, he introduced us. His girlfriend, Clare, his best friend since middle school Todd, and Todd's girlfriend Marissa.

After the others had a chance to rest the five of us continued on together. As we hiked they asked me about my journey and I asked them about some of the things they did to prepare for this trip.

The first edible we came across was gooseberry. When I pointed it out Logan exclaimed, “I was wondering what those were.” A short distance later we came across a patch of onions. I also pointed out a strawberry plant, though it was too late into the season for there to be any berries.

The lush forest we had been hiking through vanished into exposed mountainside switchbacks. As we rounded the final switchback we came across a rushing creek cascading down along side the trail. Here we stopped to refill our water. While Todd went down to the water to pump the rest of us dropped pack and sat down beside the trail. Logan pulled out his map to ask me some questions about the route they were taking tomorrow.

“Do you know what the trail is like between Minaret and Ediza?” he inquired.

“I've never been on that route before, but from what I've heard and the pictures I've seen its very treacherous, and not a good idea for first time backpackers, unless you have someone with you who has experience. Especially the part from Cecile Lake down to Ice Berg Lake.” I explained, “From what I've heard, its not maintained, and from Cecile to Ice Berg it's a steep climb down through lots of scree and talus. The section from Minaret to Cecile is less dangerous but still requires the hiker to climb using all fours.”

The two girls began to look worried. Noticing their concern I then added, “I'm headed that way tomorrow as well. I'd be more than happy to hike with you guys tomorrow and help you through the rough sections.”

Clare then said, “Yes please, if you don't mind.”

At this point, Todd came back carrying full bottles of water and I went to the water to fill up my bottles as Logan told Todd about the conversation we just had. I dunked my two bottles into the creek without filtering, then filled my sawyer pouch. (I'm not a hypocrite, I use a sawyer filter that filters the water as I drink.) When I returned, Logan informed me that they all agreed to have me accompany them tomorrow as well.

After the water stop the trail turned, and left the exposed mountainside behind and headed into a sparsely forested, relatively flat, valley like area. The dull clouds that had filled the sky all day began to break and cold wisps of wind came swirling down from the mountain peaks, causing us to stop so the two girls could get their jackets out of their packs and put them on. The trail again climbed upwards with switchbacks. The light from the late day's sun was now able to dance and flutter upon the earth as the receding clouds twisted into undulating shapes and swirling mistforms as they struggled not to evaporate while rolling and drifting across the sky.

Lush forest closed back in around the trail as it leveled out once again and the trees now darkened the sky in place of the clouds. We then ascended upwards again before the final stretch of trail prior to reaching the lake. The forest then opened as we climbed up out from beneath its canopy. Here we laid eyes on the Minarets for the first time while on trail, with shafts of light streaming through them as the sun sank behind their rocky spires.

Then after one more small climb we finally reached the lake, with only a little of the days warmth and light left painting the slope of the mountain that rose from it's eastern shore. Here the cold breeze turned into gusts of wind that chilled us to the bone and ruffled the surface of the water. When in the shadows of mountains the cold seems to be even more intense, the sky may still be blue and the sun still up, but it has long since set behind the towering peaks, casting long shadows in their footprints. Then a wild wind rises up and exacerbates it further.

We found a grassy spot that was sheltered on three sides by rocky outcroppings and a view of the lake on the other. Here we set up camp. I fought against the wind to set up my tent. I chose a spot a short distance away from where they were struggling with their two tents to allow for privacy. After the tents were up we gathered for dinner. I ate a wad of cheese, some peanut butter and some smoked almonds, while they fumbled around trying to get their stove to light in the cold wind, while the last clouds of the day glowed pink in the rays of the setting sun. Eventually they got their stove lit and were able to boil water to rehydrate their dinner.

KiwiRail EF class electric locomotives have been no stranger to hauling passenger trains as witness their once common usage on the Overlander trains, and in one significant event in 2016 for Steam Incorporated was EF30203 hauling their excursion train on 21 August 2016 from Palmerston North to Raurimu and return.

 

The train was beautifully photographed by Philip Drumond that day as the B02 excursion special approached Hunterville, scanned from New Zealand Railfan magazine of September 2016.

 

Sadly however, we now learn that these aging electrics are to be phased out working the NIMT line over the next 2 years.

 

KIWIRAIL TO REPLACE AGEING ELECTRIC TRAIN FLEET WITH DIESEL ENGINES

NZ Herald, Wednesday, December 21 2016

KiwiRail has announced it will replace its electric train fleet on the North Island main trunk line with diesel locomotives, a decision criticised as a big backwards step by the Green Party and Labour.

Peter Reidy, KiwiRail chief executive, said the fleet of almost 30-year-old electric trains that run between Hamilton and Palmerston North will be phased out over the next two years, and replaced with diesel locomotives.

He said electric infrastructure on the line would be maintained to allow for any future use.

KiwiRail considered replacing the electric fleet with other electric trains, upgrading the current electric trains, or replacing them with diesel trains.

Reidy said the electric trains that will now be phased out were breaking down too often. A "small number" of staff could be affected by the decision, he said.

The main trunk line in the North Island runs from Auckland to Wellington, and is electrified only between Hamilton and Palmerston North.

That meant KiwiRail was essentially running a "railway within a railway", Reidy said.

"The doubling up of service facilities, inventory, training and maintenance required with two separate systems on the line adds to the inefficiencies and unreliability," he said.

"We looked long and hard at the electric options and for our business, and most importantly our customers, they just did not stack up."

However, Green Party transport spokeswoman Julie Anne Genter said replacing electric trains with a diesel fleet was a "massive step backwards".

"National has promised to take climate change and transport issues seriously, but it's underfunding of rail is responsible for short-sighted decisions like this. National should commit to completing the electrification of the North Island main trunk line. This would send a clear signal to KiwiRail that they can invest in an electric future.

"New electric trains are cleaner, quieter, and have lower fuel and maintenance costs over their lifetime. They're also powered by local renewable energy rather than imported oil."

Labour's transport spokeswoman Sue Moroney said the decision meant National's new Cabinet was "already looking like a relic of a bygone era".

"Minister Simon Bridges has approved the daft decision, making his apparent commitment to increasing the use of electric vehicles to reduce carbon emissions look hollow and hypocritical."

"The electrification of the main trunk line between Hamilton and Palmerston North was a $250m "Think Big" project investment in the 1980s. The rest of the world is now following suit."

  

RE-POST OF COMMENTS for Aberdeenshire farmland with rainbow

 

You pays your money and you makes your choice (we’re photographers, so we make, not take) – and that just about sums up competition entries.

For the second time (out of the six I’ve entered), I’ve failed to get anything past the first round of judging of the annual (UK) Landscape Photographer of the Year (LPOTY). So, did I make a poor choice, was I unlucky, or are none of my images good enough?

There’s a letter of mine published in the August (you know, the one that comes out at the end of June) edition of the excellent Outdoor Photography magazine in which I make the case for photographing to please yourself, not others – and since I try, whenever practicable, not to be a hypocrite, that’s what I do in my own photography.

Now, it stands to reason that if you have that attitude when making photographs, you should have it when selecting them for a competition entry also. Of course you have to stick to the rules and competition subject matter – although failure to do so is no guarantee of not winning – but within those constraints, I’ve decided, basically, to hell with it! I’ll take the pictures I like, and select the ones that I would be proud to see on a page with my name under them. This applies generally, but is especially true of photography competitions. And note, LPOTY IS a photography competition, not a landscape competition, and so the prizes ought to be awarded for the added value the photographer has brought to the image, not for how intrinsically pretty the view is. I also happen to believe that any processing should be done solely in an attempt to convey to the viewer the photographer’s experience of being there, not simply to add ‘impact’ (a shitty magazine word that makes me want to add impact to the people who use it). But that’s a whole other story.

