Not to worry. There are a few reasons why this can happen but rest assured we will always get you up and running - sooner, rather than later!
The most common cause behind this is that you have multiple equinux IDs and you have tried to activate the software again using your equinux ID that doesn't actually have the license registered to it. So when it says: 'registered to another user' - it actually means YOU! The software just doesn't know you've got 2 accounts.
So obviously the best way to sort this out is to use your equinux ID that does have the license registered to it and then you'll be ready to go.
If you have nothing on your other account it would be great if you could send us a quick email explaining that you have 2 IDs and we can delete the one you don't need.
If you would also like to have everything on one account and have us delete the spare you can transfer your licenses from one account to the other. Just click the link to find out how.
Sure that's not the reason?
Then all you need to do is drop us an email stating your equinux ID and the Activation Code you were trying to use, along with some proof of purchase. A scanned receipt or confirmation email will do just fine. Then we can have a look at everything and sort your account out so that you can get on with using the software you bought!


We are on our way to Anchorage and have a 3 hour layover at ORD. I wanted to share my love of Chicago and their fine cuisine. I had a Chicago Dog for lunch and I wanted to recommend it. It's been said this dog has been drug through the garden and I tend to agree.
The dog begins with a Vienna Beef hot dog on a poppyseed bun; condiments include tomatoes, onions, yellow mustard, sport peppers, bright green relish, dill pickle spear and topped with celery salt. If this all sounds like a bit much, I understand. I only marginally like half of the things included, but somehow it all works together.
You don't have to be in Chicago to enjoy this hot dog, though it is preferred. Visit your local dog shop and try it out!
This entry was posted in Food & Drink and tagged chicago, hot dog, vienna. Bookmark the permalink.


text:
She's the First executes noteworthy bake sale
Stephanie Chen
A table of baked goods ranging from pumpkin bars to marshmallow pops were sold and presented at the event with great success.
Stephanie Chen, Editor-in-Chief
A table covered with a bright yellow tablecloth supports the weight of a pan of frosted pumpkin bars, boxes of brownies, platters of cookies, bagged marshmallow pops, and tie-dyed muffins and cupcakes. Brightly colored flags stick out of the muffins, toothpicks set in the center of spiraled buttercream frosting. At the side, rainbow Puravida bracelets hang from a bracelet tree with spiral branches. Handfuls of temporary tattoos lay at its base: an assortment of colored cupcakes, She's the First logos, and Bake a Change messages. The resulting scene — Brookfield Central She's the First's Bake a Change Tie-Dye bake sale.
An initiative of the entire She's the First organization, Bake a Change is a bake sale that takes place in the month of November. Like most She's the First events, the purpose is to raise money to help fund girls' education. The event came to the attention of the Brookfield Central chapter after the She's the First Campus reached out to them through social media. They hosted the event on Friday, November 30 as their first fundraiser of the year.
To get the most out of the event, members were invited to bring baked goods. With the theme of the bake sale being tie-dye, She's the First ended up with an assortment of rainbow sweets contributed by seven dedicated members. "After break, I figured not many people would be able to make treats so soon, but everyone really came through for us. I was really happy to see that so many were dedicated to the cause and willing to take time out of their Thursday nights on such short notice to help bake something," said Communications Chair Shweta Panda ('20). Panda herself made tie-dyed muffins, topped with frosting and toothpick flags.
The bake sale took place during lunch periods, accumulating a total of $164.50 at the end. Panda expressed pride in the results: "I think the event exceeded my expectations. I was very pleased with what we had accomplished. Our hard work most definitely showed results. We have a strong and growing chapter, and it is great to see that so many of them are dedicated to our events." Panda attributed a portion of the success to Vice President Elise Sadler ('19), saying "Special shout out to Elise, VP of the club, who helped me figure out some of the logistics, came in early, and bought tattoo papers. She helped me ensure everything ran smoothly and was engaging for those involved."
Still, the event was not without its mishaps. Halfway through B lunch, Hannah Keehan ('20) approached the Bake a Change table holding one of the free temporary tattoos. The issue: the words on the tattoo were forward-facing. The tattoo designs had been taken off of the She's the First website and printed onto tattoo paper– in color –with the help of the librarian. What hadn't been noticed at the time had now become apparent to Panda– if the words were forward-facing prior to application, they would read backwards once applied. Panda decided to test a tattoo out on herself to see if this was indeed the case. Much to her dismay, the tattoo didn't work, forwards or backwards. The solution– reclassify the tattoos as stickers. "Maybe we should have just stuck with stickers altogether," commented Panda.
Despite this, Panda enjoyed the event, especially the colorful theme. "Tie dye in baked goods is far from the conventional bake sale agenda and definitely eye-catching. A win for everyone, if you ask me (us because we make the moolas and the curious eyes that delight at our colorful cupcakes)." For their next large-scale initiative, She's the First plans on hosting Cheese the First, an entirely cheese-based dining event. Panda herself anticipates the event: "Seeing the success here, I can't wait to see what we come up with on a larger scale."
Stephanie Chen, Head EiC
Stephanie Chen is currently a senior at BCHS, the head Editor in Chief of Tyro and is also involved in: Battle of the Books, DECA, Math Club, Science Bowl,...
BC Ski and Snowboard Club Hits the Slopes
FTC Robotics: An Experience in Engineering and Business
Brookfield Central Mock Trial: Wins/Accomplishments
Starting the 2022 Forensics Season
BC Class Councils: Ready to Take On the Year
The Start of the Music Man
Anel Robinson ('21) on why she started Black Student Union and her goals for the future
What's up with Anime Club?
Gumbo, Beignets and Jazz: Brookfield Central Band makes new experiences in New Orleans

