Wagner paint sprayer reset button
2 weeks clean
2023.05.28 17:17 honeypot1298 2 weeks clean
So I've posted in this sub before about how I wanted to stay clean but it was really difficult, bscause I was cutting almost daily. Well I moved and honestly I think the change in environment helped, as my old room just reminded me of my ex boyfriend of 2 years and I think that was a huge contributor to stress. Plus my new room is smaller and I think looks like a typical teenage boy room rather than a bright yellow nursery we couldn't afford to paint lol and being FTM, having what I see as a "typical teenage boy room" is honestly really euphoric. I relapsed once since being here, just from moving stress, but other than that im really proud of myself!! <3 I guess sometimes all you need is a reset of some sort lol
submitted by honeypot1298 to selfharm [link] [comments]
2023.05.28 17:01 captainjolly AI Generated Aubrey-Maturin
Apologies to anyone who has been unwillingly overdosed with ChatGPT posts lately.
I entered the first paragraph of Master and Commander, and asked the bot to write a short story of this scene. Then I asked 'What if these two went on a long voyage?''
While obviously no replacement for POB, or anyone else, this could be an excellent tool for anyone suffering from writer's block.
Can you write me a story if I prompt you with a scene? ChatGPT Of course! I'd be delighted to write a story based on a scene you provide. Please go ahead and give me the scene you have in mind, and I'll weave a story around it.
User The Music-room in the Governor's House at Port Mahon, a tall, handsome, pillared octagon, was filled with the triumphant first movement of Locatelli's C major quartet. The players, Italians pinned against the far wall be rows and rows of little round gilt chairs, were playing with passionate conviction as they mounted towards the penultimate crescendo, towards the deep, liberating final chord. And on the little gilt chairs at least some of the audience were following the rise with equal intensity: there were two in the third row, on the left-hand side; and they happened to be sitting next to one another. The listener farther on the left was a man between twenty and thirty whose big for overflowed his seat, leaving one a streak of gilt wood to be seen here and there. He was wearing his best uniform - the white lapelled blue coat, white waistcoat, breeches and stockings of a lieutenant in the Royal Navy, with the silver medal of the Nile in his buttonhole - and the deep white cuff of his gold-buttoned sleeve to beat the time, whole his bright blue eyes, staring from what would have been a pink-and-white face if it had not been so deeply tanned, gazed fixedly at the bow of the first violin. The high note came, the pause, the resolution; and with the resolution the sailor's fist swept firmly down upon his knee. He lent back in his chair, extinguishing it entirely, sighed happily and turned towards his neighbor with a smile. The words 'Very finely played, sir, I believe' were formed in his gullet if not quite in his mouth when he caught the cold and indeed inimical look and heard the whisper, 'If you really must beat the measure, sir, let me entreat you to do so in time, and not half a beat ahead.' ChatGPT In the vibrant music-room of the Governor's House at Port Mahon, a symphony of passion and triumph filled the air. The grand octagonal chamber, adorned with tall pillars, resonated with the enchanting melodies of Locatelli's C major quartet. The Italian musicians, positioned against the far wall, poured their hearts into each note, their conviction carrying them towards the crescendo that promised an exhilarating climax. Among the audience, perched upon rows of elegant gilt chairs, two individuals captivated by the music sat side by side. The listener to the left, a young man in his twenties or thirties, occupied more space than his seat could contain. His impressive stature, emphasized by his naval uniform—a resplendent white-lapelled blue coat, a pristine white waistcoat, breeches, and stockings—exuded an air of authority. The silver medal of the Nile, proudly displayed in his buttonhole, hinted at his naval exploits. His sun-kissed complexion adorned with bright blue eyes fixated unwaveringly on the bow of the first violin. As the composition reached its zenith, building up to the final chord, the sailor's anticipation surged within him. His gold-buttoned sleeve, cuff extended, beat in perfect rhythm against his knee. With bated breath, he awaited the climactic high note, the transformative pause, and the ensuing resolution. And when that glorious resolution resounded, carrying the room to the pinnacle of musical ecstasy, the sailor's fist came down upon his knee with resolute conviction. Satisfied, he leaned back in his chair, extinguishing its golden sheen, and released a contented sigh. Turning towards his neighboring listener, a smile played upon his lips, ready to express his admiration for the sublime performance. However, before the words could find their voice, he caught a frigid and unwelcoming gaze from his companion, accompanied by a whispered reprimand. "If you really must beat the measure, sir," the rebuke slipped through pursed lips, laced with disapproval, "let me entreat you to do so in time, and not half a beat ahead." The sailor's smile faltered momentarily, struck by the unexpected iciness of the response. He blinked, taking in the critical tone and the stranger's stern countenance. Realizing his misstep, he mustered an apologetic expression, tempered with humility. "My sincerest apologies, sir," he replied softly, contrition evident in his voice. "I allowed my enthusiasm to carry me away. Your admonishment is duly noted, and I assure you, I shall be more mindful in the future." The neighboring listener, seemingly appeased by the sailor's apology, softened his gaze, recognizing the earnestness in the young man's eyes. A flicker of understanding passed between them, bridging the gap that had momentarily divided them. "Very well," he responded, a trace of reluctant admiration blending with the lingering aloofness. "Let us enjoy the remainder of this exquisite performance together, in harmony, and with a shared appreciation for the music." The sailor nodded, gratitude and eagerness intertwining within him. The barriers that had briefly risen between them dissolved, allowing the enchanting melodies to carry them both on a harmonious journey. From that moment onward, their appreciation for the music transcended their differences, weaving an unspoken bond between them within the captivating confines of the Governor's House at Port Mahon. And as the quartet's final notes faded into the air, their applause, united and fervent, joined the chorus of appreciation that filled the music-room, harmonizing the souls of all who were fortunate enough to witness that unforgettable performance. User What if the two characters went together on a long voyage next? ChatGPT Embarking on an unforeseen adventure, the two characters found themselves drawn together by their shared love for music and the uncharted allure of the open sea. The sailor, Lieutenant William Harrington, and his unlikely companion, a refined gentleman named Edward Sinclair, discovered a profound connection amidst the enchantment of the Music-room in the Governor's House at Port Mahon. As fate would have it, Lieutenant Harrington's naval duties presented an opportunity for an extended voyage aboard the HMS Seraph, a majestic vessel scheduled for an expedition to unexplored territories. Unbeknownst to both men, their paths were destined to intertwine once more on this remarkable journey. Intrigued by the prospect of exploration and the allure of distant shores, Edward, a man of scholarly disposition, harbored a deep yearning for adventure that resonated with the naval officer. The echoes of Locatelli's quartet continued to linger in their hearts, serving as a testament to the profound connection they had established in that Port Mahon music-room. Lieutenant Harrington, upon learning of Edward's shared passion for discovery, extended an invitation to accompany him on the voyage. Edward, captivated by the idea of traversing uncharted waters and the possibility of uncovering hidden treasures, accepted the offer with an eagerness that matched the sailor's own. Months of preparation ensued as the HMS Seraph underwent meticulous provisioning for the journey. The day of departure finally arrived, and the ship set sail, leaving behind the familiar shores of Port Mahon. Lieutenant Harrington, assuming his role as an experienced officer, guided Edward through the intricacies of life aboard a naval vessel, teaching him the ropes, both literally and metaphorically. As the ship ventured into the vast expanse of the ocean, the two newfound companions found solace in the shared experiences of life at sea. They faced tempestuous storms that lashed against the ship's sturdy hull, their camaraderie growing stronger amidst the chaos. They stood side by side on the deck, gazing at breathtaking sunsets that painted the horizon with vivid hues, finding beauty in the ever-changing tableau of nature. During long nights beneath a star-studded sky, Lieutenant Harrington regaled Edward with tales of his past adventures—his daring exploits, encounters with distant cultures, and the triumphs and tribulations that accompanied a life at sea. Edward, in turn, imparted his intellectual insights, engaging the sailor in discussions on literature, philosophy, and the power of art to transcend boundaries. Together, they navigated uncharted waters, mapping unknown territories, and unearthing the treasures of knowledge and friendship. In their shared cabin, notes of music flowed freely, as Lieutenant Harrington would strum a guitar, and Edward would join him with melodies on a humble flute. Their impromptu performances carried the spirit of Locatelli's quartet, evoking memories of the music-room that had initially brought them together. Months turned into years, and the long voyage evolved into a transformative odyssey for both men. The sailor and the scholar discovered the profound depths of their shared humanity and the vastness of the world that lay before them. They encountered foreign cultures, witnessed breathtaking landscapes, and forged bonds with diverse peoples they encountered along their maritime path. When the HMS Seraph eventually returned to Port Mahon, its sails tattered but hearts emboldened, Lieutenant Harrington and Edward Sinclair disembarked as inseparable friends. Their transformative voyage had not only broadened their horizons but had solidified their connection, intertwining their lives in a tapestry woven by the threads of music, adventure, and camaraderie. And as they bid farewell to the ship that had been their floating sanctuary, their journey continued, a testament to the enduring power of unlikely friendships forged against the backdrop of unexplored horizons, echoing the symphony of life's unexpected harmonies.
submitted by captainjolly to AubreyMaturinSeries [link] [comments]
I entered the first paragraph of Master and Commander, and asked the bot to write a short story of this scene. Then I asked 'What if these two went on a long voyage?''
While obviously no replacement for POB, or anyone else, this could be an excellent tool for anyone suffering from writer's block.
Can you write me a story if I prompt you with a scene? ChatGPT Of course! I'd be delighted to write a story based on a scene you provide. Please go ahead and give me the scene you have in mind, and I'll weave a story around it.
User The Music-room in the Governor's House at Port Mahon, a tall, handsome, pillared octagon, was filled with the triumphant first movement of Locatelli's C major quartet. The players, Italians pinned against the far wall be rows and rows of little round gilt chairs, were playing with passionate conviction as they mounted towards the penultimate crescendo, towards the deep, liberating final chord. And on the little gilt chairs at least some of the audience were following the rise with equal intensity: there were two in the third row, on the left-hand side; and they happened to be sitting next to one another. The listener farther on the left was a man between twenty and thirty whose big for overflowed his seat, leaving one a streak of gilt wood to be seen here and there. He was wearing his best uniform - the white lapelled blue coat, white waistcoat, breeches and stockings of a lieutenant in the Royal Navy, with the silver medal of the Nile in his buttonhole - and the deep white cuff of his gold-buttoned sleeve to beat the time, whole his bright blue eyes, staring from what would have been a pink-and-white face if it had not been so deeply tanned, gazed fixedly at the bow of the first violin. The high note came, the pause, the resolution; and with the resolution the sailor's fist swept firmly down upon his knee. He lent back in his chair, extinguishing it entirely, sighed happily and turned towards his neighbor with a smile. The words 'Very finely played, sir, I believe' were formed in his gullet if not quite in his mouth when he caught the cold and indeed inimical look and heard the whisper, 'If you really must beat the measure, sir, let me entreat you to do so in time, and not half a beat ahead.' ChatGPT In the vibrant music-room of the Governor's House at Port Mahon, a symphony of passion and triumph filled the air. The grand octagonal chamber, adorned with tall pillars, resonated with the enchanting melodies of Locatelli's C major quartet. The Italian musicians, positioned against the far wall, poured their hearts into each note, their conviction carrying them towards the crescendo that promised an exhilarating climax. Among the audience, perched upon rows of elegant gilt chairs, two individuals captivated by the music sat side by side. The listener to the left, a young man in his twenties or thirties, occupied more space than his seat could contain. His impressive stature, emphasized by his naval uniform—a resplendent white-lapelled blue coat, a pristine white waistcoat, breeches, and stockings—exuded an air of authority. The silver medal of the Nile, proudly displayed in his buttonhole, hinted at his naval exploits. His sun-kissed complexion adorned with bright blue eyes fixated unwaveringly on the bow of the first violin. As the composition reached its zenith, building up to the final chord, the sailor's anticipation surged within him. His gold-buttoned sleeve, cuff extended, beat in perfect rhythm against his knee. With bated breath, he awaited the climactic high note, the transformative pause, and the ensuing resolution. And when that glorious resolution resounded, carrying the room to the pinnacle of musical ecstasy, the sailor's fist came down upon his knee with resolute conviction. Satisfied, he leaned back in his chair, extinguishing its golden sheen, and released a contented sigh. Turning towards his neighboring listener, a smile played upon his lips, ready to express his admiration for the sublime performance. However, before the words could find their voice, he caught a frigid and unwelcoming gaze from his companion, accompanied by a whispered reprimand. "If you really must beat the measure, sir," the rebuke slipped through pursed lips, laced with disapproval, "let me entreat you to do so in time, and not half a beat ahead." The sailor's smile faltered momentarily, struck by the unexpected iciness of the response. He blinked, taking in the critical tone and the stranger's stern countenance. Realizing his misstep, he mustered an apologetic expression, tempered with humility. "My sincerest apologies, sir," he replied softly, contrition evident in his voice. "I allowed my enthusiasm to carry me away. Your admonishment is duly noted, and I assure you, I shall be more mindful in the future." The neighboring listener, seemingly appeased by the sailor's apology, softened his gaze, recognizing the earnestness in the young man's eyes. A flicker of understanding passed between them, bridging the gap that had momentarily divided them. "Very well," he responded, a trace of reluctant admiration blending with the lingering aloofness. "Let us enjoy the remainder of this exquisite performance together, in harmony, and with a shared appreciation for the music." The sailor nodded, gratitude and eagerness intertwining within him. The barriers that had briefly risen between them dissolved, allowing the enchanting melodies to carry them both on a harmonious journey. From that moment onward, their appreciation for the music transcended their differences, weaving an unspoken bond between them within the captivating confines of the Governor's House at Port Mahon. And as the quartet's final notes faded into the air, their applause, united and fervent, joined the chorus of appreciation that filled the music-room, harmonizing the souls of all who were fortunate enough to witness that unforgettable performance. User What if the two characters went together on a long voyage next? ChatGPT Embarking on an unforeseen adventure, the two characters found themselves drawn together by their shared love for music and the uncharted allure of the open sea. The sailor, Lieutenant William Harrington, and his unlikely companion, a refined gentleman named Edward Sinclair, discovered a profound connection amidst the enchantment of the Music-room in the Governor's House at Port Mahon. As fate would have it, Lieutenant Harrington's naval duties presented an opportunity for an extended voyage aboard the HMS Seraph, a majestic vessel scheduled for an expedition to unexplored territories. Unbeknownst to both men, their paths were destined to intertwine once more on this remarkable journey. Intrigued by the prospect of exploration and the allure of distant shores, Edward, a man of scholarly disposition, harbored a deep yearning for adventure that resonated with the naval officer. The echoes of Locatelli's quartet continued to linger in their hearts, serving as a testament to the profound connection they had established in that Port Mahon music-room. Lieutenant Harrington, upon learning of Edward's shared passion for discovery, extended an invitation to accompany him on the voyage. Edward, captivated by the idea of traversing uncharted waters and the possibility of uncovering hidden treasures, accepted the offer with an eagerness that matched the sailor's own. Months of preparation ensued as the HMS Seraph underwent meticulous provisioning for the journey. The day of departure finally arrived, and the ship set sail, leaving behind the familiar shores of Port Mahon. Lieutenant Harrington, assuming his role as an experienced officer, guided Edward through the intricacies of life aboard a naval vessel, teaching him the ropes, both literally and metaphorically. As the ship ventured into the vast expanse of the ocean, the two newfound companions found solace in the shared experiences of life at sea. They faced tempestuous storms that lashed against the ship's sturdy hull, their camaraderie growing stronger amidst the chaos. They stood side by side on the deck, gazing at breathtaking sunsets that painted the horizon with vivid hues, finding beauty in the ever-changing tableau of nature. During long nights beneath a star-studded sky, Lieutenant Harrington regaled Edward with tales of his past adventures—his daring exploits, encounters with distant cultures, and the triumphs and tribulations that accompanied a life at sea. Edward, in turn, imparted his intellectual insights, engaging the sailor in discussions on literature, philosophy, and the power of art to transcend boundaries. Together, they navigated uncharted waters, mapping unknown territories, and unearthing the treasures of knowledge and friendship. In their shared cabin, notes of music flowed freely, as Lieutenant Harrington would strum a guitar, and Edward would join him with melodies on a humble flute. Their impromptu performances carried the spirit of Locatelli's quartet, evoking memories of the music-room that had initially brought them together. Months turned into years, and the long voyage evolved into a transformative odyssey for both men. The sailor and the scholar discovered the profound depths of their shared humanity and the vastness of the world that lay before them. They encountered foreign cultures, witnessed breathtaking landscapes, and forged bonds with diverse peoples they encountered along their maritime path. When the HMS Seraph eventually returned to Port Mahon, its sails tattered but hearts emboldened, Lieutenant Harrington and Edward Sinclair disembarked as inseparable friends. Their transformative voyage had not only broadened their horizons but had solidified their connection, intertwining their lives in a tapestry woven by the threads of music, adventure, and camaraderie. And as they bid farewell to the ship that had been their floating sanctuary, their journey continued, a testament to the enduring power of unlikely friendships forged against the backdrop of unexplored horizons, echoing the symphony of life's unexpected harmonies.
2023.05.28 16:49 swampynoooodle Jedi Fallen Order was a slug
Let me pre-phase these by saying that I am neither fan or hater of Star Wars movies, I watched them all, enjoyed some of them and did not enjoy others, but never had too much hatred towards one or the other movie or trilogy.
The game:
Intro and Last Mission were great, everything else was bad.
Game tries to be two things at the same time while not accomplishing any of it.
Small things that piss you off.
Intro and the Last Mission were the highlight, the intro pulls you in, because its a compelling story about a new character. However with the first mission it descends into a boring and derivative story and gameplay. For instance the missions are structed such that going from point A to point B has no inherited plot in it. It's just a mechanic. All of the game plot happens in the cut scenes. You actively playing the game is just you going through motions.
The game is trying to be two things at the same time while not accomplishing any of it. The game tries to be a Tom Raide Uncharted + Hints on open world type of game like GTA 5. So the game mechanics and puzzles are direct link between Tomb Raider and Uncharted. While in Tomb Raider and Uncharted the climbing and puzzle solving is somewhat integrated into the plot of the game, in Fallen Order its just a gimmicky mechanic that allows you to either open a door or a passage, but generally speaking has no meaning. It feels meaningless since you are not doing this to progress the plot, you are doing it to get to a point B on the map. Game also hints on maps being explorable beyond the mission, however due to that they its more of an obstacle rather then a feature. Instead of the map being a linear experience like in Tomb Raider of Uncharted maps in Fallen Order are multi leveled and multi routed. However, you can take a wrong turn and realize that you have to go through all of the motions again just to get back to the place that you just started. So most of the game feels like running in circles wasting your time, trying to just get to the point on the map.
Little things that piss you off.
There is no radar on the interface.
In order to check the map you constantly have to spam a button. There are no clear markings where to go. In Uncharted and Tomb Raider even in most confusing puzzles there was paint or markings on the walls that made it clear were to go and what direction to take. In Fallen Order the map design blends everything together. So sometimes you are taking a wrong turn just because the map looks identical in both forward and backward direction.
There is no way to skip through the cutscenes.
And there is no autosave feature. So the only way to save is to reach a checkpoint and do something at the checkpoint like rest or use your skill points. That will force the game to save creating a save checkpoint. Its never clearly indicated therefore if you don't save often you can potentially lose progression. Or if your cat steps on your power bar and your pc turns off you will lose all the progression. And again you cannot skip cutscenes. Therefore if you forgot to save you have to watch again all of the derivative plot again.
After reaching your B destination you have to return to ship. So it means that after going from point A to point B you have to backtrack to point A again. There are some shortcuts but you still have to get to them, and for some reason all enemies that you defeated to reach point B respawn. So essentially exploration is punished by the fact that you will have to backtrack to your ship at the and anyway. Wasting so much of your time.
So in the end, the game feels like waste of time. The negative moments overwhelm the positives so much that I cannot recommend the game to people that value their gaming time.
submitted by swampynoooodle to patientgamers [link] [comments]
The game:
Intro and Last Mission were great, everything else was bad.
Game tries to be two things at the same time while not accomplishing any of it.
Small things that piss you off.
Intro and the Last Mission were the highlight, the intro pulls you in, because its a compelling story about a new character. However with the first mission it descends into a boring and derivative story and gameplay. For instance the missions are structed such that going from point A to point B has no inherited plot in it. It's just a mechanic. All of the game plot happens in the cut scenes. You actively playing the game is just you going through motions.
The game is trying to be two things at the same time while not accomplishing any of it. The game tries to be a Tom Raide Uncharted + Hints on open world type of game like GTA 5. So the game mechanics and puzzles are direct link between Tomb Raider and Uncharted. While in Tomb Raider and Uncharted the climbing and puzzle solving is somewhat integrated into the plot of the game, in Fallen Order its just a gimmicky mechanic that allows you to either open a door or a passage, but generally speaking has no meaning. It feels meaningless since you are not doing this to progress the plot, you are doing it to get to a point B on the map. Game also hints on maps being explorable beyond the mission, however due to that they its more of an obstacle rather then a feature. Instead of the map being a linear experience like in Tomb Raider of Uncharted maps in Fallen Order are multi leveled and multi routed. However, you can take a wrong turn and realize that you have to go through all of the motions again just to get back to the place that you just started. So most of the game feels like running in circles wasting your time, trying to just get to the point on the map.
Little things that piss you off.
There is no radar on the interface.
In order to check the map you constantly have to spam a button. There are no clear markings where to go. In Uncharted and Tomb Raider even in most confusing puzzles there was paint or markings on the walls that made it clear were to go and what direction to take. In Fallen Order the map design blends everything together. So sometimes you are taking a wrong turn just because the map looks identical in both forward and backward direction.
There is no way to skip through the cutscenes.
And there is no autosave feature. So the only way to save is to reach a checkpoint and do something at the checkpoint like rest or use your skill points. That will force the game to save creating a save checkpoint. Its never clearly indicated therefore if you don't save often you can potentially lose progression. Or if your cat steps on your power bar and your pc turns off you will lose all the progression. And again you cannot skip cutscenes. Therefore if you forgot to save you have to watch again all of the derivative plot again.
After reaching your B destination you have to return to ship. So it means that after going from point A to point B you have to backtrack to point A again. There are some shortcuts but you still have to get to them, and for some reason all enemies that you defeated to reach point B respawn. So essentially exploration is punished by the fact that you will have to backtrack to your ship at the and anyway. Wasting so much of your time.
So in the end, the game feels like waste of time. The negative moments overwhelm the positives so much that I cannot recommend the game to people that value their gaming time.
2023.05.28 16:48 bznimpala204 Using NextDNS with no profile on android after reseting profile
Hi there! A couplw days ago I clicked on the ID linking button on android and, since I saw it wasn't recommended for phones, I thought scrapping the old profile and making a new one would reset that. So I reset the profile.
After that I realized the green icon on the profile page had turned oranfe, saying what title states, and says I have to configure DNS to HTTP, but I, for the sake of it, don't have a clue about how to do it. I've tried using the app, restring the DNS on my muiu system, nothing works. Do you guys know how to fix it?
Oh and btw, how important is it to have a profile set with DNS? Am I missing a lot by using it without profile?
Thanks a lot in advance!
submitted by bznimpala204 to nextdns [link] [comments]
After that I realized the green icon on the profile page had turned oranfe, saying what title states, and says I have to configure DNS to HTTP, but I, for the sake of it, don't have a clue about how to do it. I've tried using the app, restring the DNS on my muiu system, nothing works. Do you guys know how to fix it?
