Baker brothers plumbing arlington tx
Burial
2011.08.22 09:49 the_vowel_is_a_comic Burial
Welcome to the subreddit dedicated to the artist Burial. Releasing records under the pseudonym "Burial," William Bevan comes from South London in England, and is one of dubstep's most enigmatic artists. With home made chopped up beats, swooshing synths, and haunting modified vocals lifted from an eclectic range of pop songs, he brings his listeners back to a time when hardcore, d'n'b, 2step, and house music dominated the London underground club/rave scene.
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.
submitted by AnderLouis_ to thehemingwaylist [link] [comments]
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 12:39 dubikish Pissed in the sink at my father's funeral - finally, I am one of you
Hi Everyone,
I'm seeking some advice, as a new sink pisser and ecological warrior.
Let me start from the beginning. To understand my journey you will need to understand the origins of my sink pissing obsession.
I was born in the dark, cold hinterland of northern Scandanavia - a fishing village. I won't give you the name for fear of my anonymity being compromised. During the lighter months, fishing boats with tough, hardy men used to come and go at our small harbour, and the fishermen would unload their hauls of salmon; and then unload their piss into the sinks in the local taverns.
The locals called them savages. When I was a boy - old enough to be influenced by what I saw - I went into the toilet at my local public house, and there I saw a great big man, with a huge, hairy back and, leathery skin... He was standing on his tiptoes, completely naked, groaning with pleasure as he pissed heartily into the sink, the golden nectar from his member letting off a gentle steam that wafted delicately through the air, juxtaposed with the harshness of his body.
"SEVEN LITRES" he groaned, as he finished up, and started putting his clothes back on, stuffing his newly-relieved dong back into his overalls. I didn't know what he meant, but I didn't have time to ask, as he shuffled past me and back to the bar, spitting blood on the floor as he went.
I ran home right away.... "Mama, Papa!" I shouted, "Brothers, Sisters..." I gathered everyone in the toilet, eager to show them my new trick. I took off all my clothes, grabbed my boyish penis, white and untouched like the rest of my body, and began to piss in the sink. "Edgar, what are you doing?!" shouted Papa. He slapped me around the cheek and I was sent to my room for a week, only to eat bread and water. My family told me I was shameful, and that I must never do this again.
Years passed, and I left home. I studied to become a plumbing engineer. I left home and went to work for bathroom company in the USA. I invented new toilets, sinks... showers, with more efficient effects. I got married, and had two children.
I was obsessed with pissing in the sink, but I could never bring myself to do it. Even in my own home. The shame was too much. My father shared my shame. On my wedding day, he couldn't look me in the eye.
My wife thought I loved her, but how could I love another when deep down I felt this overbearing shame? I looked at my kids. "Do you love us, Papa?" They asked. I looked away in disgust.
Therapy was no help.
"Why don't you just... piss in the sink?" One of these $200-an-hour-charlatans asked me." I spat in his face, threw my money on the ground, and walked out... "It's not that simple."
I didn't sleep, but when I did, I dreamt of the burly man in the fishing village, butt naked, pissing into the sink. So eco-friendly, such as good way to save space in the bathroom... but requiring such confidence and freedom. That I did not have. I broke every mirror in my house in a blind rage. I got drunk and sang sea shantys and hit my wife.
Then, one day I got a call. "Edgar, it's your father."
Heart attack. The funeral would be held two weeks later.
I gathered my family, who cowered in fear under my fists and alcoholic rage, and told them to pack their things. My children, whose names I could not often remember, were glad to be out of the house.
On the plane over, I drank ten beers and locked myself in one of the toilets. I heard a knock on the door after an hour or so. "Excuse me, are you okay in there." It was a woman's voice. I told her to go away. I was in floods of tears, looking at the sink, willing myself to piss. But I couldn't. I smashed the mirror with my forehead and heard more knocks. "Leave me alone, I yelled." Eventually a woman opened the door. I smacked her around the face with the plastic cup I was drinking from, causing a bruise. I was immediately apprehended by several passengers and the flight was diverted. I spent several days in an airport holding facility before finally being let out again.
Luckily, we were already back in the fatherland, so we could continue via train. My family cowered next to me as I drank an entire bottle of vodka on the six hour journey northward, listening to Genesis on my phone and spitting at any of the other passengers who tried to tell me to turn it down. "What have I become?" I said to myself, as Invisible Touch reached its crescendo on the tinny sound of my scratched iPhone 11.
We arrived at the funeral in poor spirits. I was becoming increasingly consumed with the idea of pissing in the sink, and my tragic inability to follow through. I spoke loudly to the other guests about my failing marriage and disappointing children, making sure they were in earshot. "Just look at her," I said, motioning to my wife, as I told my Uncle Olaf about our intimacy problems.
I continued to get drunk throughout the funeral, drinking heavily throughout the morning, into the main proceedings. I vomited heavily during the ceremony, dropping to all fours and spitting chunks all over the floor. "Don't look at me!" I bellowed at my mother. What an embarrassment.
I went to the toilet. I looked into the mirror and saw myself - a shadow of a man - looking back at me. But hang on a second, there was someone else there. A burly, hairy hand gripped my shoulder. It was the sailor, from all those years ago. But he looked like he hadn't aged a day. Still naked. Still strong and proud.
Without a word, he grabbed my penis from inside my vomit-soaked trousers. He pulled it out, and motioned towards the sink. "Now... you can," he said. I pissed... slowly at first, and then; the dam broke. I hadn't pissed all day. My vision was blurry, I was shaking uncontrollably and swaying too and fro because of the booze. But my sailor held me steady, guiding my excited member into the sink... The feeling of liberation was instant. I saw the ghosts of my forefathers standing by me. My father was there, he was nodding with pride. He looked my in the eye, his ghostly figure glancing between my eyes and my stream of piss.
My wife was there too, in all her natural beauty, and my children! And, I remembered their names. Little Kobe and Le Bron - my brood. And they were beautiful too, and I loved them. I felt the weight of years of failure and shame lift off me as the flow of my de-hydrated piss filled the sink, skimming the outside of the rim like a beyblade which has just been let rip, and then dancing towards the plughole with joy.
At the end, I was done. I collapsed in a heap. Soon after, my wife came to find me.
"Oh Edgar..." she saw immediately in my eyes that I was healed. She came to me and held me close on the floor, covered in piss and vomit. My penis had again flopped out of my trousers and immediately became erect at my wife's touch. "I am going to make you feel like a woman" I said, slurring through the alcoholic daze and elation, as the sailor watched over us both. I mounted her right there on the toilet floor, and my children gathered around, and all of my extended family, watching and cheering as we climaxed together. After we were done, I got up, spat on the floor, a mixture of vomit, blood and whiskey, and walked out of the bathroom, standing taller than ever, holding one arm in the air like a champion.
"Did you see him?" I asked my wife as we walked past the procession.
"Who? There was no one in there but you, Edgar"
I smiled... My guardian angel, I thought to myself.
submitted by dubikish to copypasta [link] [comments]
I'm seeking some advice, as a new sink pisser and ecological warrior.
Let me start from the beginning. To understand my journey you will need to understand the origins of my sink pissing obsession.
I was born in the dark, cold hinterland of northern Scandanavia - a fishing village. I won't give you the name for fear of my anonymity being compromised. During the lighter months, fishing boats with tough, hardy men used to come and go at our small harbour, and the fishermen would unload their hauls of salmon; and then unload their piss into the sinks in the local taverns.
The locals called them savages. When I was a boy - old enough to be influenced by what I saw - I went into the toilet at my local public house, and there I saw a great big man, with a huge, hairy back and, leathery skin... He was standing on his tiptoes, completely naked, groaning with pleasure as he pissed heartily into the sink, the golden nectar from his member letting off a gentle steam that wafted delicately through the air, juxtaposed with the harshness of his body.
"SEVEN LITRES" he groaned, as he finished up, and started putting his clothes back on, stuffing his newly-relieved dong back into his overalls. I didn't know what he meant, but I didn't have time to ask, as he shuffled past me and back to the bar, spitting blood on the floor as he went.
I ran home right away.... "Mama, Papa!" I shouted, "Brothers, Sisters..." I gathered everyone in the toilet, eager to show them my new trick. I took off all my clothes, grabbed my boyish penis, white and untouched like the rest of my body, and began to piss in the sink. "Edgar, what are you doing?!" shouted Papa. He slapped me around the cheek and I was sent to my room for a week, only to eat bread and water. My family told me I was shameful, and that I must never do this again.
Years passed, and I left home. I studied to become a plumbing engineer. I left home and went to work for bathroom company in the USA. I invented new toilets, sinks... showers, with more efficient effects. I got married, and had two children.
I was obsessed with pissing in the sink, but I could never bring myself to do it. Even in my own home. The shame was too much. My father shared my shame. On my wedding day, he couldn't look me in the eye.
My wife thought I loved her, but how could I love another when deep down I felt this overbearing shame? I looked at my kids. "Do you love us, Papa?" They asked. I looked away in disgust.
Therapy was no help.
"Why don't you just... piss in the sink?" One of these $200-an-hour-charlatans asked me." I spat in his face, threw my money on the ground, and walked out... "It's not that simple."
I didn't sleep, but when I did, I dreamt of the burly man in the fishing village, butt naked, pissing into the sink. So eco-friendly, such as good way to save space in the bathroom... but requiring such confidence and freedom. That I did not have. I broke every mirror in my house in a blind rage. I got drunk and sang sea shantys and hit my wife.
Then, one day I got a call. "Edgar, it's your father."
Heart attack. The funeral would be held two weeks later.
I gathered my family, who cowered in fear under my fists and alcoholic rage, and told them to pack their things. My children, whose names I could not often remember, were glad to be out of the house.
On the plane over, I drank ten beers and locked myself in one of the toilets. I heard a knock on the door after an hour or so. "Excuse me, are you okay in there." It was a woman's voice. I told her to go away. I was in floods of tears, looking at the sink, willing myself to piss. But I couldn't. I smashed the mirror with my forehead and heard more knocks. "Leave me alone, I yelled." Eventually a woman opened the door. I smacked her around the face with the plastic cup I was drinking from, causing a bruise. I was immediately apprehended by several passengers and the flight was diverted. I spent several days in an airport holding facility before finally being let out again.
Luckily, we were already back in the fatherland, so we could continue via train. My family cowered next to me as I drank an entire bottle of vodka on the six hour journey northward, listening to Genesis on my phone and spitting at any of the other passengers who tried to tell me to turn it down. "What have I become?" I said to myself, as Invisible Touch reached its crescendo on the tinny sound of my scratched iPhone 11.
We arrived at the funeral in poor spirits. I was becoming increasingly consumed with the idea of pissing in the sink, and my tragic inability to follow through. I spoke loudly to the other guests about my failing marriage and disappointing children, making sure they were in earshot. "Just look at her," I said, motioning to my wife, as I told my Uncle Olaf about our intimacy problems.
I continued to get drunk throughout the funeral, drinking heavily throughout the morning, into the main proceedings. I vomited heavily during the ceremony, dropping to all fours and spitting chunks all over the floor. "Don't look at me!" I bellowed at my mother. What an embarrassment.
I went to the toilet. I looked into the mirror and saw myself - a shadow of a man - looking back at me. But hang on a second, there was someone else there. A burly, hairy hand gripped my shoulder. It was the sailor, from all those years ago. But he looked like he hadn't aged a day. Still naked. Still strong and proud.
Without a word, he grabbed my penis from inside my vomit-soaked trousers. He pulled it out, and motioned towards the sink. "Now... you can," he said. I pissed... slowly at first, and then; the dam broke. I hadn't pissed all day. My vision was blurry, I was shaking uncontrollably and swaying too and fro because of the booze. But my sailor held me steady, guiding my excited member into the sink... The feeling of liberation was instant. I saw the ghosts of my forefathers standing by me. My father was there, he was nodding with pride. He looked my in the eye, his ghostly figure glancing between my eyes and my stream of piss.
My wife was there too, in all her natural beauty, and my children! And, I remembered their names. Little Kobe and Le Bron - my brood. And they were beautiful too, and I loved them. I felt the weight of years of failure and shame lift off me as the flow of my de-hydrated piss filled the sink, skimming the outside of the rim like a beyblade which has just been let rip, and then dancing towards the plughole with joy.
At the end, I was done. I collapsed in a heap. Soon after, my wife came to find me.
"Oh Edgar..." she saw immediately in my eyes that I was healed. She came to me and held me close on the floor, covered in piss and vomit. My penis had again flopped out of my trousers and immediately became erect at my wife's touch. "I am going to make you feel like a woman" I said, slurring through the alcoholic daze and elation, as the sailor watched over us both. I mounted her right there on the toilet floor, and my children gathered around, and all of my extended family, watching and cheering as we climaxed together. After we were done, I got up, spat on the floor, a mixture of vomit, blood and whiskey, and walked out of the bathroom, standing taller than ever, holding one arm in the air like a champion.
"Did you see him?" I asked my wife as we walked past the procession.
"Who? There was no one in there but you, Edgar"
I smiled... My guardian angel, I thought to myself.
2023.05.28 07:10 angelcano Bought this sketchbook more than three years ago. It's time to fill it in.
 | submitted by angelcano to angelcano [link] [comments] |
2023.05.28 04:24 hashtagjlove Parents' probate is taking way too long and I'm getting frustrated
I just need some confirmation or maybe some relatable anecdotes about a pretty sad situation I'm dealing with because it's causing me major anxiety and I have no idea how to approach it and idk maybe I just need to vent and idk a more appropriate place for this post. I tried the AITA subreddit but it kept deleting my post.