So, I won’t pretend that I’m not disappointed – it’s hard not to be when you’ve spent hours selecting and polishing your work for it to be given the two-week brush-off. But I think I’d been an awful lot more disappointed if I’d been trying to please the competition judges and still failed.

Come to think of it, money is always nice – and ten thousand pounds is very nice – but I reckon, long term, my integrity is worth more than that. [NB – I’m categorically not saying that to win you have to sell out, merely that you should never sell out to win – and this is about my journey, not anybody else’s!]

My first reaction might have been (by which I mean ‘was’) that there’s no point in entering next year – they are obviously not looking for the sort of work I like to produce – but I probably will: after all, the entry fee isn’t a lot to pay for a bit of fun and motivation. But what I won’t ever do again is rest any hopes on the outcome – if I’m making and selecting images to please myself, not the judges, then it stands to reason that I won’t necessarily please the judges; but I will know that my photography will go on exploring and growing, and never get stuck in a rut carved out by the tyres of somebody else’s vehicle, and that’s the biggest prize of all.

I’ve created an album of the shots that I entered (not all there yet, as some not on Flickr as entered. Where the re-edit is noticeably better than the original posting, as here, I’ll re-post. Any comments of this, or the album (LPOTY 2014 entry), naturally welcome.

 

Hypocrite

(St.-Jacobs-Kirche, Rothenburg o.d.T.)

 

Am 31. Oktober sollte man auch über scheinheilige Moral von herrschsüchtigen Minderheiten nachdenken.

 

On October 31, we should also reflect on the hypocritical morality of domineering minorities.

Matthew 16:1-4

1 The Pharisees also with the Sadducees came, and tempting desired him that he would shew them a sign from heaven. 2 He answered and said unto them, When it is evening, ye say, It will be fair weather: for the sky is red. 3 And in the morning, It will be foul weather to day: for the sky is red and lowring. O ye hypocrites, ye can discern the face of the sky; but can ye not discern the signs of the times? 4 A wicked and adulterous generation seeketh after a sign; and there shall no sign be given unto it, but the sign of the prophet Jonas. And he left them, and departed.

L’Origine du monde (The Origin of the World)

1866

By Gustave Courbet (1819 - 1877)

Oil on canvas, H. 0.46 ; L. 0.55 m

musée d'Orsay, Paris, France

 

L’Origine du monde (The Origin of the World) is an oil on canvas painted by French artist Gustave Courbet in 1866. It is a close-up view of the genitals and abdomen of a naked woman, lying on a bed with legs spread. The framing of the nude body, with head, arms and lower legs outside of view, emphasizes the eroticism of the work.

 

During the 19th century, the display of the nude body underwent a revolution whose main activists were Courbet and Manet. Courbet rejected academic painting and its smooth, idealised nudes, but he also directly recriminated the hypocritical social conventions of the Second Empire, where eroticism and even pornography were acceptable in mythological or oneiric paintings.

 

Courbet later insisted he never lied in his paintings, and his realism pushed the limits of what was considered presentable. With L'Origine du Monde he has made even more explicit the eroticism of Manet's Olympia. Maxime Du Camp, in a harsh tirade, reported his visit to the work’s purchaser, and his sight of a painting “giving realism’s last word”.

 

Although moral standards and resulting taboos regarding the artistic display of nudity have changed since Courbet, owing especially to photography and cinema, the painting remained provocative. Its arrival at the Musée d'Orsay caused high excitement.

 

According to postcard sales, L’Origine du Monde is the second most popular painting in the Musée d’Orsay, after Renoir’s Moulin de la Galette.

16 things about me

 

1. my original hair color is not red ;) i am changing my hair color every time i dye it, always changing the formula a little and adding some new touch of color, i need this refreshing look every time i look at the mirror.

 

2. My #1 everyday battle is struggling with weight and forever dieting, i love to eat (but hate to cook) and used to be much more "rounded", i lost 25kg (50 pound) 5 years ago and keeping it since, it's very hard for me, i hate dealing with it but... That's life...

 

3. My favorite music is 80's, 90's and soundtracks, i can listen to them endlessly, regarding favorite films - there are some films i can watch again and again - Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, The Green Mile and i have some more but i can't remember them now.

 

4. I am a person who needs immediate satisfaction - every thing i want i usually want it NOW, of course not every time it can happen, but i can try.

 

5. My polymer art came after some various artistic mediums - i studied 3 years fashion design in high school, then i was a computer instructor when i was in the army (where i met my husband), teached computers and graphic design, worked as a graphic designer in newspapers and PR offices, had a bachelor degree in Hebrew language and human services, took a course in professional makeup, learned balloon sculpturing by my self, tried to be a clown but it didn't work, i wasn't funny enough, worked as a webmaster and designer and now i am a full time polymer clay artist.

 

6. i have the most amazing partner and husband, he is exactly my opposite, that's why we get along so good, we are together since i was 19, and we have 2 beautiful children. i am a worried mom, but i am learning how to let go.

 

7. My Business and Tag name is ARCOIRIS, my work involves colors and I wanted a foreign sound to it (not English/Hebrew) so I chose the Spanish word for rainbow :) i hope to learn Spanish and Italian one day.

 

8. I am a clean freak, always walk around the house with a broom/ vacuum cleaner and clean the leftovers of the children/cat/husband crumbs, i know it's crazy but i can't help it, when my maid comes and cleans my house she says it's the most cleanest house she has. the only place i can't organize is my polymer clay table, everything is all around, i clean and arrange it every time i have a private lesson in my studio, thanks' god i have those for putting things back in place.

 

9. i need peace and quite when i work, i can never work in a stressful environment or some high-tech company where you work like a maniac so that the boss gets the big bucks.

 

10. i have an eye for people, i can tell in few minutes what character, personality or nature of the man/woman stands in front of me, i hate liars back stabbers, braggers, two-faced, hypocritical people (my sign is Scorpio, i think it has something to do with that)

 

11. I honestly do not know what I want to be when I grow up, i enjoy doing many things and everything related to art interest me (see #5). i don't know how some people work/do the same thing 30 years at work and retire.

 

12. My 2nd best relaxation (after polymer clay) is sitting in my home garden and reading a book.

 

13. I wanted to be an English teacher when i graduated from high school, but...when i came to the university they told me my English grade is too low to be accepted. This proves that grades isn't everything, i think my English is good. When i think of it, let's face it, i don't know if i would be good at being a teacher in school, maybe that was fate.

 

14. I feel so embarrassed and blush all over when someone tells me they admire my work, it happens from time to time when i sell my art. one day i went to the pharmacy and i wanted to pay for the things i bought in my credit card, the girl in the counter looked at the name on my card and asked me - "are you Iris Mishly? THE Iris Mishly?" she told me she is a fan of my work and so on... it was so funny, i felt like a real celebrity that day :)

 

15. I try to avoid watching TV, in my spare time i read/create but 2 TV series i can't miss - "LOST" and "Survivor".

 

16. finding 16 facts about myself (that can be told in public... :) ) is not an easy task.

 

(photo taken in Carnival Cruise Ship, while we were in USA, with my lovely daughter, Maya)

We get out of the slaughterhouse and we still hear gunfire. Bane's guys aren't fucking around. Not with us or GCPD's SWAT. We gotta change gears here, think about the situation at hand and be smart about this. Bane/not-Bane/whoever the fuck that was handed our asses to us on a silver platter. There's gotta be a kink in his robotic armor, though. First off we gotta find out who the shit he is, though. Linda and I retreat to the shack on her request.I need to clean this place up. maybe a heater, too. It's cold as all hell outside and it's only gonna get worse. We take our helmets off and drop them on the floor next to some busted glass and a powersaw. Linda shows the Xeno Cannon to me.

