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This ink drawing is based on a freehand copy of a traditional Tibetan Buddhist black and white "iron-wire" outline. The colors and the leaning posture were added by me.
Vajradhara is usually portrayed with a lithe, graceful body, sitting upright on a lotus petal, with a slight tilt to his head. I chose to exaggerate that tilt to emphasize his harmony with the flow of things as well as his stillness at the center of things.
The name Vajradhara means "holder of the vajra [thunderbolt]," implying that Vajradhara is the holder or protector of Tantrism -- the Tibetan form of Buddhism. Here he holds a vajra in each hand.
There is a sacred mark between his eyebrows, representing wisdom. His neck has three folds, which are derived from the auspicious conch shell blown at Buddhist ceremonies, and which signify the sweetness of his own speech. The five-pronged crown and the numerous jewels adorning his body indicate his pre-eminent status in the Buddhist pantheon of bodhisattvas or dieties.
View a mandala generated from this drawing
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9.4.09
The flight arrived on time; and the twelve hours while on board passed quickly and without incident. To be sure, the quality of the Cathay Pacific service was exemplary once again.
Heathrow reminds me of Newark International. The décor comes straight out of the sterile 80's and is less an eyesore than an insipid background to the rhythm of human activity, such hustle and bustle, at the fore. There certainly are faces from all races present, creating a rich mosaic of humanity which is refreshing if not completely revitalizing after swimming for so long in a sea of Chinese faces in Hong Kong.
Internet access is sealed in England, it seems. Nothing is free; everything is egregiously monetized from the wireless hotspots down to the desktop terminals. I guess Hong Kong has spoiled me with its abundant, free access to the information superhighway.
11.4.09
Despite staying in a room with five other backpackers, I have been sleeping well. The mattress and pillow are firm; my earplugs keep the noise out; and the sleeping quarters are as dark as a cave when the lights are out, and only as bright as, perhaps, a dreary rainy day when on. All in all, St. Paul's is a excellent place to stay for the gregarious, adventurous, and penurious city explorer - couchsurfing may be a tenable alternative; I'll test for next time.
Yesterday Connie and I gorged ourselves at the borough market where there were all sorts of delectable, savory victuals. There was definitely a European flavor to the food fair: simmering sausages were to be found everywhere; and much as the meat was plentiful, and genuine, so were the dairy delicacies, in the form of myriad rounds of cheese, stacked high behind checkered tabletops. Of course, we washed these tasty morsels down with copious amounts of alcohol that flowed from cups as though amber waterfalls. For the first time I tried mulled wine, which tasted like warm, rancid fruit punch - the ideal tonic for a drizzling London day, I suppose. We later killed the afternoon at the pub, shooting the breeze while imbibing several diminutive half-pints in the process. Getting smashed at four in the afternoon doesn't seem like such a bad thing anymore, especially when you are having fun in the company of friends; I can more appreciate why the English do it so much!
Earlier in the day, we visited the Tate Modern. Its turbine room lived up to its prominent billing what with a giant spider, complete with bulbous egg sac, anchoring the retrospective exhibit. The permanent galleries, too, were a delight upon which to feast one's eyes. Picasso, Warhol and Pollock ruled the chambers of the upper floors with the products of their lithe wrists; and I ended up becoming a huge fan of cubism, while developing a disdain for abstract art and its vacuous images, which, I feel, are devoid of both motivation and emotion.
My first trip yesterday morning was to Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal Gunners. It towers imperiously over the surrounding neighborhood; yet for all its majesty, the place sure was quiet! Business did pick up later, however, once the armory shop opened, and dozens of fans descended on it like bees to a hive. I, too, swooped in on a gift-buying mission, and wound up purchasing a book for Godfrey, a scarf for a student, and a jersey - on sale, of course - for good measure.
I'm sitting in the Westminster Abbey Museum now, resting my weary legs and burdened back. So far, I've been verily impressed with what I've seen, such a confluence of splendor and history before me that it would require days to absorb it all, when regretfully I can spare only a few hours. My favorite part of the abbey is the poets corner where no less a literary luminary than Samuel Johnson rests in peace - his bust confirms his homely presence, which was so vividly captured in his biography.
For lunch I had a steak and ale pie, served with mash, taken alongside a Guinness, extra cold - 2 degrees centigrade colder, the bartender explained. It went down well, like all the other delicious meals I've had in England; and no doubt by now I have grown accustomed to inebriation at half past two. Besides, Liverpool were playing inspired football against Blackburn; and my lunch was complete.
Having had my fill of football, I decided to skip my ticket scalping endeavor at Stamford Bridge and instead wandered over to the British Museum to inspect their extensive collections. Along the way, my eye caught a theater, its doors wide open and admitting customers. With much rapidity, I subsequently checked the show times, saw that a performance was set to begin, and at last rushed to the box office to purchase a discounted ticket - if you call a 40 pound ticket a deal, that is. That's how I grabbed a seat to watch Hairspray in the West End.
The show was worth forty pounds. The music was addictive; and the stage design and effects were not so much kitschy as delightfully stimulating - the pulsating background lights were at once scintillating and penetrating. The actors as well were vivacious, oozing charisma while they danced and delivered lines dripping in humor. Hairspray is a quality production and most definitely recommended.
12.4.09
At breakfast I sat across from a man who asked me to which country Hong Kong had been returned - China or Japan. That was pretty funny. Then he started spitting on my food as he spoke, completely oblivious to my breakfast becoming the receptacle in which the fruit of his inner churl was being placed. I guess I understand the convention nowadays of covering one's mouth whilst speaking and masticating at the same time!
We actually conversed on London life in general, and I praised London for its racial integration, the act of which is a prodigious leap of faith for any society, trying to be inclusive, accepting all sorts of people. It wasn't as though the Brits were trying in vain to be all things to all men, using Spanish with the visitors from Spain, German with the Germans and, even, Hindi with the Indians, regardless of whether or not Hindi was their native language; not even considering the absurd idea of encouraging the international adoption of their language; thereby completely keeping English in English hands and allowing its proud polyglots to "practice" their languages. Indeed, the attempt of the Londoners to avail themselves of the rich mosaic of ethnic knowledge, and to seek a common understanding with a ubiquitous English accent is an exemplar, and the bedrock for any world city.
I celebrated Jesus' resurrection at the St. Andrew's Street Church in Cambridge. The parishioners of this Baptist church were warm and affable, and I met several of them, including one visiting (Halliday) linguistics scholar from Zhongshan university in Guangzhou, who in fact had visited my tiny City University of Hong Kong in 2003. The service itself was more traditional and the believers fewer in number than the "progressive" services at any of the charismatic, evangelical churches in HK; yet that's what makes this part of the body of Christ unique; besides, the message was as brief as a powerpoint slide, and informative no less; the power word which spoke into my life being a question from John 21:22 - what is that to you?
Big trees; exquisite lawns; and old, pointy colleges; that's Cambridge in a nutshell. Sitting here, sipping on a half-pint of Woodforde's Wherry, I've had a leisurely, if not languorous, day so far; my sole duty consisting of walking around while absorbing the verdant environment as though a sponge, camera in tow.
I am back at the sublime beer, savoring a pint of Sharp's DoomBar before my fish and chips arrive; the drinking age is 18, but anyone whose visage even hints of youthful brilliance is likely to get carded these days, the bartender told me. The youth drinking culture here is almost as twisted as the university drinking culture in America.
My stay in Cambridge, relaxing and desultory as it may be, is about to end after this late lunch. I an not sure if there is anything left to see, save for the American graveyard which rests an impossible two miles away. I have had a wonderful time in this town; and am thankful for the access into its living history - the residents here must demonstrate remarkable patience and tolerance what with so many tourists ambling on the streets, peering - and photographing - into every nook and cranny.
13.4.09
There are no rubbish bins, yet I've seen on the streets many mixed race couples in which the men tend to be white - the women also belonging to a light colored ethnicity, usually some sort of Asian; as well saw some black dudes and Indian dudes with white chicks.
People here hold doors, even at the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes it appears as though they are going out on a limb, just waiting for the one who will take the responsibility for the door from them, at which point I rush out to relieve them of such a fortuitous burden.
I visited the British Museum this morning. The two hours I spent there did neither myself nor the exhibits any justice because there really is too much to survey, enough captivating stuff to last an entire day, I think. The bottomless well of artifacts from antiquity, drawing from sources as diverse as Korea, and Mesopotamia, is a credit to the British empire, without whose looting most of this amazing booty would be unavailable for our purview; better, I think, for these priceless treasures to be open to all in the grandest supermarket of history than away from human eyes, and worst yet, in the hands of unscrupulous collectors or in the rubbish bin, possibly.
Irene and I took in the ballet Giselle at The Royal Opera House in the afternoon. The building is a plush marvel, and a testament to this city's love for the arts. The ballet itself was satisfying, the first half being superior to the second, in which the nimble dancers demonstrated their phenomenal dexterity in, of all places, a graveyard covered in a cloak of smoke and darkness. I admit, their dance of the dead, in such a gloomy necropolis, did strike me as, strange.
Two amicable ladies from Kent convinced me to visit their hometown tomorrow, where, they told me, the authentic, "working" Leeds Castle and the mighty interesting home of Charles Darwin await.
I'm nursing a pint of Green King Ruddles and wondering about the profusion of British ales and lagers; the British have done a great deed for the world by creating an interminable line of low-alcohol session beers that can be enjoyed at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner; and their disservice is this: besides this inexhaustible supply of cheap beer ensnaring my inner alcoholic, I feel myself putting on my freshman fifteen, almost ten years after the fact; I am going to have to run a bit harder back in Hong Kong if I want to burn all this malty fuel off.
Irene suggested I stop by the National Art Gallery since we were in the area; and it was an hour well spent. The gallery currently presents a special exhibit on Picasso, the non-ticketed section of which features several seductive renderings, including David spying on Bathsheba - repeated in clever variants - and parodies of other masters' works. Furthermore, the main gallery houses two fabulous portraits by Joshua Reynolds, who happens to be favorite of mine, he in life being a close friend of Samuel Johnson - I passed by Boswells, where its namesake first met Johnson, on my way to the opera house.
14.4.09
I prayed last night, and went through my list, lifting everyone on it up to the Lord. That felt good; that God is alive now, and ever present in my life and in the lives of my brothers and sisters.
Doubtless, then, I have felt quite wistful, as though a specter in the land of the living, being in a place where religious fervor, it seems, is a thing of the past, a trifling for many, to be hidden away in the opaque corners of centuries-old cathedrals that are more expensive tourist destinations than liberating homes of worship these days. Indeed, I have yet to see anyone pray, outside of the Easter service which I attended in Cambridge - for such an ecstatic moment in verily a grand church, would you believe that it was only attended by at most three dozen spirited ones. The people of England, and Europe in general, have, it is my hope, only locked away the Word, relegating it to the quiet vault of their hearts. May it be taken out in the sudden pause before mealtimes and in the still crisp mornings and cool, silent nights. There is still hope for a revival in this place, for faith to rise like that splendid sun every morning. God would love to rescue them, to deliver them in this day, it is certain.