So to set the stage; 2021 was an awful year for my family. Shortly before the pandemic my father was diagnosed with cancer of the mouth from his lifelong dipping tobacco habit. He was going through that while the pandemic took hold and not long into it my stepmother began to lose balance a lot and would fall and not be able to get back up frequently. My dad underwent treatment and went into remission very briefly before having to go back for a skin graft while my stepmom would slowly become wheelchair bound. Then in March of 2021 my dad went to the hospital for shortness of breath. The doctors put him into a medically induced coma to run tests, and the next day my stepmom had to go to the hospital for major stomach pain (bowel obstruction from the wheelchair). I lived in FL at the time, they lived in TX. I flew out and found that my dad had a mess of chest/heart/lung complications related to his cancer and the only options were hospice or numerous surgeries for a very long shot with lots of suffering so me, my stepsister, brother in law and her children all had to go to my stepmom's room across town and first explain the situation to her which crushed us, then she and I had to sit down and make the decision to let him go into hospice peacefully and we managed to get her to his hospital to say goodbye and I flew out shortly after. I flew back into town for my dad's funeral, my mom was now starting to lose her voice and upper body strength. I fly home, a few weeks later mom is back in the hospital and I get the call from my sister who also told me one of her sons had passed shortly after she went in and I got to fly in to town to see mom and we had to tell her as a family about my nephew which was heartbreaking. Another month goes by, we finally get mom's diagnosis: ALS (Lou Gehrig's Disease). By this time she has to be on a respirator and I'm flying into Texas every few weeks to visit her but she eventually became unresponsive in September and we had to let her pass, too, and to cap it off it happened on my dad's birthday. I flew back shortly after to scatter her ashes on the beach (which she made sure all of us knew she wanted before she lost her voice, she didn't want us to not know like we went through with dad). So to recap, Dad passes in March, nephew passes in June, Mom passes in September. I lost my parents and a nephew inside of six months. My biological mother is still alive and I've become a little worrisome about her now but still it was the hardest year of my life.
After the worst year our family ever experienced I just wanted some time to process it all and grieve and I'm glad to say I'm at a point where I'll catch a glimpse of something that reminds me of them and I'll just think of whatever memory is attached to it for a minute and smile, though the anniversaries are still hard. Thank you for sticking with me so far. So during that time the process of probate was going on but I didn't much care about that, I just wanted to grieve and see my other nephew get married last year which was beautiful but..
It's almost two years now since mom passed away. She named my brother in law as the executor of her will. I think he was the best choice bc he would be the one to get things done and stand up to my stepbrother who was kind of the black sheep of the family (long story) but still thinks he should have been the executor. He's started a few fights over it. Anyway, about a year ago I had managed to move past the grieving process and it felt like my sister and BIL had, too. We've grown a lot closer over this time so I didn't want to ask about probate besides keeping up with how my parents' house is holding up (and retrieving a wooden chest I had made in high school that mom cherished and my dad's ring that my mom left to me) because I trust them. I also feel like asking about money after someone has passed is in poor taste.. but like I said we're almost two years past that now.
My mom left me, my stepsister and brother in law equal portions of her estate after the specific things like furniture, jewelry etc, and a small portion to my stepbrother. I haven't heard anything about that and until recently I was content to let it be bc I wasn't the only one that had a really hard time with so much loss so suddenly but the house hasn't even been listed for sale. I've tried asking what's going on with it, it seems there's a plumbing issue that needs to be addressed but the house is an hour and a half from their house so scheduling is hard. I get it but... stepsis doesn't work. She has health issues that slow her down but nothing that stops her from taking a day to go to the house to meet a plumber. Mom left her car to her so she definitely has her own transportation and she can do exactly what she does at home.. at mom and dad's house. She smokes cigarettes and does puzzles on her porch. She can bring her dogs for company. I don't understand how this plumbing issue has held things up for at least two months. I've tried suggesting ways to have someone meet the plumber and alert her so she can drive to the house (neighbor, friends, someone from the law office). The last option kind of put a little unwanted intrusive thought into my head, though. When I suggested just having someone from the law office as a throwaway bc I'm getting a little frustrated my sister told me "Oh, the lawyer's job was done a long time ago."
What does that mean? Sister had to let me go before I could ask, claiming she had to go to the doctor for a possible infection (which is was but she's fine now). I haven't called since then because I'm more than a little frustrated after that last conversation. I'm assuming it means all my parents' debts have been paid, all insurance policies have been collected, savings/retirement accounts have been consolidated etc. The only thing that appears to be left is the house. That's a monthly mortgage payment, insurance, possibly utilities and probably the car. I'm not going to lie, I have thought about what I might do with my inheritance. Nothing concrete but I've considered using it for a house or to get some training to switch careers and I'm in no immediate rush to get it but my main issue is how in the dark I feel. Stepsis and brother in law have since bought their first house and have done extensive renovations to it. I'm willing to give them the benefit of the doubt bc BIL had been promoted at work shortly before everything happened and they were looking at houses.. but I'm not unconvinced their budget didn't get bigger? Like I don't think they're spending my portion of the inheritance... but it's a bad look isn't it? They're the only family I have left on my dad/stepmom's side and I don't want to cause tension with accusations but I don't even know how much the estate was. I'm still paying off the flights, rental car and hotel bills from all the trips to Texas. I have severe PTSD and chronic anxiety diagnoses and piling this on top has been keeping me up at night for a year now. WIBTA if I called the probate lawyer and asked to see all the statements? Is this normal?
submitted by hashtagjlove to venting [link] [comments]
So to set the stage; 2021 was an awful year for my family. Shortly before the pandemic my father was diagnosed with cancer of the mouth from his lifelong dipping tobacco habit. He was going through that while the pandemic took hold and not long into it my stepmother began to lose balance a lot and would fall and not be able to get back up frequently. My dad underwent treatment and went into remission very briefly before having to go back for a skin graft while my stepmom would slowly become wheelchair bound. Then in March of 2021 my dad went to the hospital for shortness of breath. The doctors put him into a medically induced coma to run tests, and the next day my stepmom had to go to the hospital for major stomach pain (bowel obstruction from the wheelchair). I lived in FL at the time, they lived in TX. I flew out and found that my dad had a mess of chest/heart/lung complications related to his cancer and the only options were hospice or numerous surgeries for a very long shot with lots of suffering so me, my stepsister, brother in law and her children all had to go to my stepmom's room across town and first explain the situation to her which crushed us, then she and I had to sit down and make the decision to let him go into hospice peacefully and we managed to get her to his hospital to say goodbye and I flew out shortly after. I flew back into town for my dad's funeral, my mom was now starting to lose her voice and upper body strength. I fly home, a few weeks later mom is back in the hospital and I get the call from my sister who also told me one of her sons had passed shortly after she went in and I got to fly in to town to see mom and we had to tell her as a family about my nephew which was heartbreaking. Another month goes by, we finally get mom's diagnosis: ALS (Lou Gehrig's Disease). By this time she has to be on a respirator and I'm flying into Texas every few weeks to visit her but she eventually became unresponsive in September and we had to let her pass, too, and to cap it off it happened on my dad's birthday. I flew back shortly after to scatter her ashes on the beach (which she made sure all of us knew she wanted before she lost her voice, she didn't want us to not know like we went through with dad). So to recap, Dad passes in March, nephew passes in June, Mom passes in September. I lost my parents and a nephew inside of six months. My biological mother is still alive and I've become a little worrisome about her now but still it was the hardest year of my life.
After the worst year our family ever experienced I just wanted some time to process it all and grieve and I'm glad to say I'm at a point where I'll catch a glimpse of something that reminds me of them and I'll just think of whatever memory is attached to it for a minute and smile, though the anniversaries are still hard. Thank you for sticking with me so far. So during that time the process of probate was going on but I didn't much care about that, I just wanted to grieve and see my other nephew get married last year which was beautiful but..
It's almost two years now since mom passed away. She named my brother in law as the executor of her will. I think he was the best choice bc he would be the one to get things done and stand up to my stepbrother who was kind of the black sheep of the family (long story) but still thinks he should have been the executor. He's started a few fights over it. Anyway, about a year ago I had managed to move past the grieving process and it felt like my sister and BIL had, too. We've grown a lot closer over this time so I didn't want to ask about probate besides keeping up with how my parents' house is holding up (and retrieving a wooden chest I had made in high school that mom cherished and my dad's ring that my mom left to me) because I trust them. I also feel like asking about money after someone has passed is in poor taste.. but like I said we're almost two years past that now.
My mom left me, my stepsister and brother in law equal portions of her estate after the specific things like furniture, jewelry etc, and a small portion to my stepbrother. I haven't heard anything about that and until recently I was content to let it be bc I wasn't the only one that had a really hard time with so much loss so suddenly but the house hasn't even been listed for sale. I've tried asking what's going on with it, it seems there's a plumbing issue that needs to be addressed but the house is an hour and a half from their house so scheduling is hard. I get it but... stepsis doesn't work. She has health issues that slow her down but nothing that stops her from taking a day to go to the house to meet a plumber. Mom left her car to her so she definitely has her own transportation and she can do exactly what she does at home.. at mom and dad's house. She smokes cigarettes and does puzzles on her porch. She can bring her dogs for company. I don't understand how this plumbing issue has held things up for at least two months. I've tried suggesting ways to have someone meet the plumber and alert her so she can drive to the house (neighbor, friends, someone from the law office). The last option kind of put a little unwanted intrusive thought into my head, though. When I suggested just having someone from the law office as a throwaway bc I'm getting a little frustrated my sister told me "Oh, the lawyer's job was done a long time ago."
What does that mean? Sister had to let me go before I could ask, claiming she had to go to the doctor for a possible infection (which is was but she's fine now). I haven't called since then because I'm more than a little frustrated after that last conversation. I'm assuming it means all my parents' debts have been paid, all insurance policies have been collected, savings/retirement accounts have been consolidated etc. The only thing that appears to be left is the house. That's a monthly mortgage payment, insurance, possibly utilities and probably the car. I'm not going to lie, I have thought about what I might do with my inheritance. Nothing concrete but I've considered using it for a house or to get some training to switch careers and I'm in no immediate rush to get it but my main issue is how in the dark I feel. Stepsis and brother in law have since bought their first house and have done extensive renovations to it. I'm willing to give them the benefit of the doubt bc BIL had been promoted at work shortly before everything happened and they were looking at houses.. but I'm not unconvinced their budget didn't get bigger? Like I don't think they're spending my portion of the inheritance... but it's a bad look isn't it? They're the only family I have left on my dad/stepmom's side and I don't want to cause tension with accusations but I don't even know how much the estate was. I'm still paying off the flights, rental car and hotel bills from all the trips to Texas. I have severe PTSD and chronic anxiety diagnoses and piling this on top has been keeping me up at night for a year now. WIBTA if I called the probate lawyer and asked to see all the statements? Is this normal?
2023.05.28 02:36 MrDizzyAU 70s/80s fan finally watches all of 60s Who
I grew up watching Classic Who during the 80s. We had plenty of reruns of 70s Who (Pertwee/Tom Baker) at the time here in Australia, so I've seen those eras multiple times, but we never got reruns of 60s Who (Hartnell/Troughton). I've seen the odd Hartnell/Troughton story on VHS or DVD, and read most of the Target novelisations, but I'd never seen the complete 60s run, until now.
Over the last 6 months, I watched the complete Hartnell+Troughton run from start to finish. I've finally seen all of Classic Who, which leaves me with mixed emotions. Happy on the one hand, but also melancholy, because I always knew there was more Classic Who out there that I hadn't seen. Now there isn't. I can never again see a Classic Who episode for the first time.
Obviously, not all episodes still exist in the BBC archives, so I had to fill in the blanks with recons. I used the rule that I'd watch the real episode if possible, animated recons (or live action in the case of Mission to the Unknown) as second choice, and telesnap/still recons only as a last resort. I'm pretty happy with that decision. The animations are pretty solid for the most part. The only exception is The Web of Fear part 3. That animation is craaaaaap. The characters all move like characters in a 3D computer game - even doing the drunken swaying thing when "idling".
I found the Hartnell era kind of a slog to get through, in general. The pacing is pretty slow, plus there are quite a lot of pure historicals, which hold zero interest for me. I enjoyed the Troughton era much more. The pacing is much better, and it's much more reminiscent of 70s Who (well, technically, it's the other way round, but I saw 70s Who first). Even the worst Troughton stories are still quite watchable. Also, until now, I didn't realise how much of a mainstay Jamie was. He's there for almost the entire Troughton era (Power of the Daleks being the only story he's not in). He's the Tegan of the 60s.
One nice added extra for me was that some faces I recognised popped up now and again: Mr Rumbold from Are You Being Served, Bill from Love Thy Neighbour, Goth from The Deadly Assassin, Solon from the Brain of Morbius, the Scarman brothers from Pyramids of Mars, Morgaine from Battlefield, and of course, Lethbridge-Stewart and Benton.
Here's a list of my top 10 Hartnell/Troughton stories:
submitted by MrDizzyAU to doctorwho [link] [comments]
Over the last 6 months, I watched the complete Hartnell+Troughton run from start to finish. I've finally seen all of Classic Who, which leaves me with mixed emotions. Happy on the one hand, but also melancholy, because I always knew there was more Classic Who out there that I hadn't seen. Now there isn't. I can never again see a Classic Who episode for the first time.
Obviously, not all episodes still exist in the BBC archives, so I had to fill in the blanks with recons. I used the rule that I'd watch the real episode if possible, animated recons (or live action in the case of Mission to the Unknown) as second choice, and telesnap/still recons only as a last resort. I'm pretty happy with that decision. The animations are pretty solid for the most part. The only exception is The Web of Fear part 3. That animation is craaaaaap. The characters all move like characters in a 3D computer game - even doing the drunken swaying thing when "idling".
I found the Hartnell era kind of a slog to get through, in general. The pacing is pretty slow, plus there are quite a lot of pure historicals, which hold zero interest for me. I enjoyed the Troughton era much more. The pacing is much better, and it's much more reminiscent of 70s Who (well, technically, it's the other way round, but I saw 70s Who first). Even the worst Troughton stories are still quite watchable. Also, until now, I didn't realise how much of a mainstay Jamie was. He's there for almost the entire Troughton era (Power of the Daleks being the only story he's not in). He's the Tegan of the 60s.
One nice added extra for me was that some faces I recognised popped up now and again: Mr Rumbold from Are You Being Served, Bill from Love Thy Neighbour, Goth from The Deadly Assassin, Solon from the Brain of Morbius, the Scarman brothers from Pyramids of Mars, Morgaine from Battlefield, and of course, Lethbridge-Stewart and Benton.