 

"Is there a place in here I can put this away?"

 

"Take a pick."

 

"I mean like 'away' away. A hiding spot or something."

 

"Look under the ammo crate. Why?"

 

"This is gonna sound sorta hypocritical considering what we do but...this isn't a weapon we use on people, J. This is a weapon we really shouldn't use much at all. it's way way to good for us."

 

"Still, gonna be nice to have whenever shit hits the fan. Kinda like now...."

 

"We don't need this, J. We'll find some way to take Bane down. Or whoever that is....this it?"

 

"That grate? Yeah, the flip it up."

 

".....what the?...."

 

"What's up?"

 

"...the fuck is?....what the fuck is this?!"

 

"What? What are you---oh yeah! I forgot about those!"

 

"Jars of---is this blood? You've got giant jars of blood under the floor?"

 

"Yeah! For a rainy day."

 

"Why?! H-how?! Who's--"

 

"I think some of it's yours and mine, actually. Had Liz throw some together with that machine of hers that saved my ass a while ago."

 

"I--...y'know what...just, whatever...."

 

"Hehehe..."

 

"....so Bane's guys aren't from the states but they've operated in Gotham before, right?"

 

"Yep."

 

"The guy in the exoskeleton was probably a higher-up in his crew. This can't be his first time in Gotham. And Bane's served some time in Blackgate before."

 

"What are you getting at?"

 

"The GCPD easily has all kinds of info on Bane, so they'll probably have info on his most important men, too. It's gonna be in their databases, though. And they don't share that stuff with the public."

 

"You wanna bust into the GCPD? The place full of the same guys trying to kill us 'in the name of the law' or whatever bullshit they're spewing?"

 

"Would you do it any differently?"

 

"....alright, alright. You think you can handle it by yourself, though? I wanna stop by Port Adams. That's where the weapons shipment back at the slaughterhouse came from. Might get answers there, too. Plus we'll cover more ground if anything."

 

"It's a big building full of underpaid highschool drop-outs with shitty aim and shittier diets. I'm sure I'll be fine."

 

"If you say so. Tell Abe I said hi if you see him."

 

"Who?...."

  

Ancient Trees (11th Century) @ Ripley Castle,England,UK

 

THE DEER PARK CONTAINS SEVERAL MAGNIFICENT TREES. SOME HAVE PROBABLY BEEN HERE SINCE THE 11TH CENTURY. CERTAINLY THESE OAKTREES MUST BE VERY OLD TO ACHIEVE A GIRTH OF 28.5'.

 

The Ingilby family celebrates 700 years at Ripley CastleThe Ingleby family can trace its history back to 1090, when Sir Robert Ingleby owned land in the village of Ingleby, near Saxelby, Lincs. Another branch of the family had extensive lands in and around Ingleby Greenhow and Ingleby Mill in North Yorkshire. When Sir Thomas Ingleby (c1290-1352) married the heiress Edeline Thwenge in 1308/9 she came with a very substantial dowry: Ripley Castle and its surrounding estates. Like most wedding presents, it has taken the family several generations to work out what to do with it! Life was far from easy: in 1318 the Scots, under Sir James ‘Black’ Douglas, plundered the region mercilessly, destroying 140 of the 160 houses in nearby Knaresborough. In the following year a bovine plague killed almost all of the cattle in the region, leaving thousands destitute and milk in short supply. In 1349 the Black Death struck, wiping out almost half of the local population and leaving numerous hamlets bereft of people.

 

The old village of Ripley was abandoned and the survivors built a new settlement on the site of the current village, on the doorstep of the castle. Sir Thomas was in great favour at the king’s court in London and was appointed as an Advocate in 1347. In 1351 he was appointed as a Justice of Assize. He died the following year and a magnificent tombchest in All Saint’s Church, Ripley, has the figures of Thomas and Edeline lying recumbent on the top, he in his armour and chain mail, she in a long robe and head dress. His oldest son, also called Thomas (1310-1369) also married well: Katherine Mauleverer was descended from Aelfwine, an Anglian of proud descent and one of the largest landowners in the North of England. He followed his father into the royal court, and accompanied Edward III on a hunting trip to the royal hunting forest of Knaresborough in 1357. The king found a wild boar and threw his spear at it, but only injured it. The boar charged the king’s horse, and the king was thrown to the ground. Thomas killed the boar, saving the king’s life. He was knighted, granted the boar’s head emblem as his family crest, and granted the right to hold a weekly market and annual horse fair in Ripley – both continued to be held until the early 1900’s. He was appointed as a justice of the King’s Bench in 1361, the only judge to hold that position apart from the Chief Justice. He could claim £40 pa for expenses, and a further £20pa for holding assizes in different counties.

 

Thomas’s brother, Sir Henry Ingleby, enjoyed an equally notable career. Rector of several parishes, he was appointed Master of the Rolls and Keeper of the Writs, serving under the Lord Chancellor William Edington: he had an office in the Tower of London and paid 40 shillings a year for the privilege of collecting the wool tax from the monasteries. He also oversaw the network of royal horse dealers who bought horses for the royal household, then sold them at a profit: the proceeds were used to build Windsor Castle. He died in 1375 and was buried in York Minster.

 

Sir John Ingleby (1434-1499) inherited the estate from his father at the age of five: his trustees had to testify to his correct date of birth in order to get the estates out of trust when he came of age. Their testimony paints a remarkable picture of an average day in the life of 15th century England. ‘Ralph Acclom remembers John’s birth because he was staying with John, Abbot of Fountains Abbey and rode across with him to baptize the baby. Ralph Apilton remembered John’s birth because he killed a deer between Ripley and Hampsthwaite. Robert Atkinson remembered the date because he rode with John Slingsby from Ripley to Sherburn and was robbed and beaten up, losing 28s and 8d.’John built the castle gatehouse – still there today – and married a wealthy heiress, Margery Strangeways of Harlsey Castle. She bore him a son and heir, William. In 1457 John abandoned his wife, son estates and earthly possessions to become a monk at Mount Grace Priory a Carthusian charterhouse near Northallerton which had been founded by his great grandfather – and was the last resting place for his parents.

 

He was appointed prior of Sheen in 1477 and first visitor of the English province between 1478 and 1496. The royal family worshipped at Sheen and John became the first of three executors for Queen Elizabeth, wife of Edward IV, in 1492. He was Henry VII’s special ambassador to Pope Innocent VIII, the king describing him as ‘my captain and envoy’ in one of the letters that John delivered to the Pope. Henry appointed him to oversee the conversion of priory at Sheen into the royal palace of Richmond between 1495 and 1499, and the Pope appointed him bishop of Llandaff on 27th June, 1496. He was buried at the church of St Nicholas in Hertford. His luckless wife, Margery, effectively became a widow when he took holy orders: she spent eleven years raising her son before marrying Richard, Lord Welles. Her luck was no better second time round: Edward IV reneged on a promise of safe keeping and had her husband beheaded in 1469, less than a year after their marriage.Sir William Ingleby (1518-1578) married the staunchly Catholic Ann Mallory and lived through a period of profound religious turbulence. When Henry VIII suppressed the smaller monasteries in 1536, Yorkshire’s old established Catholic families rose in revolt: the Pilgrimage of Grace was a populist and peaceful revolt that received such widespread support throughout the North that the king, heavily outnumbered, was forced to sue for peace. Reneging on a promise of safe keeping, Henry had the organizer, Robert Aske, arrested and put to death: 200 of his fellow pilgrims shared his fate. William received a reward for his staunch loyalty to the crown: Queen Mary wrote ‘For the opinion I have conceived of Sir William Ingleby…I have appointed him Treasurer of Berwick’. The Rising of the North in 1568 was potentially even more serious. The rebels set out from nearby Markenfield Hall and mustered an army that far outnumbered the king’s resources. Sir William, as High Sheriff of York, was obliged to muster additional troops but while doing so was surrounded in Ripon market square, by a group of rebels amongst whom were two of his sons, David and Francis. He had to fight his way out and, deciding that Ripley Castle was too weak to defend, took refuge in the duchy of Lancaster’s Knaresborough Castle until the troops under his command were strong enough to defeat the rebels. The earl of Sussex wrote to