I wonder what Londoners think, if anything at all, about their police state which, like a vine in the shadows, has taken root in all corners of daily life, from the terrorist notifications in the underground, which implore Londoners to report all things suspicious, to the pair of dogs which eagerly stroll through Euston. What makes this all the more incredible is the fact that even the United States, the indomitable nemesis of the fledgling, rebel order, doesn't dare bombard its citizens with such fear mongering these days, especially with Obama in office; maybe we've grown wise in these past few years to the dubious returns of surrendering civil liberties to the state, of having our bags checked everywhere - London Eye; Hairspray; and The Royal Opera House check bags in London while the museums do not; somehow, that doesn't add up for me.
I'm in a majestic bookshop on New Street in Birmingham, and certainly to confirm my suspicions, there are just as many books on the death of Christianity in Britain as there are books which attempt to murder Christianity everywhere. I did find, however, a nice biography on John Wesley by Roy Hattersley and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis. I may pick up the former.
Lunch with Sally was pleasant and mirthful. We dined at a French restaurant nearby New Street - yes, Birmingham is a cultural capitol! Sally and I both tried their omelette, while her boyfriend had the fish, without chips. Conversation was light, the levity was there and so was our reminiscing about those fleeting moments during our first year in Hong Kong; it is amazing how friendships can resume so suddenly with a smile. On their recommendation, I am on my way to Warwick Castle - they also suggested that I visit Cadbury World, but they cannot take on additional visitors at the moment, the tourist office staff informed me, much to my disappointment!
Visiting Warwick Castle really made for a great day out. The castle, parts of which were established by William the Conquerer in 1068, is as much a kitschy tourist trap as a meticulous preservation of history, at times a sillier version of Ocean Park while at others a dignified dedication to a most glorious, inexorably English past. The castle caters to all visitors; and not surprisingly, that which delighted all audiences was a giant trebuchet siege engine, which for the five p.m. performance hurled a fireball high and far into the air - fantastic! Taliban beware!
15.4.09
I'm leaving on a jet plane this evening; don't know when I'll be back in England again. I'll miss this quirky, yet endearing place; and that I shall miss Irene and Tom who so generously welcomed me into their home, fed me, and suffered my use of their toilet and shower goes without saying. I'm grateful for God's many blessings on this trip.
On the itinerary today is a trip to John Wesley's home, followed by a visit to the Imperial War Museum. Already this morning I picked up a tube of Oilatum, a week late perhaps, which Teri recommended I use to treat this obstinate, dermal weakness of mine - I'm happy to report that my skin has stopped crying.
John Wesley's home is alive and well. Services are still held in the chapel everyday; and its crypt, so far from being a cellar for the dead, is a bright, spacious museum in which all things Wesley are on display - I never realized how much of an iconic figure he became in England; at the height of this idol frenzy, ironic in itself, he must have been as popular as the Beatles were at their apex. The house itself is a multi-story edifice with narrow, precipitous staircases and spacious rooms decorated in an 18th century fashion.
I found Samuel Johnson's house within a maze of red brick hidden alongside Fleet Street. To be in the home of the man who wrote the English dictionary, and whose indefatigable love for obscure words became the inspiration for my own lexical obsession, this, by far, is the climax of my visit to England! The best certainly has been saved for last.
There are a multitude of portraits hanging around the house like ornaments on a tree. Every likeness has its own story, meticulously retold on the crib sheets in each room. Celebrities abound, including David Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted several of the finer images in the house. I have developed a particular affinity for Oliver Goldsmith, of whom Boswell writes, "His person was short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. It appears as though I, too, could use a more flattering description of myself!
I regretfully couldn't stop to try the curry in England; I guess the CityU canteen's take on the dish will have to do. I did, however, have the opportune task of flirting with the cute Cathay Pacific counter staff who checked me in. She was gorgeous in red, light powder on her cheeks, with real diamond earrings, she said; and her small, delicate face, commanded by a posh British accent rendered her positively irresistible, electrifying. Not only did she grant me an aisle seat but she had the gumption to return my fawning with zest; she must be a pro at this by now.
I saw her again as she was pulling double-duty, collecting tickets prior to boarding. She remembered my quest for curry; and in the fog of infatuation, where nary a man has been made, I fumbled my words like the sloppy kid who has had too much punch. I am just an amateur, alas, an "Oliver Goldsmith" with the ladies - I got no game - booyah!
Some final, consequential bits: because of the chavs, Burberry no longer sells those fashionable baseball caps; because of the IRA, rubbish bins are no longer a commodity on the streets of London, and as a result, the streets and the Underground of the city are a soiled mess; and because of other terrorists from distant, more arid lands, going through a Western airport has taken on the tedium of perfunctory procedure that doesn't make me feel any safer from my invisible enemies.
At last, I saw so many Indians working at Heathrow that I could have easily mistaken the place for Mumbai. Their presence surprised me because their portion of the general population surely must be less than their portion of Heathrow staff, indicating some mysterious hiring bias. Regardless, they do a superb job with cursory airport checks, and in general are absurdly funny and witty when not tactless.
That's all for England!
9.4.09
The flight arrived on time; and the twelve hours while on board passed quickly and without incident. To be sure, the quality of the Cathay Pacific service was exemplary once again.
Heathrow reminds me of Newark International. The décor comes straight out of the sterile 80's and is less an eyesore than an insipid background to the rhythm of human activity, such hustle and bustle, at the fore. There certainly are faces from all races present, creating a rich mosaic of humanity which is refreshing if not completely revitalizing after swimming for so long in a sea of Chinese faces in Hong Kong.
Internet access is sealed in England, it seems. Nothing is free; everything is egregiously monetized from the wireless hotspots down to the desktop terminals. I guess Hong Kong has spoiled me with its abundant, free access to the information superhighway.
11.4.09
Despite staying in a room with five other backpackers, I have been sleeping well. The mattress and pillow are firm; my earplugs keep the noise out; and the sleeping quarters are as dark as a cave when the lights are out, and only as bright as, perhaps, a dreary rainy day when on. All in all, St. Paul's is a excellent place to stay for the gregarious, adventurous, and penurious city explorer - couchsurfing may be a tenable alternative; I'll test for next time.
Yesterday Connie and I gorged ourselves at the borough market where there were all sorts of delectable, savory victuals. There was definitely a European flavor to the food fair: simmering sausages were to be found everywhere; and much as the meat was plentiful, and genuine, so were the dairy delicacies, in the form of myriad rounds of cheese, stacked high behind checkered tabletops. Of course, we washed these tasty morsels down with copious amounts of alcohol that flowed from cups as though amber waterfalls. For the first time I tried mulled wine, which tasted like warm, rancid fruit punch - the ideal tonic for a drizzling London day, I suppose. We later killed the afternoon at the pub, shooting the breeze while imbibing several diminutive half-pints in the process. Getting smashed at four in the afternoon doesn't seem like such a bad thing anymore, especially when you are having fun in the company of friends; I can more appreciate why the English do it so much!
Earlier in the day, we visited the Tate Modern. Its turbine room lived up to its prominent billing what with a giant spider, complete with bulbous egg sac, anchoring the retrospective exhibit. The permanent galleries, too, were a delight upon which to feast one's eyes. Picasso, Warhol and Pollock ruled the chambers of the upper floors with the products of their lithe wrists; and I ended up becoming a huge fan of cubism, while developing a disdain for abstract art and its vacuous images, which, I feel, are devoid of both motivation and emotion.
My first trip yesterday morning was to Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal Gunners. It towers imperiously over the surrounding neighborhood; yet for all its majesty, the place sure was quiet! Business did pick up later, however, once the armory shop opened, and dozens of fans descended on it like bees to a hive. I, too, swooped in on a gift-buying mission, and wound up purchasing a book for Godfrey, a scarf for a student, and a jersey - on sale, of course - for good measure.
I'm sitting in the Westminster Abbey Museum now, resting my weary legs and burdened back. So far, I've been verily impressed with what I've seen, such a confluence of splendor and history before me that it would require days to absorb it all, when regretfully I can spare only a few hours. My favorite part of the abbey is the poets corner where no less a literary luminary than Samuel Johnson rests in peace - his bust confirms his homely presence, which was so vividly captured in his biography.
For lunch I had a steak and ale pie, served with mash, taken alongside a Guinness, extra cold - 2 degrees centigrade colder, the bartender explained. It went down well, like all the other delicious meals I've had in England; and no doubt by now I have grown accustomed to inebriation at half past two. Besides, Liverpool were playing inspired football against Blackburn; and my lunch was complete.
Having had my fill of football, I decided to skip my ticket scalping endeavor at Stamford Bridge and instead wandered over to the British Museum to inspect their extensive collections. Along the way, my eye caught a theater, its doors wide open and admitting customers. With much rapidity, I subsequently checked the show times, saw that a performance was set to begin, and at last rushed to the box office to purchase a discounted ticket - if you call a 40 pound ticket a deal, that is. That's how I grabbed a seat to watch Hairspray in the West End.
The show was worth forty pounds. The music was addictive; and the stage design and effects were not so much kitschy as delightfully stimulating - the pulsating background lights were at once scintillating and penetrating. The actors as well were vivacious, oozing charisma while they danced and delivered lines dripping in humor. Hairspray is a quality production and most definitely recommended.
12.4.09
At breakfast I sat across from a man who asked me to which country Hong Kong had been returned - China or Japan. That was pretty funny. Then he started spitting on my food as he spoke, completely oblivious to my breakfast becoming the receptacle in which the fruit of his inner churl was being placed. I guess I understand the convention nowadays of covering one's mouth whilst speaking and masticating at the same time!
We actually conversed on London life in general, and I praised London for its racial integration, the act of which is a prodigious leap of faith for any society, trying to be inclusive, accepting all sorts of people. It wasn't as though the Brits were trying in vain to be all things to all men, using Spanish with the visitors from Spain, German with the Germans and, even, Hindi with the Indians, regardless of whether or not Hindi was their native language; not even considering the absurd idea of encouraging the international adoption of their language; thereby completely keeping English in English hands and allowing its proud polyglots to "practice" their languages. Indeed, the attempt of the Londoners to avail themselves of the rich mosaic of ethnic knowledge, and to seek a common understanding with a ubiquitous English accent is an exemplar, and the bedrock for any world city.
I celebrated Jesus' resurrection at the St. Andrew's Street Church in Cambridge. The parishioners of this Baptist church were warm and affable, and I met several of them, including one visiting (Halliday) linguistics scholar from Zhongshan university in Guangzhou, who in fact had visited my tiny City University of Hong Kong in 2003. The service itself was more traditional and the believers fewer in number than the "progressive" services at any of the charismatic, evangelical churches in HK; yet that's what makes this part of the body of Christ unique; besides, the message was as brief as a powerpoint slide, and informative no less; the power word which spoke into my life being a question from John 21:22 - what is that to you?