Here's a list of my top 10 Hartnell/Troughton stories:
- An Unearthly Child (episode 1 only) - the rest of the story is pretty mediocre, but episode 1 is brilliant. It's got a great sense of mystery and sets up the whole premise of the show in circa 25 mins.
- The Dalek Invasion of Earth - A desperate band of human guerrillas fighting back against the might of the Daleks. Far superior to season 1's The Daleks, IMO.
- Galaxy 4 - Rills, Chumblies, Drahvins. What's not to like?
- Mission to the Unknown - The live action remake done by the University of Central Lancashire is awesome, and it's freely available on Youtube. If you haven't seen it, I highly recommend watching it.
- The Tenth Planet - Mondasian cybermen are absolutely terrifying. Almost human, but not quite.
- The Faceless Ones - This is an underrated classic, IMO.
- The Tomb of the Cybermen - atmospheric and creepy
- The Web of Fear - Lethbridge-Stewart and proto-UNIT
- The Invasion - Lethbridge-Stewart, Benton, and actual UNIT
- The War Games - It's strange. I had this story on VHS in the 90s, and I remember it as being rather dull and slow-moving, but on re-watching it, I love it. It's great the way the mystery slowly unravels, and then we finally get to meet the Time Lords.
2023.05.28 01:56 s_kaeth Indie Ink Awards Winners Announcement
The Indie Ink Awards announced their winners today! Here are the finalists, runners up, and winners for each awards, listed below:
Best Audio finalists:
Along the Razor's Edge by Rob J. Hayes
Where Shadows Lie by Allegra Pescatore
His Ragged Company by Rance D. Denton
Winner: Never Die (Mortal Techniques #1) by Rob J. Hayes
Best Book Cover finalists:
Best Debut finalists:
Prince of the Sorrows by Kellen Graves
The Rarkyn's Familiar by Nikky Lee
Undergrounder by J. E. Glass
Winner: Obsidian: Awakening by Sienna Frost
Best Friendship finalists:
Best Interior Illustrator finalists:
Best Light Read finalists:
Best Mentor Character finalists:
Best Morally Gray Character finalists:
Best Setting finalists:
Best Use of Tropes finalists:
Best Villain finalists:
Funniest Book finalists:
Most Optimistic finalists:
Prettiest Book Interior finalists:
Prettiest Prose finalists:
Shadiest Character finalists:
Side Character MVP finalists:
This Book Made Me Hungry/Thirsty finalists:
Wiliest Character finalists:
Wittiest Character finalists:
Next up: Writing the Future We Need Awards!
Asexual Representation finalists:
Asian Representation by an Asian Author finalists:
Bisexual Representation finalists:
Black Representation by a Black Author finalists:
Disabled Representation by a Disabled Author finalists:
Gay Representation finalists:
Indigenous Representation by an Indigenous Author winner: Ope' by Yulu Ewis
LGBTQ+ Representation finalists:
Latinx/Latine Representation by a Latinx/Latine Author finalists:
Winner -- Judges' favorite: EXODUS 20:3 by Freydís Moon
Lesbian Representation finalists:
Mental Health Representation finalists:
Neurodivergent Representation by a Neurodivergent Author finalists:
Nonbinary Representation finalists:
Trans Representation finalists:
Congratulations to all the winners, and thank you so much to all the judges!
You can check them all out (with buy links and links to Goodreads/Storygraph) here: https://indiestorygeek.com/a/indie-ink-awards-2022
submitted by s_kaeth to Fantasy [link] [comments]
Best Audio finalists:
A Surplus of Light by Chase Connor Along the Razor's Edge by Rob J. Hayes Cleansing Rain by Holly Ash His Ragged Company by Rance D. Denton In Solitude's Shadow by David Green Never Die (Mortal Techniques #1) by Rob J. Hayes Night Warrior by Jordan J. Scavone Shadow Of The Wicked by Douglas W.T. Smith Where Shadows Lie by Allegra Pescatore Wyrd Gods by Susana ImaginárioRunner Ups:
Along the Razor's Edge by Rob J. Hayes
Where Shadows Lie by Allegra Pescatore
His Ragged Company by Rance D. Denton
Winner: Never Die (Mortal Techniques #1) by Rob J. Hayes
Best Book Cover finalists:
Birthright by M.A. Vice Cleansing Rain by Holly Ash Cute Mutants Vol 1: Mutant Pride by SJ Whitby Heroes by Ashley Hutchison Night Warrior by Jordan J. Scavone Obsidian: Awakening by Sienna Frost Prince of the Sorrows by Kellen Graves Sons of Darkness by Gourav Mohanty The Feast of the Innocents by Colin Harker The Trials of Ashmount by John Palladino Undergrounder by J. E. GlassRunners Up:
Prince of the Sorrows by Kellen Graves Obsidian: Awakening by Sienna Frost Undergrounder by J. E. GlassWinner: Birthright by M.A. Vice
Best Debut finalists:
Cute Mutants Vol 1: Mutant Pride by SJ Whitby Ghost River by Chad Ryan His Ragged Company by Rance D. Denton Legacy of the Brightwash by Krystle Matar Obsidian: Awakening by Sienna Frost Prince of the Sorrows by Kellen Graves Sons of Darkness by Gourav Mohanty The Feast of the Innocents by Colin Harker The Rarkyn's Familiar by Nikky Lee Undergrounder by J. E. GlassRunners up:
Prince of the Sorrows by Kellen Graves
The Rarkyn's Familiar by Nikky Lee
Undergrounder by J. E. Glass
Winner: Obsidian: Awakening by Sienna Frost
Best Friendship finalists:
Awakening: The Commune’s Curse Book 1 by Lucy A. McLaren Bloody Spade by Brittany M. Willows Bonkpocalypse by L. A. Guettler Cleansing Rain by Holly Ash Cute Mutants Vol 1: Mutant Pride by SJ Whitby Heroes by Ashley Hutchison The Garden of the Golden Children by Ashley Hutchison The Gatekeeper's Staff by Antoine Bandele The Rarkyn's Familiar by Nikky Lee The Trials of Ashmount by John PalladinoRunners Up:
Awakening: The Commune’s Curse Book 1 by Lucy A. McLaren Cleansing Rain by Holly Ash The Gatekeeper's Staff by Antoine BandeleWinner: The Rarkyn's Familiar by Nikky Lee
Best Interior Illustrator finalists:
A Bargain with the Fae King by Megan Van Dyke APPRENTICE - a story from the Road to Xibalba by Joaquin Gil Afterlands: After the Harrowing by Boots Heroes by Ashley Hutchison In the Orbit of Sirens by T.A. Bruno Lesser Known Monsters by Rory Michaelson METANOIA The Fifth Yanai: Book One by Juniper Lake Fitzgerald Second Star to the Left by Megan Van Dyke The Call for Finis: Pride by A.J. Torres The Crows by C.M Rosens The Unraveling of Luna Forester by Marisa Noelle Vietato by Bailey Elizabeth Where Shadows Lie by Allegra PescatoreRunners Up:
In the Orbit of Sirens by T.A. Bruno The Crows by C.M Rosens A Bargain with the Fae King by Megan Van Dyke Lesser Known Monsters by Rory MichaelsonWinner: The Call for Finis: Pride by A.J. Torres
Best Light Read finalists:
A Sea of Pearls & Leaves by Rosalyn Briar Awakening: The Commune’s Curse Book 1 by Lucy A. McLaren Cleansing Rain by Holly Ash EXODUS 20:3 by Freydís Moon Heroes by Ashley Hutchison In Solitude's Shadow by David Green Miss Percy's Pocket Guide to the Care and Feeding of British Dragons by Quenby Olson Second Star to the Left by Megan Van Dyke Soulmate, Stage Right by Bixby Jones The Case Files of Sheridan Bell: The Vanishing Beast by Em Rowene Why Odin Drinks by Bjørn LarssenRunners Up:
The Case Files of Sheridan Bell: The Vanishing Beast by Em Rowene Second Star to the Left by Megan Van Dyke Cleansing Rain by Holly AshWinner: Miss Percy's Pocket Guide to the Care and Feeding of British Dragons by Quenby Olson
Best Mentor Character finalists:
Awakening: The Commune’s Curse Book 1 by Lucy A. McLaren Bloody Spade by Brittany M Willows Cleansing Rain by Holly Ash Gloria by Katherine Shaw Heroes by Ashley Hutchison In Solitude's Shadow by David Green In the Orbit of Sirens by T.A. Bruno Perception Check by Astrid Knight Soul Wizard: Awakening by Wesley CP Spirits of Vengeance by Rob J. Hayes Untouched by Jayme BeanRunners Up:
Untouched by Jayme Bean Spirits of Vengeance by Rob J. Hayes In the Orbit of Sirens by T.A. BrunoWinner: Perception Check by Astrid Knight
Best Morally Gray Character finalists:
A Canticle of Two Souls by Steven Raaymakers Ghost River by Chad Ryan Heroes by Ashley Hutchison Obsidian: Awakening by Sienna Frost Prince of the Sorrows by Kellen Graves Sons of Darkness by Gourav Mohanty The Case Files of Sheridan Bell: The Vanishing Beast by Em Rowene The Fate of Stars by S.D. Simper The Feast of the Innocents by Colin Harker The Rarkyn's Familiar by Nikky LeeRunners Up:
The Fate of Stars by S.D. Simper The Feast of the Innocents by Colin Harker Obsidian: Awakening by Sienna Frost The Rarkyn's Familiar by Nikky LeeWinner: A Canticle of Two Souls by Steven Raaymakers
Best Setting finalists:
His Ragged Company by Rance D. Denton Merchants of Knowledge and Magic by Erika McCorkle Obsidian: Awakening by Sienna Frost Prince of the Sorrows by Kellen Graves Ringlander: The Path and the Way by Michael S. Jackson Sons of Darkness by Gourav Mohanty The Case Files of Sheridan Bell: The Vanishing Beast by Em Rowene The Fate of Stars by S.D. Simper The Feast of the Innocents by Colin Harker The Garden of the Golden Children by Ashley Hutchison The Thirteenth Hour by Trudie SkiesRunners Up:
Ringlander: The Path and the Way by Michael S. Jackson Merchants of Knowledge and Magic by Erika McCorkleWinners:
Obsidian: Awakening by Sienna Frost The Thirteenth Hour by Trudie Skies
Best Use of Tropes finalists:
Bloody Spade by Brittany M. Willows Cleansing Rain by Holly Ash Heroes by Ashley Hutchison Lesser Known Monsters by Rory Michaelson Night Warrior by Jordan J. Scavone Obsidian: Awakening by Sienna Frost Perception Check by Astrid Knight Prince of the Sorrows by Kellen Graves The Fate of Stars by S.D. Simper Where Shadows Lie by Allegra PescatoreRunners Up:
Cleansing Rain by Holly Ash Perception Check by Astrid Knight Bloody Spade by Brittany M. Willows Prince of the Sorrows by Kellen GravesWinner: Obsidian: Awakening by Sienna Frost
Best Villain finalists:
Cleansing Rain by Holly Ash Ghost River by Chad Ryan Merchants of Knowledge and Magic by Erika McCorkle Night Warrior by Jordan J. Scavone Obsidian: Awakening by Sienna Frost Prince of the Sorrows by Kellen Graves Sons of Darkness by Gourav Mohanty The Fate of Stars by S.D. Simper The Feast of the Innocents by Colin Harker The Trials of Ashmount by John PalladinoRunners Up:
Cleansing Rain by Holly Ash The Feast of the Innocents by Colin Harker Prince of the Sorrows by Kellen GravesWinner: The Trials of Ashmount by John Palladino
Funniest Book finalists:
Bonkpocalypse by L. A. Guettler Double-Crossing the Bridge by Sarah J Sover Duckett & Dyer: Dicks For Hire by G.M. Nair Heroes by Ashley Hutchison Lesser Known Monsters by Rory Michaelson Miss Percy's Pocket Guide to the Care and Feeding of British Dragons by Quenby Olson Perception Check by Astrid Knight Sons of Darkness by Gourav Mohanty Soulmate, Stage Right by Bixby Jones The Trials of Ashmount by John Palladino Why Odin Drinks by Bjørn LarssenRunners Up:
Double-Crossing the Bridge by Sarah J Sover Perception Check by Astrid Knight Lesser Known Monsters by Rory MichaelsonWinner: Miss Percy's Pocket Guide to the Care and Feeding of British Dragons by Quenby Olson
Most Optimistic finalists:
Bonkpocalypse by L. A. Guettler EXODUS 20:3 by Freydís Moon Heroes by Ashley Hutchison In Solitude's Shadow by David Green Miss Percy's Pocket Guide to the Care and Feeding of British Dragons by Quenby Olson Moonlight Love and Witchcraft by Vaela Denarr & Micah Iannandrea Perception Check by Astrid Knight Soul Wizard: Awakening by Wesley CP The Gatekeeper's Staff by Antoine Bandele The Last Gifts of the Universe by Rory AugustRunners Up:
In Solitude's Shadow by David Green The Gatekeeper's Staff by Antoine Bandele Miss Percy's Pocket Guide to the Care and Feeding of British Dragons by Quenby OlsonWinner: EXODUS 20:3 by Freydís Moon
Prettiest Book Interior finalists:
Adrift in Starlight by Mindi Briar Cleansing Rain by Holly Ash Heroes by Ashley Hutchison In the Orbit of Sirens by T.A. Bruno Lesser Known Monsters by Rory Michaelson Obsidian: Awakening by Sienna Frost Reign & Ruin by J. D. Evans Ringlander: The Path and the Way by Michael S. Jackson Sons of Darkness by Gourav Mohanty Soul Wizard: Awakening by Wesley CPRunners Up:
Adrift in Starlight by Mindi Briar Obsidian: Awakening by Sienna Frost Lesser Known Monsters by Rory MichaelsonWinner: In the Orbit of Sirens by T.A. Bruno
Prettiest Prose finalists:
EXODUS 20:3 by Freydís Moon Heroes by Ashley Hutchison Legacy of the Brightwash by Krystle Matar Miss Percy's Pocket Guide to the Care and Feeding of British Dragons by Quenby Olson Obsidian: Awakening by Sienna Frost Of Honey and Wildfires (Songs of Sefate #1) by Sarah Chorn Prince of the Sorrows by Kellen Graves Sons of Darkness by Gourav Mohanty The Feast of the Innocents by Colin Harker The Garden of the Golden Children by Ashley Hutchison The Rarkyn's Familiar by Nikky LeeRunners Up:
The Feast of the Innocents by Colin Harker Legacy of the Brightwash by Krystle Matar Prince of the Sorrows by Kellen GravesWinner: The Rarkyn's Familiar by Nikky Lee
Shadiest Character finalists:
A Bargain with the Fae King (Courts of Faery Book 1) by Megan Van Dyke Awakening: The Commune’s Curse Book 1 by Lucy A. McLaren Cleansing Rain by Holly Ash Ghost River by Chad Ryan Gloria by Katherine Shaw Heroes by Ashley Hutchison Path of War Perception Check by Astrid Knight Sons of Darkness by Gourav Mohanty The Feast of the Innocents by Colin HarkerRunners Up:
Awakening: The Commune’s Curse Book 1 by Lucy A. McLaren Cleansing Rain by Holly AshWinners:
Perception Check by Astrid Knight The Feast of the Innocents by Colin Harker
Side Character MVP finalists:
Cute Mutants Vol 1: Mutant Pride by SJ Whitby Heroes by Ashley Hutchison His Ragged Company by Rance D. Denton Obsidian: Awakening by Sienna Frost Prince of the Sorrows by Kellen Graves Sons of Darkness by Gourav Mohanty The Feast of the Innocents by Colin Harker The Rarkyn's Familiar by Nikky Lee Voice of War (Threadlight Book 1) by Zack Argyle Where Shadows Lie by Allegra PescatoreRunners Up:
The Feast of the Innocents by Colin Harker Voice of War (Threadlight Book 1) by Zack Argyle Obsidian: Awakening by Sienna FrostWinner: The Rarkyn's Familiar by Nikky Lee
This Book Made Me Hungry/Thirsty finalists:
Awakening: The Commune’s Curse Book 1 by Lucy A. McLaren Baker Thief by Claudie Arseneault EXODUS 20:3 by Freydís Moon Heroes by Ashley Hutchison Legacy of the Brightwash by Krystle Matar Nightfall by M.A. Vice Path Of War by David Green Ringlander: The Path and the Way by Michael S. Jackson Sons of Darkness by Gourav Mohanty The Last Lumenian by S.G. BlaiseRunners Up:
EXODUS 20:3 by Freydís Moon Awakening: The Commune’s Curse Book 1 by Lucy A. McLaren Legacy of the Brightwash by Krystle MatarWinner: Baker Thief by Claudie Arseneault
Wiliest Character finalists:
Birthright by M.A. Vice Bloody Spade by Brittany M. Willows Ghost River by Chad Ryan Heroes by Ashley Hutchison Merchants of Knowledge and Magic by Erika McCorkle Obsidian: Awakening by Sienna Frost Prince of the Sorrows by Kellen Graves Ringlander: The Path and the Way by Michael S. Jackson The Feast of the Innocents by Colin Harker The Gatekeeper's Staff by Antoine BandeleRunners Up:
Heroes by Ashley Hutchison The Feast of the Innocents by Colin Harker Birthright by M.A. Vice Bloody Spade by Brittany M. WillowsWinner: Obsidian: Awakening by Sienna Frost
Wittiest Character finalists:
Along the Razor's Edge by Rob J. Hayes Awakening: The Commune’s Curse Book 1 by Lucy A. McLaren Bonkpocalypse by L. A. Guettler Cute Mutants Vol 1: Mutant Pride by SJ Whitby Heroes by Ashley Hutchison Nightfall by M.A. Vice Perception Check by Astrid Knight Sons of Darkness by Gourav Mohanty The Thirteenth Hour by Trudie Skies The Trials of Ashmount by John Palladino Why Odin Drinks by Bjørn LarssenRunners Up:
The Trials of Ashmount by John Palladino Along the Razor's Edge by Rob J. Hayes Perception Check by Astrid KnightWinner: The Thirteenth Hour by Trudie Skies
Next up: Writing the Future We Need Awards!
Asexual Representation finalists:
Adrift in Starlight by Mindi Briar Baker Thief by Claudie Arseneault Bloody Spade by Brittany M. Willows Breaker by Amy Campbell Children by Bjørn Larssen Merchants of Knowledge and Magic by Erika McCorkle Nightfall by M.A. Vice Our Bloody Pearl by D.N. Bryn Perception Check by Astrid Knight The Living Waters by Dan Fitzgerald The Murder Next Door by Sarah BellRunners Up:
Perception Check by Astrid Knight Baker Thief by Claudie Arseneault Bloody Spade by Brittany M. WillowsWinner -- Judge's Favorite: Our Bloody Pearl by D.N. Bryn
Asian Representation by an Asian Author finalists:
Sons of Darkness by Gourav Mohanty Obsidian: Awakening by Sienna FrostWinner -- Judges' favorite: Obsidian: Awakening by Sienna Frost
Bisexual Representation finalists:
A Bitter Drink by Azalea Forrest A Sea of Pearls & Leaves by Rosalyn Briar Amulet of Wishes by Rita A. Rubin Empire's Heir by Marian L Thorpe Falling Through the Weaving by Leia Talon Obsidian: Awakening by Sienna Frost Once Stolen by D.N. Bryn Paper Forests by Tegan Anderson The Wall by Sarah Jane Singer Untouched by Jayme BeanRunners Up:
Obsidian: Awakening by Sienna Frost Falling Through the Weaving by Leia Talon Untouched by Jayme BeanWinner -- Judges' favorite: A Sea of Pearls & Leaves by Rosalyn Briar
Black Representation by a Black Author finalists:
Bones to the Wind by Tatiana Obey Elemental: Shadows of Otherside Book 1 by Whitney Hill Elevated Inferno by Carlotta Ardell Heard: How Loss Led Us to Love by Ligia Cushman Mud Crab Kingdom: The Soft-Shelled Prince by Dr. Joel Anthony Hamilton She Steals Justice by J. Clark The Brother's Curse (The Brother's Curse Saga Book 1) by Christine M. Germain The Gatekeeper's Staff by Antoine BandeleRunners Up:
Mud Crab Kingdom: The Soft-Shelled Prince by Dr. Joel Anthony Hamilton The Gatekeeper's Staff by Antoine Bandele Bones to the Wind by Tatiana ObeyWinner -- Judges' favorite: Elevated Inferno by Carlotta Ardell
Disabled Representation by a Disabled Author finalists:
A Feeling Like Home by Haleigh Wenger Birthright by M.A. Vice Of Honey and Wildfires (Songs of Sefate #1) by Sarah Chorn Once Stolen by D.N. Bryn Our Bloody Pearl by D.N. Bryn Speechless in Achten Tan by Debbie Iancu Haddad The Stars Will Guide Us Back by Rue Sparks The Unraveling of Luna Forester by Marisa Noelle When I Grow Up I Want to Be a Chair by Ryan Rae Harbuck Where Shadows Lie by Allegra PescatoreRunners Up:
Birthright by M.A. Vice Where Shadows Lie by Allegra Pescatore Our Bloody Pearl by D.N. BrynWinner -- Judges' favorite: Of Honey and Wildfires (Songs of Sefate #1) by Sarah Chorn
Gay Representation finalists:
Awakening: The Commune’s Curse Book 1 by Lucy A. McLaren EXODUS 20:3 by Freydís Moon Lesser Known Monsters by Rory Michaelson METANOIA The Fifth Yanai: Book One by Juniper Lake Fitzgerald Mazarin Blues by Al Hess Obsidian: Awakening by Sienna Frost Odder Still by D.N. Bryn Perception Check by Astrid Knight Ringlander: The Path and the Way by Michael S. Jackson The Oracle Stone by Talli L. MorganRunners Up:
Odder Still by D.N. Bryn Obsidian: Awakening by Sienna Frost Awakening: The Commune’s Curse Book 1 by Lucy A. McLarenWinner -- Judges' favorite: Mazarin Blues by Al Hess
Indigenous Representation by an Indigenous Author winner: Ope' by Yulu Ewis
LGBTQ+ Representation finalists:
Awakening: The Commune’s Curse Book 1 by Lucy A. McLaren Cute Mutants Vol 1: Mutant Pride by SJ Whitby EXODUS 20:3 by Freydís Moon Legacy of the Brightwash by Krystle Matar Merchants of Knowledge and Magic by Erika McCorkle Path Of War by David Green Ringlander: The Path and the Way by Michael S. Jackson String of Stardust by J.H. Rose The Iron Crown by L L Macrae The Oracle Stone by Talli L. Morgan Where Shadows Lie by Allegra PescatoreRunners Up:
The Oracle Stone by Talli L. Morgan Where Shadows Lie by Allegra Pescatore The Iron Crown by L L Macrae Legacy of the Brightwash by Krystle MatarWinner -- Judges' favorite: EXODUS 20:3 by Freydís Moon
Latinx/Latine Representation by a Latinx/Latine Author finalists:
Cradle of Sea and Soil by Bernie Anés Paz EXODUS 20:3 by Freydís Moon Heard: How Loss Led Us to Love by Ligia Cushman Hurricanes 2007 by Darío Aguilar PeregrinaRunner Up: Cradle of Sea and Soil by Bernie Anés Paz
Winner -- Judges' favorite: EXODUS 20:3 by Freydís Moon
Lesbian Representation finalists:
Amulet of Wishes by Rita A. Rubin Cute Mutants Vol 1: Mutant Pride by SJ Whitby Moonlight Love and Witchcraft by Vaela Denarr & Micah Iannandrea Of Honey and Wildfires (Songs of Sefate #1) by Sarah Chorn Path Of War by David Green Ringlander: The Path and the Way by Michael S. Jackson The Iron Crown by L L Macrae The Murder Next Door by Sarah Bell Undergrounder by J. E. Glass Where Shadows Lie by Allegra PescatoreRunners Up:
Of Honey and Wildfires (Songs of Sefate #1) by Sarah Chorn Path Of War by David Green The Iron Crown by L L MacraeWinner -- Judges' favorite: Where Shadows Lie by Allegra Pescatore
Mental Health Representation finalists:
A Canticle of Two Souls by Steven Raaymakers Awakening: The Commune’s Curse Book 1 by Lucy A. McLaren Children by Bjørn Larssen Lesser Known Monsters by Rory Michaelson Odder Still by D.N. Bryn Of Honey and Wildfires (Songs of Sefate #1) by Sarah Chorn Perception Check by Astrid Knight The Garden of the Golden Children by Ashley Hutchison The Iron Crown by L L Macrae The Rarkyn's Familiar by Nikky Lee Untouched by Jayme BeanRunners Up:
The Rarkyn's Familiar by Nikky Lee Of Honey and Wildfires (Songs of Sefate #1) by Sarah Chorn Untouched by Jayme BeanWinner -- Judges' favorite: Perception Check by Astrid Knight
Neurodivergent Representation by a Neurodivergent Author finalists:
Children by Bjørn Larssen Each Little Universe by Chris Durston METANOIA The Fifth Yanai: Book One by Juniper Lake Fitzgerald Mazarin Blues by Al Hess Once Stolen by D.N. Bryn Path Of War by David Green Perception Check by Astrid Knight The Case Files of Sheridan Bell: The Vanishing Beast by Em Rowene The Old Love And The New by Alistair Caradec The Unraveling of Luna Forester by Marisa Noelle Untouched by Jayme BeanRunners Up:
Children by Bjørn Larssen Once Stolen by D.N. Bryn Perception Check by Astrid KnightWinner -- Judges' favorite: Untouched by Jayme Bean
Nonbinary Representation finalists:
A Bitter Drink by Azalea Forrest Adrift in Starlight by Mindi Briar Baker Thief by Claudie Arseneault Cute Mutants Vol 1: Mutant Pride by SJ Whitby Jati's Wager by Jonathan Nevair Moonlight Love and Witchcraft by Vaela Denarr & Micah Iannandrea Our Bloody Pearl by D.N. Bryn Perception Check by Astrid Knight The Fable of Wren by Rue Sparks The Last Gifts of the Universe by Rory AugustRunners Up:
Jati's Wager by Jonathan Nevair Perception Check by Astrid Knight Adrift in Starlight by Mindi Briar The Fable of Wren by Rue SparksWinner -- Judges' Favorite: Our Bloody Pearl by D.N. Bryn
Trans Representation finalists:
EXODUS 20:3 by Freydís Moon Mazarin Blues by Al Hess Moonlight Love and Witchcraft by Vaela Denarr & Micah Iannandrea Odder Still by D.N. Bryn Of Honey and Wildfires (Songs of Sefate #1) by Sarah Chorn Perception Check by Astrid Knight Structural Integrity by Tabitha O'Connell The Fable of Wren by Rue SparksRunners Up:
Moonlight Love and Witchcraft by Vaela Denarr & Micah Iannandrea Odder Still by D.N. Bryn Of Honey and Wildfires (Songs of Sefate #1) by Sarah ChornWinner -- Judges' Favorite: Perception Check by Astrid Knight
Congratulations to all the winners, and thank you so much to all the judges!
You can check them all out (with buy links and links to Goodreads/Storygraph) here: https://indiestorygeek.com/a/indie-ink-awards-2022
2023.05.28 00:39 Outrageous_Fondant12 My wedding is tomorrow and I’m very disappointed…
My wedding is tomorrow and I’m disappointed. My bride to be and I are fine. I’m disappointed with my brother who’s supposed to be my best man.
Our wedding date had been set for over a year.
Him and his wife landed late yesterday coming from overseas. He told me they were coming to the rehearsal dinner I paid up front for them and they canceled.
I wanted to spend time with him today since it’s been over a year since I saw him last.