 

William Cecil ‘Sir William Ingleby has served the Queen as truly and as chargeably from the first suspicion of this rebellion, as any man of his rank has done. He has delivered to me, from time to time, better intelligence than I have received from any others. He be such that her majesty may rest assured of his honesty and loyalty’. The rebellion was crushed: David and Francis fled into exile but Sir William’s own son in law,

 

Thomas Markenfield, was executed. Francis Ingleby (1550-1586) studied at Brasenose College, Oxford and read law at the Inner Temple. In 1583, having received a heavenly visitation while staying at Ripley, he emigrated to Reims and became ordained a Catholic seminary priest, returning to England in 1585. There are remarkable parallels with today: a native Englishman, passionately supporting a minority religion, goes abroad to receive militant training in his faith. He returns intent on spreading the word and overthrowing the established religion and government.

 

Francis was hung, drawn and quartered on York Knavesmire in 1586 and beatified by the Pope in 1987. His brother David (1547-1600) became known as ‘the Fox’ for his ability to outrun his pursuers. He was the man who guided the seminary priests around the North of England, leading them from one safe house to another. He married Lady Ann Neville, daughter of the exiled earl of Westmoreland – and another staunch Catholic. David was heavily implicated as a co-conspirator of John Ballard in the Babington treason, a conspiracy to remove Elizabeth I from the throne and replace her with Mary, Queen of Scots. He and Francis were described as ‘the most dangerous papists in the North’. A huge manhunt was launched to find them: a secret priest’s hiding hole, built to conceal them and other visiting priests while they were at Ripley, was only discovered by accident in 1964. A set of instructions written out for a spy being sent to the royal court in Scotland listed numerous things that the spy should and should not do: it ended with a very simple warning ‘ beware of David Ingleby’. David died in exile in Belgium: Elizabeth I, taking pity on his by now

impoverished widow, awarded her a pension provided she behaved herself. Their cousin Mary Ward spent several of her formative years staying with the Inglebys. In 1609 she founded a Catholic Society for Women, modeled on the Society of Jesus. They founded schools and taught in them, and the nuns were strongly encouraged to work in the community. Pope Urban VIII suppressed the order and it wasn’t until 1877 that her society was fully restored with papal blessing. The Bar Convent in York – which she founded - was the first teaching convent in the world. Sir William Ingleby (1546 - 1618) hosted a visit by James VI of Scotland en route to the king’s coronation as James I of England in 1603. Within two years William was heavily implicated in a plot to kill the king his family and hundreds of MP’s. The Ingilbys were related to or closely associated with, nine of the eleven principal conspirators of the infamous Gunpowder Plot. The mother of Robert and Thomas Wyntour, two of the leading conspirators, was an Ingleby. They had spent the week before the plot was unearthed at Ripley, buying horses from the surrounding district. Sir William and his son were arrested and charged with treason, but were, surprisingly, acquitted of all the charges. The third charge was that of bribing witnesses.

 

Sir William Ingleby (1594-1652) supported Charles I throughout the civil war, raising a troop of horse to fight under the generalship of Prince Rupert of the Rhine. He fought at the battle of Marston Moor, alongside his redoubtable sister, ‘Trooper’ Jane Ingleby, and somehow managed to escape the bloody rout that saw the king’s northern armies defeated for good. He made the safety of Ripley, but was his arrival was followed almost immediately by that of the victorious rebel general, Oliver Cromwell. Sir William leapt into the priest’s secret hiding place, leaving his sister to look after Cromwell. She at first refused to let him into the castle, swearing that she would defend it against all comers. After some negotiation, he was allowed to enter and spend the night there, guarded at pistol point by Jane, to prevent him from searching the castle for her brother. Cromwell, stunned at being held at gunpoint by a woman having just won the greatest victory of his career, did nothing and she saw him off the premises the following morning.

 

Sir William’s son, also called William (1620-1682) was deeply religious – and a closet ‘rebel’. He managed to get the family’s entire fortune captured by the rebels and his father, believing him to have done it on purpose, wrote him a blistering letter, threatening to disinherit him. The letter, signed ‘your loving father’, can be seen at the castle today.

 

William junior was not good looking: his portraits confirm that. In 1659 he employed a dating agent, a Mr E Pitt, to find him a wife, and again we have the correspondence: the mission was successful.Sir John Ingilby (1757 – 1835) married Elizabeth Amcotts, a Lincolnshire heiress. His father in law promised him funds to help the young couple rebuild the castle. Sir John had a row with his father in law half way through the project, and ended up so heavily in debt that he had to flee the country for eleven years while his land agent sold timber to pay off his debts. While he and his wife were abroad their oldest son died at the age of 18, and they were hustled from one European city to another as the Napoleonic wars consumed the continent. A bundle of frequently harrowing letters, written to his agent while he was in exile, survives. By the time he returned, his marriage was over: having had 11 children by his wife, he had a further 5 by Martha Webster, daughter of a local tenant farmer.

 

One son, Edward Webster, had problems involving a gamekeeper’s daughter near Skipton and was placed on board the RM Reynolds at Ramsgate with £200 and a supply of clean shirts: his stepbrother was ordered to remain on the dockside to ensure that he didn’t leave the vessel before it set sail for Sydney. This proved to be a life-changing experience and he and his successors thrived Down Under: Robert Webster was the minister of state for the Olympics in the NSW state government when Sydney won the bid for the games.

 

Sir John’s son Sir William Amcotts Ingilby (1783-1854) was the product of a broken home, and a great eccentric. He was a drinker, gambler and general reprobate: he became an MP, as many such people do. He was a leading Whig, and an outspoken supporter of the reform Act of 1832. His dress sense was spectacularly awful ‘’As to your friend, Sir William Ingilby I am told by a lady who saw him and absolutely took fright at it, that this eccentric baronet walks about Ripley and Ripon too, in his dressing gown, without smalls or loincloth on. The absence of the former was luckily disguised by the wrap of the gown, and is alleged on hearsay: but the naked throat, shirt collar displayed a la Milord Byron, had a striking effect, and produced the scarecrow impression.’ Believing that his tenants and workforce should be well housed in this age of industrial revolution, Sir William demolished the entire village of Ripley and rebuilt it as a model estate village, copying an idea that he had observed in Alsace Lorraine. Instead of a Town Hall, Ripley has a magnificent ‘Hotel de Ville’ – certainly the only one of its kind in England! He died without heir and left the estate to his cousin Henry, telling him that he was doing so because ‘ I don’t believe that you are any longer the canting hypocrite I took you for’. Sir William Ingilby (1829-1918) was a somewhat dictatorial Landlord. He disapproved of alcoholic drink being served on the Sabbath day and closed down the three pubs in the village when the Landlords refused to close on Sundays. The village remained dry for 71 years until the Boar’s Head opened in 1989. When a child ran out of the front door of one of the village houses and startled his horse, causing him to be deposited on the ground in the middle of the Main Street, he prevented further embarrassment by imposing an edict that the villagers should not use their front doors.