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


text:
Advertise in TSC
Jefferson's Nickel: Two Sides of the Same Coin
by Perla Luna
Perla Luna
THE SANTA CLARA
The recent announcement that Harriet Tubman will replace Andrew Jackson on the $20 bill has prompted discussion regarding the presence of Monticello on the nickel.
Grab a nickel, then flip it. On one side you have Thomas "all men are created equal" Jefferson and on the other his slavery plantation, Monticello. Did you get heads or tails? Jefferson or Monticello?
No matter what side of the nickel you get, Monticello and its torrid history of slavery, rape and abuse remains engraved on American currency.
During Jefferson's occupation, the Virginian plantation housed over six hundred slaves and only freed a little over ten.
The plantation is a symbol of the decades of institutionalized racism still affecting people today. Somehow, this is a symbol we have chosen to represent America.
Historically, countries use their currency to broadcast who's in power and what values they hold as a result. The symbols used on currency may not all hold up as faultless ideals but that doesn't mean we lower our standards on what emblems we recognize as American just because they're traditional.
Symbols matter. It's why people get up in arms about burning the American flag. Our currency is a manifestation of the racism in our country's legacy and how often neglected this part of our story is.
We see Monticello as a great, historical site because of Thomas Jefferson, but we forget—or choose to forget—it was also one of the many sites of pain and torture for African-Americans.
In discussing America's complicated legacy of freedom, we see a persistent need to either condemn or forget those dark spots in history we are ashamed of.
We constantly fix our own history because we're ashamed and don't want our proud nation to be associated with discrimination.
So we brush hate crimes under the rug, like internment of Japanese-Americans or the thousands of acres of land stolen from Native Americans.
Rarely do we talk about that crime, even on a campus as guilty of it as ours.
We acknowledge slavery, then we forget to acknowledge the full implications of it, including the fact that the Founding Fathers were slave owners.
The Founding Fathers were racist. They were a product of their time and their time did not value people of color. That doesn't make them any less brilliant and that doesn't mean we erase them from American history.
We don't forgive them for their racism even as we thank them for the ideological standards they've set for each of us here in America.
Part of healing the racial divides in the U.S. is owning up to the mistakes of the past.
Taking an extreme view one way or the other is not a solution. We can't ignore the hypocrisy, the bigotry, the sexism that all the historical figures we lionize inherently possessed. We also shouldn't trivialize their contributions to American society because they are problematic figures.
With the recent Treasury announcement that Harriet Tubman will replace Andrew Jackson on the $20 bill, we can see the beginning of movements and conversations that can capture the multicultural reality of America.
More than 8.5 billion $20 bills were in circulation last year and starting in 2020, a suffragist and freedom fighter will be internationally recognizable as our ideal.
And yet we still have Monticello on the back side of the nickel.
Perla Luna is a sophmore sociology and English double major and is the editor of the Opinion Section
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text:
The legend of the Jack O'Lantern originated in Ireland with a tale of a miserly blacksmith named Stingy Jack.
On Halloween night Jack ran into the devil at a pub. Before the devil could collect his doomed soul, Jack convinced the devil he should have one last drink but he had no money.
Jack was as sly as he was stingy. He convinced the devil to turn into a sixpence so he could get that last drink. The devil's pride was his downfall, he couldn't resist showing off his shapeshifting skills so he promptly became a sixpence on the counter.
Jack didn't buy a drink, he shoved that sixpence into his pocket with a silver cross and trapped the devil. He wouldn't let the devil out until he promised not to collect Jack's soul for another ten years.
Ten years later on Halloween night the devil tried to collect Jack's soul again. This time Jack convinced the devil to fetch him an apple. While the devil was in the tree jack pulled out his penknife and carved a cross on the trunk of the tree trapping the devil in the tree. Jack condition for getting the devil down? He made the devil promise not to come calling for his soul ever again.
When Jack died years later he was turned away from Heaven for his sinful ways. When he tried to enter Hell the devil said "I cannot break my word" because he had promised not to collect Jack's soul. "Go away; go back where you came from," the devil shouted at him."
"It's dark, how will I find my way?" Jack asked.
The devil threw him a glowing coal which Jack placed in a turnip he had been eating. He became Jack of the Lantern wandering the earth alone for all eternity.
Throughout England and Ireland ghostly lights would appear over bogs and marshes. These lights were known as Lantern Men, Hob O'Lanterns, Will-O'- the-Wisps, Corpse Candles and Jack O'Lanterns.
These pale eerie lights would bob along like a lantern in someone's hand. Horses would shy away from such lights, people learned to beware. Following the lights could lead a person to doom. Following the lights would cause people to get lost and sometimes sucked into a watery grave in the bogs and swamps.
The ghostly lights hanging over graves in swampy areas were known as Corpse Candles. Fishermen in Kent believed them to be messages from sailors lost at sea who want a proper burial. Legend says that if you can find any piece of the sailor, even just one bone, and bury it properly the soul will be satisfied and the Corpse Candle will go out.
If you encounter Jack on the road you should put out your lantern so Jack doesn't smash it to pieces. And don't let him follow you home.
Scientists call these strange lights ignis fatuus which is Medieval Latin for "foolish fire". These marshy lights caused by gas escaping from rotting vegetation. But what causes the phosphorescent color and the bobbing motion? Are fairies or spirits behind these mysterious occurrences? Why are they so predominant during the Halloween season?
Better not take any chances, carve your own lantern to keep you safe. In Scotland lanterns were originally carved from turnips and in Ireland they used potatoes. In the English village of Hinton St George punkies are carried through town on Halloween night. These "punkies" are special lanterns carved from large beets known as mangel-wurzels. Prizes are awarded for the best carved beets.
In the United States immigrants discovered the American Pumpkin, a new canvas for their lantern art. The bright colors, round shapes and soft insides made them perfect for carving.
Labels: Halloween legends, jack o lantern, Monster Monday, pumpkins jackolantern, The Legend of the Jack O'Lantern


text:
package hivemall.ftvec;

import hivemall.HivemallConstants;
import hivemall.utils.hadoop.WritableUtils;

import java.util.Arrays;
import java.util.List;

import org.apache.hadoop.hive.ql.exec.Description;
import org.apache.hadoop.hive.ql.exec.UDF;
import org.apache.hadoop.hive.ql.udf.UDFType;
import org.apache.hadoop.io.IntWritable;
import org.apache.hadoop.io.Text;