We had wedding stuff to do like pick up our tuxes and the rest of the bridal party came out to eat with us.
Instead he took his wife sight seeing and to the mall.
Flashback to last year when my fiancé and I flew out to them when they lived in TX for their wedding. We spent a week there. This woman he married abuses him emotionally. 2 days after being married, she started a fight with him and threw her ring on the ground. She’s rude to us and causes a scene around other people. And now I’m made to to feel like I don’t matter at all. I’m very upset over this situation.
submitted by Outrageous_Fondant12 to Advice [link] [comments]
Our wedding date had been set for over a year.
Him and his wife landed late yesterday coming from overseas. He told me they were coming to the rehearsal dinner I paid up front for them and they canceled.
I wanted to spend time with him today since it’s been over a year since I saw him last.
We had wedding stuff to do like pick up our tuxes and the rest of the bridal party came out to eat with us.
Instead he took his wife sight seeing and to the mall.
Flashback to last year when my fiancé and I flew out to them when they lived in TX for their wedding. We spent a week there. This woman he married abuses him emotionally. 2 days after being married, she started a fight with him and threw her ring on the ground. She’s rude to us and causes a scene around other people. And now I’m made to to feel like I don’t matter at all. I’m very upset over this situation.
2023.05.28 00:00 AutoModerator AMBER HAGERMAN
9-yr old Amber Hagerman & her little brother were simply doing what kids do on a warm TX.January Morning in 1996-Riding their favorite bikes, just blocks from the safety of their grandparents loving home. The delivery ramp at the vacant grocery store lot was inviting to the siblings, & they rode up & down until the youngest Hagerman left for home. Amber innocently stayed behind,not ready for the fun to end. Moments later, an olive-skinned male in a dark pickup truck pulled up & in a flash, grabbed Amber, tossed her into the front cab, & devastated the lives of many, forever. Four days later, the 9 yr olds lifeless body floated up in a creekbed, just a few miles away. APD believe that someone saw something, esp from the adjoining laundromat that sat within ear & eyeshot of the abduction site. If you or someone you know saw something, heard something, please contact the APD at (817) 575-8823, you can remain anonymous. Let’s give this child & her family justice after nearly 30 years. We love you, Amber.
submitted by AutoModerator to AmberHagerman [link] [comments]
2023.05.27 22:08 todddesign 9/11 Ritz-Carlton meeting - Carlyle Group and the Bin Laden connection
I'm reaching out to seek your assistance in fact-checking a claim that has been circulating regarding the Carlyle Group and a supposed meeting involving Shafiq bin Laden, a half-brother of Osama bin Laden, on September 11, 2001. I have been unable to find credible sources to verify this information, as the provided links are no longer accessible and the Web Archive doesn't seem to have relevant records.
The claim suggests that the Carlyle Group had organized a conference at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel in Washington, D.C., on September 11, 2001. This meeting allegedly included prominent figures such as George H.W. Bush, James Baker III, and Shafiq bin Laden. However, without credible sources, it's challenging to confirm the accuracy of these details.
I'm particularly interested in finding reliable sources that can shed light on the alleged connections between the Carlyle Group, Shafiq bin Laden, and the Bush clan. Additionally, any information on investigations, reports, or journalistic works that have explored these relationships would be valuable for a thorough understanding of the situation.
As members of this community, I believe that we can collaboratively examine and verify claims by pooling our knowledge, resources, and critical thinking skills. Please share any relevant sources or information you may have come across or offer insights into the matter. Let's maintain a professional and respectful discussion as we strive for accuracy and thoroughness in our investigation.
Thank you all for your time and assistance. Your contributions are greatly appreciated!
**********
UPDATE:
(link kindly provided by mgahan)
Damn, I hate these conspiracy theories.
submitted by todddesign to conspiracy [link] [comments]
The claim suggests that the Carlyle Group had organized a conference at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel in Washington, D.C., on September 11, 2001. This meeting allegedly included prominent figures such as George H.W. Bush, James Baker III, and Shafiq bin Laden. However, without credible sources, it's challenging to confirm the accuracy of these details.
I'm particularly interested in finding reliable sources that can shed light on the alleged connections between the Carlyle Group, Shafiq bin Laden, and the Bush clan. Additionally, any information on investigations, reports, or journalistic works that have explored these relationships would be valuable for a thorough understanding of the situation.
As members of this community, I believe that we can collaboratively examine and verify claims by pooling our knowledge, resources, and critical thinking skills. Please share any relevant sources or information you may have come across or offer insights into the matter. Let's maintain a professional and respectful discussion as we strive for accuracy and thoroughness in our investigation.
Thank you all for your time and assistance. Your contributions are greatly appreciated!
**********
UPDATE:
Among the other passengers was Shafig bin Laden, a half brother of Osama bin Laden who was reportedly attending the annual investor conference of the Carlyle Group, a politically connected investment company in Washington, on Sept. 11, 2001.https://www.washingtonpost.com/archive/politics/2004/07/22/plane-carried-13-bin-ladens/ab154d45-1f4c-42e6-9522-323140d9e405/
(link kindly provided by mgahan)
It didn't help that as the World Trade Center burned on Sept. 11, 2001, the news interrupted a Carlyle business conference at the Ritz-Carlton Hotel here attended by a brother of Osama bin Laden. Former president Bush, a fellow investor, had been with him at the conference the previous day.https://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/articles/A25406-2003Mar14.html
ON the day Osama bin Laden's men attacked America, Shafiq bin Laden, described as an estranged brother of the terrorist, was at an investment conference in Washington, DC, along with two people who are close to President George Bush: his father, the first President Bush, and James Baker, the former secretary of state who masterminded the legal campaign that secured Dubya's move to the White House.https://www.economist.com/books-and-arts/2003/06/26/c-for-capitalism
On 11 September, while Al-Qaeda's planes slammed into the World Trade Center and the Pentagon, the Carlyle Group hosted a conference at a Washington hotel. Among the guests of honour was a valued investor: Shafig bin Laden, brother to Osama.https://www.theguardian.com/theobserve2002/jun/16/features.magazine57
Damn, I hate these conspiracy theories.
2023.05.27 20:39 Saturn8theson Story
My brother is SUPER petty. To a point where his life actually revolves around small moral victories and “one upping” random people.
He disliked a local politician and wanted to see the politician defeated in the election.
Brother stopped by the office where the TV Camera’s we’re going to be conducting the live debate between several candidates (Covid 19 so each candidate was in their home town).
He entered the office and snuck into the bathroom, the ONLY bathroom for about 100 yards.
He took a giant shit and then proceeded to clog the toilet with two rolls of paper towel. He then plunged the toilet paper down the pipes sufficient to confirm only a plumber would be able to mitigate the issue.
He flushed the toilet so water overflowed (just a bit) and then left the scene.
He then took the plunger with him (under his shirt) and threw it in a dumpster down the street.
The candidate lost, I never did hear about the plumbing issues but safe to say my brother felt empowered!
submitted by Saturn8theson to pettyrevenge [link] [comments]
He disliked a local politician and wanted to see the politician defeated in the election.
Brother stopped by the office where the TV Camera’s we’re going to be conducting the live debate between several candidates (Covid 19 so each candidate was in their home town).
He entered the office and snuck into the bathroom, the ONLY bathroom for about 100 yards.
He took a giant shit and then proceeded to clog the toilet with two rolls of paper towel. He then plunged the toilet paper down the pipes sufficient to confirm only a plumber would be able to mitigate the issue.
He flushed the toilet so water overflowed (just a bit) and then left the scene.
He then took the plunger with him (under his shirt) and threw it in a dumpster down the street.
The candidate lost, I never did hear about the plumbing issues but safe to say my brother felt empowered!
2023.05.27 19:51 No_Competition4897 [HIRING] 25 Jobs in TN Hiring Now!
2023.05.27 19:51 TotallyaNinja Spirits of war
We landed on earth. We were met by an army. Not of the living. Not of the undead. But by spirits. Countless spirits of warriors. No matter where we go we face them. Warriors of countless eras and cultures... so many...
Living Humans cannot interact with them. Few can detect them at all. They know of them... tales of ghost ships, marching lines, and more. They rose to action not soon after we arrived. The living were scarier than the spirits. They waged war like no other race before.
They marched to their death knowing it was a losing battle. I watched one fall as a plasma bolt took his life. Only for his hallow spirit to rise, eyes burning with hatred and determination, and charge. They looked liked the living and as they charged we fired again... and again...
We sought to conquer humanity... how are we supposed to conquer a race in which Death cannot?
The spirits cannot harm us directly but they do not need to. They break the morale of our men with the endless taunting and war cries. They advise the warriors of the living through subtle hints that they should have no way of decrypting. They haunt us as we flee into space...
We have brought back spirits of war to our homes. Our families cannot see them. They haunt us and only us. I have spoken to blood brothers. There is but one way out. Lay down your arms, put out the flames of war in your soul, and hold your family close.
Only then can you no longer see their spirits of war. Do not take this action lightly. Repeat them until you mean it. For only when you accept peace do they hold no power.
- [Memoir of Tx-Io, The Death of a Warrior]
-----------------------------------
You cannot kill a Human. Yes, yes, even as crucible-worlder's they can be harmed. That's not what I meant. You can break their bones, rip their limbs off, and shred their tendons. But they can still survive. They can still kill you.
You can take their life but you will carry that death with you forevermore. You will feel the weight of that life taken every time you look in a mirror. Every time you think about taking up arms they will be waiting. Every time you think about anything but peace they will whisper in the back of your mind.
How do I know? Why do you think I'm an advocate for peaceful talks. I see them. Every morning I wake up I see them behind me in the mirror waiting. Waiting for what? I do not know.
In the most serene moments they judge me. When my love had our first they stood over her and I realized the burden I carry. I quit the military for a reason. I tried self medication and it only got worse. No, the only reprieve I have is when I dream of a peaceful universe one where they hold no power.
Know that I will advocate for peace until the day I see them no longer. Where we live in a peaceful universe. One where no one has to see them.
- [Interview of Ambassador Y'yov at the 21XX Galactic Summit]
-----------------------------------
Bah, Tx-Io and Y'yov are fear mongering imbeciles. Humans are tough bastards I'll grant them that. But there is no supernatural malarkey. Terrans are warriors through and through, they cannot be quelled so easily as many think.
To be from a crucible world is to have survived conditions that can sparsely bear life and should it, said life is as fierce and chaotic as the crucible it arose from. They are not creatures of physical power for a herbivore can grow large and strong.
No, the crucible they came from forged them something greater. A daunting will to survive. One so strong it cannot be explained besides genetic stubbornness. For every which way one can die, they have evolved to survive or delay.
They are fragile but they will not break. They are warriors of life. Strife and war is merely a part of their life. Attempting to challenge them in it is a fools errand. A suicidal act. A deaths wish.
Take this information and leave me. I have no interest in speaking of them any further.
- [Statement by Woti, Galactic Council Advisor]
-----------------------------------
They are built for conflict. Every part of them is. Socially? They despise it. Secretly? They all relish it.
They are mad. Do not engage them. We can only lose.
- [Interview of Ambassador Amoa'h]
-----------------------------------
Over my dead body.
- [Last transmission from U.T. David]
-----------------------------------
Trial by combat! I know this is rigged. But I ain't going out like a bitch. I'm going out swinging.
- [Last record of Terran slave in Obai Empire]
-----------------------------------
With an overwhelming majority support against declaring war on the United Terran Systems the 21XX Galactic Summit comes to a close. With powerful statements, anecdotes, and supplementary material from all around the case was closed and official treaty negotiation will go into effect soon. Many ambassadors are pardoning themselves from such a role and as such it will likely be delayed for another decacycle.
submitted by TotallyaNinja to HFY [link] [comments]
Living Humans cannot interact with them. Few can detect them at all. They know of them... tales of ghost ships, marching lines, and more. They rose to action not soon after we arrived. The living were scarier than the spirits. They waged war like no other race before.
They marched to their death knowing it was a losing battle. I watched one fall as a plasma bolt took his life. Only for his hallow spirit to rise, eyes burning with hatred and determination, and charge. They looked liked the living and as they charged we fired again... and again...
We sought to conquer humanity... how are we supposed to conquer a race in which Death cannot?
The spirits cannot harm us directly but they do not need to. They break the morale of our men with the endless taunting and war cries. They advise the warriors of the living through subtle hints that they should have no way of decrypting. They haunt us as we flee into space...
We have brought back spirits of war to our homes. Our families cannot see them. They haunt us and only us. I have spoken to blood brothers. There is but one way out. Lay down your arms, put out the flames of war in your soul, and hold your family close.
Only then can you no longer see their spirits of war. Do not take this action lightly. Repeat them until you mean it. For only when you accept peace do they hold no power.
- [Memoir of Tx-Io, The Death of a Warrior]
-----------------------------------
You cannot kill a Human. Yes, yes, even as crucible-worlder's they can be harmed. That's not what I meant. You can break their bones, rip their limbs off, and shred their tendons. But they can still survive. They can still kill you.
You can take their life but you will carry that death with you forevermore. You will feel the weight of that life taken every time you look in a mirror. Every time you think about taking up arms they will be waiting. Every time you think about anything but peace they will whisper in the back of your mind.
How do I know? Why do you think I'm an advocate for peaceful talks. I see them. Every morning I wake up I see them behind me in the mirror waiting. Waiting for what? I do not know.
In the most serene moments they judge me. When my love had our first they stood over her and I realized the burden I carry. I quit the military for a reason. I tried self medication and it only got worse. No, the only reprieve I have is when I dream of a peaceful universe one where they hold no power.
Know that I will advocate for peace until the day I see them no longer. Where we live in a peaceful universe. One where no one has to see them.
- [Interview of Ambassador Y'yov at the 21XX Galactic Summit]
-----------------------------------
Bah, Tx-Io and Y'yov are fear mongering imbeciles. Humans are tough bastards I'll grant them that. But there is no supernatural malarkey. Terrans are warriors through and through, they cannot be quelled so easily as many think.