 

Having survived several plagues, invasions, civil wars, wars, religious turbulence, a plot to commit regicide, numerous periods of deep recession and everything else that has befallen this country in the last seven hundred years, the Ingilbys can justifiably breathe a sigh of relief that they have arrived safely at this astonishing landmark. Theirs is a story of how one family has been tossed around in the choppy waters of England’s stormy history – and somehow survived, despite being on the losing side more often than not. The history of the Ingilbys is a microcosm of the history of England and features a cast of extraordinarily brave, foolish, eccentric and courageous characters, black sheep and white. They have gone from high office in the court of kings and queens to running a wedding and conference venue and hotel, but they are still at Ripley and the story continues as they steer their family and business through these challenging times. Sir Thomas and Lady Ingilby have four sons and a daughter. A more detailed history of the family, complete with family trees not just of the Ingilby family but various families that became related to the Ingilbys by marriage over the centuries

Another picture based on a dream, where my friend was veiled, but wearing a normal bathing suit at the same time. I felt totally negative about it.

I wanted to express this photographically as well.

This was quite challenging for me, as I truly have a very intense irrational phobia of spider webs. Yeah, spider webs, hehe. I kept getting shivers while editing this.

 

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Behance

Esta noche he tenido un sueño.

 

Soñé que podía volar!.

Soñé que esta vez la victoria sonreía a los buenos.

Soñé que desde el campanario de mi pequeño pueblo podía ver los campanarios de la gran Londres.

Soñé que volaba sobre los arrogantes, los sucios, los hipócritas y ninguno alcanzaba a darme una patada y hacerme despertar de este bonito sueño.

Soñé que el día 28 de Mayo (el aniversario de boda de mis papis) vería mi primera champions.

 

Y ahora que despierto sé que todo fue un sueño, pero también sé que con trabajo y humildad este sueño se podría convertir en realidad.

 

Seguiré soñando.

  

www.youtube.com/watch?v=obi5e3xMdOo

 

Tonight I had a dream.

 

I dreamed I could fly!.

I dreamed that this time the victory smiled at the good.

I dreamed that from the belfry of my small town could see the towers of great London.

I dreamed I was flying over the arrogant, the dirty, the hypocrites and none stood to give me a kick and wake me from this beautiful dream.

I dreamed that on May 28th (the anniversary of wedding of my parents) would be my first champions.

 

And now I wake up I know it was all a dream, but I also know that with hard work and humility, this dream could become reality.

 

I will continue dreaming.

 

You wake up late for school

- man you don't wanna go

You ask you mom, "Please?"

- but she still says, "No!"

You missed two classes

- and no homework

But your teacher preaches class like you're some kind of jerk

 

You gotta fight for your right to paaaaaaaaaaaaaarty

 

You pop caught you smoking

- and he said, "No way!"

That hypocrite

- smokes two packs a day

Man, living at home is such a drag

Now your mom threw away your best porno mag (Busted!)

 

You gotta fight for your right to paaaaaaaaaaaaaarty

  

Don't step out of this house if that's the clothes you're gonnawear

I'll kick you out of my home if you don't cut that hair

Your mom busted in and said, "What's that noise?"

Aw, mom you're just jealous

- it's the Beastie Boys!

 

You gotta fight for your right to paaaaaaaaaaaaaarty

You gotta fight for your right to paaaaaaaaaaaaaarty

 

Beastie Boys | Fight For Your Right

A secret society? The facade of this building was decorated by countless little pieces of driftwood.

From a site acticbrotherhood.com and .org: “Camp No. 1 of the Arctic Brotherhood was established in Skagway, Alaska in 1899 following the arrival of the Ocean Steamer "City of Seattle." The membership roster boasting 11 members soon swelled to more than 300 as the roots of The Brotherhood spread amongst the miners readying themselves for the trip up and over the Chilkoot Pass en route to the Klondike gold fields. The brotherhood was established September 26, 1899 for the purposes of fraternal enjoyment and mutual aid. Historian I.N. Davidson reports "There were the usual objections to secret orders made to this new order by the churches, and the term "Arctic Bummers" on one side and "Snivelling Hypocrites" on the other were frequently heard." The sceptics were silenced when they saw that the lodge looked after its members in sickness and health, buried its dead and generally improved educational and social conditions of the booming mining camps. It wasn't long before every northern city, town or settlement of any importance boasted its Arctic Brotherhood Camp. Eventually more than 33 camps were established throughout the North and, at its height, the Arctic Brotherhood boasted some 10,000 members”

 

"In ancient times, ivory was a rare, costly import from far-off Africa or India... but metals rust, alloys tarnish, and wood rots. Ivory grows more beautiful with age...

 

Here then is one of ivory's greatest assets - its constancy or consistency, its ability to retain its shape. This ability to come into contact wth harsh reality without being thereby changed or destroyed is what makes ivory the perfect symbol for loyalty and fidelity.

 

When men began to reconstruct Dominic's life they were struck by the fact that he enjoyed the company of women, especially of young women, and did so without ever sinning. Observers began to preceive how fine and noble and true a life he had led, and in the end expressed their admiration by calling him an 'ivory of chastity'.

 

The combination of ivory and chastity requires a bit of explaining. If ivory belongs pretty much to the past, many today are of the opinion that chastity belongs there also. Many view with suspicion anyone who vows a life of chastity, which they interpret as hypocritical, impossible, selfish, or (especially) neurotic...

 

Chastity is not running away from people, an insensitivity to love or to other human beings; it is rather a special loving way of giving oneself to God and to man, an unswerving gift of one's whole self.... those who vow chastity [celibacy, strictly speaking] commit themselves fully to the love of God and of other human beings in the single state. It is of this generous gift of self that ivory is the beautiful symbol."

– Fr Richard Murphy OP

 

This photo shows a 17th-century carving of St Dominic fashioned from a peice of ivory.

This is the first photo of us he has allowed me to post in a very long time. Perhaps he is mellowing.

 

Insights - Janny and being Transgender.

 

I adore digital photography. It is God's way of making amends for what he did to us.

 

I love making new friends. Please feel free to send me a message. If you do wish to become my friend please post a comment on my photostream before adding me, I feel this makes us better friends and our friendship not too superficial.

 

I especially enjoy reading informative profiles.

 

I am in a most fortunate position in that I have a wonderfully accepting family. I am blessed and I do not take this lightly or for granted. I know of many in my situation who have lost family and this makes me truly sad. I cannot explain exactly why this happens any more than I can explain transgenderism but I think, from observation, that family rejects when embarrassment takes over.

 

I am not ashamed to dress like a woman because I don't think it is shameful to be a woman.

 

I first experienced feminine feelings at three years of age. It is my earliest memory.

 

As for labels I really don't care. Call me a transvestite, t girl, crossdresser, transgender, tranny or whatever. The only thing I do not like to see is girls written as 'gurls'. Where did 'gurl' come from? When enfemme we are girls or perhaps more accurately women. That is how I feel and that is what I am. I am a don't call me a gurl girl. As a matter of fact I have avoided any group with 'gurl' in the title and choose not to respond to any 'gurl' reference.

 

I have absolutely no reasonable explanation why I have the driving need to express myself as a woman. I have read volumes on the subject over many years and I have reached the conclusion that no one truly knows. I do believe that there are people who are born in the wrong physical gender to their psychological gender. These people often display their true gender to the world at an early age, refuse to conform to their birth gender and do not in any way attempt to hide the fact.

 

Those like myself who have functioned successfully in our birth gender and have hidden our cross gender feelings are I think a different case altogether.

 

Could it be so simple as we enjoy presenting as the opposite gender to the extent that some of us choose to live our lives as the opposite sex full time. Simply put, given the choice and the opportunity, we prefer to be women.