Oh and btw, how important is it to have a profile set with DNS? Am I missing a lot by using it without profile?
Thanks a lot in advance!
2023.05.28 16:39 girl_from_the_crypt Stuck on earth and looking for a job: So this is what government work is like...
My savior human is distraught. I alone would have trouble enough coping with Kit Sutton's absence, but with Nettie Peterson's grief added to mine, it's been impossible to go about my day with any semblance of serenity.
It's quite simple; when Nettie's unhappy, I cannot be content. She finally let me visit her earlier today. That doesn’t mean her overall state has improved, though. We went to talk in the garden, only there wasn’t much talking involved—she merely sat in her mother’s chair, staring blankly at the storm-tossed flower chaos.
“Didn’t you want to fix your plants back up?” I inquired.
“M-hm,” she muttered.
“It’d be a shame if your pretty garden was gonna stay like this.”
“M-hm.”
“If you need help, you let me know, okay?”
“M-hm.”
“I won’t try to eat the geraniums again.”
“M-hm.”
I leaned forward to try and catch her deep brown gaze. “Nettie, please say something. I thought we wanted to share our feelings more.”
“There’s nothing to share,” my savior human answered, her voice dry and monotone. “Kit’s not here anymore.”
“Yes, and I’m upset, too. But either I’m a horribly poor judge of human behavior or there's more to this.” I tilted my head at her. “I’ve never seen you this way. You said you didn’t always want a solution to your problems, and I’d be happy to just sit and listen as well, but you’re not talking either.”
“You don’t get it, do you?”
“Clearly not.”
Nettie let go of a soft breath. “I didn’t wanna tell you. Not until… It’s just that in the last couple days, Kit and I were getting kind of…” She faltered and trailed off.
“Kind of what?” I prompted.
“It’s hard to explain.”
“Please try, if you can. I want to understand.”
My best friend refused to meet my gaze. “See, that’s what I envy you for sometimes. You have an outsider’s perspective. You only see what’s in front of you and you don’t concern yourself with the rest.”
“I am concerned! I’m really concerned about you right now. You’re my best friend, and I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like my caretaker, but I wanna be here for you now. Please. Let me.”
“I… I know, that’s not what I was saying…” She adjusted her bra strap, her hand coming to rest on her shoulder as though she was hugging herself. “If there was something I’d kept secret from you—nothing bad, just something personal—would you be mad at me?”
“I can’t even imagine being mad at you,” I replied.
"That's good to know," she murmured, finally lifting her head to meet my gaze. "It doesn't change things for now, but it's… good to know."
After that, she fell silent again, and I left not much later. I was setting out for a pretty gloomy rest of the day when Frankie Preston texted me, asking to come hang out at the hotel. I've only stayed at a hotel twice, when Nettie took me on vacation with her. The first time was to Croatia, the other to the south of France. My savior human speaks fluent French.
Anyways, I was glad to follow up on the server's invitation. I won't describe the exact location of the hotel he'd chosen, but it was a fairly nice place. I took Kit Sutton's car there, which definitely gave me a weird feeling. In a way, it was nice. It felt like her. The worn seats, the ancient scent tree, the assortment of guitar picks in the cup holder. The empty takeout bag lying in the footwell. When I pulled up to the hotel parking lot, I was almost reluctant to get out. When I eventually did and entered the lobby, I found that I didn't quite know where to go. I opted to simply walk up to the front desk. There was a man sitting behind it, but he didn't look up from his computer screen upon my approach.
"Mm-yes?" he muttered, and it took me a moment to realize he was addressing me.
"Hi," I began.
Something about my voice must have caught his attention, as he abruptly lifted his head to meet my gaze. "Hi," he echoed, a smile forming on his face. I couldn't help but take note of the silvery gleam of his blond hair. It was long and wavy, tied back behind his head. I wondered how it felt. "And you are…?" he prompted, taking me in.
"Sunshine," a voice rang out from behind me. I whirled around, giving Fran a bright smile which, to my delight, he reciprocated. "You have no idea the kind of acquaintance you just made."
I glanced between the two in confusion. The receptionist spoke up first. "Oh. Oh, I see! This is her, isn't it?"
"Yes. Eva, this is… one of the many banes of my existence. He's my younger brother, but only in the most remote sense of the word, I assure you." The waiter gave the receptionist a look that was somewhere between contemptuous fondness and pure contempt.
The other man grinned. "Oh Frankie, my Frankie, you are just the most bitter piece of work there is."
"Younger? You look far older than Frank," I remarked.
"Ouch. But what are looks, really?" He waved me off. "And what is age with creatures like us? Frankie tells everyone he's twenty-two, I say I'm twenty-seven. We just made up these numbers to match our faces. He's existed for way longer, though. That's probably why he's so miserable." He leaned forward, twinkling at me. "Me, I see the world through fresher eyes."
I didn't quite know what to say, so I kept my mouth shut.
"Frankie, won't you introduce me?"
The waiter sighed deeply. "This is… Zion. Zion Boyd. I told him it's a perfectly silly name, but he wouldn't listen. I'm glad Rhonda picked mine for me."
Zion Boyd laughed quietly. "You're an asshole."
"You're an idiot."
"You wanted to hang out?" I reminded Fran.
"Right!" He grabbed my wrist and began steering me towards the winding flight of stairs in the back of the hall. "Ignore him. Forget him entirely, if possible. You're not missing out.”
He brought me up to his suite, a pleasantly large, open space. The tall windows let in the light of the setting sun, painting blushing hues upon the wallpaper. I sat down on the living room couch, switching on the TV not because I was in the mood to watch anything but rather for the background noise. Frankie joined me after a second, placing before me a glass of cold coconut water as he regarded me through thick lashes. "You got something on your mind, don’t you?”
"Your brother."
"Aw crap. That smarmy, handsome piece of shit…" Fran clenched and unclenched his fists repeatedly. "I knew this would happen."
"What? No. I was wondering about what he said," I clarified, shifting uneasily in my seat.
His hands stilled. "Oh." He smiled brightly. "Do tell."
"He called you creatures. And there was something else in there about your ages."
"So? What do you think? Any grand theories?"
I shrugged. "I could probably try to piece things together. But I'd rather hear it from you."
"Ah, would you. Well, I'm sorry, Sunshine, but it doesn't work like that."
"Don't you think I need to know?"
He reached out to poke my sternum with his finger. "No. I give you everything you need. When I decide you need more information, I'll give that to you, too."
I frowned at him, but hadn't yet regained the ability to speak when my phone rang. I reluctantly fumbled it out. It was an unknown number, but I recognized the voice that greeted me from the other end. “Mary Markov?”
“Miss Shirley! Nice talking to you again.”
“To be honest, this is a bad time…”
“That’s of no relevance. Remember when I told you I might get back to you?”
“Yes.” I exchanged meaningful looks with Frankie, who rolled his eyes. He scooted closer to me and pressed his cheek up to mine to listen to the phone call. His skin was almost unnaturally smooth. I swallowed thickly when I felt his jaw working on his bubble gum, moving against mine.
"Miss Shirley?" Mary Markov asked. "Are you still there?"
"Did you say something?"
A sigh. "Look. You want money, I want your help. Come to the address I’m sending you now. It’s a big parking lot by a hiking trail in the woods. I have business there, and I could use the extra manpower.”
“Right now? I’m kind of on a…”
“You can bring the misanthropist with you.”
“What’s a misanthropist?” I inquired.
“She means me,” Fran supplied.
"She does," Miss Markov confirmed.
"We're coming." I ended the call, turning to Frankie. "That's okay, right? Are you with me?"
"Sure. Money's important. It'll be better if you have your own so I won't have to give you mine." He got up to collect our jackets. "At least this way, you won't get stabbed for it."
We took Kit's car over to the meet-up spot. Mary Markov was waiting for us beside a black pickup truck that seemed rather ill-suited for her. She was wearing a blazer, suit pants and dress shoes that were somehow pristine despite the muddy ground.
"There you are," she said, her tone crisp. Pointing her chin at the woods behind her, she added, "I hope you're ready for a bit of a hike."
"What do you need me for?" I asked.
"The Collective you came into contact with. We have reason to believe that they are meeting up here, among other places. There are probably hideouts to be found, and other things, too."
"Like what?" Fran raised a skeptical brow.
"The objects you were hired to guard. They're important; we don't rightly know what they are but they're constantly being kept on the move. There's no doubt the Collective wants them to remain obscure, and they're being clever about it."
"And you're hoping we'll go in there unprepared and just stumble across them?" the waiter inquired.
"Not exactly. There's a particular member of the cult we've managed to keep our eye on, and we followed her here. She's with at least two others, so we believe they're up to something important," Mary Markov explained. "Go in and find them. When you do, stay low and observe. I'll stay here. If anything goes wrong, call me and I will send for reinforcement."
"Why don't you let your agents go in? Why pull Eva into this? Again?"
"Frankie, I'm fine," I assured him, taking a step towards the newsreader. "What do I get paid?"
"You won't be disappointed in the money," she promised, smiling thinly. "To answer your friend's legitimate question—," she glanced over at Frank Preston as though she didn't consider his query legitimate at all, "—you are quite handy. Normally, when humans have to defend themselves and it comes to an altercation, there's… screams. Blood. Gunshots. Bullets are costly. Personnel even more so. When our agents get hurt, it might take months for them to recover. You don't need that kind of time. You're altogether less likely to be injured fatally. Employing you might end up saving us some lives and we'll be sure to make it worth your while."
That's, in short, why I found myself trudging through the mud and brushes alongside a very grudging Frank Preston that night. The storm had taken its toll in the woods, too—our chaotic surroundings reminded me of a larger-scale version of Nettie's garden. Trees had been uprooted and were lying dead in our path like organic roadblocks. The ground was covered with broken branches, twigs and young leaves. The wet soil squashed beneath our shoes every step of the way. With nightfall approaching, there was not much light reaching the forest floor. This certainly protected us from visibility, but it came at the price of my vision. I couldn't really see what was beneath me, so I kept tripping and staggering.
Frankie was somehow as graceful as ever, unbothered as he stepped over roots and rocks as if he could sense them before placing his feet. He was much quieter than me, but he thankfully wasn't smug about it. He kept one hand steady on my shoulder, aptly guiding me away from obstacles and protrusions. After a while, this began to work very well, and I became less noisy the deeper we proceeded into the woods. The server’s grip suddenly turned painfully tight, stopping me in my tracks. I realized why when I caught a glimpse of brightness not too far ahead. My chest tightened when I spotted the beam of a flashlight traveling the forest floor.
“Hush,” Frankie murmured into my ear. “Don’t. Move.”
I stood stock-still, trusting the fingers still digging into my skin.
The light passed over us, nearly reaching us but not quite. I breathed a silent sigh of relief, which died in my throat when a familiar voice carried over to us on the breeze.
“Hurry up already, would you?”
“Don’t… don’t stress me. Why aren’t you helping?” a young woman replied.
“Because it’s your fucking job.”
I felt myself break into a cold sweat. My heart was thumping so fiercely it was beginning to hurt; my pulse racing. Breaking from my rigor, I leaned over to whisper to Frankie. “That’s them.”
“What?”
“The one who stabbed me.”
Fran’s hand disappeared from my shoulder, moving down to quickly grasp mine. The pair before us was still on the move, the light of their torch slowly fading into the distance. “Listen to me,” my partner proceeded to hiss into my ear. “There’s two of them and two of us, but technically it’ll just be you. I’m not gonna leave you on your own, but the most I can do is hold one of them down.”
“But you’re strong…”
“I can’t actually hurt anybody. I gladly would, but it’s literally physically impossible for me. Do you still want to follow them?”
I paused. I didn’t want to. In fact, every fiber of my being was yelling at me to run, to get out of those woods, and yet… “We have to.”
A sigh. “I really feel like I ought to talk you out of this.”
“Don’t.”
“If things get dire, I’ll grab you and bail.”
“I’ll allow it. I’m still doing this.”
“Guess I was wrong. You might get stabbed for your pay this time around, too.”
“This is bigger than just money, Fran.”
His hand wandered back to my shoulder, nudging me forward. “I know. You want to tear this creep apart.”
I paused. “If Markov asks, we didn’t plan on it.”
“Finally, some murderous tendencies in that sunny mind of yours.” The cheer in Frankie’s voice was only a little forced.
I steeled myself as we took up walking once more. Soon enough, we caught up with the two cultists, trailing behind them at a safe distance. I could hear the faint scraping of a wheelbarrow on the uneven ground. The eerie creaking noise was enough to speed up my heartrate once more. Frankie’s words still echoing through my mind, my thoughts were racing. A part of me was convinced I was making a terrible mistake, but there was something driving me on. Whether it was curiosity, an underlying thirst for revenge or illusions of grandeur, I’ll never know. Yet forwards I went. Abruptly, the pair stopped, the wheelbarrow grating to a halt. Frankie instantly dragged me down to hide behind a dead, uprooted tree, and not one second too soon.
The beam of the flashlight roamed the underbrush, its owners remaining blissfully unaware of our presence. “Here we are,” the person who’d attacked me spoke up again.
“Woah,” the woman pushing the cart answered eloquently. Whatever they were looking at was undoubtedly rather impressive.
“You’ve never been here before, have you?”
“No… Does it go as deep as they say?”
“Deeper. It’s a whole-ass tunnel system down there. We’ve spent years prepping for this, remember?”
“Okay. Whew. Well then, off we go. Can you help me lift him up, at least?”
The other person groaned. “Fine.”
Frankie Preston had grabbed my arm. The distant shine from the cultists’ torch bathed him in an almost unearthly glow. He was cowering beside me with tense shoulders, his face a cold, concentrated mask. He wasn’t even chewing on his gum anymore. His wired posture reminded me of a lurking wildcat in a nature documentary. When he turned to look at me, I could almost tell what he was thinking.
Whatever these two had come here to do, it was happening now, meaning that this was our last chance to intervene.
Trying to free my mind from all thoughts of flight, I rose to my feet. Step by step, I made my way out of our hiding spot, instantly drawing the pair’s attention. Two heads whipped around to face me. The flashlight dropped and rolled a little ways across the ground, its wide beam illuminating the small clearing and revealing the reason for the cultists’ venture. There was a dark hole in the ground at our feet, the opening reminiscent of a gaping, toothless maw. My gaze wandered over to the pushcart. Its bulky contents were covered by a large, green tarp. The tall, lanky person slowly raised their hands to their hips, uttering a low, mildly surprised “huh”. The woman, who was stockier and far shorter in stature than them, stood frozen in shock. The eyes that stared at me from behind her black mask were blown wide.
“Hey you,” the tall one said. “I had a feeling we’d meet again soon.”
I didn’t respond. My stomach suddenly burned with a phantom pain. I couldn’t tear my eyes from the person’s gloved hands, trying not to jump when their fingers twitched into the direction of their pocket. Trying to keep my breathing steady, I reached up to unzip my jacket. As it fell to the ground, I felt my tentacles pierce my skin. Simultaneously, my teeth began to elongate, curving outward as they uncomfortably stretched out my gums.
“I had a feeling something like this was gonna happen, too,” my former assailant added, tilting their head at me. “I do love being right.”
The woman, who had been stunned speechless up to that point, let out an ear-shattering scream, but before anything coherent could emerge from her throat, the other person had spun around and struck her square across the face. The blow had come with such force that she crumbled immediately, her shriek dying in a strangled whimper before she hit the ground unconscious. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. My mind was spinning, but I forced my eyes to remain hard, praying that my large fangs were twisting my face enough to veil my terror. I lifted myself over the fallen tree, partly employing my extra limbs. The cultist didn’t shrink away, instead taking a large step towards me. Before I knew it, the surface of their mask was scraping against my teeth. Too startled to move, I held their gaze for several seconds. Up close, I could see the only part of them that wasn’t obscured.
There was something very, very wrong with their eyes.
At first, I couldn’t put my finger on it. Their iris was of a pale, watery color that could not quite be defined as blue. Their surreal milky sheen was enough to send a chill up my spine. And then I realized it. There were only the irises. That black dot that all humans and most other known lifeforms typically have in their eyes, the pupil, it simply wasn’t there.
I stood rooted to the ground, staring into the stranger’s eyes. I thought I could see different colors swirling around in those not-quite-blue orbs. I was abruptly noticing a sudden inability to move on my part. I wanted to lift my arm and shove the cultist away, I wanted to unhinge my jaw and sink my teeth into their flesh, but I couldn’t. I was distantly aware of the heavy rising and falling of my chest, of my heart thundering in my ribcage, but it didn’t feel real somehow. Nothing felt real anymore. The world had turned iridescently turquoise and violent, flashing lights dotting my vision as my breathing grew quicker.
Somewhere in the back of my head, the last waking part of me was screaming.
And then, all of a sudden, everything turned dark again. I blinked furiously, trying to orient myself as the outlines of trees and bushes swam into focus again. The sweet smell of pine needles and damp soil hit me as I emerged from the hypnotic half-slumber. Before me, ramrod straight, stood Frankie Preston, and somehow, the sight of him had triggered the flight instinct in the cultist I had failed to provoke. Our eye contact broken, they staggered back, just as Fran stepped aside. This time, I didn’t throw away my shot. I threw myself at the stranger, lunging forward with my teeth bared. They dodged me by a hair’s breadth, bolting towards the manhole and, within a split second, they had disappeared down the pitch-black shaft. No sound of impact met our pricked ears.
Frankie wordlessly took out his phone, proceeding to place the call to Mary Markov. He walked over to me as they talked, grabbing my hand with his free one and pumping it almost rhythmically like he was trying an unconventional method of resuscitation. His voice and that of the newsreader on the other end sounded strangely far away. After hanging up, he hastily typed something before finally shoving the device back into his pocket. With an almost methodical precision, he wrapped his arms around me and picked me up, holding me close to his chest. My tentacles were hanging limply from my back as my teeth slowly began to reassume their normal size and length. Entangling my trembling fingers in his curls, I must have looked absolutely pitiful. The server sat down on the fallen tree, his grip on me unfaltering as I adjusted to sit on his lap, feeling myself unwind.
We remained like this, not speaking, until we heard steps draw closer. Mary Markov and two of her agents were walking towards us at a speedy pace, the newsreader crouching down in front of us while the two men immediately took to the unconscious female cultist.
“You were in here for quite a while,” she began, her voice drifting in and out of my ears while Frankie’s soothing touch curled around the edge of my senses. “I had a feeling something had gone wrong, so I’d already sent for backup. Good thing, too, I guess.” Her voice held a barely hidden note of accusation.
“Leave her be. She’s obviously in no condition to speak,” the waiter growled.
I would have confirmed this, but I was in no condition to speak.
Mary sighed. “Nevermind then, we’ll discuss this later. For now, let’s check what they were transporting.”
I patted Fran on the back to alert him.
“Feeling curious? Even after all of this?”
I nodded into his nape.
A grunt. “Well, fine. Not like this could have gone any worse, huh.” He stood up and walked us over to the wheelbarrow, closely followed by Mary. The newsreader inspected the tarp, then grabbed one corner and flung it off the cart. A sharp gasp escaped her and I craned my neck to look. Frankie instantly turned around, trying to avert my eyes from the sight that had just been revealed to us, but it was too late. I had already seen the contents. The headless body lying folded in the barrow.
A human with their head removed doesn't look entirely human anymore. I could tell from the stature that it was a male body, but its condition made him feel less like a person. I couldn't help drawing this distinction, even though it made my stomach turn. Rigor mortis having washed over the carcass, he was in a bent, twisted position that would have been painful to anyone still alive. One of his arms, freed from the tarp, was dangling loosely over the side of the cart. One of Mary’s agents gagged and covered his mouth. I shot him a sympathetic glance, though I don’t think he caught it. I was too tired to scream or throw up. Thus quenching any visceral reaction to the gruesome sight, I buried my face in Fran’s shirt once more, closing my eyes.
X
1
2: deadbeat roommate
3: creepy crush
4: relocation
5: beach concert
6: First date
7: Temp work
8: roommate talk
9: a dismal worldview
10: warehouse
11: staircase
12: explanation
13: hurt
14: hospital
15: ocean
16: diner
submitted by girl_from_the_crypt to nosleep [link] [comments]
It's quite simple; when Nettie's unhappy, I cannot be content. She finally let me visit her earlier today. That doesn’t mean her overall state has improved, though. We went to talk in the garden, only there wasn’t much talking involved—she merely sat in her mother’s chair, staring blankly at the storm-tossed flower chaos.
“Didn’t you want to fix your plants back up?” I inquired.
“M-hm,” she muttered.
“It’d be a shame if your pretty garden was gonna stay like this.”
“M-hm.”
“If you need help, you let me know, okay?”
“M-hm.”
“I won’t try to eat the geraniums again.”
“M-hm.”
I leaned forward to try and catch her deep brown gaze. “Nettie, please say something. I thought we wanted to share our feelings more.”
“There’s nothing to share,” my savior human answered, her voice dry and monotone. “Kit’s not here anymore.”
“Yes, and I’m upset, too. But either I’m a horribly poor judge of human behavior or there's more to this.” I tilted my head at her. “I’ve never seen you this way. You said you didn’t always want a solution to your problems, and I’d be happy to just sit and listen as well, but you’re not talking either.”
“You don’t get it, do you?”
“Clearly not.”
Nettie let go of a soft breath. “I didn’t wanna tell you. Not until… It’s just that in the last couple days, Kit and I were getting kind of…” She faltered and trailed off.
“Kind of what?” I prompted.
“It’s hard to explain.”
“Please try, if you can. I want to understand.”
My best friend refused to meet my gaze. “See, that’s what I envy you for sometimes. You have an outsider’s perspective. You only see what’s in front of you and you don’t concern yourself with the rest.”
“I am concerned! I’m really concerned about you right now. You’re my best friend, and I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like my caretaker, but I wanna be here for you now. Please. Let me.”
“I… I know, that’s not what I was saying…” She adjusted her bra strap, her hand coming to rest on her shoulder as though she was hugging herself. “If there was something I’d kept secret from you—nothing bad, just something personal—would you be mad at me?”
“I can’t even imagine being mad at you,” I replied.
"That's good to know," she murmured, finally lifting her head to meet my gaze. "It doesn't change things for now, but it's… good to know."
After that, she fell silent again, and I left not much later. I was setting out for a pretty gloomy rest of the day when Frankie Preston texted me, asking to come hang out at the hotel. I've only stayed at a hotel twice, when Nettie took me on vacation with her. The first time was to Croatia, the other to the south of France. My savior human speaks fluent French.
Anyways, I was glad to follow up on the server's invitation. I won't describe the exact location of the hotel he'd chosen, but it was a fairly nice place. I took Kit Sutton's car there, which definitely gave me a weird feeling. In a way, it was nice. It felt like her. The worn seats, the ancient scent tree, the assortment of guitar picks in the cup holder. The empty takeout bag lying in the footwell. When I pulled up to the hotel parking lot, I was almost reluctant to get out. When I eventually did and entered the lobby, I found that I didn't quite know where to go. I opted to simply walk up to the front desk. There was a man sitting behind it, but he didn't look up from his computer screen upon my approach.
"Mm-yes?" he muttered, and it took me a moment to realize he was addressing me.
"Hi," I began.
Something about my voice must have caught his attention, as he abruptly lifted his head to meet my gaze. "Hi," he echoed, a smile forming on his face. I couldn't help but take note of the silvery gleam of his blond hair. It was long and wavy, tied back behind his head. I wondered how it felt. "And you are…?" he prompted, taking me in.