To be from a crucible world is to have survived conditions that can sparsely bear life and should it, said life is as fierce and chaotic as the crucible it arose from. They are not creatures of physical power for a herbivore can grow large and strong.
No, the crucible they came from forged them something greater. A daunting will to survive. One so strong it cannot be explained besides genetic stubbornness. For every which way one can die, they have evolved to survive or delay.
They are fragile but they will not break. They are warriors of life. Strife and war is merely a part of their life. Attempting to challenge them in it is a fools errand. A suicidal act. A deaths wish.
Take this information and leave me. I have no interest in speaking of them any further.
- [Statement by Woti, Galactic Council Advisor]
-----------------------------------
They are built for conflict. Every part of them is. Socially? They despise it. Secretly? They all relish it.
They are mad. Do not engage them. We can only lose.
- [Interview of Ambassador Amoa'h]
-----------------------------------
Over my dead body.
- [Last transmission from U.T. David]
-----------------------------------
Trial by combat! I know this is rigged. But I ain't going out like a bitch. I'm going out swinging.
- [Last record of Terran slave in Obai Empire]
-----------------------------------
With an overwhelming majority support against declaring war on the United Terran Systems the 21XX Galactic Summit comes to a close. With powerful statements, anecdotes, and supplementary material from all around the case was closed and official treaty negotiation will go into effect soon. Many ambassadors are pardoning themselves from such a role and as such it will likely be delayed for another decacycle.
2023.05.27 19:36 No_Competition4897 [HIRING] 25 Jobs in TN Hiring Now!
2023.05.27 18:32 Top-Tune1519 literally the only reason im still delivering.
 | I’ve been delivering for almost 3 years now and the big unexpected tips honestly make up for the countless amount of horrible nights I have. submitted by Top-Tune1519 to UberEATS [link] [comments] |
2023.05.27 16:03 anticbruce Rockwall Texas Directory and Tourist Information
 | submitted by anticbruce to riseyourword [link] [comments] https://preview.redd.it/yxnd0lgg9f2b1.jpg?width=1024&format=pjpg&auto=webp&s=4b5056217865051ebc8a45449412a3c7eee3eaa6 Welcome to Rockwall, Texas – a charming city that offers visitors the perfect blend of small-town charm and big-city amenities. Located just 22 miles east of Dallas, this vibrant community is home to an array of attractions, from unique boutiques and delicious dining options to beautiful parks and scenic lakeside views. Whether you're looking for a weekend getaway or planning an extended stay, our Rockwall Texas directory has everything you need to plan your perfect trip. So buckle up as we take you on a journey through all that this amazing city has to offer! Rockwall Texas Overview Rockwall, Texas is a city located in Rockwall County and is part of the Dallas-Fort Worth metropolitan area. The city has an estimated population of over 47,000 residents and is known for its natural beauty and thriving local economy. One of the most defining features of Rockwall is its namesake - a stunning rock wall that runs along the eastern shore of Lake Ray Hubbard. This geological wonder was formed millions of years ago and provides visitors with breathtaking views as well as a glimpse into the natural history of this region. In addition to its scenic landscapes, Rockwall also boasts a wide range of recreational opportunities for outdoor enthusiasts. From hiking trails to fishing spots, there's something for everyone to enjoy in this vibrant community. But it’s not all about nature here! The city also offers plenty in terms of cultural attractions – like art galleries showcasing local talent or live music venues where you can catch some great acts from across genres. Whether you're looking for adventure or relaxation, culture or nature – Rockwall has it all! Rockwall Texas Directory Looking for a comprehensive directory of businesses and services in Rockwall, Texas? Look no further than the Rockwall Texas Directory! This online resource is your go-to source for everything you need to know about this vibrant and growing community. Whether you're looking for local restaurants, shops, or services like plumbing or car dealerships in Rockwall TX, the directory has it all. It's easy to use and navigate thanks to its user-friendly interface that allows you to filter results by category or keyword search. With so many options available in Rockwall, it can be overwhelming trying to find exactly what you're looking for. That's why the directory is an essential tool - it saves time and energy by providing a one-stop-shop for all your needs. Additionally, business owners can benefit from being listed on the directory as it provides exposure and visibility within the community. The Rockwall Texas Directory is an invaluable resource that both residents and visitors alike should utilize when exploring all that this great city has to offer. Click here to know more https://rockwalltexas.us/directory/ Things to do in Rockwall Texas Rockwall Texas is a great destination for anyone looking to have an exciting and fun-filled vacation experience. There are so many things to do in Rockwall that it can be hard to choose where to start! One of the most popular activities is visiting Lake Ray Hubbard, which offers plenty of opportunities for fishing, boating, and swimming. If you're interested in history, then you should definitely check out the Rockwall County Historical Foundation Museum. This museum features exhibits on local history as well as interactive displays that give visitors a chance to learn more about the area's past. For those who love outdoor adventures, there are several parks located throughout Rockwall Texas. Harry Myers Park has walking trails and playgrounds while The Harbor at Rockwall is perfect for kayaking or paddleboarding. If shopping and dining are your passions, then head over to Downtown Rockwall where you'll find a variety of shops selling everything from antiques to trendy clothes. You'll also find many restaurants serving up delicious food ranging from classic Tex-Mex cuisine at El Chico Caféto seafood dishes at Dodie's Cajun Diner. In conclusion,Rockwall Texas offers something for everyone no matter what their interests may be! Whether you're looking for outdoor activities or just want some quiet time exploring local museums or shopping districts - this city has it all. Rockwall Texas Accommodations Rockwall Texas offers a range of accommodations for every type of traveler. Whether you're looking for luxury or budget-friendly options, there's something for everyone. For those seeking upscale lodging, Hilton Dallas/Rockwall Lakefront is an excellent choice. The hotel boasts stunning views of Lake Ray Hubbard and features elegant rooms with modern amenities such as flat-screen TVs and free Wi-Fi. If you prefer a more budget-friendly option, Best Western Plus Rockwall Inn & Suites provides comfortable rooms at affordable rates. Guests can enjoy complimentary breakfast and access to the outdoor pool and fitness center. For extended stays or larger groups, Homewood Suites by Hilton Dallas-Rockwall has spacious suites with fully equipped kitchens and separate living areas. The hotel also offers free hot breakfast and evening socials during weekdays. In addition to traditional hotels, Rockwall also has vacation rentals available on Airbnb or VRBO. These properties offer unique accommodations ranging from cozy cottages to luxurious lakefront homes. No matter your preference, Rockwall Texas has plenty of accommodation options to choose from that cater to different budgets and needs! Rockwall Texas Dining Rockwall Texas offers a variety of dining options to satisfy any palate. Whether you're looking for casual dining or an upscale experience, Rockwall has it all. For those seeking a classic American meal, head over to Culpepper Steak House. This local favorite has been serving up juicy steaks and fresh seafood since 1995 in their rustic ranch-style setting. Meanwhile, Bin 303 is the perfect spot for wine lovers with its extensive selection of wines from around the world paired with delicious small plate offerings. If you’re in the mood for something spicy, then check out Lupe's Tex-Mex Grill on Ridge Rd that serves authentic Mexican cuisine made from scratch using only high-quality ingredients. Their fajitas are especially popular among locals and tourists alike! For pizza lovers, Dough Boy's Pizza offers hand-crafted pizzas cooked to perfection in their wood-fired oven. The restaurant also features other Italian favorites like pasta dishes, salads and sandwiches. If you're looking for breakfast or lunch fare served up fresh throughout the day then head over to Zanata’s Bakery & Deli which serves creative sandwiches made with artisan breads baked daily along with soups and salads sourced from local ingredients. No matter what your taste buds crave - Rockwall Texas's dining scene will not disappoint! Rockwall Texas Shopping Rockwall Texas is more than just a beautiful city with stunning views of Lake Ray Hubbard and historic architecture. It's also a shopper's paradise! There are plenty of shopping opportunities in Rockwall that cater to all tastes and budgets. If you're looking for high-end boutiques, The Harbor at Rockwall is the perfect place to start your shopping adventure. Here, you'll find unique clothing stores, jewelry shops and art galleries that offer one-of-a-kind items. If you prefer more mainstream brands, head over to the nearby Towne Center where retailers like Target and Bed Bath & Beyond reside. For those who love antiques or vintage finds, Downtown Rockwall has several charming antique shops where you can browse through retro furniture pieces, classic vinyl records or old-fashioned toys. You might even find a treasure! Don't forget about the Farmers Market located downtown on Saturdays from May through September offering fresh produce as well as handmade crafts and goods. No matter what your shopping preferences may be, Rockwall has something for everyone! Conclusion Rockwall Texas is a hidden gem that offers visitors a mix of small-town charm and modern amenities. With its close proximity to Dallas, it's the perfect destination for anyone looking to escape the hustle and bustle of big city life. Whether you're interested in outdoor activities, shopping or simply relaxing in one of the town's many restaurants or cafes, Rockwall has something for everyone. With its diverse range of accommodations and dining options, visitors can easily plan an extended stay without worrying about running out of things to do. And with easy access to major highways, exploring nearby attractions like Lake Ray Hubbard or downtown Dallas is a breeze. If you're considering visiting Rockwall Texas anytime soon, be sure to check out our directory for all the information you need on local businesses. From car dealerships to boutique shops and everything in between - we've got you covered! |
2023.05.27 15:30 No_Competition4897 [HIRING] 25 Jobs in VA Hiring Now!
2023.05.27 15:00 Jay_sizzle TJ Hughes with a TK Maxx in the background Glasgow
 | submitted by Jay_sizzle to FUCKFACEPOD [link] [comments] |
2023.05.27 14:11 keithplacer S44 E24: No Longer on Life Support
S44 E24 was the third-to-last episode of the Cape Ann Gambrel project, and after a few disappointing episodes in a row this one suddenly started showing unexpected signs of life, despite Kevin saying in the open that the project was starting to wind down. He touched on the rainwater cistern installation again even though that seemed covered last time, before having Mark show how they are attempting to keep the side of the old gambrel from rotting again where the road grade is higher than the house, using ice and water shield over the lower boards, what looked like cement board on top of that, a rolled-on waterproofing substance over that, and slabs of granite veneer over that. Certainly a difficult condition to deal with. Going inside, the homeowners wanted to expose the original sheathing on the back wall of the gambrel as an interior finish on what is now an interior wall for the new ell – perhaps an overdose of old wood, but we will see. Combined with the old beams and roof sheathing that will be a big part of the ell ceiling it could be a bit much but that’s what they want.
Speaking of that ceiling, Charlie demonstrated how he was going to install all those sketchy-looking roof sheathing boards as the ell ceiling finish, starting with sheets of plywood painted black to hide the gaps and holes they have, then laying out where the mock beams and rafters would go. It looked like a very labor-intensive job but it’s only money I guess. We switched to a segment with Fred Pendleton of K&R Landscaping making a return appearance to build a long stone wall and brick walkway along the street side of the ell, wrapping around the corner of the 2-storey addition and under the gazebo/screened porch and encompassing the old original cistern they found. It was good to see Fred again and it made me wonder if roles are beginning to evolve since in recent years the show would have had Mark do that kind of work.
Kevin and Brian Bilo showed the plumbing manifold in the basement for the various boiler hot water heating needs, which was interesting in that it was constructed off-site in the Bilo shop and attached to a 4x8 sheet of plywood, then brought to the house for final connection. I had not seen that method before but considering the complexity of these installations it makes some sense. Brian looked a bit more comfortable talking on camera than he has in the past so he may be coming along. Then we transitioned to a segment on the old stair in the gambrel with Tom and carpenter Matt Edmonds who was on the Belmont project several years ago before leaving the trade for a while, then returning to Silva Brothers a year ago. The segment was a bit disjointed and suffered in the edit suite unfortunately as it didn’t seem to flow well. Kevin and Tom then installed a window in a metal insulated door that lacked one, a job we probably didn’t need to see given everything else going on but there it was. At the end we got to see Charlie finishing the mock exposed ceiling in the ell which did indeed look like an old barn ceiling despite a fake center beam he crafted from old boards from another job, but homeowner Helen was pleased that she got what she wanted.
While the project as a whole still seems somewhat bananas, at least we got to see a number of things getting done even if some of the segments (the Tommy ones especially) seemed somewhat bumpy. Next week, more old wood!
submitted by keithplacer to Thisoldhouse [link] [comments]
Speaking of that ceiling, Charlie demonstrated how he was going to install all those sketchy-looking roof sheathing boards as the ell ceiling finish, starting with sheets of plywood painted black to hide the gaps and holes they have, then laying out where the mock beams and rafters would go. It looked like a very labor-intensive job but it’s only money I guess. We switched to a segment with Fred Pendleton of K&R Landscaping making a return appearance to build a long stone wall and brick walkway along the street side of the ell, wrapping around the corner of the 2-storey addition and under the gazebo/screened porch and encompassing the old original cistern they found. It was good to see Fred again and it made me wonder if roles are beginning to evolve since in recent years the show would have had Mark do that kind of work.
Kevin and Brian Bilo showed the plumbing manifold in the basement for the various boiler hot water heating needs, which was interesting in that it was constructed off-site in the Bilo shop and attached to a 4x8 sheet of plywood, then brought to the house for final connection. I had not seen that method before but considering the complexity of these installations it makes some sense. Brian looked a bit more comfortable talking on camera than he has in the past so he may be coming along. Then we transitioned to a segment on the old stair in the gambrel with Tom and carpenter Matt Edmonds who was on the Belmont project several years ago before leaving the trade for a while, then returning to Silva Brothers a year ago. The segment was a bit disjointed and suffered in the edit suite unfortunately as it didn’t seem to flow well. Kevin and Tom then installed a window in a metal insulated door that lacked one, a job we probably didn’t need to see given everything else going on but there it was. At the end we got to see Charlie finishing the mock exposed ceiling in the ell which did indeed look like an old barn ceiling despite a fake center beam he crafted from old boards from another job, but homeowner Helen was pleased that she got what she wanted.
While the project as a whole still seems somewhat bananas, at least we got to see a number of things getting done even if some of the segments (the Tommy ones especially) seemed somewhat bumpy. Next week, more old wood!