Big trees; exquisite lawns; and old, pointy colleges; that's Cambridge in a nutshell. Sitting here, sipping on a half-pint of Woodforde's Wherry, I've had a leisurely, if not languorous, day so far; my sole duty consisting of walking around while absorbing the verdant environment as though a sponge, camera in tow.
I am back at the sublime beer, savoring a pint of Sharp's DoomBar before my fish and chips arrive; the drinking age is 18, but anyone whose visage even hints of youthful brilliance is likely to get carded these days, the bartender told me. The youth drinking culture here is almost as twisted as the university drinking culture in America.
My stay in Cambridge, relaxing and desultory as it may be, is about to end after this late lunch. I an not sure if there is anything left to see, save for the American graveyard which rests an impossible two miles away. I have had a wonderful time in this town; and am thankful for the access into its living history - the residents here must demonstrate remarkable patience and tolerance what with so many tourists ambling on the streets, peering - and photographing - into every nook and cranny.
13.4.09
There are no rubbish bins, yet I've seen on the streets many mixed race couples in which the men tend to be white - the women also belonging to a light colored ethnicity, usually some sort of Asian; as well saw some black dudes and Indian dudes with white chicks.
People here hold doors, even at the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes it appears as though they are going out on a limb, just waiting for the one who will take the responsibility for the door from them, at which point I rush out to relieve them of such a fortuitous burden.
I visited the British Museum this morning. The two hours I spent there did neither myself nor the exhibits any justice because there really is too much to survey, enough captivating stuff to last an entire day, I think. The bottomless well of artifacts from antiquity, drawing from sources as diverse as Korea, and Mesopotamia, is a credit to the British empire, without whose looting most of this amazing booty would be unavailable for our purview; better, I think, for these priceless treasures to be open to all in the grandest supermarket of history than away from human eyes, and worst yet, in the hands of unscrupulous collectors or in the rubbish bin, possibly.
Irene and I took in the ballet Giselle at The Royal Opera House in the afternoon. The building is a plush marvel, and a testament to this city's love for the arts. The ballet itself was satisfying, the first half being superior to the second, in which the nimble dancers demonstrated their phenomenal dexterity in, of all places, a graveyard covered in a cloak of smoke and darkness. I admit, their dance of the dead, in such a gloomy necropolis, did strike me as, strange.
Two amicable ladies from Kent convinced me to visit their hometown tomorrow, where, they told me, the authentic, "working" Leeds Castle and the mighty interesting home of Charles Darwin await.
I'm nursing a pint of Green King Ruddles and wondering about the profusion of British ales and lagers; the British have done a great deed for the world by creating an interminable line of low-alcohol session beers that can be enjoyed at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner; and their disservice is this: besides this inexhaustible supply of cheap beer ensnaring my inner alcoholic, I feel myself putting on my freshman fifteen, almost ten years after the fact; I am going to have to run a bit harder back in Hong Kong if I want to burn all this malty fuel off.
Irene suggested I stop by the National Art Gallery since we were in the area; and it was an hour well spent. The gallery currently presents a special exhibit on Picasso, the non-ticketed section of which features several seductive renderings, including David spying on Bathsheba - repeated in clever variants - and parodies of other masters' works. Furthermore, the main gallery houses two fabulous portraits by Joshua Reynolds, who happens to be favorite of mine, he in life being a close friend of Samuel Johnson - I passed by Boswells, where its namesake first met Johnson, on my way to the opera house.
14.4.09
I prayed last night, and went through my list, lifting everyone on it up to the Lord. That felt good; that God is alive now, and ever present in my life and in the lives of my brothers and sisters.
Doubtless, then, I have felt quite wistful, as though a specter in the land of the living, being in a place where religious fervor, it seems, is a thing of the past, a trifling for many, to be hidden away in the opaque corners of centuries-old cathedrals that are more expensive tourist destinations than liberating homes of worship these days. Indeed, I have yet to see anyone pray, outside of the Easter service which I attended in Cambridge - for such an ecstatic moment in verily a grand church, would you believe that it was only attended by at most three dozen spirited ones. The people of England, and Europe in general, have, it is my hope, only locked away the Word, relegating it to the quiet vault of their hearts. May it be taken out in the sudden pause before mealtimes and in the still crisp mornings and cool, silent nights. There is still hope for a revival in this place, for faith to rise like that splendid sun every morning. God would love to rescue them, to deliver them in this day, it is certain.
I wonder what Londoners think, if anything at all, about their police state which, like a vine in the shadows, has taken root in all corners of daily life, from the terrorist notifications in the underground, which implore Londoners to report all things suspicious, to the pair of dogs which eagerly stroll through Euston. What makes this all the more incredible is the fact that even the United States, the indomitable nemesis of the fledgling, rebel order, doesn't dare bombard its citizens with such fear mongering these days, especially with Obama in office; maybe we've grown wise in these past few years to the dubious returns of surrendering civil liberties to the state, of having our bags checked everywhere - London Eye; Hairspray; and The Royal Opera House check bags in London while the museums do not; somehow, that doesn't add up for me.
I'm in a majestic bookshop on New Street in Birmingham, and certainly to confirm my suspicions, there are just as many books on the death of Christianity in Britain as there are books which attempt to murder Christianity everywhere. I did find, however, a nice biography on John Wesley by Roy Hattersley and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis. I may pick up the former.
Lunch with Sally was pleasant and mirthful. We dined at a French restaurant nearby New Street - yes, Birmingham is a cultural capitol! Sally and I both tried their omelette, while her boyfriend had the fish, without chips. Conversation was light, the levity was there and so was our reminiscing about those fleeting moments during our first year in Hong Kong; it is amazing how friendships can resume so suddenly with a smile. On their recommendation, I am on my way to Warwick Castle - they also suggested that I visit Cadbury World, but they cannot take on additional visitors at the moment, the tourist office staff informed me, much to my disappointment!
Visiting Warwick Castle really made for a great day out. The castle, parts of which were established by William the Conquerer in 1068, is as much a kitschy tourist trap as a meticulous preservation of history, at times a sillier version of Ocean Park while at others a dignified dedication to a most glorious, inexorably English past. The castle caters to all visitors; and not surprisingly, that which delighted all audiences was a giant trebuchet siege engine, which for the five p.m. performance hurled a fireball high and far into the air - fantastic! Taliban beware!
15.4.09
I'm leaving on a jet plane this evening; don't know when I'll be back in England again. I'll miss this quirky, yet endearing place; and that I shall miss Irene and Tom who so generously welcomed me into their home, fed me, and suffered my use of their toilet and shower goes without saying. I'm grateful for God's many blessings on this trip.
On the itinerary today is a trip to John Wesley's home, followed by a visit to the Imperial War Museum. Already this morning I picked up a tube of Oilatum, a week late perhaps, which Teri recommended I use to treat this obstinate, dermal weakness of mine - I'm happy to report that my skin has stopped crying.
John Wesley's home is alive and well. Services are still held in the chapel everyday; and its crypt, so far from being a cellar for the dead, is a bright, spacious museum in which all things Wesley are on display - I never realized how much of an iconic figure he became in England; at the height of this idol frenzy, ironic in itself, he must have been as popular as the Beatles were at their apex. The house itself is a multi-story edifice with narrow, precipitous staircases and spacious rooms decorated in an 18th century fashion.
I found Samuel Johnson's house within a maze of red brick hidden alongside Fleet Street. To be in the home of the man who wrote the English dictionary, and whose indefatigable love for obscure words became the inspiration for my own lexical obsession, this, by far, is the climax of my visit to England! The best certainly has been saved for last.
There are a multitude of portraits hanging around the house like ornaments on a tree. Every likeness has its own story, meticulously retold on the crib sheets in each room. Celebrities abound, including David Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted several of the finer images in the house. I have developed a particular affinity for Oliver Goldsmith, of whom Boswell writes, "His person was short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. It appears as though I, too, could use a more flattering description of myself!
I regretfully couldn't stop to try the curry in England; I guess the CityU canteen's take on the dish will have to do. I did, however, have the opportune task of flirting with the cute Cathay Pacific counter staff who checked me in. She was gorgeous in red, light powder on her cheeks, with real diamond earrings, she said; and her small, delicate face, commanded by a posh British accent rendered her positively irresistible, electrifying. Not only did she grant me an aisle seat but she had the gumption to return my fawning with zest; she must be a pro at this by now.
I saw her again as she was pulling double-duty, collecting tickets prior to boarding. She remembered my quest for curry; and in the fog of infatuation, where nary a man has been made, I fumbled my words like the sloppy kid who has had too much punch. I am just an amateur, alas, an "Oliver Goldsmith" with the ladies - I got no game - booyah!
Some final, consequential bits: because of the chavs, Burberry no longer sells those fashionable baseball caps; because of the IRA, rubbish bins are no longer a commodity on the streets of London, and as a result, the streets and the Underground of the city are a soiled mess; and because of other terrorists from distant, more arid lands, going through a Western airport has taken on the tedium of perfunctory procedure that doesn't make me feel any safer from my invisible enemies.
At last, I saw so many Indians working at Heathrow that I could have easily mistaken the place for Mumbai. Their presence surprised me because their portion of the general population surely must be less than their portion of Heathrow staff, indicating some mysterious hiring bias. Regardless, they do a superb job with cursory airport checks, and in general are absurdly funny and witty when not tactless.
That's all for England!
A Lithic Petrogypsid from the interior of the UAE.
Lithic Petrogypsids have lithic contact within 50 cm of the soil surface (UAE Keys to Soil Taxonomy). The "lithic" subgroup in Petroogypsids is not currently recognized in Soil Taxonomy.
Petrogypsids are the Gypsids that have a petrogypsic or petrocalcic horizon that has its upper boundary within 100 cm of the soil surface. These soils occur in very arid areas of the world where the parent material is high in content of gypsum. When the petrogypsic horizon is close to the surface, crusting forms pseudohexagonal patterns on the soil surface. Petrogypsids occupy old surfaces. In Syria and Iraq, they are on the highest terraces along the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers. These soils are not extensive in the United States but are extensive in other countries.
Gypsids are the Aridisols that have a gypsic or petrogypsic horizon within 100 cm of the soil surface. Accumulation of gypsum takes place initially as crystal aggregates in the voids of the soils. These aggregates grow by accretion, displacing the enclosing soil material. When the gypsic horizon occurs as a cemented impermeable layer, it is recognized as the petrogypsic horizon. Each of these forms of gypsum accumulation implies processes in the soils, and each presents a constraint to soil use. One of the largest constraints is dissolution of the gypsum, which plays havoc with structures, roads, and irrigation delivery systems. The presence of one or more of these horizons, with or without other diagnostic horizons, defines the great groups of the Gypsids. Gypsids occur in Iraq, Syria, Saudi Arabia, Iran, Somalia, West Asia, and some of the most arid areas of the western part of the United States. Gypsids are on many segments of the landscape. Some of them have calcic or related horizons that overlie the gypsic horizon.