"Sunshine," a voice rang out from behind me. I whirled around, giving Fran a bright smile which, to my delight, he reciprocated. "You have no idea the kind of acquaintance you just made."
I glanced between the two in confusion. The receptionist spoke up first. "Oh. Oh, I see! This is her, isn't it?"
"Yes. Eva, this is… one of the many banes of my existence. He's my younger brother, but only in the most remote sense of the word, I assure you." The waiter gave the receptionist a look that was somewhere between contemptuous fondness and pure contempt.
The other man grinned. "Oh Frankie, my Frankie, you are just the most bitter piece of work there is."
"Younger? You look far older than Frank," I remarked.
"Ouch. But what are looks, really?" He waved me off. "And what is age with creatures like us? Frankie tells everyone he's twenty-two, I say I'm twenty-seven. We just made up these numbers to match our faces. He's existed for way longer, though. That's probably why he's so miserable." He leaned forward, twinkling at me. "Me, I see the world through fresher eyes."
I didn't quite know what to say, so I kept my mouth shut.
"Frankie, won't you introduce me?"
The waiter sighed deeply. "This is… Zion. Zion Boyd. I told him it's a perfectly silly name, but he wouldn't listen. I'm glad Rhonda picked mine for me."
Zion Boyd laughed quietly. "You're an asshole."
"You're an idiot."
"You wanted to hang out?" I reminded Fran.
"Right!" He grabbed my wrist and began steering me towards the winding flight of stairs in the back of the hall. "Ignore him. Forget him entirely, if possible. You're not missing out.”
He brought me up to his suite, a pleasantly large, open space. The tall windows let in the light of the setting sun, painting blushing hues upon the wallpaper. I sat down on the living room couch, switching on the TV not because I was in the mood to watch anything but rather for the background noise. Frankie joined me after a second, placing before me a glass of cold coconut water as he regarded me through thick lashes. "You got something on your mind, don’t you?”
"Your brother."
"Aw crap. That smarmy, handsome piece of shit…" Fran clenched and unclenched his fists repeatedly. "I knew this would happen."
"What? No. I was wondering about what he said," I clarified, shifting uneasily in my seat.
His hands stilled. "Oh." He smiled brightly. "Do tell."
"He called you creatures. And there was something else in there about your ages."
"So? What do you think? Any grand theories?"
I shrugged. "I could probably try to piece things together. But I'd rather hear it from you."
"Ah, would you. Well, I'm sorry, Sunshine, but it doesn't work like that."
"Don't you think I need to know?"
He reached out to poke my sternum with his finger. "No. I give you everything you need. When I decide you need more information, I'll give that to you, too."
I frowned at him, but hadn't yet regained the ability to speak when my phone rang. I reluctantly fumbled it out. It was an unknown number, but I recognized the voice that greeted me from the other end. “Mary Markov?”
“Miss Shirley! Nice talking to you again.”
“To be honest, this is a bad time…”
“That’s of no relevance. Remember when I told you I might get back to you?”
“Yes.” I exchanged meaningful looks with Frankie, who rolled his eyes. He scooted closer to me and pressed his cheek up to mine to listen to the phone call. His skin was almost unnaturally smooth. I swallowed thickly when I felt his jaw working on his bubble gum, moving against mine.
"Miss Shirley?" Mary Markov asked. "Are you still there?"
"Did you say something?"
A sigh. "Look. You want money, I want your help. Come to the address I’m sending you now. It’s a big parking lot by a hiking trail in the woods. I have business there, and I could use the extra manpower.”
“Right now? I’m kind of on a…”
“You can bring the misanthropist with you.”
“What’s a misanthropist?” I inquired.
“She means me,” Fran supplied.
"She does," Miss Markov confirmed.
"We're coming." I ended the call, turning to Frankie. "That's okay, right? Are you with me?"
"Sure. Money's important. It'll be better if you have your own so I won't have to give you mine." He got up to collect our jackets. "At least this way, you won't get stabbed for it."
We took Kit's car over to the meet-up spot. Mary Markov was waiting for us beside a black pickup truck that seemed rather ill-suited for her. She was wearing a blazer, suit pants and dress shoes that were somehow pristine despite the muddy ground.
"There you are," she said, her tone crisp. Pointing her chin at the woods behind her, she added, "I hope you're ready for a bit of a hike."
"What do you need me for?" I asked.
"The Collective you came into contact with. We have reason to believe that they are meeting up here, among other places. There are probably hideouts to be found, and other things, too."
"Like what?" Fran raised a skeptical brow.
"The objects you were hired to guard. They're important; we don't rightly know what they are but they're constantly being kept on the move. There's no doubt the Collective wants them to remain obscure, and they're being clever about it."
"And you're hoping we'll go in there unprepared and just stumble across them?" the waiter inquired.
"Not exactly. There's a particular member of the cult we've managed to keep our eye on, and we followed her here. She's with at least two others, so we believe they're up to something important," Mary Markov explained. "Go in and find them. When you do, stay low and observe. I'll stay here. If anything goes wrong, call me and I will send for reinforcement."
"Why don't you let your agents go in? Why pull Eva into this? Again?"
"Frankie, I'm fine," I assured him, taking a step towards the newsreader. "What do I get paid?"
"You won't be disappointed in the money," she promised, smiling thinly. "To answer your friend's legitimate question—," she glanced over at Frank Preston as though she didn't consider his query legitimate at all, "—you are quite handy. Normally, when humans have to defend themselves and it comes to an altercation, there's… screams. Blood. Gunshots. Bullets are costly. Personnel even more so. When our agents get hurt, it might take months for them to recover. You don't need that kind of time. You're altogether less likely to be injured fatally. Employing you might end up saving us some lives and we'll be sure to make it worth your while."
That's, in short, why I found myself trudging through the mud and brushes alongside a very grudging Frank Preston that night. The storm had taken its toll in the woods, too—our chaotic surroundings reminded me of a larger-scale version of Nettie's garden. Trees had been uprooted and were lying dead in our path like organic roadblocks. The ground was covered with broken branches, twigs and young leaves. The wet soil squashed beneath our shoes every step of the way. With nightfall approaching, there was not much light reaching the forest floor. This certainly protected us from visibility, but it came at the price of my vision. I couldn't really see what was beneath me, so I kept tripping and staggering.
Frankie was somehow as graceful as ever, unbothered as he stepped over roots and rocks as if he could sense them before placing his feet. He was much quieter than me, but he thankfully wasn't smug about it. He kept one hand steady on my shoulder, aptly guiding me away from obstacles and protrusions. After a while, this began to work very well, and I became less noisy the deeper we proceeded into the woods. The server’s grip suddenly turned painfully tight, stopping me in my tracks. I realized why when I caught a glimpse of brightness not too far ahead. My chest tightened when I spotted the beam of a flashlight traveling the forest floor.
“Hush,” Frankie murmured into my ear. “Don’t. Move.”
I stood stock-still, trusting the fingers still digging into my skin.
The light passed over us, nearly reaching us but not quite. I breathed a silent sigh of relief, which died in my throat when a familiar voice carried over to us on the breeze.
“Hurry up already, would you?”
“Don’t… don’t stress me. Why aren’t you helping?” a young woman replied.
“Because it’s your fucking job.”
I felt myself break into a cold sweat. My heart was thumping so fiercely it was beginning to hurt; my pulse racing. Breaking from my rigor, I leaned over to whisper to Frankie. “That’s them.”
“What?”
“The one who stabbed me.”
Fran’s hand disappeared from my shoulder, moving down to quickly grasp mine. The pair before us was still on the move, the light of their torch slowly fading into the distance. “Listen to me,” my partner proceeded to hiss into my ear. “There’s two of them and two of us, but technically it’ll just be you. I’m not gonna leave you on your own, but the most I can do is hold one of them down.”
“But you’re strong…”
“I can’t actually hurt anybody. I gladly would, but it’s literally physically impossible for me. Do you still want to follow them?”
I paused. I didn’t want to. In fact, every fiber of my being was yelling at me to run, to get out of those woods, and yet… “We have to.”
A sigh. “I really feel like I ought to talk you out of this.”
“Don’t.”
“If things get dire, I’ll grab you and bail.”
“I’ll allow it. I’m still doing this.”
“Guess I was wrong. You might get stabbed for your pay this time around, too.”
“This is bigger than just money, Fran.”
His hand wandered back to my shoulder, nudging me forward. “I know. You want to tear this creep apart.”
I paused. “If Markov asks, we didn’t plan on it.”
“Finally, some murderous tendencies in that sunny mind of yours.” The cheer in Frankie’s voice was only a little forced.
I steeled myself as we took up walking once more. Soon enough, we caught up with the two cultists, trailing behind them at a safe distance. I could hear the faint scraping of a wheelbarrow on the uneven ground. The eerie creaking noise was enough to speed up my heartrate once more. Frankie’s words still echoing through my mind, my thoughts were racing. A part of me was convinced I was making a terrible mistake, but there was something driving me on. Whether it was curiosity, an underlying thirst for revenge or illusions of grandeur, I’ll never know. Yet forwards I went. Abruptly, the pair stopped, the wheelbarrow grating to a halt. Frankie instantly dragged me down to hide behind a dead, uprooted tree, and not one second too soon.
The beam of the flashlight roamed the underbrush, its owners remaining blissfully unaware of our presence. “Here we are,” the person who’d attacked me spoke up again.
“Woah,” the woman pushing the cart answered eloquently. Whatever they were looking at was undoubtedly rather impressive.
“You’ve never been here before, have you?”
“No… Does it go as deep as they say?”
“Deeper. It’s a whole-ass tunnel system down there. We’ve spent years prepping for this, remember?”
“Okay. Whew. Well then, off we go. Can you help me lift him up, at least?”
The other person groaned. “Fine.”
Frankie Preston had grabbed my arm. The distant shine from the cultists’ torch bathed him in an almost unearthly glow. He was cowering beside me with tense shoulders, his face a cold, concentrated mask. He wasn’t even chewing on his gum anymore. His wired posture reminded me of a lurking wildcat in a nature documentary. When he turned to look at me, I could almost tell what he was thinking.
Whatever these two had come here to do, it was happening now, meaning that this was our last chance to intervene.
Trying to free my mind from all thoughts of flight, I rose to my feet. Step by step, I made my way out of our hiding spot, instantly drawing the pair’s attention. Two heads whipped around to face me. The flashlight dropped and rolled a little ways across the ground, its wide beam illuminating the small clearing and revealing the reason for the cultists’ venture. There was a dark hole in the ground at our feet, the opening reminiscent of a gaping, toothless maw. My gaze wandered over to the pushcart. Its bulky contents were covered by a large, green tarp. The tall, lanky person slowly raised their hands to their hips, uttering a low, mildly surprised “huh”. The woman, who was stockier and far shorter in stature than them, stood frozen in shock. The eyes that stared at me from behind her black mask were blown wide.
“Hey you,” the tall one said. “I had a feeling we’d meet again soon.”
I didn’t respond. My stomach suddenly burned with a phantom pain. I couldn’t tear my eyes from the person’s gloved hands, trying not to jump when their fingers twitched into the direction of their pocket. Trying to keep my breathing steady, I reached up to unzip my jacket. As it fell to the ground, I felt my tentacles pierce my skin. Simultaneously, my teeth began to elongate, curving outward as they uncomfortably stretched out my gums.
“I had a feeling something like this was gonna happen, too,” my former assailant added, tilting their head at me. “I do love being right.”
The woman, who had been stunned speechless up to that point, let out an ear-shattering scream, but before anything coherent could emerge from her throat, the other person had spun around and struck her square across the face. The blow had come with such force that she crumbled immediately, her shriek dying in a strangled whimper before she hit the ground unconscious. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. My mind was spinning, but I forced my eyes to remain hard, praying that my large fangs were twisting my face enough to veil my terror. I lifted myself over the fallen tree, partly employing my extra limbs. The cultist didn’t shrink away, instead taking a large step towards me. Before I knew it, the surface of their mask was scraping against my teeth. Too startled to move, I held their gaze for several seconds. Up close, I could see the only part of them that wasn’t obscured.
There was something very, very wrong with their eyes.
At first, I couldn’t put my finger on it. Their iris was of a pale, watery color that could not quite be defined as blue. Their surreal milky sheen was enough to send a chill up my spine. And then I realized it. There were only the irises. That black dot that all humans and most other known lifeforms typically have in their eyes, the pupil, it simply wasn’t there.
I stood rooted to the ground, staring into the stranger’s eyes. I thought I could see different colors swirling around in those not-quite-blue orbs. I was abruptly noticing a sudden inability to move on my part. I wanted to lift my arm and shove the cultist away, I wanted to unhinge my jaw and sink my teeth into their flesh, but I couldn’t. I was distantly aware of the heavy rising and falling of my chest, of my heart thundering in my ribcage, but it didn’t feel real somehow. Nothing felt real anymore. The world had turned iridescently turquoise and violent, flashing lights dotting my vision as my breathing grew quicker.
Somewhere in the back of my head, the last waking part of me was screaming.
And then, all of a sudden, everything turned dark again. I blinked furiously, trying to orient myself as the outlines of trees and bushes swam into focus again. The sweet smell of pine needles and damp soil hit me as I emerged from the hypnotic half-slumber. Before me, ramrod straight, stood Frankie Preston, and somehow, the sight of him had triggered the flight instinct in the cultist I had failed to provoke. Our eye contact broken, they staggered back, just as Fran stepped aside. This time, I didn’t throw away my shot. I threw myself at the stranger, lunging forward with my teeth bared. They dodged me by a hair’s breadth, bolting towards the manhole and, within a split second, they had disappeared down the pitch-black shaft. No sound of impact met our pricked ears.
Frankie wordlessly took out his phone, proceeding to place the call to Mary Markov. He walked over to me as they talked, grabbing my hand with his free one and pumping it almost rhythmically like he was trying an unconventional method of resuscitation. His voice and that of the newsreader on the other end sounded strangely far away. After hanging up, he hastily typed something before finally shoving the device back into his pocket. With an almost methodical precision, he wrapped his arms around me and picked me up, holding me close to his chest. My tentacles were hanging limply from my back as my teeth slowly began to reassume their normal size and length. Entangling my trembling fingers in his curls, I must have looked absolutely pitiful. The server sat down on the fallen tree, his grip on me unfaltering as I adjusted to sit on his lap, feeling myself unwind.
We remained like this, not speaking, until we heard steps draw closer. Mary Markov and two of her agents were walking towards us at a speedy pace, the newsreader crouching down in front of us while the two men immediately took to the unconscious female cultist.
“You were in here for quite a while,” she began, her voice drifting in and out of my ears while Frankie’s soothing touch curled around the edge of my senses. “I had a feeling something had gone wrong, so I’d already sent for backup. Good thing, too, I guess.” Her voice held a barely hidden note of accusation.
“Leave her be. She’s obviously in no condition to speak,” the waiter growled.
I would have confirmed this, but I was in no condition to speak.
Mary sighed. “Nevermind then, we’ll discuss this later. For now, let’s check what they were transporting.”
I patted Fran on the back to alert him.
“Feeling curious? Even after all of this?”
I nodded into his nape.
A grunt. “Well, fine. Not like this could have gone any worse, huh.” He stood up and walked us over to the wheelbarrow, closely followed by Mary. The newsreader inspected the tarp, then grabbed one corner and flung it off the cart. A sharp gasp escaped her and I craned my neck to look. Frankie instantly turned around, trying to avert my eyes from the sight that had just been revealed to us, but it was too late. I had already seen the contents. The headless body lying folded in the barrow.
A human with their head removed doesn't look entirely human anymore. I could tell from the stature that it was a male body, but its condition made him feel less like a person. I couldn't help drawing this distinction, even though it made my stomach turn. Rigor mortis having washed over the carcass, he was in a bent, twisted position that would have been painful to anyone still alive. One of his arms, freed from the tarp, was dangling loosely over the side of the cart. One of Mary’s agents gagged and covered his mouth. I shot him a sympathetic glance, though I don’t think he caught it. I was too tired to scream or throw up. Thus quenching any visceral reaction to the gruesome sight, I buried my face in Fran’s shirt once more, closing my eyes.
X
1
2: deadbeat roommate
3: creepy crush
4: relocation
5: beach concert
6: First date
7: Temp work
8: roommate talk
9: a dismal worldview
10: warehouse
11: staircase
12: explanation
13: hurt
14: hospital
15: ocean
16: diner
2023.05.28 16:37 Realistic-Client9825 I tried styling a form using CSS & would like to ask some questions.
If this is the right place to ask, I have in-depth questions about my code. I am new to CSS/HTML & I have tried styling a form to learn the basics. I am not sure the best way to display my code, so I will give links to download the html/css files, but please comment if there is a standard way to upload my files & I hope you will forgive the commenting. It's a teaching aid.
Apologies. After some instruction from a user, I have made a Codepen account & here is my code: https://codepen.io/foy9h/pen/NWOmeza
submitted by Realistic-Client9825 to learnprogramming [link] [comments]
Apologies. After some instruction from a user, I have made a Codepen account & here is my code: https://codepen.io/foy9h/pen/NWOmeza
- I watched a tutorial that used display: grid to build a form. Is this the best way?
- On line 52 of my CSS, I apply width: calc(100%-20px); to all my input fields because I found that when I shrink my browser window, my input fields would overhang the background colour I specified for the form tag. Is there a better way to have a background colour for a form & have the input fields remain proportional within the background regardless of page size?
- On lines 71 & 79 of my CSS, I had to use the box-sizing:inherit; attribute for my button inputs (submit & reset) because when I applied width: calc(100%-20px); to all my inputs fields, it made the button inputs suddenly become slightly shorter than the text/email input fields. Is this a padding issue? I don't really understand the box-sizing attribute even after reading up on it.
- On line 38 of my CSS I used display: table; because I set a background colour for my label, but when I originally did not have that table attribute, shrinking the page would result in the background colour of the label shrinking beneath the label text. Is there a better way to go about keeping the label background colour proportional to the text with page shrinkage?
- I found that when shrinking the page, the value/text, on my input buttons were being cut-off. I ended up solving this by adding /@/media screen to my CSS. This worked, but I do not understand the principle behind what it does? Why is it that without that CSS, when I shrink the window, the value text on my button gets cut-off?
2023.05.28 16:17 ofboatsandbees The Stormborne Legacy Part 2: The Werewolf Who Was Afraid Of The Dark
Part 1
I previously shared the chaotic beginning to my legacy challenge and as it's continuing to be utter nonsense I thought I'd share an update.
I discovered the role cadet spouse, which describes the spouse of someone other than the heir, so Mark was able to marry his fated mate Wolfgang as they both became elders. They seem very happy together, although Wolfgang has the werewolf quirk of disliking water, so he's rampaging about ten times a day xD
My second generation heir Adrianna aged up to young adult and went merrily to university. I decided it was time to find her a partner too. During her teen years she'd had a few flings but they always aged up to YA right after!
Now, earlier in his werewolf journey Mark had a little rampage and bit a few members of the Bjergsen family next door. Elsa and Bjorn became werewolves, but for some reason were not fans of Mark, even though he invited them several times to come join the Moonwood Collective.
Finally Elsa met Adrianna and they actually got on very well. Elsa had three unique traits, one of which was adventurous like Adrianna. I thought it would be fun to have another werewolf in the bloodline, so Elsa and Adrianna got together, got engaged and moved in together.
I then discovered a couple of fun ironies about Elsa. Her aspiration was to become a vampire. Whoops. She also came with a few fears. One of which was the dark. Yep, a werewolf who is afraid of the dark. She also discovered a paranoid personality trait so spends most of her time in a state of terror.
The current plan is to have Wolfgang finish his aspiration (also fun news, a while back in the game Mark previously asked him to pursue his dream career and he became a painter. Although when he moved into the family, he didn't have a single painting skill point!) and then pursue the werewolf cure aspiration so she can unwolf and then become a vampire who's afraid of the dark and the sun 🤣.
Adrianna and Elsa recently married and had a science baby daughter together. Currently not sure if she's human or werewolf, so that will be a fun surprise when she grows up! When Elsa's a vampire they can have another child and the Gen 3 drama can perhaps be between the werewolf and vampire siblings!
submitted by ofboatsandbees to Sims4 [link] [comments]
I previously shared the chaotic beginning to my legacy challenge and as it's continuing to be utter nonsense I thought I'd share an update.
I discovered the role cadet spouse, which describes the spouse of someone other than the heir, so Mark was able to marry his fated mate Wolfgang as they both became elders. They seem very happy together, although Wolfgang has the werewolf quirk of disliking water, so he's rampaging about ten times a day xD
My second generation heir Adrianna aged up to young adult and went merrily to university. I decided it was time to find her a partner too. During her teen years she'd had a few flings but they always aged up to YA right after!
Now, earlier in his werewolf journey Mark had a little rampage and bit a few members of the Bjergsen family next door. Elsa and Bjorn became werewolves, but for some reason were not fans of Mark, even though he invited them several times to come join the Moonwood Collective.
Finally Elsa met Adrianna and they actually got on very well. Elsa had three unique traits, one of which was adventurous like Adrianna. I thought it would be fun to have another werewolf in the bloodline, so Elsa and Adrianna got together, got engaged and moved in together.
I then discovered a couple of fun ironies about Elsa. Her aspiration was to become a vampire. Whoops. She also came with a few fears. One of which was the dark. Yep, a werewolf who is afraid of the dark. She also discovered a paranoid personality trait so spends most of her time in a state of terror.
The current plan is to have Wolfgang finish his aspiration (also fun news, a while back in the game Mark previously asked him to pursue his dream career and he became a painter. Although when he moved into the family, he didn't have a single painting skill point!) and then pursue the werewolf cure aspiration so she can unwolf and then become a vampire who's afraid of the dark and the sun 🤣.
Adrianna and Elsa recently married and had a science baby daughter together. Currently not sure if she's human or werewolf, so that will be a fun surprise when she grows up! When Elsa's a vampire they can have another child and the Gen 3 drama can perhaps be between the werewolf and vampire siblings!
2023.05.28 16:00 Ravan_00 Life gives second chance to everyone
How strange, giving someone strength by their own words, these kind of events makes me believe that yes that supreme power exists and yup he answers our questions, but sometimes we are not able to understand the way he answers us, i wrote this almost a year ago, when I actually needed this, and reading this today feels like, these were "his" words to give me that strength, to help me to stand up again, I guess we'll never know the way of his communication, but when you'll look at your past, you'll definitely understand that you was not alone even when you felt like no one was there for you
submitted by Ravan_00 to IndianTeenagers [link] [comments]
2023.05.28 15:50 DrGinge01 Run out sensor Ender 3 S1 Pro using Creality Cloud
Hey all,
I am getting an error message every time I print a model on my Ender 3 S1 Pro using reality cloud. For about a month, it worked great and had no errors, and then all of a sudden, it started. I press the button acknowledging that I have read the message and it continues to print. The blue light on the sensor is on indicating it has filament and when I remove the filament it goes off. So it looks like the sensor is working. Any ideas on how I can reset creality cloud?
Thanks again in advance. I read some messages from a couple of years back indicating that they had the same problem with no solutions posted. Hoping someone has figured it out.
submitted by DrGinge01 to 3Dprinting [link] [comments]
I am getting an error message every time I print a model on my Ender 3 S1 Pro using reality cloud. For about a month, it worked great and had no errors, and then all of a sudden, it started. I press the button acknowledging that I have read the message and it continues to print. The blue light on the sensor is on indicating it has filament and when I remove the filament it goes off. So it looks like the sensor is working. Any ideas on how I can reset creality cloud?