2023.05.27 06:49 dwredbaker LETTER TO A DEAR BROTHER ON TINA TURNER AND THE END OF THOSE WHO FOLLOW BUDDHISM
My dear Brother John, Thank you for your recent letter and the questions you have asked concerning Tina Turner and the Salvation of those who follow the Buddhist path. I am not surprised that you being a newly converted Christian asked me such a question. But do not the words of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ settle that question once and for all, dear Brother? For He bluntly said,
“I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father, but BY ME!” [John 14:6]
And His disciples after Him reiterated the same truth by asserting, “Neither is there salvation in ANY OTHER: for THERE IS NONE OTHER NAME UNDER HEAVEN given among men, whereby we must be saved.” [Acts 4:12]
I understand that there are a lot of folks on Social-media who are praising Tina Turner and all the good that she has done etc, saying that “she is in a better place now” blah blah. And as far as I know, only one prominent Christian writer, Ray Comfort spelled out the facts on Twitter, saying – “The Queen of rock ‘n’ roll passed into eternity today. All the money that Tina Turner possessed, all her fame, all her awards, and accolades now mean nothing. The only thing that matters, is “Were her sins forgiven?”
Oh, brother that sure stirred a hornet’s nest amongst the ungodly, with people bashing this man right, left and center . . . you know why? It’s because he was coming against their idol, and in exposing HER he was exposing THEIR OWN GODLESS LIFESTYLE AND THEIR INEVITABLE END, if you will. It happens every time you speak out exposing the wrath of God that awaits those who know not Christ, celebrity or not.
Our Lord stated that in no uncertain terms, “He that believeth on the Son hath everlasting life: and he that believeth not the Son shall not see life; but THE WRATH OF GOD ABIDETH ON HIM!” [John 3:36]
So, what of Tina Turner and her faith? WHAT did she believe and practice? While Tina Turner is heralded as a Rhythm n Blues and Rock icon, her Buddhist faith was the soul that drove her eventful life and career.
She often credited the Buddhist religion with helping her find the strength to leave her abusive relationship with her husband Ike Turner in 1976. In the years since, Turner was known to recite Buddhist chants daily, even chanting on national television on Larry King’s CNN show in 1997, a practice she continued until her death on Wednesday, at 83, in her home in Küsnacht, near Zurich, Switzerland, where she had kept her own Buddhist shrine.
Here's what she said concerning her Buddhist faith, “Chanting helped me to go within myself and open deep sources of happiness and wisdom in my own heart and mind," she revealed. "Soon, I realized that I already had within me everything I needed to change my circumstances and create a truly happy life. We all have that, and I want everyone to know it. I’ve met people from all over the world, from many cultures and faiths, and I believe that all religious traditions share the same basic aspirations at their core—to experience everlasting joy by aligning with the positive forces of the universe. We may describe this ultimate reality as Jehovah, God, Allah, Jesus, Hashem, Tao, Brahma, the Creator, the Mystic Law, the Universe, the Force, Buddha nature, Christ consciousness, or any number of other expressions.”
Read that again, John, she said that she “already had within me everything I needed to change my circumstances and create a truly happy life.” Oh, how different from the apostle who said, “For I know that in me [that is, in my flesh,] dwelleth no good thing!” [Rom 7:18]
Any ‘Christian’ who knows Tina’s lifestyle and beliefs and thinks that “she is in a better place now” needs to be Born-again! And for those who argue that such ungodly sinners could have repented on their death-beds, A.W. Pink’s words are appropriate –“What insanity is it that persuades multitudes to defer the effort to repent till their deathbeds? Do they imagine that when they are so weak that they can no longer turn their bodies they will have strength to turn their souls from sin? Far sooner could they turn themselves back to perfect physical health.”
Coming back to Tina Turner, she was deluded into thinking that all religions “share the same basic aspirations at their core—to experience everlasting joy by aligning with the positive forces of the universe” She is dead wrong!
As we have said in many of our posts, there are basically only TWO RELIGIONS in the world. One says, “IF YOU WILL do such and such, God will graciously bestow His blessing upon you.” The thousand and one varieties of this religion differ only on what the “such and such” is that you must be willing to do. One variety says bathe in a sacred river, another bids you to sit and chant mantras for hours on end, while another beckons you to kiss the sacred rock located in the holy city, still another says be baptized or some similar rite, and in distinctly evangelical circles this religion emphasizes, “IF YOU WILL OPEN YOUR HEART, THEN GOD WILL etc . . .”
Now the second religion is the message of the Bible. It is the gospel of FREE GRACE. It does not look to God for the PROVISION and then turn to man for the POWER, but it boldly proclaims that the same sovereign grace that planned salvation for helpless sinners also furnishes them with the ability to desire and receive it. This second religion not only starts at a different place, it works on a different principle, and moves toward a different goal. In short, it is a totally different religion.
The religion based on free will which include Hinduism, Buddhism, Mohammedanism, and Roman Catholicism [i.e., Arminianism in general – If you will …], and that based of free grace [i.e., Calvinism — God makes us willing …] are two very distinct and opposite religions that differ on every theological point at which they meet.
But since your question concerns Tina Turner and her Buddhist faith, let us briefly examine the religion she followed.
Buddhism teaches that man has to work in order to find salvation from suffering. He does this by following the 'Noble Truths': Right Understanding, Right Thought, Right Speech, Right Action, Right Livelihood, Right Effort, Right Awareness, Right Meditation.
This is just the proud error that man has believed since the beginning: self-salvation. The Buddhist does not believe that he is a sinner and needs to be saved from the guilt, punishment and pollution of sin. Buddhists do not have a correct view of sin: the transgression of the holy law of God. Buddhists have no understanding of original sin: that all people are born totally depraved because they sinned 'in Adam'. They believe that man is basically good and can achieve ‘enlightenment’ by his own efforts. However, all the supposed good works man does are eloquently described in Scripture as 'dung' [Phil. 3:8] and 'filthy rags' [Isaiah 64:9].
The Christian on the other hand does not want to be found in his own righteousness, but to be found in Christ. Paul [who was a Pharisee before his conversion] says this: 'But what things were gain to me, those I counted loss for Christ. Yea doubtless, and I count all things but loss for the excellency of the knowledge of Christ Jesus my Lord: for whom I have suffered the loss of all things, and I do count them but dung, that I may win Christ, and be found in Him, not having my own righteousness, which is of the law, but that which is through the faith of Christ, the righteousness which is of God by faith' [Phil 3:7-9]. When God saves a person, all glory must go to Him. No sinner can boast in God's presence that he attained salvation in any sense by his own efforts. Any sinner who believes that salvation is by works is lost, no matter how sincere and outwardly nice he is. That includes all Buddhists.
PEACE IS TO BE FOUND IN CHRIST ALONE:
Peace comes not from relentlessly chanting Buddhist chants or Rosaries, but from having one's sins forgiven in the blood of Jesus Christ. When a sinner knows, really knows, that he has eternal life, trusting that Jesus Christ bore the curse and guilt of his sins, he has peace. How can a Buddhist have peace? He never knows if he has done enough to achieve salvation. He can never tell if on his death he will cease to exist [which is the ultimate goal of Buddhism!], come back as a worse or better form of life, or awake in hell. What a torment that is!
The child of God however knows peace: 'I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep: for Thou, LORD, only makest me dwell in safety' [Ps. 4:8]; 'Great peace have they which love Thy law: and nothing shall offend them'[Ps. 119:165]. Christ is called the 'Prince of Peace' [Isa. 9:6]; and 'the chastisement of our peace was upon Him' [Isa. 53:5], meaning that the punishment which brought peace to sinners was upon Him. Only by satisfying God's justice on the cross could Christ make peace for sinners with God. However, to the wicked 'there is no peace' [Isa. 57:21] because they 'have not known the way of peace' [Rom. 3:17].
To His followers Christ says, 'Peace I give unto you' [John 14:27]. Many of the Epistles start with the greeting of peace [Rom. 1:7 etc.]. The fruit of the Spirit is peace [Gal. 5:22]. Christ's work brings peace: 'Being justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ' [Rom. 5:1]. 'For he is our peace, who hath made both one, and hath broken down the middle wall of partition between us'[Eph. 2:14]. He 'made peace through the blood of his cross' [Col. 1:20]. All who reject the peace-making Atonement of Christ on the cross are lost, including all Buddhists.
I trust that answers your query briefly. And in closing let me add that all who have abandoned the Faith of their fathers, [I am speaking here specifically of Hollywood and Contemporary music and sports celebrities] for a faith or a god other than the one the Bible proclaims are LOST, PERIOD!
“O LORD, the hope of Israel, all that forsake Thee shall be ashamed, and they that depart from Me shall be written in the earth, because they have forsaken the LORD, the fountain of living waters!” [Jer 17:13]
with much Love thy Brother for whom Christ died Brother Mike
Mike is a brother from India....Red Baker
submitted by dwredbaker to OldPaths [link] [comments]
“I am the way, the truth, and the life: no man cometh unto the Father, but BY ME!” [John 14:6]
And His disciples after Him reiterated the same truth by asserting, “Neither is there salvation in ANY OTHER: for THERE IS NONE OTHER NAME UNDER HEAVEN given among men, whereby we must be saved.” [Acts 4:12]
I understand that there are a lot of folks on Social-media who are praising Tina Turner and all the good that she has done etc, saying that “she is in a better place now” blah blah. And as far as I know, only one prominent Christian writer, Ray Comfort spelled out the facts on Twitter, saying – “The Queen of rock ‘n’ roll passed into eternity today. All the money that Tina Turner possessed, all her fame, all her awards, and accolades now mean nothing. The only thing that matters, is “Were her sins forgiven?”
Oh, brother that sure stirred a hornet’s nest amongst the ungodly, with people bashing this man right, left and center . . . you know why? It’s because he was coming against their idol, and in exposing HER he was exposing THEIR OWN GODLESS LIFESTYLE AND THEIR INEVITABLE END, if you will. It happens every time you speak out exposing the wrath of God that awaits those who know not Christ, celebrity or not.
Our Lord stated that in no uncertain terms, “He that believeth on the Son hath everlasting life: and he that believeth not the Son shall not see life; but THE WRATH OF GOD ABIDETH ON HIM!” [John 3:36]
So, what of Tina Turner and her faith? WHAT did she believe and practice? While Tina Turner is heralded as a Rhythm n Blues and Rock icon, her Buddhist faith was the soul that drove her eventful life and career.
She often credited the Buddhist religion with helping her find the strength to leave her abusive relationship with her husband Ike Turner in 1976. In the years since, Turner was known to recite Buddhist chants daily, even chanting on national television on Larry King’s CNN show in 1997, a practice she continued until her death on Wednesday, at 83, in her home in Küsnacht, near Zurich, Switzerland, where she had kept her own Buddhist shrine.
Here's what she said concerning her Buddhist faith, “Chanting helped me to go within myself and open deep sources of happiness and wisdom in my own heart and mind," she revealed. "Soon, I realized that I already had within me everything I needed to change my circumstances and create a truly happy life. We all have that, and I want everyone to know it. I’ve met people from all over the world, from many cultures and faiths, and I believe that all religious traditions share the same basic aspirations at their core—to experience everlasting joy by aligning with the positive forces of the universe. We may describe this ultimate reality as Jehovah, God, Allah, Jesus, Hashem, Tao, Brahma, the Creator, the Mystic Law, the Universe, the Force, Buddha nature, Christ consciousness, or any number of other expressions.”
Read that again, John, she said that she “already had within me everything I needed to change my circumstances and create a truly happy life.” Oh, how different from the apostle who said, “For I know that in me [that is, in my flesh,] dwelleth no good thing!” [Rom 7:18]
Any ‘Christian’ who knows Tina’s lifestyle and beliefs and thinks that “she is in a better place now” needs to be Born-again! And for those who argue that such ungodly sinners could have repented on their death-beds, A.W. Pink’s words are appropriate –“What insanity is it that persuades multitudes to defer the effort to repent till their deathbeds? Do they imagine that when they are so weak that they can no longer turn their bodies they will have strength to turn their souls from sin? Far sooner could they turn themselves back to perfect physical health.”
Coming back to Tina Turner, she was deluded into thinking that all religions “share the same basic aspirations at their core—to experience everlasting joy by aligning with the positive forces of the universe” She is dead wrong!
As we have said in many of our posts, there are basically only TWO RELIGIONS in the world. One says, “IF YOU WILL do such and such, God will graciously bestow His blessing upon you.” The thousand and one varieties of this religion differ only on what the “such and such” is that you must be willing to do. One variety says bathe in a sacred river, another bids you to sit and chant mantras for hours on end, while another beckons you to kiss the sacred rock located in the holy city, still another says be baptized or some similar rite, and in distinctly evangelical circles this religion emphasizes, “IF YOU WILL OPEN YOUR HEART, THEN GOD WILL etc . . .”
Now the second religion is the message of the Bible. It is the gospel of FREE GRACE. It does not look to God for the PROVISION and then turn to man for the POWER, but it boldly proclaims that the same sovereign grace that planned salvation for helpless sinners also furnishes them with the ability to desire and receive it. This second religion not only starts at a different place, it works on a different principle, and moves toward a different goal. In short, it is a totally different religion.
The religion based on free will which include Hinduism, Buddhism, Mohammedanism, and Roman Catholicism [i.e., Arminianism in general – If you will …], and that based of free grace [i.e., Calvinism — God makes us willing …] are two very distinct and opposite religions that differ on every theological point at which they meet.
But since your question concerns Tina Turner and her Buddhist faith, let us briefly examine the religion she followed.
Buddhism teaches that man has to work in order to find salvation from suffering. He does this by following the 'Noble Truths': Right Understanding, Right Thought, Right Speech, Right Action, Right Livelihood, Right Effort, Right Awareness, Right Meditation.