 

Some trans people have described their transgenderism as a gift. I don't know if I would go as far as to say that but it is definitely an interesting aspect to life. There are times when I absolutely embrace Jan. I cannot imagine not having her in my life. Being trans and therefore a member of a minority gives an insight to the trials other minorities face.

 

Perception

 

Being perceived and treated as a woman is a totally different than being seen and dealt with as a man and I feel fortunate to experience something that half the population will never ever know.

 

A lot of genetic women choose to down play their expression of femininity. Such as wearing trousers, little or no makeup or jewelery for example. We rarely go down this path. The obvious problem with this is the proclivity to overdress. One should not wear a party dress, pearls and green eyeshadow to the mall. Also middle aged genetic women rarely (read never) wear mini skirts.

 

I feel that appropriate behaviour and presentation is very important if we want to be accepted and in some way respected.

 

The older I become the more I wonder why someone like myself choosing to present as female is such a big deal to some. I believe things are improving and that's nice.

 

Why the need for photos?

 

I realise that this is a perfectly valid question. After all I don't see too many genetic women posting pictures of themselves in their various outfits and social situations.

 

I enjoy being able to look back at the wonderful times I have had socialising and I also use my photos to record my changing looks and presentation. This does not need to be in a public forum yet many of us choose to use internet communities for this purpose.

 

I do know that it is much more satisfying to dress and go out than to dress in private. Perhaps posting publicly

is an extension of that.

 

Gender dysphoria - Wikipedia

 

'Gender dysphoria (GD), or gender identity disorder (GID), is the distress a person experiences as a result of the sex and gender they were assigned at birth. In this case, the assigned sex and gender do not match the person's gender identity, and the person is transgender.'

 

I have met very few people who have expressed a love of their birth gender. It is rare to hear someone cisgender say they love being a man or a woman. The few occasions have been women when trying to understand my desire to be female expressing their understanding by stating their own love of being female. As for men the only time I have heard them say they are glad they were not born female is related to periods and childbirth.

 

Gender dysphoria can be quite debilitating. Its intensity rises and falls at different times. When strong it can be all consuming to the extent that it is difficult to focus on much else. Thankfully these periods are fleeting but never the less require vigilance to control. I imagine only someone who has experienced GD could relate to this.

 

Things I Like

 

People making an effort to present nicely.

Excellent personal hygiene.

Interesting profile stories.

Pretty dresses.

Pretty shoes.

Caring people.

Understated makeup.

Shopping.

Smooth skin.

Drop earrings.

Good conversationalists who are also good listeners.

  

Things I Don't Like.

 

Smoking, smokers, cigarettes but not fags.

Self absorbed people.

Tasteless photos of male genitalia.

Tasteless photos of hairy male bodies in ladies underwear.

Tasteless photos of lewd acts.

Tasteless photos.

Tattoos. (On anyone)

Foul language.

The word 'gurl' in any context.

Poor hygiene.

Micro minis on anyone over the age of sixteen.

Ugly shorts.

Clownish makeup.

Homophobes.

Hypocrites.

Fibbers.

Thieves.

Narcissists.

Illicit drugs in any form.

Poker machines.

People who cannot be bothered to spell correctly - God knows the internet provides the answers.

T Girls giving themselves super weird names.

 

Jan.

youtu.be/KcPcJ9ycEu4?t=2m22s Full Feature

Curse of the Demon / Night of the Demon

Columbia TriStar Home Entertainment

1957/58 / B&W / 1:78 anamorphic 16:9 / 82, 95 min. / Street Date August 13, 2002 / $24.95

Starring Dana Andrews, Peggy Cummins, Niall MacGinnis, Maurice Denham, Athene Seyler

Cinematography Ted Scaife

Production Designer Ken Adam

Special Effects George Blackwell, S.D. Onions, Wally Veevers

Film Editor Michael Gordon

Original Music Clifton Parker

Written by Charles Bennett and Hal E. Chester from the story Casting the Runes by Montague R. James

Produced by Frank Bevis, Hal E. Chester

Directed by Jacques Tourneur

  

Reviewed by Glenn Erickson

 

Savant champions a lot of genre movies but only infrequently does one appear like Jacques Tourneur's superlative Curse of the Demon. It's simply better than the rest -- an intelligent horror film with some very good scares. It occupies a stylistic space that sums up what's best in ghost stories and can hold its own with most any supernatural film ever made. Oh, it's also a great entertainment that never fails to put audiences at the edge of their seats.

What's more, Columbia TriStar has shown uncommon respect for their genre output by including both versions of Curse of the Demon on one disc. Savant has full coverage on the versions and their restoration below, following his thorough and analytical (read: long-winded and anal) coverage of the film itself.

 

Synopsis:

  

Dr. John Holden (Dana Andrews), a scientist and professional debunker of superstitious charlatans, arrives in England to help Professor Henry Harrington (Maurice Denham) assault the phony cult surrounding Dr. Julian Karswell (Niall McGinnis). But Harrington has mysteriously died and Holden becomes involved with his niece Joanna (Peggy Cummins), who thinks Karswell had something to do with it. Karswell's 'tricks' confuse the skeptical Holden, but he stubbornly holds on to his conviction that he's " ... not a sucker, like 90% of the human race." That is, until the evidence mounts that Harrington was indeed killed by a demon summoned from Hell, and that Holden is the next intended victim!

  

The majority of horror films are fantasies in which we accept supernatural ghosts, demons and monsters as part of a deal we've made with the authors: they dress the fantasy in an attractive guise and arrange the variables into an interesting pattern, and we agree to play along for the sake of enjoyment. When it works the movies can resonate with personal meaning. Even though Dracula and Frankenstein are unreal, they are relevant because they're aligned with ideas and themes in our subconscious.

Horror films that seriously confront the no-man's land between rational reality and supernatural belief have a tough time of it. Everyone who believes in God knows that the tug o' war between rationality and faith in our culture has become so clogged with insane belief systems it's considered impolite to dismiss people who believe in flying saucers or the powers of crystals or little glass pyramids. One of Dana Andrews' key lines in Curse of the Demon, defending his dogged skepticism against those urging him to have an open mind, is his retort, "If the world is a dark place ruled by Devils and Demons, we all might as well give up right now." Curse of the Demon balances itself between skepticism and belief with polite English manners, letting us have our fun as it lays its trap. We watch Andrews roll his eyes and scoff at the feeble séance hucksters and the dire warnings of a foolish-looking necromancer. Meanwhile, a whole dark world of horror sneaks up on him. The film's intelligent is such that we're not offended by its advocacy of dark forces or even its literal, in-your-face demon.

The remarkable Curse of the Demon was made in England for Columbia but is gloriously unaffected by that company's zero-zero track record with horror films. Producer Hal E. Chester would seem an odd choice to make a horror classic after producing Joe Palooka films and acting as a criminal punk in dozens of teen crime movies. The obvious strong cards are writer Charles Bennett, the brains behind several classic English Hitchcock pictures (who 'retired' into meaningless bliss writing for schlockmeister Irwin Allen) and Jacques Tourneur, a master stylist who put Val Lewton on the map with Cat People and I Walked With a Zombie. Tourneur made interesting Westerns (Canyon Passage, Great Day in the Morning) and perhaps the most romantic film noir, Out of the Past. By the late '50s he was on what Andrew Sarris in his American Film called 'a commercial downgrade'. The critic lumped Curse of the Demon with low budget American turkeys like The Fearmakers. 1