@Description(name = "add_bias", value = "_FUNC_(feature_vector in array<string>) - Returns features with a bias in array<string>")
@UDFType(deterministic = true, stateful = false)
public final class AddBiasUDF extends UDF {

    public List<Text> evaluate(List<String> ftvec) {
        return evaluate(ftvec, HivemallConstants.BIAS_CLAUSE);
    }

    public List<Text> evaluate(List<String> ftvec, String biasClause) {
        float biasValue = 1.f;
        return evaluate(ftvec, biasClause, biasValue);
    }

    public List<Text> evaluate(List<String> ftvec, String biasClause, float biasValue) {
        int size = ftvec.size();
        String[] newvec = new String[size + 1];
        ftvec.toArray(newvec);
        newvec[size] = biasClause + ":" + Float.toString(biasValue);
        return WritableUtils.val(newvec);
    }

    public List<IntWritable> evaluate(List<IntWritable> ftvec, IntWritable biasClause) {
        int size = ftvec.size();
        IntWritable[] newvec = new IntWritable[size + 1];
        ftvec.toArray(newvec);
        newvec[size] = biasClause;
        return Arrays.asList(newvec);
    }

}

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaGithub


text:
Centro de Formación Literaria Onelio Jorge Cardoso. Es una institución del Ministerio de Cultura de Cuba que ayuda a que los jóvenes escritores aprendan a dominar las variadas técnicas narratológicas, siempre a partir del estudio pormenorizado de libros fundamentales para las Letras Universales donde se leen y se analizan los textos de Edgar Allan Poe, William Faulkner, Jorge Luis Borges, Ernest Hemingway o Julio Cortázar, entre otros.

Reseña histórica

Este centro, único de su tipo en el país, heredero de las experiencias del Centro Mexicano de Escritores de los años 50, y del Movimiento de Talleres Literarios de Cuba, fue fundado en 1998 como Taller literario, con el auspicio de la Unión Nacional de Escritores y Artistas de Cuba (UNEAC), el Ministerio de Cultura y la Fundación Hivos, por Eduardo Heras León, Ivonne Galeano y Francisco López Sacha.

A partir de esa fecha han pasado por sus aulas más de quinientos alumnos: estudiantes, trabajadores, abogados, periodistas, médicos, bioquímicos, diseñadores, ingenieros en telecomunicaciones, geógrafos, físicos, informáticos, todos jóvenes provenientes de diversos campos profesionales, y también de disímiles lugares, algunos de estos muy alejados de la capital del país, desde pequeños pueblos como Jobabo o Cacocum hasta capitales provinciales tan distantes como Guantánamo.

Por el trabajo que realiza cada año con los jóvenes narradores, y por los éxitos que ellos han alcanzado en el campo de la literatura, tanto nacional como internacionalmente, el Centro se ha convertido en una institución de referencia sobre la narrativa cubana más actual.

Es una institución cultural especializada en la formación de escritores noveles. Apuesta por desarrollar el talento de los jóvenes en un ambiente de total libertad creativa. En sus cursos no sólo se forman mejores narradores, sino también mejores seres humanos, que sin dudas contribuirán al crecimiento espiritual de la nación.

Misión

Han definido su misión en cuatro líneas esenciales:
 Ofrecer a los mejores talentos jóvenes del país los conocimientos teórico - técnicos y la experiencia práctica para afrontar el oficio de la literatura con el rigor necesario.
 Estimular la creación literaria de los jóvenes narradores y su inserción en el contexto de la cultura nacional.
 Fortalecer la colaboración con los talleres literarios en todo el país.
 Promover el intercambio con centros culturales de perfil similar en América Latina y Europa, y con escritores extranjeros que visiten el país.

Actividades que desarrolla

Las principales actividades que desarrolla el Centro Onelio Jorge Cardoso son las siguientes:

 Curso anual de técnicas narrativas: Es la actividad fundamental. En él se explican las principales herramientas con que puede contar el narrador a la hora de escribir, respaldado por un volumen de más de mil páginas donde aparecen textos de grandes escritores como Edgar Allan Poe, Antón Chejov, William Faulkner, Jorge Luis Borges, Ernest Hemingway, Gabriel García Márquez, Mario Vargas Llosa, Julio Cortázar, entre otros. La edad de los aspirantes al curso debe estar comprendida entre los 16 y 35 años.

 Premio César Galeano: Concurso de cuento organizado para los alumnos de cada año.

 Becas de creación "El caballo de coral": Se entregan cinco becas anuales a los alumnos del curso de técnicas narrativas por proyectos de libros, que después si su calidad lo demuestra son publicados por la editorial del Centro, Ediciones Cajachina, o por otras editoriales a las que se le recomiende el libro.

 Concurso internacional de minicuentos "El dinosaurio": Se convoca anualmente (a partir de 2006 de manera internacional), junto con el Centro Provincial del Libro y la Literatura de Sancti Spíritus y el Instituto Cubano del Libro. Es el certamen literario que más patrocinadores tiene en el país. Con los ganadores del mismo se hace una antología, que es publicada en por Ediciones Cajachina y el Centro provincial del Libro y la Literatura de Sancti Spíritus.

 Publicación trimestral de la revista "El Cuentero": Es una revista que continúa la tradición de las desaparecidas "El cuento" (de México), dirigida por Edmundo Valadés, y "Puro cuento" (de Argentina), dirigida por Mempo Giardinelli. En ella se publica lo mejor de la joven cuentística nacional e internacional (en especial de egresados del Centro que se destaquen en el panorama literario), así como reflexiones teóricas sobre las técnicas y el pensamiento narrativo de todos los tiempos.

 Ediciones Cajachina, la editorial del Centro: Para promocionar la obra de alumnos y graduados, y publicar trabajos teóricos que ayuden a la formación de los jóvenes narradores en el curso de técnicas narrativas.

 Curso de guiones: Con el objetivo de formar jóvenes guionistas interesados en la producción de audiovisuales para el cine y la televisión, para egresados del curso de técnicas narrativas.

 Seminarios a graduados: Encuentros regionales con graduados para cursos de actualización teórica y discusión de sus textos.
 Servicios a alumnos y a graduados:
 Sala de computación (impresión de textos, acceso a Internet y correo electrónico).
 Biblioteca (especializada en narrativa).
 Videoteca (al servicio del curso de guiones que se ofrece a egresados y del programa cultural del Centro).