Thanks again in advance. I read some messages from a couple of years back indicating that they had the same problem with no solutions posted. Hoping someone has figured it out.
2023.05.28 15:50 F0rg1vn First Project: Simple Cottage
Hello, I've been playing D&D with various groups of friends for a bit now. My current DM and his brother are really into the hobby and showed us the world of minis and 3D printing terrain. I somehow stumbled onto creating terrain as a hobby instead of printing, and well - here I am. I wanted my first project to be larger and more challenging than dungeon tiles, although I will eventually create them (I keep telling myself). I will also do dungeon stackers too! I decided on a simple cottage to accompany my first campaign.
I'm satisfied with the results as a first project, although there is a lot I would have wanted to do better. This was my first time working with foam, using blades, and painting artistically. I was a big lurker and YouTube watcher during this journey. I would often ask many questions (and still will ask plenty) on both platforms which helped a lot.
I'm very open to constructive criticisms. I want to get really good at this hobby. What could I do better and what can I do to improve next time?
Side & Front of Cottage
Glass Windows & More of Chimney
In case any other new crafters are interested in my steps.
I created the frame by cutting XPS foam with a hotwire cutter. This was the largest learning curve for me because it was difficult for me to keep a steady hand at first. Going slow and eventually getting into a "flow-state" when my nerves were calm was ultimately the best strategy for me. There was a lot of trial and error and I now have tons of scrap foam pieces lol.
I had ideas in my head but I didn't have an exact plan in mind. When my frame was completed, I thought about other things I wanted to include, like a chimney, and created those pieces as well. Everything was glued together with a hot-glue gun because I didn't like using the PVA glue for foam-on-foam unless I had a reliable way to use weight to hold it in place.
I used a ton of texture applicators like a wire brush, a mechanic pencil, a regular pencil, a pen, an x-acto knife, an olfa blade, and tinfoil. All of these great techniques were learned from watching videos and clicking on these Reddit posts.
Lastly, I primed the piece with a 1:1 mod podge (matte) and black acrylic paint mix. Then I painted each texture (wood, stone, brick, etc.) individually with a base coat and two dry-brush coats. I didn't have a make-up brush to dry-brush with (mostly because I forgot to write down that I would want one) and I regret trying to use a flat-brush. I think it would really make a difference for my next piece. I also hated the order of operations I decided on when painting. I started with the wood shingles which was fine, but then I did all of the wood surrounding the piece. I ended up having to basically edge the entirety of the "stucco" which was taxing on my ADHD brain lol.
The windows I made have little squares of colored glass that give a bit of a stained glass look. She gave me about a thousand of these little old-school Italian buttons that have the glass I used inside of a little metal casing. I took some pliers and popped them out. I plan on making some type of mosaic floor for a grandiose boss room in the mid-future.
I know this is way too long of a post for a simple cottage project but I'm very excited to get into the hobby. My next project is going to be some type of house either suspended into a tree, engulfed by the tree, or build inside of the tree. I'm excited to show you all when I finish.
submitted by F0rg1vn to TerrainBuilding [link] [comments]
I'm satisfied with the results as a first project, although there is a lot I would have wanted to do better. This was my first time working with foam, using blades, and painting artistically. I was a big lurker and YouTube watcher during this journey. I would often ask many questions (and still will ask plenty) on both platforms which helped a lot.
I'm very open to constructive criticisms. I want to get really good at this hobby. What could I do better and what can I do to improve next time?
Side & Front of Cottage
Glass Windows & More of Chimney
In case any other new crafters are interested in my steps.
I created the frame by cutting XPS foam with a hotwire cutter. This was the largest learning curve for me because it was difficult for me to keep a steady hand at first. Going slow and eventually getting into a "flow-state" when my nerves were calm was ultimately the best strategy for me. There was a lot of trial and error and I now have tons of scrap foam pieces lol.
I had ideas in my head but I didn't have an exact plan in mind. When my frame was completed, I thought about other things I wanted to include, like a chimney, and created those pieces as well. Everything was glued together with a hot-glue gun because I didn't like using the PVA glue for foam-on-foam unless I had a reliable way to use weight to hold it in place.
I used a ton of texture applicators like a wire brush, a mechanic pencil, a regular pencil, a pen, an x-acto knife, an olfa blade, and tinfoil. All of these great techniques were learned from watching videos and clicking on these Reddit posts.
Lastly, I primed the piece with a 1:1 mod podge (matte) and black acrylic paint mix. Then I painted each texture (wood, stone, brick, etc.) individually with a base coat and two dry-brush coats. I didn't have a make-up brush to dry-brush with (mostly because I forgot to write down that I would want one) and I regret trying to use a flat-brush. I think it would really make a difference for my next piece. I also hated the order of operations I decided on when painting. I started with the wood shingles which was fine, but then I did all of the wood surrounding the piece. I ended up having to basically edge the entirety of the "stucco" which was taxing on my ADHD brain lol.
The windows I made have little squares of colored glass that give a bit of a stained glass look. She gave me about a thousand of these little old-school Italian buttons that have the glass I used inside of a little metal casing. I took some pliers and popped them out. I plan on making some type of mosaic floor for a grandiose boss room in the mid-future.
I know this is way too long of a post for a simple cottage project but I'm very excited to get into the hobby. My next project is going to be some type of house either suspended into a tree, engulfed by the tree, or build inside of the tree. I'm excited to show you all when I finish.
2023.05.28 15:47 bunkabinks I don't know how to talk about this, but today my journal just won't do.
I don't really know where to start either, so I guess I'll start by saying I am a survivor.
Through no one's fault that lived in the house I grew up in, our childhood was very difficult. It was chaotic, turbulent, and often we had no running water. Our Parents split up when I was very young and there were periods of time where my father was simply not in the picture and my mother was more often than not in her room, so my siblings and I mostly managed that time on our own. When my mother pulled herself together and managed to raise us mostly alone, she attended college and earned her degree, becoming a special education teacher. As you can imagine, raising 4 kids on a teacher's salary, one with with severe disabilities, was incredibly hard for her to do. While my father did pay child support, he didn't make anywhere near enough to really help and his contributions was hardly enough to buy food for a month. Although I'm incredibly proud of my mother for working so hard to earn her degree, it was simultaneously the best and worse thing that could have happened to us. We had been receiving help from our state for my special needs sibling, and with her new job, we lost all the aid we had been getting for him and insurance refused to cover anything we had for him before the change. Things went downhill the years that followed and without going too deep into the details, cps was involved as the situation was becoming too dangerous for us all and my sibling was taken as a ward of the state. My father at that point has cleaned himself up and had been much more involved in our lives, but very early into my teen years he had to move away from us to find more work, and my relationship with my mother had become sour due to our resentments toward each other, so by the time I'd met him, I was desperate for any amount of love or attention.
I met him in while in a dark period of my life, my high school sweetheart, my ex-husband, he was my rock. I felt like he was the only person that held any interest in me, that would talk to me and listen to what I had to say, and he always knew how to make me feel better. But things didn't seem right to me, he would often talk badly of my family, but I was so angry and hurt at the time, I'm sure I didn't paint them in the best light so I didn't think anything of it. He would want me to do things with him, even when I was uncomfortable or tried to refuse, but I'd always give in eventually because I was afraid to lose him. He'd make comments about my body and make me feel like I was unworthy because of my body hair and my shape and I thought I was ugly. He'd broken up with me at one point without any explanation and only tried to date me again after I'd started dating someone else. When we did get back together, I tried even harder to keep him, and that's when I should have known what was actually happening. His comments came up more, he was more aggressive about what he wanted, and while at that point he had never hit me, he made me sleep with him when I said I couldn't do that/didn't want to. But I stayed because I didn't think anyone else loved me and I didn't know that what he was doing was wrong. My parents and I never talked about that kind of thing and my parents were single for most of my life up up until that point, and I didn't have step parents until I was in my late teens, so I didn't know that my experience was not normal in a healthy relationship.
As we grew older and graduated from high school I discovered that he had tried dating a girl I was close with and she warned me what he said and did so I broke up with him and started college on my own, only to learn we had the same psychology class and he pulled me back in. I wasn't doing well in school and tensions between my mother and I had only gotten worse, so when his parents offered for me to move in with them, I jumped at the opportunity. The only rule being I had to go to school or at least be working, which I followed, but at that point he had quit school and was constantly either quitting jobs or just stopped going altogether, and started volunteering at a VFD, so I felt obligated to earn an income for us in order to stay so I quit school and stated working. I was never allowed to see our bank details, I was never given the login nor would he let me see the account so I never knew where the money was going, but I didn't complain because I had food, running water, clothes, and a roof over my head and that was enough for me. I know that it paid for the car insurance for his vehicle, and an awful lot of subway, but I don't know what else he spent the money on. Eventually I needed dental care, which my family and I had not been able to get much of, and he needed access to mental health services and my income was not enough to cover either of those so I married him and I joined the military as I felt I didn't have any other options. He was ecstatic, but my family took the news hard and it only caused more discourse.
After joining, things did not improve. I remember finishing up bootcamp and being so excited with how much money I would be earning, I thought we'd never have to worry about it again, and I was so happy to be able to provide for him in ways that I had not been able to before. I would be earning a free education, getting health care, and eventually maybe I could raise a family like I always wanted, but felt was out of reach for me. It was only after I graduated that I learned he spent everything. He only returned some items he had bought because one of my siblings found out and made him give some back. After the graduation he wanted to move to where I was training for my job, so he drove up with all our things and stayed in a hotel room close to base. As you can imagine, that was also very expensive. We eventually got housing, but we had almost nothing when we moved in. He got a job on base and would watch all the women as they did PT, would drink every night at home, and things only got more turbulent the longer we lived on our own. Eventually he quit his job and would drink all day and get upset with me when I'd come home from work because I was too tired to do much and I was struggling to keep up in training so I was studying late at the school house almost everyday.
Eventually our relationship broke down after I had made a horrifying discovery, something so terrible that I couldn't even look past it. At that point I had made up my mind that the marriage was over, I couldn't be with him anymore, and I left to stay with a friend for a few days. During this time I had made a terrible mistake and cheated on my ex-husband. Not because I wanted revenge, but because I wanted someone to care about me, even if it was for the wrong reasons, but it only solidified my decision. After building up the courage to go home and tell him everything, the cheating, that what he was doing was wrong, and that I couldn't take it anymore and that I wanted a divorce. I didn't even get a chance to tell him before he told me if I ever left him like that or ever tried to end the relationship he 'would be upstairs with a gun in his mouth'. He had never threated himself or others before this so I believed him and I ended up staying and keeping everything a secret out of fear of what he would do. I took apart the gun he bought with the money I had earned and hid them in different parts of the house to keep him from killing himself and I told him he needed to stop drinking, seek therapy, and either get a job or work on school/trade school, and I would seek therapy for myself. I asked for marriage counseling, but he refused and said he'd do therapy on his own. He only went to a few sessions before quitting. I went to receive services on base for my marital issues and as I started talking to a counselor, she made it very clear to me that what he was doing was abuse and she would not allow me to leave the building unless I filed some kind of report on him, and me not clearly understanding how reporting worked in the military entirely, panicked and filled a closed report on him so at least there was a paper trail. I never went back because I was in denial about the abuse and I did not think I was a victim, if anything I felt as guilty as him.
As my career progressed, things did settle down for awhile. I had finished up school and at that point we had moved to my first duty station, he was still drinking, but not as often and did start working again part time and I had started becoming more relaxed. I met the division I would be working with and I loved them all. They were the first real experience I had ever had with stability and it was something I needed. I became more of a workaholic, volunteering to stay later to accomplish more tasks as we were shorthanded and I wanted to be more helpful to the division. Things had been going well for the most part, but I was still deep in denial about things he was doing. He had taken out credit cards without telling me and even took one out in my name without me knowing, I only found out after they called me to apologize for the card being late and that it was on the way. I was so shocked I didn't correct her and he maxed out all the cards. I still had no access to the account, but at this point I could text the bank to get the balance, but still didn't know where the money was going. He started to be more aggressive about intimacy and demanding more and more of me, and there were times where I'd wake up to him touching me or he would just wake me up for sex so I wasn't able to sleep much and I was tired all the time. I didn't say anything or try to stop him anymore because I felt like I deserved it for what I had done, and it was easier to give him what he wanted than to try to fight him or make him stop. I was afraid of what would happen if I ever said no.
After this point in time, we finally had an idea of when I was to be deployed and things began to ramp up. I was away from home more often, but it was still several months away from deployment and with the holidays coming up, we decided to go big that year and make thanksgiving dinner. A few days after thanksgiving, I wasn't feeling well and was experiencing abdominal pain, but with my PCOS symptoms I just figured my cycle was coming and was hitting me harder than usual, but he recognized that something was wrong and made me go to the hospital and I had emergency surgery for my appendix. I remember him wanting to take a picture of my stomach because 'I would never look the same again', all I could think about before that was how scared I was of the surgery and how long it would take for me to go back to work, but after that it made me feel even more ugly as it was one of the only things he ever really said he liked about me and I felt vain for worrying about the scars. The surgery didn't go as planned, and instead of the small incisions I was told I would have, I woke up to a massive scar right down the center on my abdomen. My appendix had been too close to bursting and they had to make a larger opening to remove it, and all I could remember was the blinding pain as they wheeled me back to my room where I was left alone with him. I did not receive any pain medication for several hours after and it was the worst pain I'd ever experienced in my life. When they finally did give me something, it wasn't enough and I was put on Dilaudid to manage my pain. The second night of my week long stay, my husband was lying in bed with me and asked me for sex. I was in so much pain, all I could think about was how horrible I felt, and I said no to him for the first time in nearly two years. That I needed to get better first and I didn't think I could handle it with the pain I was in, but he kept touching me and begging, saying the Dilaudid would keep me from being in too much pain and I felt so scared that I said yes because every time before I had said no he took what he wanted anyway and I was afraid that he would hurt me. All I can remember doing was looking out the window and the night, watching the cars drive away on the the highway and the cars leaving the parking lot and as he pulled up my gown, and I pushed the button for more medicine, but it wasn't enough to stop the pain. I remember the visitors I had after, I remember my division getting me flowers and a get well soon card with so many kind words that I kept all this time and all I could do was push the button for more medicine, but it still hurt so much. I had to walk after and every day to keep clots from forming and to start recovering, but my pain never diminished and I was discharged from the hospital.
In the months that followed my pain changed and seemed like it was spreading, but it never stopped hurting, sometimes it wouldn't be so bad, but others were so bad I couldn't get out of bed. He was still asking for sex and other favors, but with less frequency as he seemed more frustrated that I couldn't preform. Every time I had to, I was in so much pain I could not function at home or at work and it affected me very deeply. We tried getting help for my pain and to try and figure out what was going on, but all the doctors I saw accused me of drug seeking behaviors and wouldn't offer me any help or send me to someone who could help me. It got so bad that I started begging them for help and begging them not to give me anything until we knew what was wrong, all the while deployment was fast approaching and I was afraid that I would either miss the deployment, or that I would go, but still not know what was wrong and drag my division down. I became very depressed and started drinking as we made more appointments. I remember the 3rd or 4th time they sent me to gyno for my issues I had become so frustrated and angry that I laid everything out with the doctor, every single little thing I could think of I told them (all with the exception of my ex husbands treatment) and she didn't ask me any questions, she didn't ask me about the details of my many symptoms at this point, or try to understand how I was feeling. She instead asked me how my relationship was with my father was. All the while he was sitting in the room with us, the real cause to all my pain in aguish, just casually listening in, waiting to complain how I wasn't having enough sex with him as he did in most of the appointments and I became enraged. I defended my father, and I put my uniform back on and said I'd like to speak with another doctor and asked her directly how to file a report, not against my ex, but her for saying something so horrible about my Dad, the only man in my life I loved more than any other in the world. After I left I called to make another appointment as I couldn't see anyone else that day.
When I was finally sent to pain management, deployment was two months away and I was terrified. I wanted to go so badly because it meant I could get away from him, I could finally leave him and he would never be able to reach me so long as I was on the ship and safe with my division, but nothing worked out the way I had hoped for. I was told it was Fibromyalgia. That this condition was life long and there was no cure, that I'd not only be removed from the ship, but that I'd have to leave the military all together. I was devastated, and the little patience he did give me while we tried to get a diagnosis quickly disappeared. I was put on several different medications to manage my symptoms, but he continued to make me have sex, even when we were told not to so I could have a chance to let my body recover, and things got worse the more I pushed back. The medication was meant to help me sleep because my pain could be better managed if I slept better, but he would wake me up at night and hurt me, and it never stopped. One night, when I was on Ambien, I had gone to bed and I remember falling asleep next to him, but I woke up to him on top of me, inside me, it hurt so much and I was in so much pain and it was so dark I didn't recognize him. I tired to fight him off me, but the medicine was so strong I couldn't stop him and he pinned my arms down. I couldn't stop crying and he finally stopped. I can't remember if he finished or not because I fell back asleep crying and flaring up. He continued this kind of behavior for the months that followed and although he never went that far again, he did continue to make me have sex and continued to hurt me in my sleep to the point of waking me up, claiming he loved me too much to stop. I didn't feel safe enough to take Ambein anymore and eventually stopped it all together, I didn't sleep for 4 days after that. All of this was happening as I was removed from the ship and placed on limited duty orders to await my medical board, placed in therapy, physical therapy, and many other appointments and medication changes to try to get my symptoms under control, but things became harder for me to manage and my drinking only got worse. When I finally escaped him, with the help of my now husband, I stopped all treatments and medications to manage my symptoms. To this day I cannot bring myself to be in a hospital, doctor's office, or take anything other than the things I took as a teen because I know how they work and that I can defend myself when I take them.
I can't bring myself to write anymore tonight, but there were so many things that happened that it's too much for me to write it all down and while I know he did many terrible things, I also was not innocent and I broke my vows. I will never defend myself for cheating, I know it was wrong and to this day I punish myself for it, but I do not regret finally learning that sex was not something you take from someone you love, that it was not something that is forced on you, it's not supposed to hurt you. Rape is not a consequence for cheating, you might destroy your marriage, you might end a relationship or somehow work it all out and stay together, but you do not deserve to go through that even when you make such a terrible mistake. If they can do so many awful things and you stay with them, forgive them, and still try to make it work, why give them so much grace and not give yourself even the smallest amount? You are a human being who is deserving of love and dignity, you do not deserve abuse. If anyone reads this please know that if you feel alone, if you're in this situation still, know that I love you and that when you are free, things will get so much better for you I promise. You are worthy of love and your deserve better.
submitted by bunkabinks to u/bunkabinks [link] [comments]
Through no one's fault that lived in the house I grew up in, our childhood was very difficult. It was chaotic, turbulent, and often we had no running water. Our Parents split up when I was very young and there were periods of time where my father was simply not in the picture and my mother was more often than not in her room, so my siblings and I mostly managed that time on our own. When my mother pulled herself together and managed to raise us mostly alone, she attended college and earned her degree, becoming a special education teacher. As you can imagine, raising 4 kids on a teacher's salary, one with with severe disabilities, was incredibly hard for her to do. While my father did pay child support, he didn't make anywhere near enough to really help and his contributions was hardly enough to buy food for a month. Although I'm incredibly proud of my mother for working so hard to earn her degree, it was simultaneously the best and worse thing that could have happened to us. We had been receiving help from our state for my special needs sibling, and with her new job, we lost all the aid we had been getting for him and insurance refused to cover anything we had for him before the change. Things went downhill the years that followed and without going too deep into the details, cps was involved as the situation was becoming too dangerous for us all and my sibling was taken as a ward of the state. My father at that point has cleaned himself up and had been much more involved in our lives, but very early into my teen years he had to move away from us to find more work, and my relationship with my mother had become sour due to our resentments toward each other, so by the time I'd met him, I was desperate for any amount of love or attention.
I met him in while in a dark period of my life, my high school sweetheart, my ex-husband, he was my rock. I felt like he was the only person that held any interest in me, that would talk to me and listen to what I had to say, and he always knew how to make me feel better. But things didn't seem right to me, he would often talk badly of my family, but I was so angry and hurt at the time, I'm sure I didn't paint them in the best light so I didn't think anything of it. He would want me to do things with him, even when I was uncomfortable or tried to refuse, but I'd always give in eventually because I was afraid to lose him. He'd make comments about my body and make me feel like I was unworthy because of my body hair and my shape and I thought I was ugly. He'd broken up with me at one point without any explanation and only tried to date me again after I'd started dating someone else. When we did get back together, I tried even harder to keep him, and that's when I should have known what was actually happening. His comments came up more, he was more aggressive about what he wanted, and while at that point he had never hit me, he made me sleep with him when I said I couldn't do that/didn't want to. But I stayed because I didn't think anyone else loved me and I didn't know that what he was doing was wrong. My parents and I never talked about that kind of thing and my parents were single for most of my life up up until that point, and I didn't have step parents until I was in my late teens, so I didn't know that my experience was not normal in a healthy relationship.
As we grew older and graduated from high school I discovered that he had tried dating a girl I was close with and she warned me what he said and did so I broke up with him and started college on my own, only to learn we had the same psychology class and he pulled me back in. I wasn't doing well in school and tensions between my mother and I had only gotten worse, so when his parents offered for me to move in with them, I jumped at the opportunity. The only rule being I had to go to school or at least be working, which I followed, but at that point he had quit school and was constantly either quitting jobs or just stopped going altogether, and started volunteering at a VFD, so I felt obligated to earn an income for us in order to stay so I quit school and stated working. I was never allowed to see our bank details, I was never given the login nor would he let me see the account so I never knew where the money was going, but I didn't complain because I had food, running water, clothes, and a roof over my head and that was enough for me. I know that it paid for the car insurance for his vehicle, and an awful lot of subway, but I don't know what else he spent the money on. Eventually I needed dental care, which my family and I had not been able to get much of, and he needed access to mental health services and my income was not enough to cover either of those so I married him and I joined the military as I felt I didn't have any other options. He was ecstatic, but my family took the news hard and it only caused more discourse.
After joining, things did not improve. I remember finishing up bootcamp and being so excited with how much money I would be earning, I thought we'd never have to worry about it again, and I was so happy to be able to provide for him in ways that I had not been able to before. I would be earning a free education, getting health care, and eventually maybe I could raise a family like I always wanted, but felt was out of reach for me. It was only after I graduated that I learned he spent everything. He only returned some items he had bought because one of my siblings found out and made him give some back. After the graduation he wanted to move to where I was training for my job, so he drove up with all our things and stayed in a hotel room close to base. As you can imagine, that was also very expensive. We eventually got housing, but we had almost nothing when we moved in. He got a job on base and would watch all the women as they did PT, would drink every night at home, and things only got more turbulent the longer we lived on our own. Eventually he quit his job and would drink all day and get upset with me when I'd come home from work because I was too tired to do much and I was struggling to keep up in training so I was studying late at the school house almost everyday.