For more information about soil classification in the UAE, visit:
vdocument.in/united-arab-emirates-keys-to-soil-taxonomy.h...
9.4.09
The flight arrived on time; and the twelve hours while on board passed quickly and without incident. To be sure, the quality of the Cathay Pacific service was exemplary once again.
Heathrow reminds me of Newark International. The décor comes straight out of the sterile 80's and is less an eyesore than an insipid background to the rhythm of human activity, such hustle and bustle, at the fore. There certainly are faces from all races present, creating a rich mosaic of humanity which is refreshing if not completely revitalizing after swimming for so long in a sea of Chinese faces in Hong Kong.
Internet access is sealed in England, it seems. Nothing is free; everything is egregiously monetized from the wireless hotspots down to the desktop terminals. I guess Hong Kong has spoiled me with its abundant, free access to the information superhighway.
11.4.09
Despite staying in a room with five other backpackers, I have been sleeping well. The mattress and pillow are firm; my earplugs keep the noise out; and the sleeping quarters are as dark as a cave when the lights are out, and only as bright as, perhaps, a dreary rainy day when on. All in all, St. Paul's is a excellent place to stay for the gregarious, adventurous, and penurious city explorer - couchsurfing may be a tenable alternative; I'll test for next time.
Yesterday Connie and I gorged ourselves at the borough market where there were all sorts of delectable, savory victuals. There was definitely a European flavor to the food fair: simmering sausages were to be found everywhere; and much as the meat was plentiful, and genuine, so were the dairy delicacies, in the form of myriad rounds of cheese, stacked high behind checkered tabletops. Of course, we washed these tasty morsels down with copious amounts of alcohol that flowed from cups as though amber waterfalls. For the first time I tried mulled wine, which tasted like warm, rancid fruit punch - the ideal tonic for a drizzling London day, I suppose. We later killed the afternoon at the pub, shooting the breeze while imbibing several diminutive half-pints in the process. Getting smashed at four in the afternoon doesn't seem like such a bad thing anymore, especially when you are having fun in the company of friends; I can more appreciate why the English do it so much!
Earlier in the day, we visited the Tate Modern. Its turbine room lived up to its prominent billing what with a giant spider, complete with bulbous egg sac, anchoring the retrospective exhibit. The permanent galleries, too, were a delight upon which to feast one's eyes. Picasso, Warhol and Pollock ruled the chambers of the upper floors with the products of their lithe wrists; and I ended up becoming a huge fan of cubism, while developing a disdain for abstract art and its vacuous images, which, I feel, are devoid of both motivation and emotion.
My first trip yesterday morning was to Emirates Stadium, home of the Arsenal Gunners. It towers imperiously over the surrounding neighborhood; yet for all its majesty, the place sure was quiet! Business did pick up later, however, once the armory shop opened, and dozens of fans descended on it like bees to a hive. I, too, swooped in on a gift-buying mission, and wound up purchasing a book for Godfrey, a scarf for a student, and a jersey - on sale, of course - for good measure.
I'm sitting in the Westminster Abbey Museum now, resting my weary legs and burdened back. So far, I've been verily impressed with what I've seen, such a confluence of splendor and history before me that it would require days to absorb it all, when regretfully I can spare only a few hours. My favorite part of the abbey is the poets corner where no less a literary luminary than Samuel Johnson rests in peace - his bust confirms his homely presence, which was so vividly captured in his biography.
For lunch I had a steak and ale pie, served with mash, taken alongside a Guinness, extra cold - 2 degrees centigrade colder, the bartender explained. It went down well, like all the other delicious meals I've had in England; and no doubt by now I have grown accustomed to inebriation at half past two. Besides, Liverpool were playing inspired football against Blackburn; and my lunch was complete.
Having had my fill of football, I decided to skip my ticket scalping endeavor at Stamford Bridge and instead wandered over to the British Museum to inspect their extensive collections. Along the way, my eye caught a theater, its doors wide open and admitting customers. With much rapidity, I subsequently checked the show times, saw that a performance was set to begin, and at last rushed to the box office to purchase a discounted ticket - if you call a 40 pound ticket a deal, that is. That's how I grabbed a seat to watch Hairspray in the West End.
The show was worth forty pounds. The music was addictive; and the stage design and effects were not so much kitschy as delightfully stimulating - the pulsating background lights were at once scintillating and penetrating. The actors as well were vivacious, oozing charisma while they danced and delivered lines dripping in humor. Hairspray is a quality production and most definitely recommended.
12.4.09
At breakfast I sat across from a man who asked me to which country Hong Kong had been returned - China or Japan. That was pretty funny. Then he started spitting on my food as he spoke, completely oblivious to my breakfast becoming the receptacle in which the fruit of his inner churl was being placed. I guess I understand the convention nowadays of covering one's mouth whilst speaking and masticating at the same time!
We actually conversed on London life in general, and I praised London for its racial integration, the act of which is a prodigious leap of faith for any society, trying to be inclusive, accepting all sorts of people. It wasn't as though the Brits were trying in vain to be all things to all men, using Spanish with the visitors from Spain, German with the Germans and, even, Hindi with the Indians, regardless of whether or not Hindi was their native language; not even considering the absurd idea of encouraging the international adoption of their language; thereby completely keeping English in English hands and allowing its proud polyglots to "practice" their languages. Indeed, the attempt of the Londoners to avail themselves of the rich mosaic of ethnic knowledge, and to seek a common understanding with a ubiquitous English accent is an exemplar, and the bedrock for any world city.
I celebrated Jesus' resurrection at the St. Andrew's Street Church in Cambridge. The parishioners of this Baptist church were warm and affable, and I met several of them, including one visiting (Halliday) linguistics scholar from Zhongshan university in Guangzhou, who in fact had visited my tiny City University of Hong Kong in 2003. The service itself was more traditional and the believers fewer in number than the "progressive" services at any of the charismatic, evangelical churches in HK; yet that's what makes this part of the body of Christ unique; besides, the message was as brief as a powerpoint slide, and informative no less; the power word which spoke into my life being a question from John 21:22 - what is that to you?
Big trees; exquisite lawns; and old, pointy colleges; that's Cambridge in a nutshell. Sitting here, sipping on a half-pint of Woodforde's Wherry, I've had a leisurely, if not languorous, day so far; my sole duty consisting of walking around while absorbing the verdant environment as though a sponge, camera in tow.
I am back at the sublime beer, savoring a pint of Sharp's DoomBar before my fish and chips arrive; the drinking age is 18, but anyone whose visage even hints of youthful brilliance is likely to get carded these days, the bartender told me. The youth drinking culture here is almost as twisted as the university drinking culture in America.
My stay in Cambridge, relaxing and desultory as it may be, is about to end after this late lunch. I an not sure if there is anything left to see, save for the American graveyard which rests an impossible two miles away. I have had a wonderful time in this town; and am thankful for the access into its living history - the residents here must demonstrate remarkable patience and tolerance what with so many tourists ambling on the streets, peering - and photographing - into every nook and cranny.
13.4.09
There are no rubbish bins, yet I've seen on the streets many mixed race couples in which the men tend to be white - the women also belonging to a light colored ethnicity, usually some sort of Asian; as well saw some black dudes and Indian dudes with white chicks.
People here hold doors, even at the entrance to the toilet. Sometimes it appears as though they are going out on a limb, just waiting for the one who will take the responsibility for the door from them, at which point I rush out to relieve them of such a fortuitous burden.
I visited the British Museum this morning. The two hours I spent there did neither myself nor the exhibits any justice because there really is too much to survey, enough captivating stuff to last an entire day, I think. The bottomless well of artifacts from antiquity, drawing from sources as diverse as Korea, and Mesopotamia, is a credit to the British empire, without whose looting most of this amazing booty would be unavailable for our purview; better, I think, for these priceless treasures to be open to all in the grandest supermarket of history than away from human eyes, and worst yet, in the hands of unscrupulous collectors or in the rubbish bin, possibly.
Irene and I took in the ballet Giselle at The Royal Opera House in the afternoon. The building is a plush marvel, and a testament to this city's love for the arts. The ballet itself was satisfying, the first half being superior to the second, in which the nimble dancers demonstrated their phenomenal dexterity in, of all places, a graveyard covered in a cloak of smoke and darkness. I admit, their dance of the dead, in such a gloomy necropolis, did strike me as, strange.
Two amicable ladies from Kent convinced me to visit their hometown tomorrow, where, they told me, the authentic, "working" Leeds Castle and the mighty interesting home of Charles Darwin await.
I'm nursing a pint of Green King Ruddles and wondering about the profusion of British ales and lagers; the British have done a great deed for the world by creating an interminable line of low-alcohol session beers that can be enjoyed at breakfast, lunch, tea and dinner; and their disservice is this: besides this inexhaustible supply of cheap beer ensnaring my inner alcoholic, I feel myself putting on my freshman fifteen, almost ten years after the fact; I am going to have to run a bit harder back in Hong Kong if I want to burn all this malty fuel off.
Irene suggested I stop by the National Art Gallery since we were in the area; and it was an hour well spent. The gallery currently presents a special exhibit on Picasso, the non-ticketed section of which features several seductive renderings, including David spying on Bathsheba - repeated in clever variants - and parodies of other masters' works. Furthermore, the main gallery houses two fabulous portraits by Joshua Reynolds, who happens to be favorite of mine, he in life being a close friend of Samuel Johnson - I passed by Boswells, where its namesake first met Johnson, on my way to the opera house.
14.4.09
I prayed last night, and went through my list, lifting everyone on it up to the Lord. That felt good; that God is alive now, and ever present in my life and in the lives of my brothers and sisters.
Doubtless, then, I have felt quite wistful, as though a specter in the land of the living, being in a place where religious fervor, it seems, is a thing of the past, a trifling for many, to be hidden away in the opaque corners of centuries-old cathedrals that are more expensive tourist destinations than liberating homes of worship these days. Indeed, I have yet to see anyone pray, outside of the Easter service which I attended in Cambridge - for such an ecstatic moment in verily a grand church, would you believe that it was only attended by at most three dozen spirited ones. The people of England, and Europe in general, have, it is my hope, only locked away the Word, relegating it to the quiet vault of their hearts. May it be taken out in the sudden pause before mealtimes and in the still crisp mornings and cool, silent nights. There is still hope for a revival in this place, for faith to rise like that splendid sun every morning. God would love to rescue them, to deliver them in this day, it is certain.
I wonder what Londoners think, if anything at all, about their police state which, like a vine in the shadows, has taken root in all corners of daily life, from the terrorist notifications in the underground, which implore Londoners to report all things suspicious, to the pair of dogs which eagerly stroll through Euston. What makes this all the more incredible is the fact that even the United States, the indomitable nemesis of the fledgling, rebel order, doesn't dare bombard its citizens with such fear mongering these days, especially with Obama in office; maybe we've grown wise in these past few years to the dubious returns of surrendering civil liberties to the state, of having our bags checked everywhere - London Eye; Hairspray; and The Royal Opera House check bags in London while the museums do not; somehow, that doesn't add up for me.