Algunos escritores graduados del Centro Onelio
 Diana Castaños
 José Miguel Sánchez Gómez, Yoss
 Ramón Muñiz Sarmiento
 Pedro Luis Rodríguez Molina
 Edgar London
 Jamila Medina Ríos

Fuentes

 Sitio del Ministerio de Cultura de la República de Cuba
 CUBA LITERARIA Portal de Literatura Cubana
 Sitio Digital de Radio Rebelde

Literatura de Cuba
Escritores de Cuba
Cultura de Cuba

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaWikipedia


text:
The First Hour
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Greg Noe
Jonathon Ramundi
Paul Eastwood
Paul Abbamondi
Mike in Omaha
Ian M. Bagley
How Persona 3 destroyed my love for Japanese RPGs
The Cat Lady
Cockeyed
Cover Fart
Games for Lunch
Gimbal Game
Grinding Down
Heartstring Annie
You Call That A Game?
Of the games you own, what percent have you started?
100% - Why buy and not play?
75% - I've got a few untouched
50% - Steam deals will be the death of me
25% - I mostly just read the manuals
0% - My sealed collection will be worth millions!
Best First Hours
Home › Full Reviews
Super Mario 3D Land
by Nate — Tue, 01/03/2012 - 7:00am
Corridor platformer
Upon starting Super Mario 3D Land, I was placing internal bets on whether the game would be filed with the 2D or the 3D Mario experiences. Miyamoto and the team say they combined the approachability of 2D Mario with the freedom of the third dimension, but one of the two styles must win out, right?
Exactly fourteen hours of playtime later, the answer still eludes me. There's bits of Super Mario Galaxy and pieces of New Super Mario Bros in the game, and it leans heavily towards the former. What's keeping me from committing 3D Land to the 2D Mario pile is all the Sonic Adventure mucking things up.
Despite the disappointment, elation, and outright disdain that those three names likely bring up, they ultimately mean little for the actual quality of the game. It would be difficult to argue that Super Mario 3D Land is anything other than the Nintendo 3DS's most compelling purchase to date. But it's also the first Mario title in several years that I can't just rave about.
To say that Super Mario 3D Land is classic 2D Mario brought to the third dimension would be lazy, but it's not far from correct. Moments after selecting "New Game", the player jogs and jumps through mostly linear obstacle courses, squashing goombas and collecting powerups and platforming over perilous drops until they reach the flagpole at the end of the stage. The World Map then pops up, you move Mario right onto the next stage's marker, and you race to the next flagpole until the Princess is finally rescued. None of 3D Mario's hub worlds, adventure puzzles, or gravity-foolery ever make an appearance.
In fact, other than the ability to roam in three dimensional space, Super Mario 3D Land shows only faint resemblances to the 3D half of its parentage. Mario's acrobatic array of long jumps, sideflips, and backflips return (along with a few new rolling maneuvers), but they so rarely hold advantage over the standard running jump that they are easily forgotten. A small fraction of the stages are shaped in the vein of Super Mario 64's sprawling adventure courses, but so much of the real estate is rendered pointless with but one path funneling to the only goal flagpole. Finally, the character models' pleasant roundness and the landscape's visual polish recalls Super Mario Galaxy's space opera splendor, but the angular architecture and primary color scheme often appear ripped right out of New Super Mario Bros and its sterile, pristine take on the Mushroom Kingdom.
The red brick blocks and white fluffy clouds are only the beginning of 3D Land's adherence to 2D Mario conventions. The powerup-based health system is in play, with Mario building his defenses through growth and fashion, vulnerable to death only when tiny and hatless. The iconic Fire Mario returns with his bouncing fireballs alongside the brand new (but functionally similar) Boomerang Mario. And, prominently featured in all of the game's marketing materials, the gravity-resisting Tanooki Mario appears after decades of absence, simplifying many of the game's trickier jumps and enabling some daring shortcuts. Star Coins, introduced in New Super Mario Bros, hide in plain sight and unlock optional stages throughout the game. Scrolling airship stages are imported from Super Mario Bros 3, boss battles against Bowser expand on the bridge-cutting showdowns of the 1985 original, and dozens of other fan-friendly winks show up from time to time.
Coating a modern-style Mario game with nostalgic trimmings is fine and dandy, but 3D Land stumbles where it tries to fix what isn't broken. The prime offender is the new (and old) dedicated run button. Super Mario 64 revolutionized character movement in a 3D space with its intuitive analog stick controls: push the stick slightly to tiptoe, ram it to the railing to run, and employ the various degrees between as necessary. It was elegant, comfortable, and timeless: every notable 3D platformer since has used the same setup. Nintendo, perhaps overzealous in its adherence to 2D Mario's rules, now requires a player to hold down the B button in order to reach top speed. This function is incredibly useful in 2D games where short precision hops and long running leaps each require degrees of control, impossible with the digital directional pad alone, but seems unnecessary with the 3DS's capable analog "circle pad."
I suppose that a dedicated run button might possibly benefit a 3D game using an analog input with the right implementation, but Super Mario 3D Land is not it. The reason is an inconsistent and opaque rule set that governs the function. It's difficult for me to explain, but the gist of it is that holding the run button and pressing the circle pad all the way forward can result in two different running speeds, depending on circumstances I don't quite understand. One is Mario's "acceleration" phase, where he runs close to top speed and jumps a bit farther than usual. The second is top speed, confirmed by a small puff of air under his feet and a jump distance that is nearly doubled. The problem is that Mario sometimes skips the acceleration phase altogether and begins at his top speed, and it happens often enough that I'm never quite sure what to expect when I send Mario into a dash. That uncertainty can be a killer while standing at the edge of a narrow precipice, staring at a gap that requires a full speed jump to clear.
And precision jumps are the core of the game's challenge. The majority of stages in the game require Mario to traverse a chain of tiny islands floating in the sky, each separated by a jump-length gap of doom. Enemies and stage hazards make their appearances, but the leading cause of death in 3D Land is the bottomless abyss that seems to surround Mario more often than solid ground. The constant scampering across stratospheric archipelagos makes Mario's 3DS debut feel more like Sonic Adventure, with its highways suspended over oceans and canyons, than the solid ground dashes of Super Mario Bros. Come to think of it, the level design in 3D Land reminds me of another rival mascot: Crash Bandicoot. The marsupial face of the original PlayStation ran and leaped his way through similarly restrictive corridors back in 1996. Where even the most linear 2D Mario games often sneak some welcome verticality into many of the stages by moving Mario up and down the screen height, 3D Land rarely deviates from moving into the screen. It could be the most claustrophobic Super Mario game yet.
Despite its often one-dimensional level design, 3D Land is Nintendo's vanguard of 3D gaming, tasked with proving the benefits of stereoscopic visuals on gameplay once and for all. Nintendo succeeds, but perhaps not without some cheating. As claimed, the added visual depth really does make it easier to place Mario and other game objects within their three-dimensional setting. For the sake of experimentation, I occasionally turned off the stereoscopic visuals; the difference was made plain enough when my death count started climbing. But I've made due with flat visuals before, and the reason was strong camera work: Super Mario 64's manual camera put every vantage point in your hands, while Galaxy's automatic camera always took the viewpoint optimal for control. 3D Land instead prioritizes the wow-factor of 3D over gameplay utility, adopting a view that maximizes the stereoscopic pop-out or visual depth rather than the view that makes it easiest to judge distance from one platform to the next. Some tricky segments in 3D Land are actually made tougher because Nintendo chose a from-the-rear camera rather than a three-quarters or side view of the action.
I was unable to articulate all these nitpicks until 3D Land's final stage highlighted the shortcomings of its controls, camera angles, and pitfall stage design. And that stage was the last pinch of the game's disappointingly adequate post-credits content. After rescuing the princess, 3D Land presents Special versions of all eight world maps. Some lazy remixes merely dispatch a Shadow Mario to tail you or shorten the game timer, though other stages are entirely new or heavily retuned for a greater challenge. You also need to retread all sixteen Worlds in Luigi's slippery shoes in order to unlock the ultimate challenge. I spent fourteen hours with Super Mario 3D Land, which would be a good length for a Mario game if not for the six I had to spend repeating every single challenge as the green guy.
These nitpicks, though unusually plentiful for a Mario title, don't entirely condemn the game. Where Super Mario Galaxy blasted the player from one experimental planetoid to the next in its ever-expanding universe of creativity, Super Mario 3D Land packs the player inside a compact clockwork, comparatively modest in size and luster but efficient in its moving parts. Although I don't care for the ironically claustrophobic level design, every piece of every stage feels deliberately placed to provide variety and challenge for both beginners and experts, with more than a few memorable gimmicks sprinkled throughout. The controls don't live up to the sky-high Mario standard, but they still prove serviceable for all but the most demanding bits of the game. And the stereoscopic effect really does add an impressive depth to the visuals, which outclass anything else currently available on 3DS by a generational margin.
Super Mario 3D Land is not a 2D Mario game, a 3D Mario game, or some you-got-peanut-butter-on-my-chocolate marriage of the two. It is an occasionally clunky adaptation of 2D Mario into 3D space, a setup that I can enjoy even if I prefer closer adherence to its inspirations. It is a good argument for the gameplay benefits of stereoscopic visuals, even if it often uses sub-optimal camera placement to make its point. It is the first 3DS game deserving of blockbuster status, though I wouldn't say it alone justifies the purchase of a 3DS. And it is a great and worthwhile game, even if it doesn't live up to the timeless revolutionaries of its name.
I've played a million games, and I've rocked them all.
Copyright 2007-2018 Greg Noe. All rights reserved