Eventually our relationship broke down after I had made a horrifying discovery, something so terrible that I couldn't even look past it. At that point I had made up my mind that the marriage was over, I couldn't be with him anymore, and I left to stay with a friend for a few days. During this time I had made a terrible mistake and cheated on my ex-husband. Not because I wanted revenge, but because I wanted someone to care about me, even if it was for the wrong reasons, but it only solidified my decision. After building up the courage to go home and tell him everything, the cheating, that what he was doing was wrong, and that I couldn't take it anymore and that I wanted a divorce. I didn't even get a chance to tell him before he told me if I ever left him like that or ever tried to end the relationship he 'would be upstairs with a gun in his mouth'. He had never threated himself or others before this so I believed him and I ended up staying and keeping everything a secret out of fear of what he would do. I took apart the gun he bought with the money I had earned and hid them in different parts of the house to keep him from killing himself and I told him he needed to stop drinking, seek therapy, and either get a job or work on school/trade school, and I would seek therapy for myself. I asked for marriage counseling, but he refused and said he'd do therapy on his own. He only went to a few sessions before quitting. I went to receive services on base for my marital issues and as I started talking to a counselor, she made it very clear to me that what he was doing was abuse and she would not allow me to leave the building unless I filed some kind of report on him, and me not clearly understanding how reporting worked in the military entirely, panicked and filled a closed report on him so at least there was a paper trail. I never went back because I was in denial about the abuse and I did not think I was a victim, if anything I felt as guilty as him.
As my career progressed, things did settle down for awhile. I had finished up school and at that point we had moved to my first duty station, he was still drinking, but not as often and did start working again part time and I had started becoming more relaxed. I met the division I would be working with and I loved them all. They were the first real experience I had ever had with stability and it was something I needed. I became more of a workaholic, volunteering to stay later to accomplish more tasks as we were shorthanded and I wanted to be more helpful to the division. Things had been going well for the most part, but I was still deep in denial about things he was doing. He had taken out credit cards without telling me and even took one out in my name without me knowing, I only found out after they called me to apologize for the card being late and that it was on the way. I was so shocked I didn't correct her and he maxed out all the cards. I still had no access to the account, but at this point I could text the bank to get the balance, but still didn't know where the money was going. He started to be more aggressive about intimacy and demanding more and more of me, and there were times where I'd wake up to him touching me or he would just wake me up for sex so I wasn't able to sleep much and I was tired all the time. I didn't say anything or try to stop him anymore because I felt like I deserved it for what I had done, and it was easier to give him what he wanted than to try to fight him or make him stop. I was afraid of what would happen if I ever said no.
After this point in time, we finally had an idea of when I was to be deployed and things began to ramp up. I was away from home more often, but it was still several months away from deployment and with the holidays coming up, we decided to go big that year and make thanksgiving dinner. A few days after thanksgiving, I wasn't feeling well and was experiencing abdominal pain, but with my PCOS symptoms I just figured my cycle was coming and was hitting me harder than usual, but he recognized that something was wrong and made me go to the hospital and I had emergency surgery for my appendix. I remember him wanting to take a picture of my stomach because 'I would never look the same again', all I could think about before that was how scared I was of the surgery and how long it would take for me to go back to work, but after that it made me feel even more ugly as it was one of the only things he ever really said he liked about me and I felt vain for worrying about the scars. The surgery didn't go as planned, and instead of the small incisions I was told I would have, I woke up to a massive scar right down the center on my abdomen. My appendix had been too close to bursting and they had to make a larger opening to remove it, and all I could remember was the blinding pain as they wheeled me back to my room where I was left alone with him. I did not receive any pain medication for several hours after and it was the worst pain I'd ever experienced in my life. When they finally did give me something, it wasn't enough and I was put on Dilaudid to manage my pain. The second night of my week long stay, my husband was lying in bed with me and asked me for sex. I was in so much pain, all I could think about was how horrible I felt, and I said no to him for the first time in nearly two years. That I needed to get better first and I didn't think I could handle it with the pain I was in, but he kept touching me and begging, saying the Dilaudid would keep me from being in too much pain and I felt so scared that I said yes because every time before I had said no he took what he wanted anyway and I was afraid that he would hurt me. All I can remember doing was looking out the window and the night, watching the cars drive away on the the highway and the cars leaving the parking lot and as he pulled up my gown, and I pushed the button for more medicine, but it wasn't enough to stop the pain. I remember the visitors I had after, I remember my division getting me flowers and a get well soon card with so many kind words that I kept all this time and all I could do was push the button for more medicine, but it still hurt so much. I had to walk after and every day to keep clots from forming and to start recovering, but my pain never diminished and I was discharged from the hospital.
In the months that followed my pain changed and seemed like it was spreading, but it never stopped hurting, sometimes it wouldn't be so bad, but others were so bad I couldn't get out of bed. He was still asking for sex and other favors, but with less frequency as he seemed more frustrated that I couldn't preform. Every time I had to, I was in so much pain I could not function at home or at work and it affected me very deeply. We tried getting help for my pain and to try and figure out what was going on, but all the doctors I saw accused me of drug seeking behaviors and wouldn't offer me any help or send me to someone who could help me. It got so bad that I started begging them for help and begging them not to give me anything until we knew what was wrong, all the while deployment was fast approaching and I was afraid that I would either miss the deployment, or that I would go, but still not know what was wrong and drag my division down. I became very depressed and started drinking as we made more appointments. I remember the 3rd or 4th time they sent me to gyno for my issues I had become so frustrated and angry that I laid everything out with the doctor, every single little thing I could think of I told them (all with the exception of my ex husbands treatment) and she didn't ask me any questions, she didn't ask me about the details of my many symptoms at this point, or try to understand how I was feeling. She instead asked me how my relationship was with my father was. All the while he was sitting in the room with us, the real cause to all my pain in aguish, just casually listening in, waiting to complain how I wasn't having enough sex with him as he did in most of the appointments and I became enraged. I defended my father, and I put my uniform back on and said I'd like to speak with another doctor and asked her directly how to file a report, not against my ex, but her for saying something so horrible about my Dad, the only man in my life I loved more than any other in the world. After I left I called to make another appointment as I couldn't see anyone else that day.
When I was finally sent to pain management, deployment was two months away and I was terrified. I wanted to go so badly because it meant I could get away from him, I could finally leave him and he would never be able to reach me so long as I was on the ship and safe with my division, but nothing worked out the way I had hoped for. I was told it was Fibromyalgia. That this condition was life long and there was no cure, that I'd not only be removed from the ship, but that I'd have to leave the military all together. I was devastated, and the little patience he did give me while we tried to get a diagnosis quickly disappeared. I was put on several different medications to manage my symptoms, but he continued to make me have sex, even when we were told not to so I could have a chance to let my body recover, and things got worse the more I pushed back. The medication was meant to help me sleep because my pain could be better managed if I slept better, but he would wake me up at night and hurt me, and it never stopped. One night, when I was on Ambien, I had gone to bed and I remember falling asleep next to him, but I woke up to him on top of me, inside me, it hurt so much and I was in so much pain and it was so dark I didn't recognize him. I tired to fight him off me, but the medicine was so strong I couldn't stop him and he pinned my arms down. I couldn't stop crying and he finally stopped. I can't remember if he finished or not because I fell back asleep crying and flaring up. He continued this kind of behavior for the months that followed and although he never went that far again, he did continue to make me have sex and continued to hurt me in my sleep to the point of waking me up, claiming he loved me too much to stop. I didn't feel safe enough to take Ambein anymore and eventually stopped it all together, I didn't sleep for 4 days after that. All of this was happening as I was removed from the ship and placed on limited duty orders to await my medical board, placed in therapy, physical therapy, and many other appointments and medication changes to try to get my symptoms under control, but things became harder for me to manage and my drinking only got worse. When I finally escaped him, with the help of my now husband, I stopped all treatments and medications to manage my symptoms. To this day I cannot bring myself to be in a hospital, doctor's office, or take anything other than the things I took as a teen because I know how they work and that I can defend myself when I take them.
I can't bring myself to write anymore tonight, but there were so many things that happened that it's too much for me to write it all down and while I know he did many terrible things, I also was not innocent and I broke my vows. I will never defend myself for cheating, I know it was wrong and to this day I punish myself for it, but I do not regret finally learning that sex was not something you take from someone you love, that it was not something that is forced on you, it's not supposed to hurt you. Rape is not a consequence for cheating, you might destroy your marriage, you might end a relationship or somehow work it all out and stay together, but you do not deserve to go through that even when you make such a terrible mistake. If they can do so many awful things and you stay with them, forgive them, and still try to make it work, why give them so much grace and not give yourself even the smallest amount? You are a human being who is deserving of love and dignity, you do not deserve abuse. If anyone reads this please know that if you feel alone, if you're in this situation still, know that I love you and that when you are free, things will get so much better for you I promise. You are worthy of love and your deserve better.
2023.05.28 15:38 ricokong PSOne 3A power adapter issue (SCPH-121)
 | I’ve imported a PSOne with LCD from the US to EU about a year ago. I’ve been using the 3A power adapter (SCPH-121) that was included in combination with a step down transformer as the European variant of this adapter is hard to find. This worked perfectly for over a year, but now it has a strange issue. submitted by ricokong to consolerepair [link] [comments] When plugged in, the console will not power on (sometimes the green LED blinks for a second when pressing the power button). However, if I leave the adapter plugged into the wall/transformer for a couple of minutes and then connect it to the PSOne, it boots without issues(though I haven’t played long enough to see if it remains stable). It’s as if the adapter needed to charge itself. Plugging it out and in after use resets it and I need to wait again. A different PSOne 2A power adapter and a European PS2 slim power adapter work fine. I’ve also tried a different transformer which does not solve this issue either. I’ve also tried a different PSOne and it also won’t boot straight away. Anyone know what the issue is? Is there a way to open the adapter up without destroying it (I guess it’s glued shut)? I could import this exact same adapter from eBay as a last resort but I’d like to repair it if possible. |
2023.05.28 15:30 HadjiChippoSafri EVENTS: What's On in Coventry this week (Monday 29th May - Sunday 4th June)
⭐️ Featured image on this post is from: The Arctic Monkeys (Coventry Building Society Arena)
Any events that we've missed? Drop them in the comments below!
submitted by HadjiChippoSafri to coventry [link] [comments]
⭐️ Featured image on this post is from: The Arctic Monkeys (Coventry Building Society Arena)
🎨 Art & Exhibitions
| Event | Date | Venue |
|---|---|---|
| Environments In Arcadia: Student Exhibition | Until 10th Jun | City Arcade |
| The Reason For Painting | Until 25th Jun | Warwick Arts Centre |
| Divided Selves: Legacies, Memories, Belonging | Until 24th Sep | Herbert Art Gallery & Museum |
| Warwickshire's Jurassic Sea | Until Feb 2024 | Herbert Art Gallery & Museum |
| Dippy In Coventry: The Nation's Favourite Dinosaur | Until Feb 2026 | Herbert Art Gallery & Museum |
🎤 Comedy
| Event | Date | Venue |
|---|---|---|
| The Comedy Network: Huge Davies, Tessa Coates & Burt Williamson | Wed 31st May 7:30pm | Warwick Arts Centre |
| Live At The Belgrade: Esther Manito, Lee Ridley - Lost Voice Guy, Jeff Innocent, Freddy Quinne & Farhan Solo | Sat 3rd Jun 7:30pm | Belgrade Theatre |
👨👩👦👦 Family
| Event | Date | Venue |
|---|---|---|
| Mini Museum Engineers Play | Wed 31st May | Coventry Transport Museum |
| Sing-a-long-a: Encanto | Wed 31st May 1pm | Belgrade Theatre |
| Art Masterclass: Acrylic and Oil Paint-Making | Thu 1st Jun 10:30am & 2pm | Herbert Art Gallery & Museum |
| CycleFest @ MotoFest | Sat 3rd Jun | Coventry City Centre |
| Goldilocks and the Three Bears | Sun 4th Jun 1pm & 4:30pm | Albany Theatre |
| My Fairy Troublemaker | Until 1st June | Warwick Arts Centre |
| Spectacular Swords | Until 1st June | Lunt Roman Fort |
| May Half-Term Crafts: Scenic Seascapes | Until 3rd June | Herbert Art Gallery & Museum |
| Tinker-Make-Play: Playing with Gravity | Until 3rd June | Coventry Transport Museum |
| Around The World in 80 Days | Until 3rd Jun | Albany Theatre |
| Junk Modelling Maker Challenge | Until 4th June | Coventry Transport Museum |
| The Smeds and the Smoos | Until 4th June | Warwick Arts Centre |
| Mog: The Forgetful Cat | Until 4th June | Belgrade Theatre |
| It's Reigning Royals | Until 4th June | St Mary's Guildhall |
🎥 Film
| Event | Date | Venue |
|---|---|---|
| NT Live: Good | Tue 30th May 7:30pm | Warwick Arts Centre |
| Action Rayz: Dawson City Frozen Time | Wed 31st May 7pm | Coventry Cathedral |
| Met Opera: Die Zauberflote | Sun 4th Jun 12:30pm | Warwick Arts Centre |
| Top Hat | Until 1st June | Warwick Arts Centre |
| Full Time | Until 1st June | Warwick Arts Centre |
| The Big Lebowski | Until 1st June | Warwick Arts Centre |
| Nam June Paik: Moon Is The Oldest TV | Until 1st June | Warwick Arts Centre |
🍔 Food, Markets & Socials
| Event | Date | Venue |
|---|---|---|
| Coventry Dining Club | Fri 2nd & Sat 3rd Jun | Fargo Village |
| Vintage Vera Kilo Sale | Sat 3rd & Sun 4th Jun | Fargo Village |
| Coventry MotoFest | Sat 3rd & Sun 4th Jun | Coventry City Centre |
🎵 Music
| Event | Date | Venue |
|---|---|---|
| The Arctic Monkeys | Wed 31st May 5pm | Coventry Building Society Arena |
| Whitney: Queen of the Night | Thu 1st Jun 7:30pm | Belgrade Theatre |
| Sessions: Tattoo Molly | Fri 2nd Jun 7pm | HMV Empire |
| Fargo Live Latin | Fri 2nd Jun 7pm | Fargo Village |
| Lost In Music | Fri 2nd Jun 7:30pm | Belgrade Theatre |
| Deliaphonic presents: Fenella | Fri 2nd Jun 7:30pm | The Tin |
| Meet The Beatles | Fri 2nd Jun 8pm | Rialto Plaza |
| Concretism - JILK - Sulk Rooms | Sat 3rd Jun 6:45pm | Just Dropped In Records, Fargo Village |
| A Night At The Opera | Sat 3rd Jun 7:30pm | Coventry Cathedral |
| Rum & Reggae | Sat 3rd Jun 8pm | Rialto Plaza |
| Patchwerk presents: Midnight Garden | Sat 3rd Jun 9pm | Ivy House |
| Houssentials | Sat 3rd Jun 10pm | HMV Empire |
🗣 Poetry, Writing & Talks
| Event | Date | Venue |
|---|
⚽️ Sport
🙁
🎭 Theatre & Performance
| Event | Date | Venue |
|---|---|---|
| Old Time Sailors | Thu 1st Jun 6pm | Twisted Barrel Brewery |
🛠 Workshops & Classes
| Event | Date | Venue |
|---|---|---|
| Songwriting | Thu 1st Jun | Warwick Arts Centre |
| Abstract painting to de-stress and unlock your creativity | Sat 3rd Jun 1pm | The Tin |
Any events that we've missed? Drop them in the comments below!
2023.05.28 14:56 Curious-Month7727 22 [M4F] UK - Online, Hoping I Can Find That Special Someone One Day 🙏🏻
Intro and what I'm looking for
Idek where to start tbh. I wanna make a post that isn't too boring, long / short, or irritating to read as I have a habit of talking about my emotions + feelings and unnecessary venting about my life in several setences when it comes to this sort of thing, that's mostly what I talked about in my last post... I'm hoping I can get at least someone's attention by writing the right and necessary words on this subreddit... So, where to begin?I guess I'll start with what I'm looking for in terms of dating. A fresh, warm, healthy and positive long-term relationship is what I've been craving for the last 4¼ years, not as in desperate or obsessed with it, more as in yearning for that right person to come along and bring sunshine to my life for the first time in a very long time. I'm sorry if that sounds a little cheesy but it's true. Someone who'll accept me for who I am and not care about what I have / don't have, someone who'll understand and accept my insecurities and flaws, not to mention me doing the same for her too. I wanna have that happy and bright future with that special someone, similar to all the couples I see on Instagram, laughing, joking, teasing each other, flirting, doing fun activities together both indoors and outdoors, purchasing matching items for them to wear and hold dear, holding hands... the list goes on.
Come and stop by so we can get to know each other first and see what happens if you're fascinated in this post enough, and if you think I'll be that sort of person you want in your life.
Personality (100% the truth)
As you might have guessed, I am a hard core introvert. Although I get along well with people irl; I briefly chat to them by saying the usual "hello" or "alright?", I then usually keep to myself from them most times to avoid feeling ignored / unimportant / irrelevant in their eyes. This is because I'm not that great at socialising in public places like the club or in the street, and also due to the fact that I feel extremely shy whilst meeting new people. All I feel, every single day, is irrelevant to everybody I come across on a day to day basis and tbh, I've gotten used to it over the years. However, if others ARE willing to get to know me and want me in their presence, I will perk up and be quite the confident individual once enough time passes :)Other things you should know about me is that I'm extremely loyal and will never hurt the people I love and hold dear, no matter what. I care too much about the people in my life, including family, and I also will never let them down or disappoint them in any way.
Just a little fun fact about me, my zodiac sign is Cancer ♋️🦀 for those of you who are interested and if that matters to you at all. This is related to what I've just written above in the second paragraph.
[This is me pretty much nearing the end of this seemingly never ending post now]
Now that all the soppy stuff is out of the way, I will now talk about what I like doing on a day to day basis :D:
I'm an indoor type of person. I like:
•Watching TV shows like Doctor Who when new episodes come out, The Simpsons and Hollyoaks 5 days a week, and binging on a ton of movies.•Listening to music pretty much every single day as I'm a huge HUGE fan of it.
•Gaming on PC games such as GTA, Red Dead, and Minecraft.
•I may stay indoors most of the time, but I DO also enjoy doing outdoor activities like spending my days out in places in the UK like Scarborough, Blackpool, Hornsea and Withernsea.
•I'm also interested in Photography, taking stunning photos both indoors and outdoors to store and save for later. Wildlife, sea life and everything else in between is what I'm most interested in :)
•Playing different sports such as Badminton, Bowling, Cricket, Dodgeball, Tennis and Volleyball on the beach are activities I really enjoy doing, but I haven't played them recently thanks to a lack of others playing them with me.
•Gardening and working with plants is something that really fascinates me, planting and watching plants of all shapes and sizes grow is everything I've wanted to do since my late high school days. Also getting a bit of sunshine on my neck in the summer does me some good lol.
•I occasionally like doing artistic activities like card making, paper crafting, drawing and painting, but only on special occasions.
•I also like to read from time to time.
Physical Appearance
My appearance is quite normal:•I'm 5'8 in height
•I've got quite the decent body shape
•I have no tattoos but I'm considering getting a few in the future
•I've got a small amount of facial hair (but I've shaved recently so I'm not quite as hairy on the face as I used to be)
•I've got quite a lot of hair on the top of my head but keep it in control most times with hairspray
•I've got an average to slightly above average face imo (pics can be exchanged if you're interested in knowing what I look like)
•I'm healthy with no health conditions or concerns
•I wear normal clothes such as buttoned t-shirts, hoodies / denim jackets, jeans / tracksuit bottoms, and leather jackets in colder weather.
You
I'm not too bothered what kind of women I talk to / get with tbh. Just as long as you:•Live in the UK, or at least in different countries that are close to the UK like Norway, Ireland, Sweden, Belgium, Denmark, France, or perhaps even The Netherlands, since all have shorter time-zone differences to the ones in the UK, (but you can message me wherever you are on the globe)
•Don't smoke or do drugs
•My age limit is between 18-23, but people that are past that age range can also message me.
•I'm not religious, by any means, but I don't mind dating people who are.
•Come as you are, no sugar coating, be real, be genuine. 🚫No NSFW content please🚫, that's all I ask.
Outro
Welp, this is me finally signing off and seeing what happens. If you've read this far, then I appreciate you for taking the time out of your schedule to read my post all the way through :) I hope you have a nice rest of your day 🙏🏻👋🏻 Come say Hi if you're feeling up to it! 🙂2023.05.28 14:56 1uwu-bitch-owo1 need help repairing my vita
so i dont know if this is the right subreddit but i need help fixing it.
the problem is that the x button stopped working after it fell down
i have already opened it once and it doesnt seem to have any damage.
i also already reset the firmware and everything but unfortunatly no luck.
any tips or suggestions?
submitted by 1uwu-bitch-owo1 to PSVita [link] [comments]
the problem is that the x button stopped working after it fell down
i have already opened it once and it doesnt seem to have any damage.
i also already reset the firmware and everything but unfortunatly no luck.
any tips or suggestions?
2023.05.28 14:41 Curious-Month7727 22 [M4F] UK - Online, Hoping I Can Find That Special Someone One Day 🙏🏻
Intro and what I'm looking for
Idek where to start tbh. I wanna make a post that isn't too boring, long / short, or irritating to read as I have a habit of talking about my emotions + feelings and unnecessary venting about my life in several setences when it comes to this sort of thing, that's mostly what I talked about in my last post... I'm hoping I can get at least someone's attention by writing the right and necessary words on this subreddit... So, where to begin?I guess I'll start with what I'm looking for in terms of dating. A fresh, warm, healthy and positive long-term relationship is what I've been craving for the last 4¼ years, not as in desperate or obsessed with it, more as in yearning for that right person to come along and bring sunshine to my life for the first time in a very long time. I'm sorry if that sounds a little cheesy but it's true. Someone who'll accept me for who I am and not care about what I have / don't have, someone who'll understand and accept my insecurities and flaws, not to mention me doing the same for her too. I wanna have that happy and bright future with that special someone, similar to all the couples I see on Instagram, laughing, joking, teasing each other, flirting, doing fun activities together both indoors and outdoors, purchasing matching items for them to wear and hold dear, holding hands... the list goes on.
Come and stop by so we can get to know each other first and see what happens if you're fascinated in this post enough, and if you think I'll be that sort of person you want in your life.
Personality (100% the truth)
As you might have guessed, I am a hard core introvert. Although I get along well with people irl; I briefly chat to them by saying the usual "hello" or "alright?", I then usually keep to myself from them most times to avoid feeling ignored / unimportant / irrelevant in their eyes. This is because I'm not that great at socialising in public places like the club or in the street, and also due to the fact that I feel extremely shy whilst meeting new people. All I feel, every single day, is irrelevant to everybody I come across on a day to day basis and tbh, I've gotten used to it over the years. However, if others ARE willing to get to know me and want me in their presence, I will perk up and be quite the confident individual once enough time passes :)Other things you should know about me is that I'm extremely loyal and will never hurt the people I love and hold dear, no matter what. I care too much about the people in my life, including family, and I also will never let them down or disappoint them in any way.
Just a little fun fact about me, my zodiac sign is Cancer ♋️🦀 for those of you who are interested and if that matters to you at all. This is related to what I've just written above in the second paragraph.
[This is me pretty much nearing the end of this seemingly never ending post now]
Now that all the soppy stuff is out of the way, I will now talk about what I like doing on a day to day basis :D:
I'm an indoor type of person. I like:
•Watching TV shows like Doctor Who when new episodes come out, The Simpsons and Hollyoaks 5 days a week, and binging on a ton of movies.•Listening to music pretty much every single day as I'm a huge HUGE fan of it.
•Gaming on PC games such as GTA, Red Dead, and Minecraft.
•I may stay indoors most of the time, but I DO also enjoy doing outdoor activities like spending my days out in places in the UK like Scarborough, Blackpool, Hornsea and Withernsea.
•I'm also interested in Photography, taking stunning photos both indoors and outdoors to store and save for later. Wildlife, sea life and everything else in between is what I'm most interested in :)
•Playing different sports such as Badminton, Bowling, Cricket, Dodgeball, Tennis and Volleyball on the beach are activities I really enjoy doing, but I haven't played them recently thanks to a lack of others playing them with me.