Put Tourneur with an intelligent script, a decent cameraman and more than a minimal budget and great things could happen. We're used to watching Corman Poe films, English Hammer films and Italian Bavas and Fredas, all the while making excuses for the shortcomings that keep them in the genre ghetto (where they all do quite well, thank you). There's even a veiled resentment against upscale shockers like The Innocents that have resources (money, time, great actors) denied our favorite toilers in the genre realm. Curse of the Demon is above all those considerations. It has name actors past their prime and reasonable production values. Its own studio (at least in America) released it like a genre quickie, double-billed with dreck like The Night the World Exploded and The Giant Claw. They cut it by 13 minutes, changed its title (to ape The Curse of Frankenstein?) and released a poster featuring a huge, slavering demon monster that some believe was originally meant to be barely glimpsed in the film itself. 2

 

Horror movies can work on more than one level but Curse of the Demon handles several levels and then some. The narrative sets up John Holden as a professional skeptic who raises a smirking eyebrow to the open minds of his colleagues. Unlike most second-banana scientists in horror films, they express divergent points of view. Holden just sees himself as having common sense but his peers are impressed by the consistency of demonological beliefs through history. Maybe they all saw Christensen's Witchcraft through the Ages, which might have served as a primer for author Charles Bennett. Smart dialogue allows Holden to score points by scoffing at the then-current "regression to past lives" scam popularized by the Bridey Murphy craze. 3 While Holden stays firmly rooted to his position, coining smart phrases and sarcastic put-downs of believers, the other scientists are at least willing to consider alternate possibilities. Indian colleague K.T. Kumar (Peter Elliott) keeps his opinion to himself. But when asked, he politely states that he believes entirely in the world of demons! 4

Holden may think he has the truth by the tail but it takes Kindergarten teacher Joanna Harrington (Peggy Cummins of Gun Crazy fame) to show him that being a skeptic doesn't mean ignoring facts in front of one's face. Always ready for a drink (a detail added to tailor the part to Andrews?), Holden spends the first couple of reels as interested in pursuing Miss Harrington, as he is the devil-worshippers. The details and coincidences pile up with alarming speed -- the disappearing ink untraceable by the lab, the visual distortions that might be induced by hypnosis, the pages torn from his date book and the parchment of runic symbols. Holden believes them to be props in a conspiracy to draw him into a vortex of doubt and fear. Is he being set up the way a Voodoo master cons his victim, by being told he will die, with fabricated clues to make it all appear real? Holden even gets a bar of sinister music stuck in his head. It's the title theme -- is this a wicked joke on movie soundtracks?

 

Speak of the Devil...

 

This brings us to the wonderful character of Julian Karswell, the kiddie-clown turned multi-millionaire cult leader. The man who launched Alfred Hitchcock as a maker of sophisticated thrillers here creates one of the most interesting villains ever written, one surely as good as any of Hitchcock's. In the short American cut Karswell is a shrewd games-player who shows Holden too many of his cards and finally outsmarts himself. The longer UK cut retains the full depth of his character.

Karswell has tapped into the secrets of demonology to gain riches and power, yet he tragically recognizes that he is as vulnerable to the forces of Hell as are the cowering minions he controls through fear. Karswell's coven means business. It's an entirely different conception from the aesthetic salon coffee klatch of The Seventh Victim, where nothing really supernatural happens and the only menace comes from a secret society committing new crimes to hide old ones.

Karswell keeps his vast following living in fear, and supporting his extravagant lifestyle under the idea that Evil is Good, and Good Evil. At first the Hobart Farm seems to harbor religious Christian fundamentalists who have turned their backs on their son. Then we find out that they're Karswell followers, living blighted lives on cursed acreage and bled dry by their cultist "leader." Karswell's mum (Athene Seyler) is an inversion of the usual insane Hitchcock mother. She lovingly resists her son's philosophy and actively tries to help the heroes. That's in the Night version, of course. In the shorter American cut she only makes silly attempts to interest Joanna in her available son and arranges for a séance. Concerned by his "negativity", Mother confronts Julian on the stairs. He has no friends, no wife, no family. He may be a mass extortionist but he's still her baby. Karswell explains that by exploiting his occult knowledge, he's immersed himself forever in Evil. "You get nothing for nothing"

 

Karswell is like the Devil on Earth, a force with very limited powers that he can't always control. By definition he cannot trust any of his own minions. They're unreliable, weak and prone to double-cross each other, and they attract publicity that makes a secret society difficult to conceal. He can't just kill Holden, as he hasn't a single henchman on the payroll. He instead summons the demon, a magic trick he's only recently mastered. When Karswell turns Harrington away in the first scene we can sense his loneliness. The only person who can possibly understand is right before him, finally willing to admit his power and perhaps even tolerate him. Karswell has no choice but to surrender Harrington over to the un-recallable Demon. In his dealings with the cult-debunker Holden, Karswell defends his turf but is also attempting to justify himself to a peer, another man who might be a potential equal. It's more than a duel of egos between a James Bond and a Goldfinger, with arrogance and aggression masking a mutual respect; Karswell knows he's taken Lewton's "wrong turning in life," and will have to pay for it eventually.

Karswell eventually earns Holden's respect, especially after the fearful testimony of Rand Hobart. It's taken an extreme demonstration to do it, but Holden budges from his smug position. He may not buy all of the demonology hocus-pocus but it's plain enough that Karswell or his "demon" is going to somehow rub him out. Seeking to sneak the parchment back into Karswell's possession, Holden becomes a worthy hero because he's found the maturity to question his own preconceptions. Armed with his rational, cool head, he's a force that makes Karswell -- without his demon, of course -- a relative weakling. Curse of the Demon ends in a classic ghost story twist, with just desserts dished out and balance recovered. The good characters are less sure of their world than when they started, but they're still able to cope. Evil has been defeated not by love or faith, but by intellect.

 

Curse of the Demon has the Val Lewton sensibility as has often been cited in Tourneur's frequent (and very effective) use of the device called the Lewton "Bus" -- a wholly artificial jolt of fast motion and noise interrupting a tense scene. There's an ultimate "bus" at the end when a train blasts in and sets us up for the end title. It "erases" the embracing actors behind it and I've always thought it had to be an inspiration for the last shot of North by NorthWest. The ever-playful Hitchcock was reportedly a big viewer of fantastic films, from which he seems to have gotten many ideas. He's said to have dined with Lewton on more than one occasion (makes sense, they were at one time both Selznick contractees) and carried on a covert competition with William Castle, of all people.

Visually, Tourneur's film is marvelous, effortlessly conjuring menacing forests lit in the fantastic Mario Bava mode by Ted Scaife, who was not known as a genre stylist. There are more than a few perfunctory sets, with some unflattering mattes used for airport interiors, etc.. Elsewhere we see beautiful designs by Ken Adam in one of his earliest outings. Karswell's ornate floor and central staircase evoke an Escher print, especially when visible/invisible hands appear on the banister. A hypnotic, maze-like set for a hotel corridor is also tainted by Escher and evokes a sense of the uncanny even better than the horrid sounds Holden hears. The build-up of terror is so effective that one rather unconvincing episode (a fight with a Cat People - like transforming cat) does no harm. Other effects, such as the demon footprints appearing in the forest, work beautifully.

In his Encyclopedia of Horror Movies Phil Hardy very rightly relates Curse of the Demon's emphasis on the visual to the then just-beginning Euro-horror subgenre. The works of Bava, Margheriti and Freda would make the photographic texture of the screen the prime element of their films, sometimes above acting and story logic.

 

Columbia TriStar's DVD of Curse of the Demon / Night of the Demon presents both versions of this classic in one package. American viewers saw an effective but abbreviated cut-down. If you've seen Curse of the Demon on cable TV or rented a VHS or a laser anytime after 1987, you're not going to see anything different in the film. In 1987 Columbia happened to pull out the English cut when it went to re-master. When the title came up as Night of the Demon, they just slugged in the Curse main title card and let it go.