I'm in a majestic bookshop on New Street in Birmingham, and certainly to confirm my suspicions, there are just as many books on the death of Christianity in Britain as there are books which attempt to murder Christianity everywhere. I did find, however, a nice biography on John Wesley by Roy Hattersley and The Screwtape Letters by C.S. Lewis. I may pick up the former.
Lunch with Sally was pleasant and mirthful. We dined at a French restaurant nearby New Street - yes, Birmingham is a cultural capitol! Sally and I both tried their omelette, while her boyfriend had the fish, without chips. Conversation was light, the levity was there and so was our reminiscing about those fleeting moments during our first year in Hong Kong; it is amazing how friendships can resume so suddenly with a smile. On their recommendation, I am on my way to Warwick Castle - they also suggested that I visit Cadbury World, but they cannot take on additional visitors at the moment, the tourist office staff informed me, much to my disappointment!
Visiting Warwick Castle really made for a great day out. The castle, parts of which were established by William the Conquerer in 1068, is as much a kitschy tourist trap as a meticulous preservation of history, at times a sillier version of Ocean Park while at others a dignified dedication to a most glorious, inexorably English past. The castle caters to all visitors; and not surprisingly, that which delighted all audiences was a giant trebuchet siege engine, which for the five p.m. performance hurled a fireball high and far into the air - fantastic! Taliban beware!
15.4.09
I'm leaving on a jet plane this evening; don't know when I'll be back in England again. I'll miss this quirky, yet endearing place; and that I shall miss Irene and Tom who so generously welcomed me into their home, fed me, and suffered my use of their toilet and shower goes without saying. I'm grateful for God's many blessings on this trip.
On the itinerary today is a trip to John Wesley's home, followed by a visit to the Imperial War Museum. Already this morning I picked up a tube of Oilatum, a week late perhaps, which Teri recommended I use to treat this obstinate, dermal weakness of mine - I'm happy to report that my skin has stopped crying.
John Wesley's home is alive and well. Services are still held in the chapel everyday; and its crypt, so far from being a cellar for the dead, is a bright, spacious museum in which all things Wesley are on display - I never realized how much of an iconic figure he became in England; at the height of this idol frenzy, ironic in itself, he must have been as popular as the Beatles were at their apex. The house itself is a multi-story edifice with narrow, precipitous staircases and spacious rooms decorated in an 18th century fashion.
I found Samuel Johnson's house within a maze of red brick hidden alongside Fleet Street. To be in the home of the man who wrote the English dictionary, and whose indefatigable love for obscure words became the inspiration for my own lexical obsession, this, by far, is the climax of my visit to England! The best certainly has been saved for last.
There are a multitude of portraits hanging around the house like ornaments on a tree. Every likeness has its own story, meticulously retold on the crib sheets in each room. Celebrities abound, including David Garrick and Sir Joshua Reynolds, who painted several of the finer images in the house. I have developed a particular affinity for Oliver Goldsmith, of whom Boswell writes, "His person was short, his countenance coarse and vulgar, his deportment that of a scholar awkwardly affecting the easy gentleman. It appears as though I, too, could use a more flattering description of myself!
I regretfully couldn't stop to try the curry in England; I guess the CityU canteen's take on the dish will have to do. I did, however, have the opportune task of flirting with the cute Cathay Pacific counter staff who checked me in. She was gorgeous in red, light powder on her cheeks, with real diamond earrings, she said; and her small, delicate face, commanded by a posh British accent rendered her positively irresistible, electrifying. Not only did she grant me an aisle seat but she had the gumption to return my fawning with zest; she must be a pro at this by now.
I saw her again as she was pulling double-duty, collecting tickets prior to boarding. She remembered my quest for curry; and in the fog of infatuation, where nary a man has been made, I fumbled my words like the sloppy kid who has had too much punch. I am just an amateur, alas, an "Oliver Goldsmith" with the ladies - I got no game - booyah!
Some final, consequential bits: because of the chavs, Burberry no longer sells those fashionable baseball caps; because of the IRA, rubbish bins are no longer a commodity on the streets of London, and as a result, the streets and the Underground of the city are a soiled mess; and because of other terrorists from distant, more arid lands, going through a Western airport has taken on the tedium of perfunctory procedure that doesn't make me feel any safer from my invisible enemies.
At last, I saw so many Indians working at Heathrow that I could have easily mistaken the place for Mumbai. Their presence surprised me because their portion of the general population surely must be less than their portion of Heathrow staff, indicating some mysterious hiring bias. Regardless, they do a superb job with cursory airport checks, and in general are absurdly funny and witty when not tactless.
That's all for England!
Scared Sackboy refuses to get his teeth brushed.
Canon EOS 60D
Canon EF 28mm f/1.8 USM
YN560 shot through umbrella right
My photoblog. Follow me!!
The following cover appeared in:
True Detective
July 1950
Café Society Murder
The story below probably did not.
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We appreciate the courtesy of Chatwick University Archives for letting us use the journals in our research, and for permission to use parts for the genesis of “Dare’s Game”.
Dare’s Game
Beth, eagerly looking for Dare, walked straight into Seth’s cunning snare…..
Suffix, circa 1910?. It was during this time a fanciful young lady, whom we will call Beth, started a journal which she would faithfully keep over the course of almost 50 years. She led quite an adventuresome life for a lady of that time, and her journals were filled with many tales and observations of her exploits. The following story is derived from events that she penned down in the early years in her journal.
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Beth had known Dare since their childhood. Dare was a handsome free spirited youth only two years her senior, who lived for the games his life had to offer. As his cherished nickname inferred, Dare was always trying to find the thrill out of anything he could think up, relishing to go beyond the pale in anything he attempted. Dare always a little different, harboring feelings and ideas way beyond his years, almost as if he had lived a previous life and retained something from it in his being.
Beth would remember times playing dress up with Dare’s sister Diana in some old gowns of their mothers. It was always then that Dare and his friends seemed to appear and talk them into playing hide n seek, tag or cops n robbers. Dare seemed to take pleasure in cajoling the girls into playing with them in this manner. Eyeing them as they played with a far off look that suggested the game they were playing had more meaning to him than he could ever venture to say. It was hard for Beth to explain it, but she did find it pleasurable (almost erotic using a word whose term she would learn much later) to be observed by him in this way.
One warm fall day Diana and Beth headed down to an old shack located near some railroad tracks at the back of a cornfield. Diana was dressed in a long satin play gown with her mother’s jewelry, which Dare had called rhinestones. Beth, herself dressed in a long flowing dress, loved the way Diana’s jewels twinkled and sparkled as she walked. They were going to pretend the shack was a ballroom and they were one their way to a fancy dance, like Beth’s and Diana’s parents had recently attended. Diana wasn’t supposed to be wearing her mother’s jewelry outside the house, but as a result of Dare’s teasing, had done so anyway.
They had reached the shack, an old white brick building with a wooden roof half fallen in, when a man’s voice suddenly said behind them, what are you two ladies up to? Turning they were confronted by a happily sneering drifter. The grubby man looked around, alone is we, and advanced towards them. The two girls stood petrified, he reached out and probed Diana along her side, pretty dress missy, he said, sparsely toothed mouth grinning like a pumpkin. He suddenly reached up and tore the necklace away from Diana’s throat, sending her falling backwards. Beth screamed bloody murder, as the vagrant turned heel, running off towards the tracks. Suddenly Dare appeared, and Beth, meaning to yell for help, exclaimed instead “help honey” to Dare. Dares eyes took on a very different look, almost of a burning yearning. Beth told him what had happened and he took off down towards the tracks in hot pursuit. For Beth, the look he had given her and the way he had dashed off excited her beyond measure. Even for someone that young, Beth now knew what Dare meant to her. From then on, playing games with Dare took on a heightened meaning for Beth.
But, nothing really changed in their relationship until Beth’s sophomore year of high school. Beth was sixteen at the time, a whimsical being, passionate, innocent, not particularly attractive, but radiating with a love of life. A living free spirit, developing into a very sexual being by the time her and Diana decided to attend their schools prom in their sophomore year. Beth dressed in a fuchsia coloured satin dress with dangling rhinestone earrings that had been” borrowed” from Diana’s Mother, the same ones Diana had been wearing when they had run into the drifter at the shack. Diana slipped into the slinky blue spaghetti strap gown and matching cover-all that she had worn as her cousin’s bridesmaid. She was wearing sapphire costume jewels patterned after the hope diamond. Their parents had given them a hard time when they saw their made up girls in their gowns and finery , admonishing them for looking way too mature. They smiled, consoling their parents fears, and went off on their adventure.
Their eyes were dazzled by the display of lights, the cheerfully student filled room, the band. They had stopped and were letting it all sink in, when Beth felt a hand on her shoulder. She turned and came face to face with Dare, who once again had the same yearning fire in his eyes as on that fateful day at the old shack. A veil was lifted from between the two, and Beth spent the whole evening encompassed in Dare’s arms. Soon after that the two had begun seeing much more of one another. Their relationship was still going strong eight years later.
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8 Years Later
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Come on Dare, let’s go to the Riverside, it will be fun she urged. She had been trying to get her fiancé’ to take her to the exclusive five star resorts for some time. And now she had a free overnight room card she had won at work! Dare looked into Beth’s wide, hope filled eyes, knowing her passion for attending these types of affairs. Ever hopeful she would see someone rich. Dare knew how to use this to his advantage. Finally he buckled, all right, only if we play the game afterwards he bargained. She squirmed inwardly with passion, nodding her agreement. Beth found the game exciting, though she would never let on to Dare. And, you must wear the gold bridesmaid gown and jewels you wore to your friend’s wedding last week , he added, a wistful smile lighting up his thin face.. Okay she agreed, trying to sound reluctant, but truthfully feeling multiple tingles of delight.
Dare was handsome, in a scrawny, thin bearded, sort of way ( From an old photo that survives he resembled a young Johnny Depp… the eds), with a witty writers imagination and a playful disposition. He could always make Beth laugh, feeling his excitement as he drew her into his stories and games. She would never admit to it, but found the game delightfully erogenous. She smiled to herself, so Dare had liked the satin gown after all, he had not shown any interest in her wearing it since the wedding. And the jewelry, the small rhinestone pendent and earrings had been pretty, but Beth soon came up with another idea. She would knock his socks off by wearing the glittering diamonds and emeralds that had been inherited from her grandmother. The set had laid collecting dust in a safety deposit box all these years, unworn. She had never told Dare about them, waiting for the perfect occasion. She could just imagine the look in his eyes when he saw her wearing them. Okay then, game on, Beth thought, wickedly sending shivers up and down her spine.