•Gardening and working with plants is something that really fascinates me, planting and watching plants of all shapes and sizes grow is everything I've wanted to do since my late high school days. Also getting a bit of sunshine on my neck in the summer does me some good lol.
•I occasionally like doing artistic activities like card making, paper crafting, drawing and painting, but only on special occasions.
•I also like to read from time to time.
Physical Appearance
My appearance is quite normal:•I'm 5'8 in height
•I've got quite the decent body shape
•I have no tattoos but I'm considering getting a few in the future
•I've got a small amount of facial hair (but I've shaved recently so I'm not quite as hairy on the face as I used to be)
•I've got quite a lot of hair on the top of my head but keep it in control most times with hairspray
•I've got an average to slightly above average face imo (pics can be exchanged if you're interested in knowing what I look like)
•I'm healthy with no health conditions or concerns
•I wear normal clothes such as buttoned t-shirts, hoodies / denim jackets, jeans / tracksuit bottoms, and leather jackets in colder weather.
You
I'm not too bothered what kind of women I talk to / get with tbh. Just as long as you:•Live in the UK, or at least in different countries that are close to the UK like Norway, Ireland, Sweden, Belgium, Denmark, France, or perhaps even The Netherlands, since all have shorter time-zone differences to the ones in the UK, (but you can message me wherever you are on the globe)
•Don't smoke or do drugs
•My age limit is between 18-23, but people that are past that age range can also message me.
•I'm not religious, by any means, but I don't mind dating people who are.
•Come as you are, no sugar coating, be real, be genuine. 🚫No NSFW content please🚫, that's all I ask.
Outro
Welp, this is me finally signing off and seeing what happens. If you've read this far, then I appreciate you for taking the time out of your schedule to read my post all the way through :) I hope you have a nice rest of your day 🙏🏻👋🏻 Come say Hi if you're feeling up to it! 🙂2023.05.28 14:39 Minute-Remove-3562 Windows 10 internet connection problem
I've been trying to get this fixed for a few days, and my ISP haven't been particularly helpful.
My internet doesn't work, no connection whatsoever. Ehen I try to troubleshoot the connection, I get a "Your computer appears to be correctly configured, but the device or resource (DNS server) is not responding" message.
My computer specs: Windows 10 Home N Processor: AMD Ryzen 5 5600 with Rafeon Graphics 3.90 GHz Network Adapter: Intel(R) Ethernet Controller (3) I225-V
Computer is connected directly to a switch (Raycore model ASWS-9T7F-00900-07) through an ethernet cable, which is connected to fibre.
I've tried to reset both multiple times. I would like to try and factory reset the switch, but I can't find any button and using a web browser with ip doesn't work(ERR_CONNECTION_TIMED_OUT for Default Gateway, ERR_CONNECTION_REFUSED for localhost and IPv4 Address). The switch wasn't set up by me but comes with the apartment, so I guess they've set it up so I can't mess with it.
The strangest thing is that I could access the market portal( if it works differently elsewhere, where I live when you have no broadband contract you can access a single webpage where you can browse and order one available where you live); this whole deal got me to look up my internet contract and I decided to change. When I had no ISP, I could access the market portal and buy a new contract. Once I had one, same problem reappered.
I've tried manually setting IP-address and DNS (1.1.1.1 and 8.8.8.8) and contacting my ISP( who just told me to restart my computer and switch and possibly factory reset it, without telling me how to do that).
Pinging a DNS server(1.1.1.1 and 8.8.8.8) gives no response, same with pinging the Default Gateway( pinging IPv4 address works though).
I honestly have no real clue what I'm doing, so apologies if some of these things make no sense to do/include. But I feel like this is something wrong outside my control or? I could access the market portal thing, so the connection's working right? At least the problem is somewhere beyond my apartment/computer? I'm just really confused.
submitted by Minute-Remove-3562 to techsupport [link] [comments]
My internet doesn't work, no connection whatsoever. Ehen I try to troubleshoot the connection, I get a "Your computer appears to be correctly configured, but the device or resource (DNS server) is not responding" message.
My computer specs: Windows 10 Home N Processor: AMD Ryzen 5 5600 with Rafeon Graphics 3.90 GHz Network Adapter: Intel(R) Ethernet Controller (3) I225-V
Computer is connected directly to a switch (Raycore model ASWS-9T7F-00900-07) through an ethernet cable, which is connected to fibre.
I've tried to reset both multiple times. I would like to try and factory reset the switch, but I can't find any button and using a web browser with ip doesn't work(ERR_CONNECTION_TIMED_OUT for Default Gateway, ERR_CONNECTION_REFUSED for localhost and IPv4 Address). The switch wasn't set up by me but comes with the apartment, so I guess they've set it up so I can't mess with it.
The strangest thing is that I could access the market portal( if it works differently elsewhere, where I live when you have no broadband contract you can access a single webpage where you can browse and order one available where you live); this whole deal got me to look up my internet contract and I decided to change. When I had no ISP, I could access the market portal and buy a new contract. Once I had one, same problem reappered.
I've tried manually setting IP-address and DNS (1.1.1.1 and 8.8.8.8) and contacting my ISP( who just told me to restart my computer and switch and possibly factory reset it, without telling me how to do that).
Pinging a DNS server(1.1.1.1 and 8.8.8.8) gives no response, same with pinging the Default Gateway( pinging IPv4 address works though).
I honestly have no real clue what I'm doing, so apologies if some of these things make no sense to do/include. But I feel like this is something wrong outside my control or? I could access the market portal thing, so the connection's working right? At least the problem is somewhere beyond my apartment/computer? I'm just really confused.
2023.05.28 14:31 AnderLouis_ Hail and Farewell (George Moore) - Book 3: Vale, Chapter 11.2
PODCAST: https://ayearofwarandpeace.podbean.com/e/ep1572-hail-and-farewell-george-moore-vale-chapter-112/
PROMPTS: George does not care about you, whatsoever.
Today's Reading, via Project Gutenberg:
Borde could not enlighten him on that point, and I suggested that he should make application to the publisher of his Prayer-Book and get his money back. There is nobody. I said, like him. He is more wonderful than anything in literature. I prefer him to Sancho who was untroubled with a conscience and never thought of running to the Bishop of Toledo. All the same he is not without the shrewdness of his ancestors, and got the better of Archbishop Walsh, and for the last five years Vincent O'Brien has been beating time, and will beat it till the end of his life; and he will be succeeded by others, for Edward has, by deed, saved the Italian contrapuntalists till time everlasting from competition with modern composers. He certainly has gotten the better of Walsh. And I thought of a picture-gallery in Dublin with nothing in it but Botticelli and his school, and myself declaring that all painting that had been done since had no interest for me.... A smile began to spread over my face, for the story that was coming into my mind seemed oh! so humorous, so like Ireland, so like Edward, that I began to tell myself again the delightful story of the unrefined ears that, weary of erudite music, had left the cathedral and sought instinctively modern tunes and women's voices, and as these were to be found in Westland Row the church was soon overflowing with a happy congregation. But in a little while the collections grew scantier. This time it couldn't be Palestrina, and all kinds of reasons were adduced. At last the truth could no longer be denied—the professional Catholics of Merrion Square had been driven out of Westland Row by the searching smells of dirty clothes, and had gone away to the University Church in Stephen's Green. So if it weren't Palestrina directly it was Palestrina indirectly, and the brows of the priests began to knit when Edward Martyn's name was mentioned. Them fal-de-dals is well enough on the Continent, in Paris, where there is no faith, was the opinion of an important ecclesiastic. But we don't want them here, murmured a second ecclesiastic. All this counterpoint may make a very pretty background for Mr Martyn's prayers, but what about the poor people's? Good composer or bad composer, there is no congregation in him, said a third. There's too much congregation, put in the first, but not the kind we want! The second ecclesiastic took snuff, and the group were of opinion that steps should be taken to persuade dear Edward to make good their losses. The priests in Marlborough Street sympathised with the priests of Westland Row, and told them that they were so heavily out of pocket that Mr Martyn had agreed to do something for them. It seemed to the Westland Row priests that if Mr Martyn were making good the losses of the priests of the pro-Cathedral, he should make good their losses. It was natural that they should think so, and to acquit himself of all responsibility Edward no doubt consulted the best theologians on the subject, and I think that they assured him that he is not responsible for indirect losses. If he were, his whole fortune would not suffice. He was, of course, very sorry if a sudden influx of poor people had caused a falling-off in the collections of Westland Row, for he knew that the priests needed the money very much to pay for the new decorations, and to help them he wrote an article in the Independent praising the new blue ceiling, which seemed, so he wrote, a worthy canopy for the soaring strains of Palestrina.
Unfortunately rubbing salt into the wound, I said. A story that will amuse Dujardin and it will be great fun telling him in the shady garden at Fontainebleau how Edward, anxious to do something for his church, had succeeded in emptying two. All the way down the alleys he will wonder how Edward could have ever looked upon Palestrina's masses as religious music. The only music he will say, in which religious emotion transpires is plain-chant. Huysmans says that the Tantum Ergo or the Dies Irae, one or the other, reminds him of a soul being dragged out of purgatory, and it is possible that it does; but a plain-chant tune arranged in eight-part counterpoint cannot remind one of anything very terrible. Dujardin knows that Palestrina was a priest, and he will say: That fact deceived your friend, just as the fact of finding the Adeste Fideles among the plain-chant tunes deceived him. For of course I shall tell Dujardin that story too. It is too good to be missed. He is wonderful, Dujardin! I shall cry out in one of the sinuous alleys. There never was anybody like him! And I will tell him more soul-revealing anecdotes. I will say: Dujardin, listen. One evening he contended that the great duet at the end of Siegfried reminded him of mass by Palestrina. Dujardin will laugh, and, excited by his laughter, I will try to explain to him that what Edward sees is that Palestrina took a plain chant tune and gave fragments of it to the different voices, and in his mind these become confused with the motives of The Ring. You see, Dujardin, the essential always escapes him—the intention of the writer is hidden from him. I am beginning to understand your friend. He has, let us suppose, a musical ear that allows him to take pleasure in the music; but a musical ear will not help him to follow Wagner's idea—how, in a transport of sexual emotion, a young man and a young woman on a mountain-side awaken to the beauty of the life of the world. Dujardin's appreciations will provoke me, and I will say: Dujardin, you shouldn't be so appreciative. If I were telling you of a play I had written, it would be delightful to watch my idea dawning upon your consciousness; but I am telling you of a real man, and one that I shall never to able to get into literature. He will answer: We invent nothing; we can but perceive. And then, exhilarated, carried beyond myself, I will say: Dujardin, I will tell you something still more wonderful than the last gaffe. II gaffe dans les Quat'z Arts. He admires Ibsen, but you'd never guess the reason why—because he is very like Racine; both of them, he says, are classical writers. And do you know how he arrived at that point? Because nobody is killed on the stage in Racine or in Ibsen. He does not see that the intention of Racine is to represent men and women out of time and out of space, unconditioned by environment, and that the very first principle of Ibsen's art is the relation of his characters to their environment. In many passages he merely dramatises Darwin. There never was anybody so interesting as dear Edward, and there never will be anybody like him in literature ... I will explain why presently, but I must first tell you another anecdote. I went to see him one night, and he told me that the theme of the play he was writing was a man who had married a woman because he had lost faith in himself; the man did not know, however, that the woman had married him for the same reason, and the two of them were thinking—I have forgotten what they were thinking, but I remember Edward saying: I should like to suggest hopelessness. I urged many phrases, but he said: It isn't a phrase I want, but an actual thing. I was thinking of a broken anchor—that surely is a symbol of hopelessness. Yes, I said, no doubt, but how are you going to get a broken anchor into a drawing-room? I don't write about drawing-rooms. Well, living-rooms. It isn't likely that they would buy a broken anchor and put it up by the coal-scuttle.
There's that against it, he answered. If you could suggest anything better—What do you think of a library in which there is nothing but unacted plays? The characters could say, when there was nothing for them to do on the stage, that they were going to the library to read, and the library would have the advantage of reminding everybody of the garret in the Wild Duck. A very cruel answer, my friend, Dujardin will say, and I will tell him that I can't help seeing in Edward something beyond Shakespeare or Balzac. Now, tell me, which of these anecdotes I have told you is the most humorous? He will not answer my question, but a certain thoughtfulness will begin to settle in his face, and he will say: Everything with him is accidental, and when his memory fails him he falls into another mistake, and he amuses you because it is impossible for you to anticipate his next mistake. You know there is going to be one; there must be one, for he sees things separately rather than relatively. I am beginning to understand your friend.
You are, you are; you are doing splendidly. But you haven't told me, Dujardin, which anecdote you prefer. Stay, there is another one. Perhaps this one will help you to a still better understanding. When he brought The Heather Field and Yeats's play The Countess Cathleen to Dublin for performance, a great trouble of conscience awakened suddenly in him, and a few days before the performance he went to a theologian to ask him if The Countess Cathleen were a heretical work, and, if it were would Almighty God hold him responsible for the performance? But he couldn't withdraw Yeats's play without withdrawing his own, and it appears that he breathed a sigh of relief when a common friend referred the whole matter to two other theologians, and as these gave their consent Edward allowed the plays to go on; but Cardinal Logue intervened, and wrote a letter to the papers to say that the play seemed to him unfit for Catholic ears, and Edward would have withdrawn the plays if the Cardinal hadn't admitted in his letter that he had judged the play by certain extracts only.
He wishes to act rightly, but has little faith in himself; and what makes him so amusing is that he needs advice in aesthetics as well as in morals. We are, I said, Dujardin, at the roots of conscience. And I began to ponder the question what would happen to Edward if we lived in a world in which aesthetics ruled: I should be where Bishop Healy is, and he would be a thin, small voice crying in the wilderness—an amusing subject of meditation, from which I awoke suddenly.
I wonder how Dujardin is getting on with his Biblical studies? Last year he was calling into question the authorship of the Romans—a most eccentric view; and, remembering how weakly I had answered him, I took the Bible from the table and began to read the Epistle with a view to furnishing myself with arguments wherewith to confute him. My Bible opened at the ninth chapter, and I said: Why, here is the authority for the Countess Cathleen's sacrifice which Edward's theologian deemed untheological. It will be great fun to poke Edward up with St Paul, and on my way to Lincoln Place I thought how I might lead the conversation to The Countess Cathleen.
📷
A few minutes afterwards a light appeared on the staircase and the door slowly opened.
Come in, Siegfried, though you were off the key.
Well, my dear friend, it is a difficult matter to whistle above two trams passing simultaneously and six people jabbering round a public-house, to say nothing of a jarvey or two, and you perhaps dozing in your armchair, as your habit often is. You won't open to anything else except a motive from The Ring; and I stumbled up the stairs in front of Edward, who followed with a candle.
Wait a moment; let me go first and I'll turn up the gas.
You aren't sitting in the dark, are you?
No, but I read better by candle-light, and he blew out the candles in the tin candelabrum that he had made for himself. He is original even in his candelabrum; no one before him had ever thought of a caridelabrum in tin, and I fell to admiring his appearance more carefully than perhaps I had ever done before, so monumental did he seem lying on the little sofa sheltered from daughts by a screen, a shawl about his shoulders. His churchwarden was drawing famously, and I noticed his great square hands with strong fingers and square nails pared closely away, and as heretofore I admired the curve of the great belly, the thickness of the thighs, the length and breadth and the width of his foot hanging over the edge of the sofa, the apoplectic neck falling into great rolls of flesh, the humid eyes, the skull covered with short stubbly hair. I looked round the rooms and they seemed part of himself: the old green wallpaper on which he pins reproductions of the Italian masters. And I longed to peep once more into the bare bedroom into which he goes to fetch bottles of Apollinaris. Always original! Is there another man in this world whose income is two thousand a year, and who sleeps in a bare bedroom, without dressing-room, or bathroom, or servant in the house to brush his clothes, and who has to go to the baker's for his breakfast?
We had been talking for some time of the Gaelic League, and from Hyde it was easy to pass to Yeats and his plays.
His best play is The Countess Cathleen.
The Countess Cathleen is only a sketch.
But what I never could understand, Edward, was why you and the Cardinal could have had any doubts as to the orthodoxy of The Countess Cathleen.
What, a woman that sells her own soul in order to save the souls of others!
I suppose your theologian objected—
Of course he objected.
He cannot have read St Paul.
What do you mean?
He can't have read St Paul, or else he is prepared to throw over St Paul.
Mon ami Moore, mon ami Moore.
The supernatural idealism of a man who would sell his soul to save the souls of others fills me with awe.
But it wasn't a man; it was the Countess Cathleen, and women are never idealists.
Not the saints?
His face grew solemn at once.
If you give me the Epistles I will read the passage to you. And it was great fun to go to the bookshelves and read: I say the truth in Christ, I lie not, my conscience also bearing me witness in the Holy Ghost, that I have great heaviness and continual sorrow in my heart. For I could wish that myself were accursed from Christ for my brethren, my kinsmen according to the flesh.
Edward's face grew more and more solemn, and I wondered of what he was thinking.
Paul is a very difficult and a very obscure writer, and I think the Church is quite right not to encourage the reading of the Epistles, especially without comments.
Then you do think there is something in the passage I have read?
After looking down his dignified nose for a long time, he said:
Of course, the Church has an explanation. All the same, it's very odd that St Paul should have said such a thing—very odd.
There is no doubt that I owe a great deal of my happiness to Edward; all my life long he has been exquisite entertainment. And I fell to thinking that Nature was very cruel to have led me, like Moses, within sight of the Promised Land. A story would be necessary to bring Edward into literature, and it would be impossible to devise an action of which he should be a part. The sex of a woman is odious to him, and a man with two thousand a year does not rob nor steal, and he is so uninterested in his fellow-men that he has never an ill word to say about anybody. John Eglinton is a little thing; AE is a soul that few will understand; but Edward is universal—more universal than Yeats, than myself, than any of us, but for lack of a story I shall not be able to give him the immortality in literature which he seeks in sacraments. Shakespeare always took his stories from some other people. Turgenev's portrait of him would be thin, poor, and evasive, and Balzac would give us the portrait of a mere fool. And Edward is not a fool. As I understand him he is a temperament without a rudder; all he has to rely upon is his memory, which isn't a very good one, and so he tumbles from one mistake into another. My God! it is a terrible thing to happen to one, to understand a man better than he understands himself, and to be powerless to help him. If I had been able to undo his faith I should have raised him to the level of Sir Horace Plunkett, but he resisted me; and perhaps he did well, for he came into the world seeing things separately rather than relatively, and had to be a Catholic. He is a born Catholic, and I remembered one of his confessions—a partial confession, but a confession: If you had been brought up as strictly as I have been—I don't think he ever finished the sentence; he often leaves sentences unfinished, as if he fears to think things out. The end of the sentence should run: You would not dare to think independently. He thinks that his severe bringing-up has robbed him of something. But the prisoner ends by liking his prison-house, and on another occasion he said: If it hadn't been for the Church, I don't know what would have happened to me.
My thoughts stopped, and when I awoke I was thinking of Hughes. Perhaps the link between Hughes and Edward was Loughrea Cathedral. He had shown me a photograph of some saints modelled by Hughes. Hughes is away in Paris, I said, modelling saints for Loughrea Cathedral. The last time I saw him was at Walter Osborne's funeral, and Walter's death set me thinking of the woman I had lost, and little by little all she had told me about herself floated up in my mind like something that I had read. I had never seen her father nor the Putney villa in which she had been brought up, but she had made me familiar with both through her pleasant mode of conversation, which was never to describe anything, but just to talk about things, dropping phrases here and there, and the phrases she dropped were so well chosen that the comfort of the villa, its pompous meals and numerous servants, its gardens and greenhouses, with stables and coach-house just behind, are as well known to me as the house that I am living in, better known in a way, for I see it through the eyes of the imagination ... clearer eyes than the physical eyes.
It does not seem to me that any one was ever more conscious of whence she had come and of what she had been; she seemed to be able to see herself as a child again, and to describe her childhood with her brother (they were nearly the same age) in the villa and in the villa's garden. I seemed to see them always as two rather staid children who were being constantly dressed by diligent nurses and taken out for long drives in the family carriage. They did not like these drives and used to hide in the garden; but their governess was sent to fetch them, and they were brought back. Her father did not like to have the horses kept waiting, and one day as Stella stood with him in the passage, she saw her mother come out of her bedroom beautifully dressed. Her father whispered something in his wife's ear, and he followed her into her bedroom. Stella remembered how the door closed behind them. In my telling, the incident seems to lose some of its point, but in Stella's relation it seemed to put her father and his wife before me and so clearly that I could not help asking her what answer her father would make were she to tell him that she had a lover. A smile hovered in her grave face. He would look embarrassed, she said, and wonder why I should have told him such a thing, and then I think he would go to the greenhouse, and when he returned he would talk to me about something quite different. I don't think that Stella ever told me about the people that came to their house, but people must have come to it, and as an example of how a few words can convey an environment I will quote her: I always wanted to talk about Rossetti, she said, and these seven words seem to me to tell better than any description the life of a girl living with a formal father in a Putney villa, longing for something, not knowing exactly what, and anxious to get away from home.... I think she told me she was eighteen or nineteen and had started painting before she met Florence at the house of one of her father's friends; a somewhat sore point this meeting was, for Florence was looked upon by Stella's father as something of a Bohemian. She was a painter, and knew all the Art classes and the fees that had to be paid, and led Stella into the world of studios and models and girl friends. She knew how to find studios and could plan out a journey abroad. Stella's imagination was captured, and even if her father had tried to offer opposition to her leaving home he could not have prevented her, for she was an heiress (her mother was dead and had left her a considerable income); but he did not try, and the two girls set up house together in Chelsea; they travelled in Italy and Spain; they had a cottage in the country; they painted pictures and exhibited their pictures in the same exhibitions; they gave dances in their studios and were attracted by this young man and the other; but Stella did not give herself to any one, because, as she admitted to me, she was afraid that a lover would interrupt the devotion which she intended to give to Art. But life is forever casting itself into new shapes and forms, and no sooner had she begun to express herself in Art than she met me. I was about to go to Ireland to preach a new gospel, and must have seemed a very impulsive and fantastic person to her, but were not impulsiveness and fantasy just the qualities that would appeal to her? And were not gravity and good sense the qualities that would appeal to me, determined as I was then to indulge myself in a little madness?
I could not have chosen a saner companion than Stella; my instinct had led me to her; but because one man's instinct is a little more clear than another's, it does not follow that he has called reason to his aid. It must be remembered always that the art of painting is as inveterate in me as the art of writing, and that I am never altogether myself when far away from the smell of oil paint. Stella could talk to one about painting, and all through that wonderful summer described in Salve our talk flowed on as delightfully as a breeze in Maytime, and as irresponsible, flashing thoughts going by and avowals perfumed with memories. Only in her garden did conversation fail us, for in her garden Stella could think only of her flowers, and it seemed an indiscretion to follow her as she went through the twilight gathering dead blooms or freeing plants from noxious insects. But she would have had me follow her, and I think was always a little grieved that I wasn't as interested in her garden as I was in her painting; and my absent-mindedness when I followed her often vexed her and my mistakes distressed her.
You are interested, she said, only in what I say about flowers and not in the flowers themselves. You like to hear me tell about Miss —— whose business in life is to grow carnations, because you already see her, dimly, perhaps, but still you see her in a story. Forget her and look at this Miss Shifner!