This is just the proud error that man has believed since the beginning: self-salvation. The Buddhist does not believe that he is a sinner and needs to be saved from the guilt, punishment and pollution of sin. Buddhists do not have a correct view of sin: the transgression of the holy law of God. Buddhists have no understanding of original sin: that all people are born totally depraved because they sinned 'in Adam'. They believe that man is basically good and can achieve ‘enlightenment’ by his own efforts. However, all the supposed good works man does are eloquently described in Scripture as 'dung' [Phil. 3:8] and 'filthy rags' [Isaiah 64:9].
The Christian on the other hand does not want to be found in his own righteousness, but to be found in Christ. Paul [who was a Pharisee before his conversion] says this: 'But what things were gain to me, those I counted loss for Christ. Yea doubtless, and I count all things but loss for the excellency of the knowledge of Christ Jesus my Lord: for whom I have suffered the loss of all things, and I do count them but dung, that I may win Christ, and be found in Him, not having my own righteousness, which is of the law, but that which is through the faith of Christ, the righteousness which is of God by faith' [Phil 3:7-9]. When God saves a person, all glory must go to Him. No sinner can boast in God's presence that he attained salvation in any sense by his own efforts. Any sinner who believes that salvation is by works is lost, no matter how sincere and outwardly nice he is. That includes all Buddhists.
PEACE IS TO BE FOUND IN CHRIST ALONE:
Peace comes not from relentlessly chanting Buddhist chants or Rosaries, but from having one's sins forgiven in the blood of Jesus Christ. When a sinner knows, really knows, that he has eternal life, trusting that Jesus Christ bore the curse and guilt of his sins, he has peace. How can a Buddhist have peace? He never knows if he has done enough to achieve salvation. He can never tell if on his death he will cease to exist [which is the ultimate goal of Buddhism!], come back as a worse or better form of life, or awake in hell. What a torment that is!
The child of God however knows peace: 'I will both lay me down in peace, and sleep: for Thou, LORD, only makest me dwell in safety' [Ps. 4:8]; 'Great peace have they which love Thy law: and nothing shall offend them'[Ps. 119:165]. Christ is called the 'Prince of Peace' [Isa. 9:6]; and 'the chastisement of our peace was upon Him' [Isa. 53:5], meaning that the punishment which brought peace to sinners was upon Him. Only by satisfying God's justice on the cross could Christ make peace for sinners with God. However, to the wicked 'there is no peace' [Isa. 57:21] because they 'have not known the way of peace' [Rom. 3:17].
To His followers Christ says, 'Peace I give unto you' [John 14:27]. Many of the Epistles start with the greeting of peace [Rom. 1:7 etc.]. The fruit of the Spirit is peace [Gal. 5:22]. Christ's work brings peace: 'Being justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ' [Rom. 5:1]. 'For he is our peace, who hath made both one, and hath broken down the middle wall of partition between us'[Eph. 2:14]. He 'made peace through the blood of his cross' [Col. 1:20]. All who reject the peace-making Atonement of Christ on the cross are lost, including all Buddhists.
I trust that answers your query briefly. And in closing let me add that all who have abandoned the Faith of their fathers, [I am speaking here specifically of Hollywood and Contemporary music and sports celebrities] for a faith or a god other than the one the Bible proclaims are LOST, PERIOD!
“O LORD, the hope of Israel, all that forsake Thee shall be ashamed, and they that depart from Me shall be written in the earth, because they have forsaken the LORD, the fountain of living waters!” [Jer 17:13]
with much Love thy Brother for whom Christ died Brother Mike
Mike is a brother from India....Red Baker
2023.05.27 05:18 thanaianthe tips for people with bpd who are starting their first job soon
hi guys,
so uh ive (22F) been diagnosed with bpd at 2019. ive been on off with professional help. no medication. me and mom have been reliant on moms youngest brother's fam for years due to family issues between mom and my sperm donor. and after years of consistent pressure of needing to work and being held by mom (shes overprotective af), i finally am allowed and finally lucky to have landed a job at a pizza restau and will start soon. i just need to do the last steps, get my stuff, and then ill start probably first or second week of june.
my question is, since ive been spiraling alot and my bpd getting worse each day. how do i mask it and pretend to be a happy no mental illness person at work? how do i cope while breaking down inside or smth? ive always been the i dont like people type of person but i really need the job so everyone around me can stop putting pressure on me and lessen them driving me insane.
when i was interviewed, i succeeded at not breaking down and i was dared like if am amenable at becoming childrens party host or a pizza baker and i said yes to all so i might get those roles. i need all tips i can get.
P.S. while I know in the US you can land a job at like 16, its different in my country. im not a degree holder which made job hunting extra difficult. alot of companies even fastfoods prefer degree holders. so if u find this like my fault or smth pls try to understand the circumstances. tysm
submitted by thanaianthe to BPD [link] [comments]
so uh ive (22F) been diagnosed with bpd at 2019. ive been on off with professional help. no medication. me and mom have been reliant on moms youngest brother's fam for years due to family issues between mom and my sperm donor. and after years of consistent pressure of needing to work and being held by mom (shes overprotective af), i finally am allowed and finally lucky to have landed a job at a pizza restau and will start soon. i just need to do the last steps, get my stuff, and then ill start probably first or second week of june.
my question is, since ive been spiraling alot and my bpd getting worse each day. how do i mask it and pretend to be a happy no mental illness person at work? how do i cope while breaking down inside or smth? ive always been the i dont like people type of person but i really need the job so everyone around me can stop putting pressure on me and lessen them driving me insane.
when i was interviewed, i succeeded at not breaking down and i was dared like if am amenable at becoming childrens party host or a pizza baker and i said yes to all so i might get those roles. i need all tips i can get.
P.S. while I know in the US you can land a job at like 16, its different in my country. im not a degree holder which made job hunting extra difficult. alot of companies even fastfoods prefer degree holders. so if u find this like my fault or smth pls try to understand the circumstances. tysm
2023.05.26 23:48 HiddenWinds The River Cries
I live in a rural town in North Dakota, and the family property sits on about 120 acres. While I love the land, there's just a lack of modern commodities one becomes accustomed to.
Two small hunting cabins sit a few yards away from a small river that runs through the property. There's no electricity or plumbing out there, as my father wanted to keep the estate "authentic" to how his grandfather had built it, with only minor renovations being made to ensure that the cabins don't completely collapse. As miserable as it was out there, the property offered a retreat, an escape from reality. After I got into a bad fight with my girlfriend, that's just what I thought I needed.
So there I was, packing a backpack full of basic supplies before getting in the old Dodge Durango that was practically one ticket away from the junkyard. Sadly, by the time I got to the gate, ignoring the multiple "trespassers will be shot" signs, I parked off to the side, questioning my life choices, before locking the car and starting the dull walk towards the cabins. The trail was rough and looked like it hadn't been maintained over the years, but that was expected since my older brother was supposed to "manage" the property. When he could hardly hold down a job for more than a month. At least he was kind enough to give me the keys for a week on the condition that I clean the place up before I leave.
When I finally got to the cabins, I tried the keys to no avail, cursing under my breath. After I tactically fell inside via the rear window, using my backpack as a cushion, I unlocked the door from the inside and made myself at home. Not even going to bother trying to get into the second cabin, which was more of a shed for extra storage anyway, I decided the best thing to do was heat up a slightly expired can of ravioli. Falling asleep on the couch. Afterwards, I woke up late at night to what sounded like a woman crying.
Logically, I tried going back to sleep, but the soft crying continued until I felt a little too uneasy for comfort. Grabbing my coat and a flashlight, I headed towards the door before I remembered I had left my revolver in the car. Why would there be a woman crying outside in the first place? Maybe it's a mountain lion or some other weird animal I'm unfamiliar with. Am I really about to go outside in the dark without a weapon just to look for someone crying? Why would anyone else be out here anyway? The closest town was 9 miles away; even if their car broke down, why would they be this far from the property? These are the thoughts that ran through my head as I held my hand on the knob.
Suddenly, the crying stopped, catching me off guard. Opening the door, I peered outside, trying to get a view. All I could see was darkness. Once my eyes adjusted, I closed the door behind me as I walked away from the safety of the old wooden door. Listening closely, I was able to confirm that the crying did in fact stop before realizing that this is exactly how people die in horror movies. I made a U-turn for the door, but as I tried to push it back open, it failed to budge. Feeling a cold chill run down my spine, a soft cry could be heard from the back as I realized that I knew that voice—her voice. How was that possible, though? That's the whole reason I was hiding out here in the first place?
Walking towards the river was difficult; each step closer made me want to bolt in the opposite direction. I slowly made my way towards the water's edge. Looking down into an all-too-familiar spot where I once learned how to fish, I now saw my reflection in the darkness of the water. A strong sense of peace washed over me as I proceeded to walk into the river, before I heard that damn voice laughing. My foot slipped on a stone, and I lost balance, falling into the river. Cold and no longer feeling at peace, it was as if frozen hands wrapped around my throat, trying to hold me down. Attempting to escape, I grabbed the ground, searching for anything I could use, my hand landing on a small round rock.
Swinging the rock under the water proved difficult, as I was unable to make contact with what I thought was holding me down. No longer could I hold my breath, and as I tried to breathe, water filled my lungs, and my vision began to fade. I woke up on the couch not too long ago. Just a bad dream, I thought, and that's what I try to tell myself. Nonetheless, I can't explain why my clothes were wet or the footprints in the mud outside going towards the river. All I know is that I'm never coming back here again.
submitted by HiddenWinds to CreepyPastas [link] [comments]
Two small hunting cabins sit a few yards away from a small river that runs through the property. There's no electricity or plumbing out there, as my father wanted to keep the estate "authentic" to how his grandfather had built it, with only minor renovations being made to ensure that the cabins don't completely collapse. As miserable as it was out there, the property offered a retreat, an escape from reality. After I got into a bad fight with my girlfriend, that's just what I thought I needed.
So there I was, packing a backpack full of basic supplies before getting in the old Dodge Durango that was practically one ticket away from the junkyard. Sadly, by the time I got to the gate, ignoring the multiple "trespassers will be shot" signs, I parked off to the side, questioning my life choices, before locking the car and starting the dull walk towards the cabins. The trail was rough and looked like it hadn't been maintained over the years, but that was expected since my older brother was supposed to "manage" the property. When he could hardly hold down a job for more than a month. At least he was kind enough to give me the keys for a week on the condition that I clean the place up before I leave.
When I finally got to the cabins, I tried the keys to no avail, cursing under my breath. After I tactically fell inside via the rear window, using my backpack as a cushion, I unlocked the door from the inside and made myself at home. Not even going to bother trying to get into the second cabin, which was more of a shed for extra storage anyway, I decided the best thing to do was heat up a slightly expired can of ravioli. Falling asleep on the couch. Afterwards, I woke up late at night to what sounded like a woman crying.
Logically, I tried going back to sleep, but the soft crying continued until I felt a little too uneasy for comfort. Grabbing my coat and a flashlight, I headed towards the door before I remembered I had left my revolver in the car. Why would there be a woman crying outside in the first place? Maybe it's a mountain lion or some other weird animal I'm unfamiliar with. Am I really about to go outside in the dark without a weapon just to look for someone crying? Why would anyone else be out here anyway? The closest town was 9 miles away; even if their car broke down, why would they be this far from the property? These are the thoughts that ran through my head as I held my hand on the knob.
Suddenly, the crying stopped, catching me off guard. Opening the door, I peered outside, trying to get a view. All I could see was darkness. Once my eyes adjusted, I closed the door behind me as I walked away from the safety of the old wooden door. Listening closely, I was able to confirm that the crying did in fact stop before realizing that this is exactly how people die in horror movies. I made a U-turn for the door, but as I tried to push it back open, it failed to budge. Feeling a cold chill run down my spine, a soft cry could be heard from the back as I realized that I knew that voice—her voice. How was that possible, though? That's the whole reason I was hiding out here in the first place?
Walking towards the river was difficult; each step closer made me want to bolt in the opposite direction. I slowly made my way towards the water's edge. Looking down into an all-too-familiar spot where I once learned how to fish, I now saw my reflection in the darkness of the water. A strong sense of peace washed over me as I proceeded to walk into the river, before I heard that damn voice laughing. My foot slipped on a stone, and I lost balance, falling into the river. Cold and no longer feeling at peace, it was as if frozen hands wrapped around my throat, trying to hold me down. Attempting to escape, I grabbed the ground, searching for anything I could use, my hand landing on a small round rock.
Swinging the rock under the water proved difficult, as I was unable to make contact with what I thought was holding me down. No longer could I hold my breath, and as I tried to breathe, water filled my lungs, and my vision began to fade. I woke up on the couch not too long ago. Just a bad dream, I thought, and that's what I try to tell myself. Nonetheless, I can't explain why my clothes were wet or the footprints in the mud outside going towards the river. All I know is that I'm never coming back here again.
2023.05.26 23:27 NomadicNature Dealing with problem clients
We are currently building a house for a buyer (purchased off plans - semi custom) who has spent the entire build job looking over every shoulder and pointing to problems both real and imagined. He is getting his "information" from YouTube videos, a brother on the east coast who is a "builder" and other competitors working in the neighborhood. He is on site 2x a day looking for problems and, instead of questions we get "why are you doing it wrong"?
His wife hired a designer to pick out plumbing fixtures and we are now being blamed that they didn't know they had to have Moen value trim covers (rough-in was completed). According to the store they asked the right question ("are valves in yet?") and the designer said it didn't matter - but this has turned into almost shouting matches that it is our fault as the builder for not holding their hand.
Any advice on this as we are about at the end of our rope, but still have to finish. The owner is clearly decided we are out to cheat him and ruin his "dream home" despite building the house in today's climate at prices agreed to in November 2022 with no request for more funds.
submitted by NomadicNature to Homebuilding [link] [comments]
His wife hired a designer to pick out plumbing fixtures and we are now being blamed that they didn't know they had to have Moen value trim covers (rough-in was completed). According to the store they asked the right question ("are valves in yet?") and the designer said it didn't matter - but this has turned into almost shouting matches that it is our fault as the builder for not holding their hand.
Any advice on this as we are about at the end of our rope, but still have to finish. The owner is clearly decided we are out to cheat him and ruin his "dream home" despite building the house in today's climate at prices agreed to in November 2022 with no request for more funds.