1. We pregnant women can be delicate. Yes, we obtain a certain fortitude as we cultivate life, but, let's face it: we are also surging with hormones, begrudging newly acquired veins, and comparing our pregnant bodies to other pregnant bodies (whether they be our own or not).
2. All pregnancies/pregnant seasons vary. My first pregnancy consisted of prenatal yoga videos. I worked a 12 hour shift on the due date of my second pregnancy (and probably contributed to my patient's hypertension as a result!). Braxton Hicks contractions haunted me throughout my third pregnancy, and my answer to my midwife's question of mode of exercise was, "dusting." Returning from a 7 mile run, halfway through my marathon training, I discovered that I was, in fact, pregnant with my fourth babe after my husband noticed a misread test in the garbage. I ran until 24 weeks, when my hips threatened separation if I didn't stop. This fifth babe is getting the most movement from me as I've been able to continue heavy weight lifting 3-4 days. Case in point: all pregnancies are different!
So, please, my dear friends, tread carefully through these suggestions.
1. Fighting Nausea: I was neither bedridden nor hugging the toilet in those early weeks, so I found that extra naps along the way allowed me to keep up with weight lifting 4 days a week. I continued with a back, shoulder, glute, and leg focused days. Pushing myself to get to the gym helped keep the nausea at bay.
3. No New PRs: I continued heavy squats and deadlifts (with a rep range of 6-8), with the mindset that I was not making any new personal records. Any upper body press was up for improvement, though!
1. Say Goodbye to Pushups, Planks, and Pull-ups: Renewed energy levels and a little bump make the second trimester a fun one, but this was the time where I began to drop exercises due to coning: an unattractive, alien-like effect of the abdominal walls attempting to engage over an increasing girth. As a woman who has struggled with diastasis recti, I am OVERLY cautious with exercises involving abdominal pressure.
3. Relaxin Take Over: I dropped lunges, split squats, single leg deadlifts, and single leg hip thrusts from the mix, as any exercise involving weight on one leg was uncomfortable on my pelvic joints.
1. No-Shame-Shorter Workouts: My workouts dropped from over an hour to 45 minutes as I began to do lighter weight, higher reps exercises back to back with a tiny bit of cardio. (For instance, instead of 3 sets of heavy barbell squats, I used a dumbbell and did 3 sets of goblet squats right into 10-15 squat jumps). Strength is not my forte in the third trimester, but getting my heart rate up makes such a difference in my mood and general energy levels.
2. Savor the Pull: Even when I don't feel like it, I try to make it to the gym, knowing that I won't be there for a while, and I won't be deadlifting as much at 9 months postpartum as I am 9 months pregnant!
3. Reserve Energy: My body can't handle three days in a row of workouts, so I schedule accordingly or skip a workout.
As always, I must state that prior to exercising your pretty pregnant self, please speak with your health care provider. I would not advise starting hot yoga or deadlifting 200 pounds or signing up for your first triathlon, but at the same time, you know your body best. There is a difference between pushing yourself and straining yourself in a workout.
The female body continues to amaze me, and I love what weight lifting has done for me mentally, physically, and spiritually this pregnancy.