Yes, it is beautiful, but we can only admire the flowers that we notice when we are children, I answered. Dahlias, china roses, red and yellow tulips, tawny wallflowers, purple pansies, are never long out of my thoughts, and all the wonderful varieties of the iris, the beautiful blue satin and the cream, some shining like porcelain, even the common iris that grows about the moat.
But there were carnations in your mother's garden?
Yes, and I remember seeing them being tied with bass. But what did you say yesterday about carnations? That they were the—
She laughed and would not tell me, and when the twilight stooped over the high trees and the bats flitted and the garden was silent except when a fish leaped, I begged her to come away to the wild growths that I loved better than the flowers.
But the mallow and willow-weed are the only two that you recognise. How many times have I told you the difference between self-heal and tufted vetch?
I like cow parsley and wild hyacinths and—
You have forgotten the name. As well speak of a woman that you loved but whose name you had forgotten.
Well, if I have, I love trees better than you do, Stella. You pass under a fir unstirred by the mystery of its branches, and I wonder at you, for I am a tree worshipper, even as my ancestors, and am moved as they were by the dizzy height of a great silver fir. You like to paint trees, and I should like to paint flowers if I could paint; there we are set forth, you and I.
I have told in Salve that in Rathfarnham she found many motives for painting; the shape of the land and the spire above the straggling village appealed to me, but she was not altogether herself in these pictures. She would have liked the village away, for man and his dwellings did not form part of her conception of a landscape; large trees and a flight of clouds above the trees were her selection, and the almost unconscious life of kine wandering or sheep seeking the shelter of a tree.
Stella was a good walker, and we followed the long road leading from Rathfarnham up the hills, stopping to admire the long plain which we could see through the comely trees shooting out of the shelving hillside.
If I have beguiled you into a country where there are no artists and few men of letters, you can't say that I have not shown you comely trees. And now if you can walk two miles farther up this steep road I will show you a lovely prospect.
And I enjoyed her grave admiration of the old Queen Anne dwelling-house, its rough masonry, the yew hedges, the path along the hillside leading to the Druid altar and the coast-line sweeping in beautiful curves, but she did not like to hear me say that the drawing of the shore reminded her of Corot.
It is a sad affectation, she said, to speak of Nature reminding one of pictures.
Well, the outlines of Howth are beautiful, I answered, and the haze is incomparable. I should like to have spoken about a piece of sculpture, but for your sake, Stella, I refrain.
She was interested in things rather than ideas, and I remember her saying to me that things interest us only because we know that they are always slipping from us. A strange thing for a woman to say to her lover. She noticed all the changes of the seasons and loved them, and taught me to love them. She brought a lamb back from Rathfarnham, a poor forlorn thing that had run bleating so pitifully across the windy field that she had asked the shepherd where the ewe was, and he had answered that she had been killed overnight by a golf-ball. The lamb will be dead before morning, he added. And it was that March that the donkey produced a foal, a poor ragged thing that did not look as if it ever could be larger than a goat, but the donkey loved her foal.
Do you know the names of those two birds flying up and down the river?
They look to me like two large wrens with white waistcoats.
They are water-ouzels, she said.
The birds flew with rapid strokes of the wings, like kingfishers, alighting constantly on the river, on large mossy stones, and though we saw them plunge into the water, it was not to swim, but to run along the bottom in search of worms.
But do worms live under water?
The rooks were building, and a little while after a great scuffling was heard in one of the chimneys and a young jackdaw came down and soon became tamer than any bird I had ever seen, tamer than a parrot, and at the end of May the corncrake called from the meadow that summer had come again, and the kine wandered in deeper and deeper and deeper herbage. The days seemed never to end, and looking through the branches of the chestnut in which the fruit had not begun to show, we caught sight of a strange spectacle. Stella said, A lunar rainbow, and I wondered, never having heard of or seen such a thing before.
I shall never forget that rainbow, Stella, and am glad that we saw it together.
In every love story lovers reprove each other for lack of affection, and Stella had often sent me angry letters which caused me many heart-burnings and brought me out to her; in the garden there were reconciliations, we picked up the thread again, and the summer had passed before the reason of these quarrels became clear to me. One September evening Stella said she would accompany me to the gate, and we had not gone very far before I began to notice that she was quarrelling with me. She spoke of the loneliness of the Moat House, and I had answered that she had not been alone two evenings that week. She admitted my devotion. And if you admit that there has been no neglect—
She would not tell me, but there was something she was not satisfied with, and before we reached the end of the avenue she said, I don't think I can tell you. But on being pressed she said:
Well, you don't make love to me often enough.
And full of apologies I answered, Let me go back.
No, I can't have you back now, not after having spoken like that.
But she yielded to my invitation, and we returned to the house, and next morning I went back to Dublin a little dazed, a little shaken.
A few days after she went away to Italy to spend the winter and wrote me long letters, interesting me in herself, in the villagers, in the walks and the things that she saw in her walks, setting me sighing that she was away from me, or that I was not with her. And going to the window I would stand for a long time watching the hawthorns in their bleak wintry discontent, thinking how the sunlight fell into the Italian gardens, and caught the corner of the ruin she was sketching; and I let my fancy stray for a time unchecked. It would be wonderful to be in Italy with her, but—
I turned from the window suspicious, for there was a feeling at the back of my mind that with her return an anxiety would come into my life that I would willingly be without. She had told me she had refrained from a lover because she wished to keep all herself for her painting, and now she had taken to herself a lover. She was twenty years younger than I was, and at forty-six or thereabouts one begins to feel that one's time for love is over; one is consultant rather than practitioner. But it was impossible to dismiss the subject with a jest, and I found myself face to face with the question—If these twenty years were removed, would things be different? It seemed to me that the difficulty that had arisen would have been the same earlier in my life as it was now, and returning to the window I watched the hawthorns blowing under the cold grey Dublin sky.
The problem is set, I said, for the married, and every couple has to solve it in one way or another, but they have to solve it; they have to come to terms with love, especially the man, for whom it is a question of life and death. But how do they come to terms? And I thought of the different married people I knew. Which would be most likely to advise me—the man or the woman? It would be no use to seek advice; every case is different, I said. If anybody were to advise me it would be the man, for the problem is not so difficult for a woman. She can escape from love more easily than her lover or her husband; she can plead, and her many pleadings were considered, one by one, and how in married life the solution that seems to lovers so difficult is solved by marriage itself, by propinquity. But not always, not always. The question is one of extraordinary interest and importance; more marriages come to shipwreck, I am convinced, on this very question than upon any other. In the divorce cases published we read of incompatibility of temper and lack of mutual tastes, mere euphemisms that deceive nobody. The image of a shipwreck rose up in me naturally. She will return, and like a ship our love for each other will be beaten on these rocks and broken. We shall not be able to get out to sea. She will return, and when she returns her temperament will have to be adjusted to mine, else she will lose me altogether, for men have died of love, though Shakespeare says they haven't. Manet and Daudet—both died of love; and the somewhat absurd spectacle of a lover waiting for his mistress to return, and yet dreading her returning, was constantly before me.
It often seemed to me that it was my own weakness that created our embarrassment. A stronger man would have been able to find a way out, but I am not one that can shape and mould another according to my desire; and when she returned from Italy I found myself more helpless than ever, and I remember, and with shame, how, to avoid being alone with her, I would run down the entire length of a train, avoiding the empty carriages, crying Not here, not here! at last opening the door of one occupied by three or four people, who all looked as if they were bound for a long journey. I remember, too, how about this time I came with friends to see Stella, whether by accident or design, frankly I know not; I only know that I brought many friends to see her, thinking they would interest her.
If you don't care to come to see me without a chaperon, I would rather you didn't come at all, she said, humiliating me very deeply.
It seemed to me, I answered, blushing, that you would like to see ——, and I mentioned the name of the man who had accompanied me.
If I am cross sometimes it is because I don't see enough of you.
It seems to me that it was then that the resolve hardened in my heart to become her friend ... if she would allow me to become her friend. But in what words should I frame my request and my apology? All the time our life was becoming less amiable, until one evening I nipped the quarrel that was beginning, stopping suddenly at the end of the avenue.
It is better that we should understand each other. The plain truth is that I must cease to be your lover unless my life is to be sacrificed.
Cease to be my lover!
That is impossible, but a change comes into every love story.
The explanation stuttered on. I remember her saying: I don't wish you to sacrifice your life. I have forgotten the end of her sentence. She drew her hand suddenly across her eyes. I will conquer this obsession.
A man would have whined and cried and besought and worried his mistress out of her wits. Women behave better than we; only once did her feelings overcome her. She spoke to me of the deception that life is. Again we were standing by the gate at the end of the chestnut avenue, and I remembered her telling me how a few years ago life had seemed to hold out its hands to her; her painting and her youth created her enjoyment.
But now life seems to have shrivelled up, she said; only a little dust is left.
Nothing is changed, so far as you and I are concerned. We see each other just the same.
I am no more to you than any other woman.
She went away again to Italy to paint and returned to Ireland, and one day she came to see me, and remained talking for an hour. I have no memory of what we said to each other, but a very clear memory of our walk through Dublin over Carlisle Bridge and along the quays. I had accompanied her as far as the Phoenix Park gates, and at the corner of the Conyngham Road, just as I was bidding her goodbye, she said:
I want to ask your advice on a matter of importance to me.
And to me, for what is important to you is equally important to me.
I am thinking, she said, of being married.
At the news it seems to me that I was unduly elated and tried to assume the interest that a friend should.
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PROMPTS: George does not care about you, whatsoever.
Today's Reading, via Project Gutenberg:
Borde could not enlighten him on that point, and I suggested that he should make application to the publisher of his Prayer-Book and get his money back. There is nobody. I said, like him. He is more wonderful than anything in literature. I prefer him to Sancho who was untroubled with a conscience and never thought of running to the Bishop of Toledo. All the same he is not without the shrewdness of his ancestors, and got the better of Archbishop Walsh, and for the last five years Vincent O'Brien has been beating time, and will beat it till the end of his life; and he will be succeeded by others, for Edward has, by deed, saved the Italian contrapuntalists till time everlasting from competition with modern composers. He certainly has gotten the better of Walsh. And I thought of a picture-gallery in Dublin with nothing in it but Botticelli and his school, and myself declaring that all painting that had been done since had no interest for me.... A smile began to spread over my face, for the story that was coming into my mind seemed oh! so humorous, so like Ireland, so like Edward, that I began to tell myself again the delightful story of the unrefined ears that, weary of erudite music, had left the cathedral and sought instinctively modern tunes and women's voices, and as these were to be found in Westland Row the church was soon overflowing with a happy congregation. But in a little while the collections grew scantier. This time it couldn't be Palestrina, and all kinds of reasons were adduced. At last the truth could no longer be denied—the professional Catholics of Merrion Square had been driven out of Westland Row by the searching smells of dirty clothes, and had gone away to the University Church in Stephen's Green. So if it weren't Palestrina directly it was Palestrina indirectly, and the brows of the priests began to knit when Edward Martyn's name was mentioned. Them fal-de-dals is well enough on the Continent, in Paris, where there is no faith, was the opinion of an important ecclesiastic. But we don't want them here, murmured a second ecclesiastic. All this counterpoint may make a very pretty background for Mr Martyn's prayers, but what about the poor people's? Good composer or bad composer, there is no congregation in him, said a third. There's too much congregation, put in the first, but not the kind we want! The second ecclesiastic took snuff, and the group were of opinion that steps should be taken to persuade dear Edward to make good their losses. The priests in Marlborough Street sympathised with the priests of Westland Row, and told them that they were so heavily out of pocket that Mr Martyn had agreed to do something for them. It seemed to the Westland Row priests that if Mr Martyn were making good the losses of the priests of the pro-Cathedral, he should make good their losses. It was natural that they should think so, and to acquit himself of all responsibility Edward no doubt consulted the best theologians on the subject, and I think that they assured him that he is not responsible for indirect losses. If he were, his whole fortune would not suffice. He was, of course, very sorry if a sudden influx of poor people had caused a falling-off in the collections of Westland Row, for he knew that the priests needed the money very much to pay for the new decorations, and to help them he wrote an article in the Independent praising the new blue ceiling, which seemed, so he wrote, a worthy canopy for the soaring strains of Palestrina.
Unfortunately rubbing salt into the wound, I said. A story that will amuse Dujardin and it will be great fun telling him in the shady garden at Fontainebleau how Edward, anxious to do something for his church, had succeeded in emptying two. All the way down the alleys he will wonder how Edward could have ever looked upon Palestrina's masses as religious music. The only music he will say, in which religious emotion transpires is plain-chant. Huysmans says that the Tantum Ergo or the Dies Irae, one or the other, reminds him of a soul being dragged out of purgatory, and it is possible that it does; but a plain-chant tune arranged in eight-part counterpoint cannot remind one of anything very terrible. Dujardin knows that Palestrina was a priest, and he will say: That fact deceived your friend, just as the fact of finding the Adeste Fideles among the plain-chant tunes deceived him. For of course I shall tell Dujardin that story too. It is too good to be missed. He is wonderful, Dujardin! I shall cry out in one of the sinuous alleys. There never was anybody like him! And I will tell him more soul-revealing anecdotes. I will say: Dujardin, listen. One evening he contended that the great duet at the end of Siegfried reminded him of mass by Palestrina. Dujardin will laugh, and, excited by his laughter, I will try to explain to him that what Edward sees is that Palestrina took a plain chant tune and gave fragments of it to the different voices, and in his mind these become confused with the motives of The Ring. You see, Dujardin, the essential always escapes him—the intention of the writer is hidden from him. I am beginning to understand your friend. He has, let us suppose, a musical ear that allows him to take pleasure in the music; but a musical ear will not help him to follow Wagner's idea—how, in a transport of sexual emotion, a young man and a young woman on a mountain-side awaken to the beauty of the life of the world. Dujardin's appreciations will provoke me, and I will say: Dujardin, you shouldn't be so appreciative. If I were telling you of a play I had written, it would be delightful to watch my idea dawning upon your consciousness; but I am telling you of a real man, and one that I shall never to able to get into literature. He will answer: We invent nothing; we can but perceive. And then, exhilarated, carried beyond myself, I will say: Dujardin, I will tell you something still more wonderful than the last gaffe. II gaffe dans les Quat'z Arts. He admires Ibsen, but you'd never guess the reason why—because he is very like Racine; both of them, he says, are classical writers. And do you know how he arrived at that point? Because nobody is killed on the stage in Racine or in Ibsen. He does not see that the intention of Racine is to represent men and women out of time and out of space, unconditioned by environment, and that the very first principle of Ibsen's art is the relation of his characters to their environment. In many passages he merely dramatises Darwin. There never was anybody so interesting as dear Edward, and there never will be anybody like him in literature ... I will explain why presently, but I must first tell you another anecdote. I went to see him one night, and he told me that the theme of the play he was writing was a man who had married a woman because he had lost faith in himself; the man did not know, however, that the woman had married him for the same reason, and the two of them were thinking—I have forgotten what they were thinking, but I remember Edward saying: I should like to suggest hopelessness. I urged many phrases, but he said: It isn't a phrase I want, but an actual thing. I was thinking of a broken anchor—that surely is a symbol of hopelessness. Yes, I said, no doubt, but how are you going to get a broken anchor into a drawing-room? I don't write about drawing-rooms. Well, living-rooms. It isn't likely that they would buy a broken anchor and put it up by the coal-scuttle.
There's that against it, he answered. If you could suggest anything better—What do you think of a library in which there is nothing but unacted plays? The characters could say, when there was nothing for them to do on the stage, that they were going to the library to read, and the library would have the advantage of reminding everybody of the garret in the Wild Duck. A very cruel answer, my friend, Dujardin will say, and I will tell him that I can't help seeing in Edward something beyond Shakespeare or Balzac. Now, tell me, which of these anecdotes I have told you is the most humorous? He will not answer my question, but a certain thoughtfulness will begin to settle in his face, and he will say: Everything with him is accidental, and when his memory fails him he falls into another mistake, and he amuses you because it is impossible for you to anticipate his next mistake. You know there is going to be one; there must be one, for he sees things separately rather than relatively. I am beginning to understand your friend.
You are, you are; you are doing splendidly. But you haven't told me, Dujardin, which anecdote you prefer. Stay, there is another one. Perhaps this one will help you to a still better understanding. When he brought The Heather Field and Yeats's play The Countess Cathleen to Dublin for performance, a great trouble of conscience awakened suddenly in him, and a few days before the performance he went to a theologian to ask him if The Countess Cathleen were a heretical work, and, if it were would Almighty God hold him responsible for the performance? But he couldn't withdraw Yeats's play without withdrawing his own, and it appears that he breathed a sigh of relief when a common friend referred the whole matter to two other theologians, and as these gave their consent Edward allowed the plays to go on; but Cardinal Logue intervened, and wrote a letter to the papers to say that the play seemed to him unfit for Catholic ears, and Edward would have withdrawn the plays if the Cardinal hadn't admitted in his letter that he had judged the play by certain extracts only.
He wishes to act rightly, but has little faith in himself; and what makes him so amusing is that he needs advice in aesthetics as well as in morals. We are, I said, Dujardin, at the roots of conscience. And I began to ponder the question what would happen to Edward if we lived in a world in which aesthetics ruled: I should be where Bishop Healy is, and he would be a thin, small voice crying in the wilderness—an amusing subject of meditation, from which I awoke suddenly.
I wonder how Dujardin is getting on with his Biblical studies? Last year he was calling into question the authorship of the Romans—a most eccentric view; and, remembering how weakly I had answered him, I took the Bible from the table and began to read the Epistle with a view to furnishing myself with arguments wherewith to confute him. My Bible opened at the ninth chapter, and I said: Why, here is the authority for the Countess Cathleen's sacrifice which Edward's theologian deemed untheological. It will be great fun to poke Edward up with St Paul, and on my way to Lincoln Place I thought how I might lead the conversation to The Countess Cathleen.
📷
A few minutes afterwards a light appeared on the staircase and the door slowly opened.
Come in, Siegfried, though you were off the key.
Well, my dear friend, it is a difficult matter to whistle above two trams passing simultaneously and six people jabbering round a public-house, to say nothing of a jarvey or two, and you perhaps dozing in your armchair, as your habit often is. You won't open to anything else except a motive from The Ring; and I stumbled up the stairs in front of Edward, who followed with a candle.
Wait a moment; let me go first and I'll turn up the gas.
You aren't sitting in the dark, are you?
No, but I read better by candle-light, and he blew out the candles in the tin candelabrum that he had made for himself. He is original even in his candelabrum; no one before him had ever thought of a caridelabrum in tin, and I fell to admiring his appearance more carefully than perhaps I had ever done before, so monumental did he seem lying on the little sofa sheltered from daughts by a screen, a shawl about his shoulders. His churchwarden was drawing famously, and I noticed his great square hands with strong fingers and square nails pared closely away, and as heretofore I admired the curve of the great belly, the thickness of the thighs, the length and breadth and the width of his foot hanging over the edge of the sofa, the apoplectic neck falling into great rolls of flesh, the humid eyes, the skull covered with short stubbly hair. I looked round the rooms and they seemed part of himself: the old green wallpaper on which he pins reproductions of the Italian masters. And I longed to peep once more into the bare bedroom into which he goes to fetch bottles of Apollinaris. Always original! Is there another man in this world whose income is two thousand a year, and who sleeps in a bare bedroom, without dressing-room, or bathroom, or servant in the house to brush his clothes, and who has to go to the baker's for his breakfast?
We had been talking for some time of the Gaelic League, and from Hyde it was easy to pass to Yeats and his plays.
His best play is The Countess Cathleen.
The Countess Cathleen is only a sketch.
But what I never could understand, Edward, was why you and the Cardinal could have had any doubts as to the orthodoxy of The Countess Cathleen.
What, a woman that sells her own soul in order to save the souls of others!
I suppose your theologian objected—
Of course he objected.
He cannot have read St Paul.
What do you mean?
He can't have read St Paul, or else he is prepared to throw over St Paul.
Mon ami Moore, mon ami Moore.
The supernatural idealism of a man who would sell his soul to save the souls of others fills me with awe.
But it wasn't a man; it was the Countess Cathleen, and women are never idealists.
Not the saints?
His face grew solemn at once.
If you give me the Epistles I will read the passage to you. And it was great fun to go to the bookshelves and read: I say the truth in Christ, I lie not, my conscience also bearing me witness in the Holy Ghost, that I have great heaviness and continual sorrow in my heart. For I could wish that myself were accursed from Christ for my brethren, my kinsmen according to the flesh.
Edward's face grew more and more solemn, and I wondered of what he was thinking.
Paul is a very difficult and a very obscure writer, and I think the Church is quite right not to encourage the reading of the Epistles, especially without comments.
Then you do think there is something in the passage I have read?
After looking down his dignified nose for a long time, he said:
Of course, the Church has an explanation. All the same, it's very odd that St Paul should have said such a thing—very odd.
There is no doubt that I owe a great deal of my happiness to Edward; all my life long he has been exquisite entertainment. And I fell to thinking that Nature was very cruel to have led me, like Moses, within sight of the Promised Land. A story would be necessary to bring Edward into literature, and it would be impossible to devise an action of which he should be a part. The sex of a woman is odious to him, and a man with two thousand a year does not rob nor steal, and he is so uninterested in his fellow-men that he has never an ill word to say about anybody. John Eglinton is a little thing; AE is a soul that few will understand; but Edward is universal—more universal than Yeats, than myself, than any of us, but for lack of a story I shall not be able to give him the immortality in literature which he seeks in sacraments. Shakespeare always took his stories from some other people. Turgenev's portrait of him would be thin, poor, and evasive, and Balzac would give us the portrait of a mere fool. And Edward is not a fool. As I understand him he is a temperament without a rudder; all he has to rely upon is his memory, which isn't a very good one, and so he tumbles from one mistake into another. My God! it is a terrible thing to happen to one, to understand a man better than he understands himself, and to be powerless to help him. If I had been able to undo his faith I should have raised him to the level of Sir Horace Plunkett, but he resisted me; and perhaps he did well, for he came into the world seeing things separately rather than relatively, and had to be a Catholic. He is a born Catholic, and I remembered one of his confessions—a partial confession, but a confession: If you had been brought up as strictly as I have been—I don't think he ever finished the sentence; he often leaves sentences unfinished, as if he fears to think things out. The end of the sentence should run: You would not dare to think independently. He thinks that his severe bringing-up has robbed him of something. But the prisoner ends by liking his prison-house, and on another occasion he said: If it hadn't been for the Church, I don't know what would have happened to me.
My thoughts stopped, and when I awoke I was thinking of Hughes. Perhaps the link between Hughes and Edward was Loughrea Cathedral. He had shown me a photograph of some saints modelled by Hughes. Hughes is away in Paris, I said, modelling saints for Loughrea Cathedral. The last time I saw him was at Walter Osborne's funeral, and Walter's death set me thinking of the woman I had lost, and little by little all she had told me about herself floated up in my mind like something that I had read. I had never seen her father nor the Putney villa in which she had been brought up, but she had made me familiar with both through her pleasant mode of conversation, which was never to describe anything, but just to talk about things, dropping phrases here and there, and the phrases she dropped were so well chosen that the comfort of the villa, its pompous meals and numerous servants, its gardens and greenhouses, with stables and coach-house just behind, are as well known to me as the house that I am living in, better known in a way, for I see it through the eyes of the imagination ... clearer eyes than the physical eyes.