Dare’s Game was based on role playing:
Dare would give Beth money to purchase a new outfit, something rich and shiny, like silk or satin. With the new outfit, Beth would wear the good gold jewelry she had received from Dare on her birthdays. The idea was to acting like a bored rich girl out for a good time, alone and vulnerable.
Dare would be at the hotel bar, waiting for Beth to make her entrance, then make her acquaintance , playing a debonair, suited gentleman with a mysterious past and a hidden agenda. They would make a date later, usually to dance and have drinks.
Then that evening, she would go down to the bar. Dressed in one of the long gowns Dare favored, fitting in with the usual spillover from a wedding reception that had been held in one of the Ballrooms. Sometimes she would wear the rhinestone jewelry they had purchased together at various antique stores. Then Beth would wait for Dare to make his entrance, signaling the time for Dare’s game. He would assume one of several roles, or possibly a new one that Beth had never seen. In the past Dare had played:
A spy who would dance with Beth, then disappear. Sending a note to Beth via a third person that would have her meet him clandestinely in a remote location…
A highwayman who would come across Beth on the castle grounds , usually the resorts empty gardens at night….
A rich millionaire looking for romance…
A kidnapper hired by an evil uncle, who after tying up Beth and removing her valuables would have a change of heart….
A Jewel thief who would be cunningly after her valuables…
A handsome prince rescuing Beth’s damsel in distress ….
Or Dare’s favorite, centered on their old childhood game of cops and robbers. Dare would play the thief, and steal something from Beth, usually while dancing. He would then leave preset clues around the grounds that she would have to follow to catch him.
All of the games usually led to some playful groping and then escalating into the upper echelons of erotic pleasure. Sometimes they never made out of the woods, or barely out of the ballroom. Beth shivered at these thoughts, wishing she didn’t have to wait….
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Three weeks later at the Riverside Resort.
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In the Bar:
At the bar, Dare smiled to himself, pleased. He had dropped Beth off to check in by herself. She would change into her new outfit and wear it down to the bar for lunch. She would come in acting like a complete stranger to the area. Dare would make her acquaintance, invite her to lunch, and make plans to see her that evening at the resorts dance room. There were two wedding receptions going on, and that dance room should be filled with well-dressed patrons. Beth would fit right in; clad that pretty gown she had promised to wear.
Dare had been sitting at the bar, thinking about ways to play out the game that evening, when the answer came to him, in the form of a stranger who had come with his drink and sat next to him. The stranger introduced himself as Seth, and shaking Dare’s hand sat on the stool next to him. After they had had couple of drinks, they had become quite chummy. Seth explaining he had come up for one of the weddings, and assumed Dare was doing the same. Seth did not fail to observe Dare’s secretive smile, but did not question it. Their conversation was distracted only when a newcomer appeared at the entrance. Beth walked in, a long flowing silky skirt swishing down to her leather sandals. A shiny, long sleeved satin top fitting tightly along her perky figure, with bright gold jewelry complementing the ensemble. Real gold, Seth observed silently to himself.
Beth went to a table, both men going silent as they watched her move through the room. Good-looking one, that, Seth commented, looking at Dare who was deep in thought as his eyes were fixed on the sexy newcomer. Seth teasingly offered Dare a penny for his thoughts. Dare smiled mischievously, letting lose his plans. Seth listened to the young man, smiling as a light went on in his steal grey eyes. When Dare finished he offered up a suggestion as to how Dare could make it really interesting for Beth. The two co-conspirators worked it out: Seth told Dare about a stone hut and wall that was located on the back nine of the resorts golf course. He suggested that he, Seth, would meet Beth that evening and pass a note onto her from Dare saying that he was in trouble and needed her help, with directions to the spot. Dare liked the idea, and wrote the note on a cocktail napkin, cementing the plan by handing it to Seth.
Off you go old chap, let Uncle Seth take care of his end, he said grinning, giving Dare a sporting clap on the back. With a wink, Dare left his fellow collaborator, and went over to Beth, who had since been seated by a male waiter, now standing drooling over her shoulder as she looked at the menu.
Later that same evening, inside the crowded club:
Seth had stopped by the bar for a last drink. His business venture had been concluded earlier than he had expected. With the change in his plans, he had checked out early, his kit packed, boot loaded and the car ready. He now sat at the bar Causley watching young lass of about seventeen who had literally ran into him at one of the receptions. He watched her flirting about the club, weaving in and out of the guests. With a long swishing gown flowing provocatively along her lithe figure, abundant, solid white gold chains swinging out in an alluringly eye catching manner as she scurried about. A diminutive gold ring its half caret diamond flickered playfully from the petite pinky it loosely surrounded once again welcomed his contemplation. The lass presented quite an intriguing gold feathered fledgling, just begging to be plucked. He looked around, spying her parents on the dance floor. The father/husband, despite being an excellent dancer, gave him no interest. It was his partner, the wife/ mother, decked out in a iridescent suit and long swishing satin skirt upon which he now was reexamining. He again studied under the bright dance floor lights her fine pearls dangling from her ears, throat, and wrists. But it was the Ladies’ two rings that stole the show for him; an engagement ring with a rock of at least 2 carets surrounded by numerous shimmering half caret stones and a pinky ring similar to her daughters, that proudly displayed a single white solitaire diamond of at least one caret that had garnered his consideration. He also reconsidered the facts that he had been able to garnish about the lady who wore them, and her husband. The wife/mother was a heavy drinker who would not be expected to make any kind of appearance before noon. Hubby was a golfer, who would be out for breakfast at five am before being on the links at 6 am the next morning . At 5 :15 Seth was planning to pay a visit to his suite, and relieve his two ladies of their expensive trinkets. It should be an easy straight forward caper, that had Seth bristling with anticipation at the prospect.
As he was tossing down the last of his drink he remembered about Dare and the note he still had in his pocket. Setting down the empty glass, he pulled the note out and looked at it, kids he smirked, and was preparing to crinkle toss it on the bar and leave, when his eyes caught sight of Beth. He had felt his breath taken away when he saw her. Not at all what he had expected, he would say to Beth much later in the evening. He looked over the note, stirrings of a plan began formulating. All thoughts of the dancing couple and his plans fled his mind, as He rose, throwing a fiver on the bar and went off to intercept Beth.
Seth held Beth in his arms, she was a vivacious little thing he thought, while smiling charmingly into her eyes. She seemed a little apprehensive at first, but had settled right in when he had told her this had been set up by Dare, remember me at the bar with him this afternoon he had consoled her, she had smile brightly into his eyes in answer. He relished in the feel of her warm satin gown, and allowed himself to be mesmerized by the shimmer of her diamonds.
It reminded him of the diamonds that had been worn by one of his dance partners earlier that evening at a reception. He had forgotten her name, but not her diamonds, one of which now resided in a hidden compartment of his roadsters boot, along with the diamond pin he had slipped off the satin cape he had cordially help a well-dressed lady put on. He had also shelved his plans for his 5:15 am “meeting” at the golf playing husbands hotel room, Beth’s jewels were a much more lucrative prospect.
When the dance had ended he took her to the bar and sat her down, ordering her a drink. She seemed a little perplexed, Seth kissed her gloved hand; wait for it he told her mysteriously, winking into her eyes. Beth had winked back, the fire in her heart reflecting deep in her eyes. Seth left, smiling cleverly to himself as he took in his surroundings. He looked around as he walked away, now where had the little imp gotten off too?
He had decided that the seventeen year old in the long flirting gown would play a very different role in his plans. He approached her, with Dares note and a twenty. Thought for a moment about the pair of thick platinum gold chains dangling from her throat down the open neckline of the girl’s glossy gown, then banished the though, he had bigger fish to filet. The twenty caught her attention and she eagerly listened as he explained to her what to do, pointing out Beth sitting, waiting in earnest at the bar. Wait until she finishes her drink, Seth told her as she listened eagerly. She took the twenty into her hand, the half caret diamond on her pinky ring flashing, and her gold chain bracelets jangled as she grasped it. Seth left, figuring he had about twenty minutes to stop at his car, get a few items from the boot, and put his plan in motion.
Beth had curiously received the note from the attractively shy young lady, clad a slinky gown that made her appear years older. Reading it she folded it and was just getting up when a man wearing a suit came up to her and offered to let her dance with him. It took her some time, before she was finally able to ward him off and leave the brilliantly lit clubroom for the dark, forbidding grounds outside.
Now, a thoroughly excited Beth walked up the hill. Her senses becoming more prickling alert with each step. Innocently unaware that she was no longer playing a role in Dare’s game!
************************************************************************************
Epilogue:
As Seth walked away admiring the shimmery necklace, his thoughts travelled back to the gold burdened impish youngster in the swirling gown, and her pearl and diamond laden mother. Revisiting his original plans he decided that he liked the odds, especially since they would be against him. With the father leaving early to meet his cronies for breakfast the Mother should be still sleeping off her drink induced stupor, the hyperactive girl should still be out cold, but presented no risk if she awoke, he had more rope. The ladies jewels should be lying about in the apartment, or handedly on their persons( the pairs of diamond pinky rings, as well as the multi-diamond engagement ring flashed once again across his memory with all their brilliant glory),as he caught fire with the vision. There could be a safe he reasoned, but with a tied up daughter and a knife in his hand, the mother should have no issue opening it for him, or disclosing anywhere else her jewels may have been hidden . But if there was no safe, and the rings, pearls and solid white gold chains were somewhere in the room, he knew he would be able to noiselessly break in, find and slip the jewels from wherever they were perched, and be safely on his way without even causing the slightest stir from the sleeping woman and her daughter. It was a road Seth had travelled down many times. He prickled at the thought, as he foresightedly tallied up the potential haul while making his way to the car. The Mother/wife’s diamond rings, would easily fetch him at least three grand, probably close five with her pearls and the whelp’s jewelry added in. About a quarter of what he probably would get for the jewels now in his procession, so he mused inquisitively to himself, so ,was it worth the risk of his 20,000 bird in hand? Yes he answered himself, as all too familiar and welcome tingling sensation overwhelmed Seths muscular body. Like Dare, Seth like to play risky games, especially those which promised to be somewhat profitable. It would be a tantalizingly chancy gamble of his own; to wait a safe distance away while things cooled down and then return to break into the un protected sleeping ladies chamber.. He knew just the place to hide , and it would be a perfect spot to watch events unfold around Beth and Dare, while making his plans! It also afforded a nicely secret hiding nook for the ill-gotten gains collected so far that evening in case something went wrong, which it wouldn’t..
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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And then... treasure! Or, at least, a relic, in the form of a small but nicely detailed stone point!
From Facebook, as posted on another forum:
"It's that time again! Time to don your pith helmets and fedoras and adventure into the world for a day like you are looking for lost treasure. Dress in your explorer best and have fun!
Talk, act, or dress as you would if you were a classic explorer who is going on an expedition into the unknown, whether it be a safari into darkest Africa, or a visit to temple ruins in South America. Live adventurously on this day!