Study Inn has an exciting opportunity for an Architect based in our Head Quarters in Coventry City Centre, travel may be required from time to time to our developing centres. This role is ideal for someone who is currently working as an Architectural Technologist or similar and is looking for that next step in their career who is keen to develop.
Study Inn provides student accommodation combining the security, quality and comfort of a luxury Hotel, with the fun and vibrancy of a University halls of residence. With over 60 years development and operational experience originating from a Hotel background, the opportunity to accommodate a niche market combining the luxury of a hotel with student halls of residence. Study Inn originated in Coventry in 2009 with the objective of creating the best quality serviced student housing available in the UK. Between 2009 and 2013 the Study Inn brand expanded opening three more centres in the heart of Coventry and new centres in Nottingham and Sheffield. Our continued expansion has gained the Study Inn brand a National and International reputation. We are also opening a brand new Centre in Cambridge for September 2016 new academic year and have many more to come. Offering an all-inclusive accommodation package, residents benefit from high quality student living including en-suite, fully fitted studios, including kitchen and appliances, to shared serviced living consisting of a luxury living room and dining area complete with fully fitted kitchen surrounded by 7 en-suite bedrooms.
- Creating building and interior designs and highly detailed drawings both by hand and by using specialist computer-aided design (CAD) applications.
- Liaising with construction professionals about the feasibility of potential projects.
- Working around constraining factors such as town planning legislation, environmental impact and project budget.
- Working closely with a team of other professionals such as building service engineers, construction managers, quantity surveyors and architectural technologists.
- Negotiating with contractors and other professionals.
- Applying for planning permission and advice from governmental new build and legal departments including preparing applications for planning and building control departments.
- Writing and presenting reports, proposals, applications and contracts.
- Choosing the materials to be used and specifying the requirements for the project.
- Adapting plans according to circumstances and resolving any problems that may arise during construction.
- Making sure the project is running according to schedule and budget.
- Playing a part in project and team management.
- Travelling regularly to building sites and proposed locations.
- Project managing and helping to coordinate the work of contractors.
- Controlling a project from start to finish.
- Regular site visits to check on progress, ensuring that the project is running on time and to budget.
- Resolving problems and issues that arise during construction.
- Ensuring that the environmental impact of the project is managed.
- Experience of using REVIT software.
- Experience with submitting Planning Applications.
- Experience with Building Regulations.
- Experience with Multi – Occupancy, desirably Student Accommodation.
- Professional and confident telephone manner.
- Ability to work to deadlines and prioritise workloads.
- Exceptional verbal and written communication skills.
- Able to quickly pick up different electronic systems.
- Extremely on-the-ball, highly accurate and efficient.
- High standard of attention to details.
- Be proactive and use initiative.
- 28 days annual leave.
- Enhanced Christmas Leave – Not taken from annual entitlement.
- Bonus Holiday for midweek birthdays.
- Free City Centre Parking.
- Free access to on site Gym facilities.
Moore Architects, PC is an award-winning firm specializing in custom single-family residential architecture based in the City of Falls Church, VA. We are seeking a talented, passionate and highly motivated graduate, with not less than 5 years' experience in residential design and construction drawing production, for a full-time position. The ideal candidate possesses a strong design portfolio, technical and coordination skills, sketching and model-building skills, and with knowledge of the construction process. Candidate must be proficient in AutoCAD, SketchUp and Adobe Suite. Revit, Rhino, and 3DS Max knowledge a plus.
The Moore Architects, PC studio supports a team approach with each individual involved in all phases of the architectural process including client interaction, providing an enriching positive experience with excellent professional development.
- 5-year or MArch degree from an accredited USA school of Architecture.
- Not less than 5 years architectural experience.
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- Excellent communication skills – collaborating directly with clients and firm principals during all phases of design, construction drawing production and building process.
- Multi-tasking/time management skills: the ability to work on several projects at the same time in a production role.


The City of Bee Cave is rich in history. The City, as we know it today, did not exist until 1987, but the idea of an area where people could live without the influence of "big city" government has been the area's "calling card" for over 140 years. Bee Cave, TX is located in the Lake Travis area just west of Austin. With beautiful rolling hills and the winding Colorado River, there are plenty of "waterview" homes. Award winning LTISD school district.