It does not seem to me that any one was ever more conscious of whence she had come and of what she had been; she seemed to be able to see herself as a child again, and to describe her childhood with her brother (they were nearly the same age) in the villa and in the villa's garden. I seemed to see them always as two rather staid children who were being constantly dressed by diligent nurses and taken out for long drives in the family carriage. They did not like these drives and used to hide in the garden; but their governess was sent to fetch them, and they were brought back. Her father did not like to have the horses kept waiting, and one day as Stella stood with him in the passage, she saw her mother come out of her bedroom beautifully dressed. Her father whispered something in his wife's ear, and he followed her into her bedroom. Stella remembered how the door closed behind them. In my telling, the incident seems to lose some of its point, but in Stella's relation it seemed to put her father and his wife before me and so clearly that I could not help asking her what answer her father would make were she to tell him that she had a lover. A smile hovered in her grave face. He would look embarrassed, she said, and wonder why I should have told him such a thing, and then I think he would go to the greenhouse, and when he returned he would talk to me about something quite different. I don't think that Stella ever told me about the people that came to their house, but people must have come to it, and as an example of how a few words can convey an environment I will quote her: I always wanted to talk about Rossetti, she said, and these seven words seem to me to tell better than any description the life of a girl living with a formal father in a Putney villa, longing for something, not knowing exactly what, and anxious to get away from home.... I think she told me she was eighteen or nineteen and had started painting before she met Florence at the house of one of her father's friends; a somewhat sore point this meeting was, for Florence was looked upon by Stella's father as something of a Bohemian. She was a painter, and knew all the Art classes and the fees that had to be paid, and led Stella into the world of studios and models and girl friends. She knew how to find studios and could plan out a journey abroad. Stella's imagination was captured, and even if her father had tried to offer opposition to her leaving home he could not have prevented her, for she was an heiress (her mother was dead and had left her a considerable income); but he did not try, and the two girls set up house together in Chelsea; they travelled in Italy and Spain; they had a cottage in the country; they painted pictures and exhibited their pictures in the same exhibitions; they gave dances in their studios and were attracted by this young man and the other; but Stella did not give herself to any one, because, as she admitted to me, she was afraid that a lover would interrupt the devotion which she intended to give to Art. But life is forever casting itself into new shapes and forms, and no sooner had she begun to express herself in Art than she met me. I was about to go to Ireland to preach a new gospel, and must have seemed a very impulsive and fantastic person to her, but were not impulsiveness and fantasy just the qualities that would appeal to her? And were not gravity and good sense the qualities that would appeal to me, determined as I was then to indulge myself in a little madness?
I could not have chosen a saner companion than Stella; my instinct had led me to her; but because one man's instinct is a little more clear than another's, it does not follow that he has called reason to his aid. It must be remembered always that the art of painting is as inveterate in me as the art of writing, and that I am never altogether myself when far away from the smell of oil paint. Stella could talk to one about painting, and all through that wonderful summer described in Salve our talk flowed on as delightfully as a breeze in Maytime, and as irresponsible, flashing thoughts going by and avowals perfumed with memories. Only in her garden did conversation fail us, for in her garden Stella could think only of her flowers, and it seemed an indiscretion to follow her as she went through the twilight gathering dead blooms or freeing plants from noxious insects. But she would have had me follow her, and I think was always a little grieved that I wasn't as interested in her garden as I was in her painting; and my absent-mindedness when I followed her often vexed her and my mistakes distressed her.
You are interested, she said, only in what I say about flowers and not in the flowers themselves. You like to hear me tell about Miss —— whose business in life is to grow carnations, because you already see her, dimly, perhaps, but still you see her in a story. Forget her and look at this Miss Shifner!
Yes, it is beautiful, but we can only admire the flowers that we notice when we are children, I answered. Dahlias, china roses, red and yellow tulips, tawny wallflowers, purple pansies, are never long out of my thoughts, and all the wonderful varieties of the iris, the beautiful blue satin and the cream, some shining like porcelain, even the common iris that grows about the moat.
But there were carnations in your mother's garden?
Yes, and I remember seeing them being tied with bass. But what did you say yesterday about carnations? That they were the—
She laughed and would not tell me, and when the twilight stooped over the high trees and the bats flitted and the garden was silent except when a fish leaped, I begged her to come away to the wild growths that I loved better than the flowers.
But the mallow and willow-weed are the only two that you recognise. How many times have I told you the difference between self-heal and tufted vetch?
I like cow parsley and wild hyacinths and—
You have forgotten the name. As well speak of a woman that you loved but whose name you had forgotten.
Well, if I have, I love trees better than you do, Stella. You pass under a fir unstirred by the mystery of its branches, and I wonder at you, for I am a tree worshipper, even as my ancestors, and am moved as they were by the dizzy height of a great silver fir. You like to paint trees, and I should like to paint flowers if I could paint; there we are set forth, you and I.
I have told in Salve that in Rathfarnham she found many motives for painting; the shape of the land and the spire above the straggling village appealed to me, but she was not altogether herself in these pictures. She would have liked the village away, for man and his dwellings did not form part of her conception of a landscape; large trees and a flight of clouds above the trees were her selection, and the almost unconscious life of kine wandering or sheep seeking the shelter of a tree.
Stella was a good walker, and we followed the long road leading from Rathfarnham up the hills, stopping to admire the long plain which we could see through the comely trees shooting out of the shelving hillside.
If I have beguiled you into a country where there are no artists and few men of letters, you can't say that I have not shown you comely trees. And now if you can walk two miles farther up this steep road I will show you a lovely prospect.
And I enjoyed her grave admiration of the old Queen Anne dwelling-house, its rough masonry, the yew hedges, the path along the hillside leading to the Druid altar and the coast-line sweeping in beautiful curves, but she did not like to hear me say that the drawing of the shore reminded her of Corot.
It is a sad affectation, she said, to speak of Nature reminding one of pictures.
Well, the outlines of Howth are beautiful, I answered, and the haze is incomparable. I should like to have spoken about a piece of sculpture, but for your sake, Stella, I refrain.
She was interested in things rather than ideas, and I remember her saying to me that things interest us only because we know that they are always slipping from us. A strange thing for a woman to say to her lover. She noticed all the changes of the seasons and loved them, and taught me to love them. She brought a lamb back from Rathfarnham, a poor forlorn thing that had run bleating so pitifully across the windy field that she had asked the shepherd where the ewe was, and he had answered that she had been killed overnight by a golf-ball. The lamb will be dead before morning, he added. And it was that March that the donkey produced a foal, a poor ragged thing that did not look as if it ever could be larger than a goat, but the donkey loved her foal.
Do you know the names of those two birds flying up and down the river?
They look to me like two large wrens with white waistcoats.
They are water-ouzels, she said.
The birds flew with rapid strokes of the wings, like kingfishers, alighting constantly on the river, on large mossy stones, and though we saw them plunge into the water, it was not to swim, but to run along the bottom in search of worms.
But do worms live under water?
The rooks were building, and a little while after a great scuffling was heard in one of the chimneys and a young jackdaw came down and soon became tamer than any bird I had ever seen, tamer than a parrot, and at the end of May the corncrake called from the meadow that summer had come again, and the kine wandered in deeper and deeper and deeper herbage. The days seemed never to end, and looking through the branches of the chestnut in which the fruit had not begun to show, we caught sight of a strange spectacle. Stella said, A lunar rainbow, and I wondered, never having heard of or seen such a thing before.
I shall never forget that rainbow, Stella, and am glad that we saw it together.
In every love story lovers reprove each other for lack of affection, and Stella had often sent me angry letters which caused me many heart-burnings and brought me out to her; in the garden there were reconciliations, we picked up the thread again, and the summer had passed before the reason of these quarrels became clear to me. One September evening Stella said she would accompany me to the gate, and we had not gone very far before I began to notice that she was quarrelling with me. She spoke of the loneliness of the Moat House, and I had answered that she had not been alone two evenings that week. She admitted my devotion. And if you admit that there has been no neglect—
She would not tell me, but there was something she was not satisfied with, and before we reached the end of the avenue she said, I don't think I can tell you. But on being pressed she said:
Well, you don't make love to me often enough.
And full of apologies I answered, Let me go back.
No, I can't have you back now, not after having spoken like that.
But she yielded to my invitation, and we returned to the house, and next morning I went back to Dublin a little dazed, a little shaken.
A few days after she went away to Italy to spend the winter and wrote me long letters, interesting me in herself, in the villagers, in the walks and the things that she saw in her walks, setting me sighing that she was away from me, or that I was not with her. And going to the window I would stand for a long time watching the hawthorns in their bleak wintry discontent, thinking how the sunlight fell into the Italian gardens, and caught the corner of the ruin she was sketching; and I let my fancy stray for a time unchecked. It would be wonderful to be in Italy with her, but—
I turned from the window suspicious, for there was a feeling at the back of my mind that with her return an anxiety would come into my life that I would willingly be without. She had told me she had refrained from a lover because she wished to keep all herself for her painting, and now she had taken to herself a lover. She was twenty years younger than I was, and at forty-six or thereabouts one begins to feel that one's time for love is over; one is consultant rather than practitioner. But it was impossible to dismiss the subject with a jest, and I found myself face to face with the question—If these twenty years were removed, would things be different? It seemed to me that the difficulty that had arisen would have been the same earlier in my life as it was now, and returning to the window I watched the hawthorns blowing under the cold grey Dublin sky.
The problem is set, I said, for the married, and every couple has to solve it in one way or another, but they have to solve it; they have to come to terms with love, especially the man, for whom it is a question of life and death. But how do they come to terms? And I thought of the different married people I knew. Which would be most likely to advise me—the man or the woman? It would be no use to seek advice; every case is different, I said. If anybody were to advise me it would be the man, for the problem is not so difficult for a woman. She can escape from love more easily than her lover or her husband; she can plead, and her many pleadings were considered, one by one, and how in married life the solution that seems to lovers so difficult is solved by marriage itself, by propinquity. But not always, not always. The question is one of extraordinary interest and importance; more marriages come to shipwreck, I am convinced, on this very question than upon any other. In the divorce cases published we read of incompatibility of temper and lack of mutual tastes, mere euphemisms that deceive nobody. The image of a shipwreck rose up in me naturally. She will return, and like a ship our love for each other will be beaten on these rocks and broken. We shall not be able to get out to sea. She will return, and when she returns her temperament will have to be adjusted to mine, else she will lose me altogether, for men have died of love, though Shakespeare says they haven't. Manet and Daudet—both died of love; and the somewhat absurd spectacle of a lover waiting for his mistress to return, and yet dreading her returning, was constantly before me.
It often seemed to me that it was my own weakness that created our embarrassment. A stronger man would have been able to find a way out, but I am not one that can shape and mould another according to my desire; and when she returned from Italy I found myself more helpless than ever, and I remember, and with shame, how, to avoid being alone with her, I would run down the entire length of a train, avoiding the empty carriages, crying Not here, not here! at last opening the door of one occupied by three or four people, who all looked as if they were bound for a long journey. I remember, too, how about this time I came with friends to see Stella, whether by accident or design, frankly I know not; I only know that I brought many friends to see her, thinking they would interest her.
If you don't care to come to see me without a chaperon, I would rather you didn't come at all, she said, humiliating me very deeply.
It seemed to me, I answered, blushing, that you would like to see ——, and I mentioned the name of the man who had accompanied me.
If I am cross sometimes it is because I don't see enough of you.
It seems to me that it was then that the resolve hardened in my heart to become her friend ... if she would allow me to become her friend. But in what words should I frame my request and my apology? All the time our life was becoming less amiable, until one evening I nipped the quarrel that was beginning, stopping suddenly at the end of the avenue.
It is better that we should understand each other. The plain truth is that I must cease to be your lover unless my life is to be sacrificed.
Cease to be my lover!
That is impossible, but a change comes into every love story.
The explanation stuttered on. I remember her saying: I don't wish you to sacrifice your life. I have forgotten the end of her sentence. She drew her hand suddenly across her eyes. I will conquer this obsession.
A man would have whined and cried and besought and worried his mistress out of her wits. Women behave better than we; only once did her feelings overcome her. She spoke to me of the deception that life is. Again we were standing by the gate at the end of the chestnut avenue, and I remembered her telling me how a few years ago life had seemed to hold out its hands to her; her painting and her youth created her enjoyment.
But now life seems to have shrivelled up, she said; only a little dust is left.
Nothing is changed, so far as you and I are concerned. We see each other just the same.
I am no more to you than any other woman.
She went away again to Italy to paint and returned to Ireland, and one day she came to see me, and remained talking for an hour. I have no memory of what we said to each other, but a very clear memory of our walk through Dublin over Carlisle Bridge and along the quays. I had accompanied her as far as the Phoenix Park gates, and at the corner of the Conyngham Road, just as I was bidding her goodbye, she said:
I want to ask your advice on a matter of importance to me.
And to me, for what is important to you is equally important to me.
I am thinking, she said, of being married.
At the news it seems to me that I was unduly elated and tried to assume the interest that a friend should.
2023.05.28 14:13 SituationNew113 Razer Leviathan Fix - Buttons Malfunctioning
For quite a while my Leviathan (v1) was suffering from a weird button malfunctioning problem. Either the buttons don't respond/register, or they press themselves on their own, as if a ghost was pressing them. A common one for me was with the power button, it often wouldn't respond properly, and a ghost would keep pressing it so it would keep turning on and off on its own. I also noticed that some other people were suffering from the same problem, contacting razer was to no avail as they just told me to reset it or something, which I already tried doing.
At one point I got fed up with it, and after watching some random Asian dude, I got the inspiration to just take the damn thing apart and figure out what the problem is.
Physically, the PCBs looked fine, so I decided to just wipe it and all the solder joints with a q-tip and rubbing alcohol. There was also a ribbon cable that connected the daughter board containing all the switches to the main board. The ribbon cable was most likely the culprit behind all the malfunctioning, so I wiped the pads on it as well.
After that I just put it all back together and it worked properly again. BTW the thing is annoying af to disassemble, I just used a box cutter and a flat head screwdriver for the grill part, although I would recommend using something plastic rather than a flat head to pry it off. There are some videos on yt that show the disassembly, they'll help u get the idea. I somehow managed to remove the grill without ruining it, and when I put it all back together I just pushed the grill back into its place, didn't use glue or anything, it's tucked in nicely.
I hope this helps other people suffering from the same problem.
submitted by SituationNew113 to razer [link] [comments]
At one point I got fed up with it, and after watching some random Asian dude, I got the inspiration to just take the damn thing apart and figure out what the problem is.
Physically, the PCBs looked fine, so I decided to just wipe it and all the solder joints with a q-tip and rubbing alcohol. There was also a ribbon cable that connected the daughter board containing all the switches to the main board. The ribbon cable was most likely the culprit behind all the malfunctioning, so I wiped the pads on it as well.
After that I just put it all back together and it worked properly again. BTW the thing is annoying af to disassemble, I just used a box cutter and a flat head screwdriver for the grill part, although I would recommend using something plastic rather than a flat head to pry it off. There are some videos on yt that show the disassembly, they'll help u get the idea. I somehow managed to remove the grill without ruining it, and when I put it all back together I just pushed the grill back into its place, didn't use glue or anything, it's tucked in nicely.
I hope this helps other people suffering from the same problem.
2023.05.28 14:11 Doyane_ I wish they had a reset button
 | I tried everything I thought of. Idk how to get out. submitted by Doyane_ to HonkaiStarRail [link] [comments] |
2023.05.28 13:41 TrebornotTrevor Velvet Elvis Jesus Poster Child
I admire the hairpin turn of his curls rushed away into the float of sky behind him.
In the same way that a thrown rock never could, even if it was a light rock, because gravity weight shames and rocks get offended very easily, especially when tossed to prove this.
Sometimes though, they try to imitate me, Jesus, skipped over the surface of the water, trying to cross before drowning.
Seeking out more fish to feed the thousands because no matter what they said in my autobiography, 2 fish and five loaves was not enough for all those people stoned on miracles.
The vampire son of "God" at the red cross donation bus allowing everyone to drink of him before midnight mass.
And now it is time to alter... Boys, my body is that of a waif, eat me.
Make sandwiches of my wonder bread, mayo you be blessed and sing hymns of that one band named H.I.M. that Bam Margera helped to make popular, it's 12 members with names I cannot pronounce all of because I am not Finnish, representing my 12 disciples.
I remember that last time we all got together for supper, those were the good times.
If only someone had painted and reproduced millions of pictures of that feast, and hung it on the wall of their living room in remembrance.
Placed next to an idol of me barely clothed and nailed to a cross, like back in my college days when I actually cared about working out and getting nailed.
Yes, those were the good times.
I was quite the magician back then, I was even the hide and go seek, me, champion of all of Jerusalem.
My best match, I must admit, was a bit of a fluke, as I mistook a very brightly colored mushroom for an Easter egg.
I seriously thought I was dying, and I was so embarrassed that I hid in a cave for 3 days tripping balls.
By the time I got back, the lie had already grown to such an insurmountable accord, that I had no choice but to go along with it and claim resurrection.
In all actuality, I just didn't want anyone else to find out about those mushrooms because I was not willing to share the stash I had collected on the way back.
And I had a date scheduled with the lovely Mary Magdalene, and she was one hot ticket who seemed very into me after the resurrection.
Although when I heard the rumor that she put out on the first date, I didn't realize they were talking about babies.
So if you can conceive the idea of Mary, getting rawdogged by my holy spirit, you will understand just how immaculate this date had the possibility of being.
But according to some historians, who claim that Mary is also my mother, I am reminded of that one scene in Back to the Future when Michael J Foxes mother has a crush on him, and it brings some relief, even though that is some mother and son taboo that has been banned from most pornographic sites, unless you use stepmom and son in the search bar.
Anyways, coat hangers had not been invented yet, even though most states would have preferred their use over actually supporting women's reproductive rights, and so we had the baby.
And for a small moment in time, everything was still, and then that moment passed, and everything was still still, and it made me question not only the complex stupidity of language, but also whether or not the batteries in my remote had died before I could take my television off of pause.
This my children, is why we call it the missionary position, and how I inspired the Trojans to invent condoms, but that is a magnum opus of a story for another time. Amen
https://www.reddit.com/OCPoetry/comments/13teo0b/my_father_used_to_hang_cds_from_the_trees/jlxkm2g?utm_source=share&utm_medium=android_app&utm_name=androidcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button
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submitted by TrebornotTrevor to OCPoetry [link] [comments]
In the same way that a thrown rock never could, even if it was a light rock, because gravity weight shames and rocks get offended very easily, especially when tossed to prove this.
Sometimes though, they try to imitate me, Jesus, skipped over the surface of the water, trying to cross before drowning.
Seeking out more fish to feed the thousands because no matter what they said in my autobiography, 2 fish and five loaves was not enough for all those people stoned on miracles.
The vampire son of "God" at the red cross donation bus allowing everyone to drink of him before midnight mass.
And now it is time to alter... Boys, my body is that of a waif, eat me.
Make sandwiches of my wonder bread, mayo you be blessed and sing hymns of that one band named H.I.M. that Bam Margera helped to make popular, it's 12 members with names I cannot pronounce all of because I am not Finnish, representing my 12 disciples.
I remember that last time we all got together for supper, those were the good times.
If only someone had painted and reproduced millions of pictures of that feast, and hung it on the wall of their living room in remembrance.
Placed next to an idol of me barely clothed and nailed to a cross, like back in my college days when I actually cared about working out and getting nailed.
Yes, those were the good times.
I was quite the magician back then, I was even the hide and go seek, me, champion of all of Jerusalem.
My best match, I must admit, was a bit of a fluke, as I mistook a very brightly colored mushroom for an Easter egg.
I seriously thought I was dying, and I was so embarrassed that I hid in a cave for 3 days tripping balls.
By the time I got back, the lie had already grown to such an insurmountable accord, that I had no choice but to go along with it and claim resurrection.
In all actuality, I just didn't want anyone else to find out about those mushrooms because I was not willing to share the stash I had collected on the way back.
And I had a date scheduled with the lovely Mary Magdalene, and she was one hot ticket who seemed very into me after the resurrection.
Although when I heard the rumor that she put out on the first date, I didn't realize they were talking about babies.
So if you can conceive the idea of Mary, getting rawdogged by my holy spirit, you will understand just how immaculate this date had the possibility of being.
But according to some historians, who claim that Mary is also my mother, I am reminded of that one scene in Back to the Future when Michael J Foxes mother has a crush on him, and it brings some relief, even though that is some mother and son taboo that has been banned from most pornographic sites, unless you use stepmom and son in the search bar.
Anyways, coat hangers had not been invented yet, even though most states would have preferred their use over actually supporting women's reproductive rights, and so we had the baby.
And for a small moment in time, everything was still, and then that moment passed, and everything was still still, and it made me question not only the complex stupidity of language, but also whether or not the batteries in my remote had died before I could take my television off of pause.
This my children, is why we call it the missionary position, and how I inspired the Trojans to invent condoms, but that is a magnum opus of a story for another time. Amen
https://www.reddit.com/OCPoetry/comments/13teo0b/my_father_used_to_hang_cds_from_the_trees/jlxkm2g?utm_source=share&utm_medium=android_app&utm_name=androidcss&utm_term=1&utm_content=share_button
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2023.05.28 13:39 jzwinck 950 miles in Switzerland, Austria, Germany, France and Netherlands: what broke along the way
This post is the sixth in a series about equipment that failed while cycle touring. These are not complaints, rather a reference for others to better understand some of the costs, challenges, and planning involved in long-distance bicycling away from home.
Previous posts in this series:
Only two items failed during this trip:
submitted by jzwinck to bicycletouring [link] [comments]
Previous posts in this series:
- https://www.reddit.com/bicycletouring/comments/3foul4/3200_miles_of_cycling_in_asia_what_broke_along/
- https://www.reddit.com/bicycletouring/comments/3qs48i/900_miles_in_korea_what_broke_along_the_way/
- https://www.reddit.com/bicycletouring/comments/4b1wzi/2100_miles_in_new_zealand_what_broke_along_the_way/
- https://www.reddit.com/bicycletouring/comments/5qyr6f/750_miles_in_thailand_laos_and_vietnam_what_broke/
- https://www.reddit.com/bicycletouring/comments/7q2juz/400_miles_in_hainan_china_what_broke_along_the_way/
Only two items failed during this trip:
- Planet Bike aluminium bottle cage. It was attached vertically on the side of the fork. The upper mounting bolt hole cracked straight across, sending the bottle flying on a small descent. The cracked part was 2 to 2.5mm thick (which seems sufficient) but only about 3mm wide next to the bolt holes. After the failure I noticed this plate was flat on the "outer" face (where the bolt head lands) but concave on the "inner" face (against the eyelet on the bike). This seems like a flawed design, as tension on the bolt produces a point load because it's mounted to a flat-faced eyelet. Imagine putting a curved Spanish style roof tile on top of a can of tuna and pressing down--you'd crack the tile much more easily than if it were flat.
- Garmin Edge Explore 2. This is a nearly-new GPS unit I bought to replace my old Edge 1000 whose battery life had become too short for touring. The good news is the Edge Explore 2 has very long battery life (roughly 18 hours when navigating, on par with Wahoo Roam). The bad news is it crashed 5 times during the tour. Once when I enabled "Climb Pro" (seemed relevant in Switzerland, but caused the unit to power off the first time I enabled it). One crash happened when I went off course. And three times after charging it would not turn on. The first time I thought it was dead--I even tried holding down all the buttons for a while which was the reset procedure for some older Garmins. But after a day of riding and staring at a blank screen, I found someone's post online saying to hold the power button for more than 10 seconds. That made it turn on. I've probably only charged it 18 times since I bought it, so that's a 17% chance of this bug occurring.