If you are still unsure about what to do, just think "Talk Like a Pirate Day," but replace "Pirate" with "Adventurer." (Examples: Indiana Jones, Allan Quatermain, Jungle Cruise Skippers, Ramar of the Jungle, Rick O'Connell, Teddy Roosevelt, Nathan Drake, Pitfall harry, Legends of the Hidden Temple, etcetera.)"
I would have added Lara Croft, Jane Goodall, Mary Leakey, and Adèle Blanc-Sec to that list, in the interests of both gender diversity and full-on adventurely awesomeness, but hey, the impetus for the day came from Disney fans, and in my experience, despite their claims to progressivism and diversity, the Disney machine is, above all else, devoted to promoting and maintaining a sanitized and profitable version of the status quo, gender equality be d&mned.
(You think I'm making this up? Look at the film Mary Poppins. What does the suffragette mother do at the end of the movie? She donates her 'Votes for Women' banner to be the tail for a kite. She gives up her cause to go back to being a housewife, and symbolically tells the suffrage movement to 'go fly a kite.')
But I digress. Here, in a series of five images, is my contribution to helping make Lost Adventure Day a more widely recognized pseudo-holiday.
Scanned lith print.
Hasselblad 500C/M w/ Zeiss Distagon 50 mm/f4.
June 2024.
Fomapan 100 in Adonal 1+100, semistand 1 h.
Cropped neg lith printed on the new and yet again lithable Fomatone 131 FB (emulsion batch # 079648-02).
Dec 6, 2024.
Developed in Moersch Easy Lith Special Fomatone Edition (30A+25B+H2Oqs700).
Untoned.
Revisiting negs from the past summer as a first try out of the new FT paper.
Lithable: yes!
Snowballs: no
Winner of the high school girls cross country race at the St/ Joseph Streak Invitational in Fremont, OH
Your Friendly Neighborhood Task Force
By Lois Lane.
When I woke up yesterday morning, with the birds chirping delightedly and the sun beaming down upon our bustling, thriving city, I expected a number of things to happen in roughly the same order they do every day. I would wake up, have breakfast with my darling Husband and son, grab my double-tall espresso at the CC Jitters down the street from The Daily Planet, and show up three minutes late, which for me, is right on time. What I did not expect yesterday, and what I’m sure many of you, dear readers, did not expect while shopping and working and dining downtown, was that a forty-foot dinosaur, a Tyrannosaurs Rex to be precise, would come barreling down main street, swatting cars with its tail and regrettably, devouring some of the unluckier passer-by. However, this colossal creature did not get far, it was soon felled, not by Superman as one in this fair city would expect, but by a whole-new group of government do-gooders. This crack team of all-American GI’s tranquilized and secured the beast in record time, and will soon return it to it’s island home.
After this chaotic event, I was able to speak with one of these courageous heroes, a woman who introduced herself by the name of Doctor Karin Grace. Doctor Grace, a lithe, cheerful woman, was all too happy to have a chat with me while her compatriots loaded the behemoth into a truck. She introduced them to me as they worked. There was Doctor Hugh Evans, team pretty boy with what I’m told is a very sizable brain, and an adrenaline-junkie attitude to match. Doctor Jess Bright; a physicist and chess-player by nature, Jess is never without a plan in mind. And finally, the leader of this little band, Colonel Richard Flag. Weapons master and a known military man whose honorable deeds run the length of my arm.
“It’s really very simple,” Doctor Grace told me when I asked how they managed to subdue this forty-foot fiend, “it takes fifteen milligrams of Etorphine to knock out an elephant, and your average adult male elephant weighs seven tons. So, Jess figured size that up accordingly to the weight of a T. Rex, and boom, you’ve bagged your prize!” When I asked how much Jess estimated how much sais T. Rex weighed, Doctor Grace laughed and replied, “a healthy number of elephants, Lois!”
Doctor Grace regrettably had to end our little chat there, but before her and her brigade ran off to take Rexy home, I managed to ask what the public should call this squad of dinosaur-wranglers. Doctor Karin Grace was happy to suggest that readers, “Just call them
TASK FORCE X.”
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And it begins. Roll title credits.
Robert Tait McKenzie (1867-1938)
The Competitor
1906; this cast, ca. 1907-8
Bronze
Rogers Fund, 1909
In his sculptures, the Canadian born McKenzie, a practicing physician and the director of the Department of Physical Education at Philadelphia's University of Pennsylvania, portrayed athletes in varying states of motion and rest. A sense of impending action is present in "The Competitor", in which a lithe runner kneels to lace his shoe in a solitary moment before a race.
Diverse elements of human habitation have been found in the cave, including fire-fractured rock, lithic tools and human remains. Human habitation at Cueva del Milodón is dated as early as 6000 BC. Archeological studies of the area are ongoing.
Even at this point I would suggest that the Bean is about a meter off the ground, she is an explosive and energetic cat about 2 now and I have to say she is some of the best money I have ever spent. A great addition to our family.
German postcard by Kolibri-Verlag, no. 1744.
Gorgeous French actress Dany Saval (1942) was the lithe and lovely leading lady in both fluffy comedies and thrillers of the late 1950s and early 1960s.
For more postcards, a bio and clips check out our blog European Film Star Postcards or follow us at Tumblr.
He was there. He chose to leave. He wanted to change.
--------
I've always wanted the rail thin model body. I've never had it. By seventh grade, I had "blossomed" into a C/D cup bra. I desperately ached for the body in magazines - tall, lithe, sinewy. The type of body that could wear "boyfriend" jeans and had small pert breasts.
Instead, my body is the antithesis of straight lines. Curves bend around my frame, clasping my flesh. Hourglass.
I am not, perhaps, what society says is ideal.
I'm learning to love myself. To love the swell of my hips, the softness of my stomach.
I'm learning to see myself as feminine. Curvy. Voluptuous. Womanly.
Beautiful in my own way.
Torso of Bacchus
Marble sculpture; unknown provenance;
Roman Imperial period, ca. 1st-2nd cent.
A lithe youthful, nude male torso of a figure standing in relaxed contrapposto.
The right arm was originally raised with the hand resting on the head. The left arm would have been lowered and probably leaning on a support with a bunch of grapes in the hand. Long wavy locks of hair fall over the shoulders.
The pose of the sculpture is ultimately derived from the Lycean Apollo by the Athenian master-sculptor Praxiteles (active ca. 370-330 BCE). The statue, however, would not have represent the youthful Apollo, epitome of the male athletic ideal. This is a variation of a recurring type known as the "Resting Dionysus." Known also as Bacchus and Liber, he was god of wine among many other spheres of inspiration.
A shallow Typic Petrogypsid from the interior of the UAE.
These shallow mineral soils that are less than 50 cm deep (from the soil surface) to a root-limiting layer (petrogypsic or petrocalcic horizon, or a paralithic contact) excluding soils that are in a Lithic subgroup.
Petrogypsids are the Gypsids that have a petrogypsic horizon that has its upper boundary within 100 cm of the soil surface. These soils occur in very arid areas of the world where the parent material is high in content of gypsum. When the petrogypsic horizon is close to the surface, crusting forms pseudohexagonal patterns on the soil surface. Petrogypsids occupy old surfaces. In Syria and Iraq, they are on the highest terraces along the Tigris and Euphrates Rivers. These soils are not extensive in the United States but are extensive in other countries.
The petrogypsic horizon is a horizon in which visible secondary gypsum has accumulated or has been transformed. The horizon is cemented (i.e., extremely weakly cemented through indurated cementation classes), and the cementation is both laterally continuous and root limiting, even when the soil is moist. The horizon typically occurs as a subsurface horizon, but it may occur at the surface in some soils (foreground).
Gypsids are the Aridisols that have a gypsic or petrogypsic horizon within 100 cm of the soil surface. Accumulation of gypsum takes place initially as crystal aggregates in the voids of the soils. These aggregates grow by accretion, displacing the enclosing soil material. When the gypsic horizon occurs as a cemented impermeable layer, it is recognized as the petrogypsic horizon. Each of these forms of gypsum accumulation implies processes in the soils, and each presents a constraint to soil use. One of the largest constraints is dissolution of the gypsum, which plays havoc with structures, roads, and irrigation delivery systems. The presence of one or more of these horizons, with or without other diagnostic horizons, defines the great groups of the Gypsids. Gypsids occur in Iraq, Syria, Saudi Arabia, Iran, Somalia, West Asia, and some of the most arid areas of the western part of the United States. Gypsids are on many segments of the landscape. Some of them have calcic or related horizons that overlie the gypsic horizon.
For more information about describing soils, visit:
www.nrcs.usda.gov/Internet/FSE_DOCUMENTS/nrcs142p2_052523...
For additional information about soil classification using Soil Taxonomy, visit:
sites.google.com/site/dinpuithai/Home
For more information about soil classification using the UAE Keys to Soil Taxonomy, visit:
agrifs.ir/sites/default/files/United%20Arab%20Emirates%20...
Luca is a really lithe cat with only 2 kg of body weight.
Maybe she knows she is very light...that's why she loves sitting on a weight scale.
Texas State Large Mammal:
Texas designated the longhorn as the official state large mammal in 1995. "Their long, polished horns sometimes ran six feet from tip to tip...they were lean and lithe, alert as a deer, half-wild, half-savage, half-human." - from "The Saga of Rodeo" by cowboy writer Chuck Walters. By the 1920s, Longhorn cattle had become a rare sight. Six ranching families preserved and bred pure Texas Longhorn stock. They were the Wright, Yates, Butler, Marks, Peeler, and Phillips families. Each for many years raised stock completely unrelated to the other herds. Their efforts planned or otherwise, were the vital factor that prevented the breed from extinction. Today producers of Texas Longhorns either raise their favorite family bloodline in a pure state or mix and select combinations of several family bloodlines. Across the Americas, Canada, Mexico, and parts of Europe, Texas Longhorn cattle are being bred and raised. Ranchers are eager to maintain the heritage, lean beef quality and legacy of this truly incredible animal. To warp up this history lesson, it seems appropriate to quote Dobie again. In his introduction to The Longhorns, he states, 'The Texas Longhorn made more history than any other breed of cattle the civilized world has known. ...he will remain the bedrock on which the history of the cow country of America is founded.'
I actually came within about 30 feet of a bear a few minutes before I took this picture. I also almost got struck by lightning! This was a dangerous photo! lol. The Chiricahua National Monument is a relatively empty beautiful post-volcanic display of erosion in southeastern Arizona. It was such a great place to explore.
German postcard by Kolibri-Verlag, Minden, no. 1965.
Gorgeous French actress Dany Saval (1942) was the lithe and lovely leading lady in both fluffy comedies and thrillers of the late 1950s and early 1960s.
For more postcards, a bio and clips check out our blog European Film Star Postcards.
Karina Bradley wore plenty of ultra sexy outfits during the “Dance Floor Diva” Music Video shoot. But the tight red leather catsuit might have just taken things to whole new heights of exotic! It accentuated every curve in her lithe body, and it looked extra sexy on the dance floor. And for that extra touchthe diva let down her flowing blond hair.