From such a happy accident (believe me, nobody in charge at Columbia at the time would have purposely given a film like this a second glance) came a restoration at least as wonderful as the earlier reversion of The Fearless Vampire Killers to its original form. Genre fans were taken by surprise and the Laserdisc became a hot item that often traded for hundreds of dollars. 6

 

Back in film school Savant had been convinced that ever seeing the long, original Night cut was a lost cause. An excellent article in the old Photon magazine in the early '70s 5, before such analytical work was common, accurately laid out the differences between the two versions, something Savant needs to do sometime with The Damned and These Are the Damned. The Photon article very accurately describes the cut scenes and what the film lost without them, and certainly inspired many of the ideas here.

Being able to see the two versions back-to-back shows exactly how they differ. Curse omits some scenes and rearranges others. Gone is some narration from the title sequence, most of the airplane ride, some dialogue on the ground with the newsmen and several scenes with Karswell talking to his mother. Most crucially missing are Karswell's mother showing Joanna the cabalistic book everyone talks so much about and Holden's entire visit to the Hobart farm to secure a release for his examination of Rand Hobart. Of course the cut film still works (we loved the cut Curse at UCLA screenings and there are people who actually think it's better) but it's nowhere near as involving as the complete UK version. Curse also reshuffles some events, moving Holden's phantom encounter in the hallway nearer the beginning, which may have been to get a spooky scene in the middle section or to better disguise the loss of whole scenes later. The chop-job should have been obvious. The newly imposed fades and dissolves look awkward. One cut very sloppily happens right in the middle of a previous dissolve.

Night places both Andrews and Cummins' credits above the title and gives McGinnis an "also starring" credit immediately afterwards. Oddly, Curse sticks Cummins afterwards and relegates McGinnis to the top of the "also with" cast list. Maybe with his role chopped down, some Columbia executive thought he didn't deserve the billing?

Technically, both versions look just fine, very sharp and free of digital funk that would spoil the film's spooky visual texture. Night of the Demon is the version to watch for both content and quality. It's not perfect but has better contrast and less dirt than the American version. Curse has more emulsion scratches and flecking white dandruff in its dark scenes, yet looks fine until one sees the improvement of Night. Both shows are widescreen enhanced (hosanna), framing the action at its original tighter aspect ratio.

It's terrific that Columbia TriStar has brought out this film so thoughtfully, even though some viewers are going to be confused when their "double feature" disc appears to be two copies of the same movie. Let 'em stew. This is Savant's favorite release so far this year.

 

On a scale of Excellent, Good, Fair, and Poor, Curse of the Demon / Night of the Demon rates:

Movie: Excellent

  

Footnotes:

Made very close to Curse of the Demon and starring Dana Andrews, The Fearmakers (great title) was a Savant must-see until he caught up with it in the UA collection at MGM. It's a pitiful no-budgeter that claims Madison Avenue was providing public relations for foreign subversives, and is negligible even in the lists of '50s anti-Commie films.

Return

 

Curse of the Demon's Demon has been the subject of debate ever since the heyday of Famous Monsters of Filmland. From what's on record it's clear that producer Chester added or maximized the shots of the creature, a literal visualization of a fiery, brimstone-smoking classical woodcut demon that some viewers think looks ridiculous. Bennett and Tourneur's original idea was to never show a demon but the producer changed that. Tourneur probably directed most of the shots, only to have Chester over-use them. To Savant's thinking, the demon looks great. It is first perceived as an ominous sound, a less strident version of the disturbing noise made by Them! Then it manifests itself visually as a strange disturbance in the sky (bubbles? sparks? early slit-scan?) followed by a billowing cloud of sulphurous smoke (a dandy effect not exploited again until Close Encounters of the Third Kind). The long-shot demon is sometimes called the bicycle demon because he's a rod puppet with legs that move on a wheel-rig. Smoke belches from all over his scaly body. Close-ups are provided by a wonderfully sculpted head 'n' shoulders demon with articulated eyes and lips, a full decade or so before Carlo Rambaldi started engineering such devices.

Most of the debate centers on how much Demon should have been shown with the general consensus that less would have been better. People who dote on Lewton-esque ambivalence say that the film's slow buildup of rationality-versus demonology is destroyed by the very real Demon's appearance in the first scene, and that's where they'd like it removed or radically reduced. The Demon is so nicely integrated into the cutting (the giant foot in the first scene is a real jolt) that it's likely that Tourneur himself filmed it all, perhaps expecting the shots to be shorter or more obscured. It is also possible that the giant head was a post-Tourneur addition - it doesn't tie in with the other shots as well (especially when it rolls forward rather stiffly) and is rather blunt. Detractors lump it in with the gawd-awful head of The Black Scorpion, which is filmed the same way and almost certainly was an afterthought - and also became a key poster image. This demon head matches the surrounding action a lot better than did the drooling Scorpion.

Savant wouldn't change Curse of the Demon but if you put a gun to my head I'd shorten most of the shots in its first appearance, perhaps eliminating all close-ups except for the final, superb shot of the the giant claw reaching for Harrington / us.

  

Kumar, played (I assume) by an Anglo actor, immediately evokes all those Indian and other Third World characters in Hammer films whose indigenous cultures invariably hold all manner of black magic and insidious horror. When Hammer films are repetitious it's because they take eighty minutes or so to convince the imagination-challenged English heroes to even consider the premise of the film as being real. In Curse of the Demon, Holden's smart-tongued dismissal of outside viewpoints seems much more pigheaded now than it did in 1957, when heroes confidently defended conformist values without being challenged. Kumar is a scientist but also probably a Hindu or a Sikh. He has no difficulty reconciling his faith with his scientific detachment. Holden is far too tactful to call Kumar a crazy third-world guru but that's probably what he's thinking. He instead politely ignores him. Good old Kumar then saves Holden's hide with some timely information. I hope Holden remembered to thank him.

There's an unstated conclusion in Curse of the Demon: Holden's rigid disbelief of the supernatural means he also does not believe in a Christian God with its fundamentally spiritual faith system of Good and Evil, saints and devils, angels and demons. Horror movies that deal directly with religious symbolism and "real faith" can be hypocritical in their exploitation and brutal in their cheap toying with what are for many people sacred personal concepts. I'm thinking of course of The Exorcist here. That movie has all the grace of a reporter who shows a serial killer's atrocity photos to a mother whose child has just been kidnapped. Curse of the Demon hasn't The Exorcist's ruthless commercial instincts but instead has the modesty not to pretend to be profound, or even "real." Yet it expresses our basic human conflict between rationality and faith very nicely.

 

Savant called Jim Wyrnoski, who was associated with Photon, in an effort to find out more about the article, namely who wrote it. It was very well done and I've never forgotten it; I unfortunately loaned my copy out to good old Jim Ursini and it disappeared. Obviously, a lot of the ideas here, I first read there. Perhaps a reader who knows better how to take care of their belongings can help me with the info? Ursini and Alain Silvers' More Things than are Dreamt Of Limelight, 1994, analyzes Curse of the Demon (and many other horror movies) in the context of its source story.

 

This is a true story: Cut to 2000. Columbia goes to re-master Curse of the Demon and finds that the fine-grain original of the English version is missing. The original long version of the movie may be lost forever. A few months later a collector appears who says he bought it from another unnamed collector and offers to trade it for a print copy of the American version, which he prefers. Luckily, an intermediary helps the collector follow up on his offer and the authorities are not contacted about what some would certainly call stolen property. The long version is now once again safe. Studios clearly need to defend their property but many collectors have "items" they personally have acquired legally. More often than you might think, such finds come about because studios throw away important elements. If the studios threaten prosecution, they will find that collectors will never approach them. They'd probably prefer to destroy irreplaceable film to avoid being criminalized.