text:
An interview with Marin Sardy
Marin Sardy's essay "A Shapeless Thief," about her mother's schizophrenia, first appeared in the Missouri Review (37:2) and later became part of her new memoir, The Edge of Every Day: Sketches of Schizophrenia (Pantheon, 2019). You can read Marin's essay here.
Last month we talked with Marin about the development of the memoir and her new book project.
Evelyn Somers: Initially you saw your book as an essay collection. How and when did you realize you were working on a more cohesive memoir?
Marin Sardy: Even when I was writing the individual essays, I had a sense that they would be able to collectively tell a larger story. They were each about some slice of my life, and I suspected that if I put enough slices together, some kind of arc would emerge. I didn't know what that larger story would be, however, until far along in the process. It wasn't until I started writing the chapters about my brother's homelessness—which I wrote last—that I saw that much of what had been driving me had always related to questions about how my family's long history with mental illness came to bear on my brother's struggles with schizophrenia. I also found I had much more to say about my brother's story than I had expected, which gave some of those parts more of a flavor of narrative memoir than of the highly selective, tightly constructed essays I had produced first. So it was a lot of letting things happen as the words came out and paying attention to what the words were telling me, and looking for the connections that became visible after everything was down on the page.
ES: Did the early publication of some of the pieces give you more confidence going forward with the book?
MS: Definitely. More confidence and more skill. The practice and the encouragement I got along the way turned out to be integral to the final product. In retrospect, I'm so glad the book developed the way it did, though it took a much more circuitous path than I ever expected. Taking the time to fully shape the essays that later became chapters, stepping back from them and letting them steep for a while before returning to the work—that allowed my ideas to percolate, so that by the time I was thinking in terms of a book, I had really developed my own perspective about mental illness and knew what I wanted to say. And how I wanted to say it!
Also, going through the process of submitting to journals and working with editors helped me understand how my work fit into the larger literary landscape. The people I knew who were getting book contracts weren't trying any of the weird conceptual and structural approaches I was taking in my essays, but when I sent my pieces to literary journals, I got a lot of positive feedback. So the successes I had in the world of litmags gave me more confidence to take that work into the realm of New York publishing and see if someone would be interested. And someone was.
ES: Can you say a little about the process of turning a group of individual essays into a memoir–for instance, even though The Edge of Every Day is not a traditional chronological narrative, were there gaps in the story that you realized you needed to fill in?
MS: My first reaction to this question is actually to laugh because when I look at the finished book, all I see is gaps! And that was a deliberate choice, and it kind of surprised me when early readers of the manuscript commented on how well it all seemed to flow together. But I never really thought of it as "I'm turning a group of separate essays into a memoir." To me, the essays were not very separate from one another anyway, and I don't feel like I've entirely transformed it into a memoir either. My editor and I were not aiming for it to be "a memoir" in the typical sense. Here's an example: When I first sold my book based on having about two-thirds of it written, my editor, Catherine Tung, asked me if I'd be willing to add some "connective tissue." But she also assured me that, for the most part, it should keep its "highly fragmented" shape. That sounded fine to me. Several months later, when we were talking again about the book in depth and I was saying I had this chapter and that chapter to add, none of which qualified as "connective tissue," Catherine said, "You know, looking at it now, I really don't think the book needs more connective tissue. " And I just thought, "No, it doesn't need it at all." So we scrapped that idea and never looked back.
I just focused on telling all the parts of the story that I felt were necessary to include, and on telling them in the ways they needed to be told. I really believe in listening to the material, in letting it tell you what form it should take. And it just became what it wanted to become, which is somewhere in between a memoir and an essay collection. What I did end up changing to make it more memoir-like was so minor it hardly registers to me now. I rearranged a few paragraphs at the beginnings of some chapters that were formerly essays, so that each one opened on me rather than on some other topic. I cut out redundancies and added a few sentences to clarify shifts in time and place. And of course, we were very strategic about the order in which we arranged the chapters—loosely but not strictly chronological. But that's about it. Now we've labeled it a memoir, and that seems to work for people. But I think of it more as, maybe, "memoirs"—or, as my subtitle says, "sketches."
ES: In your research for the book, you spent some time learning about the neuroscience of schizophrenia. Did that change how you wrote about your mother and brother?
MS: Yes, very much—but largely in ways that it's now hard to put my finger on. The early research I did, in the first couple of years of writing about schizophrenia, fundamentally shifted my thinking about mental illness. And it wasn't just neuroscience, but also philosophy—the phenomenology of psychosis. And that change in my perspective pervades the whole book. The biggest thing the research did for me was show me where I had been making unfounded assumptions about what I'd witnessed. I had been personally relating to schizophrenia for decades, so I had a lot of my own ideas about it, most of which were unexamined and some of which were incorrect. Being forced to confront and then question my own perceptions and conclusions opened me up to many new paths of inquiry. And that got me excited about delving deeper into what I had experienced, what those things might mean, things I hadn't considered before. So I was able to approach the topic, and those relationships, from an open place rather than a restricted place. It proved so creatively fruitful and became a way for me to transform what were deeply traumatic events in my life into something that revealed a broader view of what had happened, a view that could be much more useful to readers.
ES: What was the most important discovery you made in writing the book–either about mental illness or about writing?
MS: Most importantly for me, the writing process enabled me to rediscover my brother. To remember who he was as a person, who he always had been, inside his illness. For so many years, my focus was on his schizophrenia—how it affected him, how it harmed him, how I could or couldn't help him. And I grieved deeply for what was lost when he became ill. But all of that focus and intense emotion, I later realized, had the effect of obscuring his actual presence in the world. After writing the book, I felt very bad that I hadn't been more cognizant of that while he was alive. The book, and all of the sorting through my memories and feelings that it required, eventually made it possible for me to find him again inside his own story. So in a way, after losing him twice—first to illness, then to death—I got him back as a result of writing the book. It's sort of the Wizard of Oz effect: searching and searching, only to find that what you've been looking for was there all along.
ES: What's your next writing project or challenge?
MS: I'm pleased to be able to say that I am beginning work on a second book. It's in the nascent stages still—just a lot of research and notes—but in the last several months I've begun to see what I want it to be. Like this first book, it will discuss mental illness. But it will largely focus on an artist whose work I have long admired, who died in 2012: a photographer who lived with bipolar disorder and schizoaffective disorder, and whose work in many ways reflected her struggles. I hope to tell parts of her story and include a fair amount of art criticism as well, in which I engage deeply with her images and reflect on them in terms of my own experiences with mental illness.
"A Shapeless Thief" by Marin Sardy
Marin Sardy's debut memoir, The Edge of Every Day: Sketches of Schizophrenia, about mental illness and her family, was published by Penguin/Random House in May, 2019. "A Shapeless Thief," which is taken from the memoir, first appeared in TMR 37:2. The essay was named a notable essay in Best American Essays 2015.
A Shapeless Thief
By Marin Sardy
My mother knows the earth's surface is composed of tectonic plates, and that these plates move hundreds of miles with ease. They arrange and rearrange themselves, very quickly sometimes, creating natural phenomena when they shift. There is one place, the Shear, where the plates have fallen away, leaving a bare, scraped expanse extending for hundreds of miles. In another place, near Monterey, California, a plate dropping into the ocean has created a series of horizontal shelves at the continent's underwater edge. On one of these, she says, a city thrives beneath the waves.