Pop star Karina Bradley has a strong background in modeling. She even appeared in a Victoria’s Secret Fashion show. Combine that with her dance moves and glowing personality, and she has a strong musical background that flows in the club. And it came out in full force during the music video shoot. Especially when she hit the floor in her leather outfit!
Flint
Grotte dello Scoglio di San Giovanni, Cirella (CS)
Middle-Upper Paleolithic (120,000 - 10,000 BP)
Museo dei Brettii e degli Enotri, Cosenza, Calabria, Italy
The cult actioner "Wolfen Queen" (1982?) with Pearl Cheung got its Korean VHS release way back in the early rental cycle...very rare tape now
Excerpted from “The Choker-Edward D. Hoch
Also appeared
Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine (September 1974)
It was a season in Manhatten when the wealthy ladies had ceased to wear their fine jewelry. They wore cheap paste replicas or no jewelry at all, because it wasn’t worth being held up and possibly injured on the way home from some swank dinner dance. That was why I didn’t really expect anything as I lounged in the lobby of the Plaze Hotel watching the arrivals for the charity ball that night.
Then all at once she was there……
,swooping through the revolving door as if the world were hers. She was lithe and lovely in her shimmering gold gown, , like a Goddess imagined in some half remembered dream. In that first moment, however, my eyes were not on that lovely face or figure, but on the dazzeling diamond choker that circled her pretty neck. I hadn’t seen one like it in years, but there it was, catching and flashing the lights as she crossed the lobby…..
In that instant I knew it was real. She was not the sort to wear imitation anything. She could have walked into that lobby without a diamond on her and still caused a stir. If she chose to arrive wearing that choker, it was the real thing.
I left the lobby sooon after that, already plotting my next moves. I knew from past experience that these affairs usually begin to break up shortly before midnight. By that time I would be ready.
What is this? The lady gasped, clearly terrified..
We faced each other on the deserted sidewalk, with the streetlight catching the glitter of her diamond choker.
I showed her the gun sand said, You know what I want, take it off. Come on – I want that choker. Quit stalling. Her hands went to her neck. The diamond choker came away from her throat and she held it out to me……
Alfred Hitchcock's Tales to Make Your Teeth Chatter (book)
Alfred Hitchcock's Tales to Make Your Teeth Chatter
• Published in 1980 in the USA by Davis Publications
• Subtitle: Anthology #8
• Edited by Eleanor Sullivan
• ? pages
• ISBN 0792708288
Contents
1. Black Disaster by Richard O. Lewis
2. Memory Game by William Link and Richard Levinson
3. A Place to Hide by Richard Deming
4. Kasch for Your Clothes by Fred S. Tobey — from AHMM 17(8)
5. One Way Out by Clark Howard
6. Sweet Tranquility by Leo P. Kelley
7. Deathbed by Frank Sisk — from AHMM 19(11)
8. The Choker by Edward D. Hoch — from AHMM 19(9)
9. Not an Enemy in the World by Charlotte Edwards
10. What Difference Now? by Clayton Matthews — from AHMM 13(7)
11. All of a Sudden by John Lutz
12. The Lipstick Explosion by James Holding
13. The Deadly Guest by Helen Nielsen — from AHMM 3(10)
14. That Kind of a Day by Lawrence Block
15. The Slave by Henry Slesar
16. Teeth in the Case by Carl Henry Rathjen
17. The Marrow of Justice by Hal Ellson
18. Favor by Stephen Wasylyk — from AHMM 14(1)
19. That Year's Victim by Jack Ritchie
20. Innocent Witness by Irving Schiffer — from AHMM 7(9)
21. Dead Stop on the Road South by Robert Colby — from AHMM 14(3)
22. We're Really Not That Kind of People by Samuel W. Taylor
23. Weighty Problem by Duane Decker — from AHMM 5(8)
24. There's Something Funny Here by James Michael Ullman
25. The Ultimate Prey by Talmage Powell — from AHMM 19(12)
26. Vienna Sausage by Joyce Harrington
27. Sniff by Donald E. Westlake
28. Pocket Evidence by Harold Q. Masur
Links
• Casual Debris - An Alfred Hitchcock Anthology Bibliography
• LibraryThing
• WorldCat
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Some of the stories from the above collection appeared In:
Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine Presents Fifty Years of Crime and Suspense
by Linda Landrigan (Editor)
From Ed McBain to Sara Paretsky: a celebration of over fifty years of mystery masterworks.
For over fifty years, Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine has been one of the foremost magazines of mystery and suspense. This celebratory anthology features such bestselling writers as Lawrence Block, Ed McBain, and Jan Burke, just three of the esteemed contributors to have appeared in the magazine’s pages over the past five decades.
Con men and criminals, PIs and amateur sleuths, the mean streets of New York and San Francisco, Chicago and Seoul, not to mention eighteenth-century London and eleventh-century Japan. For 50 years "Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine" has offered its readers a wide range of the finest crime and detective stories available and stands today as one of the foremost magazines of mystery and suspense. In anticipation of "AHMM"'s golden anniversary, Ms. Landrigan invited readers to nominate their favorite stories, and this collection is packed with popular authors and well-known characters, including Lawrence Block's Matt Scudder, Bill Pronzini's Nameless Detective, and Sara Paretsky's V. I. Warshawski. Linda Landrigan is editor-in-chief of "Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine," She lives in New York
This impressive anthology reflects the diversity of every issue of the magazine: historicals and police procedurals, cozies and noirs, humor and suspense. From Jim Thompson in the fifties and Donald Westlake in the sixties, to recent stories by S. J. Rozan, Martin Limon, and Rhys Bowen, this anthology documents
Hunter's ballet with the caught and carried. (2:59 PM)
The osprey – a.k.a. the sea hawk, fish hawk, and river hawk – is an aerial angler that glides high over shallow waters targeting unsuspecting fish. This lean, rapacious raptor hunts . . . prowling . . . circling . . . a bandit’s dark mask stretched around golden eyes staring down from 30 to 130 feet above the water searching for prey. Ospreys have extraordinary vision seeing through reflection and glare on the water’s surface to zero-in on a fish below. Their wide wingspan can extend to six feet, wings offering a fine display of feathers and finishing at the tips with four long, lithe feathers, widely splayed and finger-like, moving through air with grace and flair. The osprey flies with power and ease, maneuvering with an artistry of rhythm, a geometry reborn.
As the osprey soars and scans, it may pause, hover, flapping its wings as if treading air, making sure, waiting for the right moment to dive bold and hard, head first, wings adjusting, plummeting at speeds clocked at 50 mph. At the last moment, just before striking, the osprey extends its long legs and fierce talons, either skimming the water to scoop or plunging hard to grasp its slippery prey. The osprey is equipped with lethal feet, barbed and biting - the inside of each covered with tiny needle-like spicules; and the four long and scaly toes terminating in talons long and dark, curved and sharp. A reversible outer toe that swivels to the rear gives each claw two grasping talons in front and two behind - the perfect tools to clamp a lethal lock onto a slippery fish.
When the osprey hits the water and the grab is made, it’s time to become airborne again. The osprey is light – on average only 3 to 4.5 pounds - and he or she may seize a sizable fish, wriggling, trying to head down and deep to get away. Tremendous strength and exertion are often needed to get up and away with the prize. The oily coating on its wings makes shedding water easier, and the osprey’s powerful wings will arch or kink to form an M, allowing a technique for lifting itself and its captive from immersion.
Once the osprey clears the water, it carries its catch – fish head facing forward - back to its nest or perch. The osprey’s beak is hooked and sharp, appropriately bladelike for slicing or ripping into fish. Usually the osprey will eat the head of the fish first. At the nest, osprey parents will eat and tear the fish into small pieces for their chicks to eat – such feeding will continue until the young are able to hunt and survive on their own.
But the osprey’s hunt for fish is a battle not always won. Sometimes an eagle will play the pirate, bullying or attacking an osprey, forcing it to drop its catch. A clever eagle may even snag the dropped booty in mid-air. An osprey may also release a fish if it is too heavy or aggressive for the osprey to become airborne. Sometimes, an osprey’s talons will hook and get stuck in its victim, and if the fish is strong and heavy, if the osprey becomes fatigued and is unable to release its catch, predator and prey may sink – a fatal encounter for both.
The osprey is joy to watch - its hunter’s instincts and tactics, aerial acrobatics, and ability to plunge into the sea and then elevate with a struggling captive. I have seen an osprey dive into a frenzy of fish and rise out of the melee with a fish in each claw. I wondered how the osprey might feel at such moment - if beneath the fierce look in his golden eye, he might feel a special thrill – the way a golfer does in hitting a hole-in-one or the way a kid might feel standing with an ice cream cone in each hand.
This was my first shoot with the lovely MJ - what a sweet, lithe, fun and sharp young lady. Amanda and I shared her for a bit and we gave her a workout on Ron's bike. All in all a fun shoot and I look to more shoots with MJ.I took these photos at the Caldwell Train Depot back in March 2020 before Stay at Home kicked in.
I found this arrow head behind the house today!
While native toolmaking sites are fairly common around this area, identifiable by scattered chips of chert or flint on the ground, complete or semi-complete points or tools are unusual finds.
The few pieces I have found are either damaged or incomplete. I suspect, based on what I've found, that the point-making process was fairly challenging with a high failure rate, probably resulting from flaws in the stone material.
A Lithic Haplogypsid from the interior of the UAE.
Lithic Haplogypsids are the Haplogypsids that have a lithic contact within 50 cm of the soil surface. These soils can have characteristics that are common in the other subgroups.
Haplogypsids are the Gypsids that have no petrogypsic, natric, argillic, or calcic horizon that has an upper boundary within 100 cm of the soil surface. Some Haplogypsids have a cambic horizon overlying the gypsic horizon. These soils are commonly very pale in color. They are not extensive in the United States. The largest concentrations in the United States are in New Mexico and Texas. The soils are more common in other parts of the world.
Gypsids are the Aridisols that have a gypsic or petrogypsic horizon within 100 cm of the soil surface. Accumulation of gypsum takes place initially as crystal aggregates in the voids of the soils. These aggregates grow by accretion, displacing the enclosing soil material. When the gypsic horizon occurs as a cemented impermeable layer, it is recognized as the petrogypsic horizon. Each of these forms of gypsum accumulation implies processes in the soils, and each presents a constraint to soil use.
One of the largest constraints is dissolution of the gypsum, which plays havoc with structures, roads, and irrigation delivery systems. The presence of one or more of these horizons, with or without other diagnostic horizons, defines the great groups of the Gypsids. Gypsids occur in Iraq, Syria, Saudi Arabia, Iran, Somalia, West Asia, and some of the most arid areas of the western part of the United States. Gypsids are on many segments of the landscape. Some of them have calcic or related horizons that overlie the gypsic horizon.
For more information about soil classification in the UAE, visit:
vdocument.in/united-arab-emirates-keys-to-soil-taxonomy.h...