Sometimes plates duplicate themselves or multiply, resulting in two or more that are nearly identical and seem to contain the same location. For this reason, she says, it's important to pay attention to details when you travel, to make sure you stay on the right plate—in the correct Roswell; in the Anchorage where you grew up. Each Roswell, each Anchorage, is a distinct colony. And if you accidentally end up in the wrong colony, you won't find the people you know, because they're not there. This is why flying is tricky. You go up in the air, and when you come down, there's no real way of knowing if you've landed on the right plate or another by the same name. You fly to Santa Fe to see your sister, but when you go looking for her, you may not be able to find her.
So check the sky. See if it looks different today. Strange. See if it looks like a different sky than the sky you remember seeing over Santa Fe. And if you go to your sister's house and she's not there, look at the pillows. They might be the wrong color. These are the little things that help us know where we are.
▪▪▪
In bits and pieces over many years, my mother has described to me this earth, the one she inhabits, expansively elaborating on the details of plates and colonies, as well as the Assay, a natural force that continually sorts us according to where we belong. It's more than a single fantasy. It's a whole system of rules and perceptions that constitute an alternate world—a foundational delusion that emerged slowly in her mind when I was in high school and developed into a full-scale paracosm by the time I finished college.
I've been told that when I was very young and my mother was still sane, she sometimes spoke of the universe as existing in two streams. First Stream was our tangible, everyday reality. Second Stream was a separate, inner place, the realm of the imagination and spirit. Then the boundary between realities became so porous that she lost track of the differences between imagery, metaphor and physical fact. The two streams ran together.
Now she doesn't bother to explain much, because she knows I understand the basics. She'll bring up the topic only if there are new developments, usually as a prelude to offering important advice: "Stay away from California for a little while." Or, "Make sure you have plenty of gas!" This isn't overprotectiveness on her part; it's reasonable concern. Her world is one that is capable of shifting beneath her feet. The houses she has lived in, the cities they were built in, the very rock they stand on—all can be yanked out from under her.
This may explain why she moves regularly through several states, never living in the same place for longer than a year but instead looping back to visit the same spots again and again. She never flies anymore. She'll take the train from New Mexico to Monterey. She'll work her way by bus up to Bellingham and maybe take the ferry to Anchorage, sleeping in hostels and befriending the twenty-somethings she meets there. Sometimes she gives me a name and a number. "Hang on to that," she says. "If you find yourself in a bad situation, this is someone you can contact for help." Or: "Remember this name. If you meet someone by this name, you could take her home and give her a place to sleep for the night. She might become your roommate!"
My mother's travel habit began in the grip of her descent into psychosis, twenty-seven years ago, when she was nearly forty and I was eleven. She spun into a manic six-month round-the-world romp that stretched from Hawaii to North Africa to Australia and then returned periodically to many of those places over the next several years. This was spurred by a belief that someone was after her, and it may have started because my grandparents were trying to have her hospitalized. After a few months in and out of clinics in Alaska, she went along with their plan to try one in Dallas. There the effort reached an unexpected climax when she bolted across a parking lot, jumped into a cab, and disappeared into the night. She resurfaced with a phone call, two weeks later, from the other side of the world.
I was offered few explanations for my mother's behavior beyond being told by my father that she was "ill" and it was not her fault. At some point the word "schizophrenia" reached my ears, but it meant little to me. In place of understanding I took hold of the tokens of my mother's travels, as if they were crumbs forming a trail I could follow to this new place inside her. Whenever she returned from a trip, she would bring back such wonders for my sisters and brother and me to pore over—embroidered housedress-like garments from Tangiers; all kinds of currencies. The Australian coins were our favorites: kangaroo, platypus. Once, my older sister organized the coins into a booklet and labeled them. Although we were savvy enough to sort out where the various European currencies came from, there were a number whose origins we couldn't decipher from the script. My sister labeled those "Arabic Nation." We asked our mother, but she didn't know. She had gone missing in more ways than one.
To this day, my mother has never accepted the idea that she has a mental illness, and she has never taken medication for it. She has not been specifically diagnosed with schizophrenia, either, but she knows it is what people say about her. At least two doctors have said they believe she has some form of it. And it runs in our family—my brother began to show similar symptoms about a decade ago and eventually received the same diagnosis. (He, too, resisted the idea and ultimately abandoned treatment.) But official diagnosis for my mother would require a doctor's observation that her symptoms have lasted longer than one month, and none have examined her repeatedly over such a period of time. For nearly a quarter century, she wouldn't allow any doctor to examine her at all. My sisters and I, on the other hand, have observed that her symptoms have lasted for twenty-seven years.
Even as a child, the word schizophrenia struck me with its frightening poetry. Its exotic and convoluted array of letters captured the sense I had of the illness—confusing and bizarre, mysterious, infamously inscrutable. During the first few years of my mother's illness, I witnessed what I can only describe as a disintegration. She went from leading a healthy, engaged life to being a mistrustful recluse who lived off cigarettes and screwdrivers. For a while she nearly imprisoned us in our own house, barring the door with heavy pieces of furniture and having lengths of wood fit to the windows so they could not be slid open. She was so afraid of assassins that her fear seeped into me, too. I did as she asked for a long time. After a while, though, I rebelled, and eventually I just gave up, choosing instead to detach myself by playing video games all afternoon while she fitted the TV antennae with balls of foil or simply sat very still for hours on end.
I rarely found words for what I saw my mother do, what I heard her say, so her illness seemed always to live in the shadows. In the closet, under the bed. As a child I felt schizophrenia to be a dark, shapeless thief. What other image could fit what I had seen? How does a child articulate the absence of what is necessary? The absence of sanity. The absence of the mother I had known. To my eye it appeared that, more than anything, she had been stolen.
Now, grown and far more educated, I feel nearly the same. Schizophrenia still defies the most fundamental question about it: What is it? I can tell you it is a brain disorder that causes distortions in perception, thought, and emotion. I can explain that it arises by way of chemical and physical processes inside the brain. But if I reach much further, I soon arrive at the edge of human knowledge. We have not yet grasped how the brain creates perception, thought and emotion to begin with, let alone how it produces such spectacular distortions. One important study compared contemporary researchers' various hypotheses to the fable of the three blind men of Hindustan: each, when asked what an elephant looked like, felt a different part of the beast and described it. One, feeling its trunk, said it looked like a snake. Another, feeling a leg, proclaimed that it looked like a tree. . . .
I have only what I have seen. For instance, that the inherited wealth that paid for my mother's globe-trotting is now long gone. In recent years, needing an allowance from my grandmother, my mother began living near the epicenter of her family, New Mexico, hopping once or twice a year between Roswell, Santa Fe, Denver, Colorado Springs and Tucson, where her six brothers and sisters and various other relatives live. This was for her a fairly circumscribed and blessedly consistent movement pattern, although she still ranges farther from time to time. Right now she is in southeast Alaska.
Because I lived in Santa Fe for several years in my early thirties, I could see her regularly. She also called often, which was important to me, since she had no telephone for most of that time, so I couldn't call her. She was too paranoid to keep a phone of her own, but she would use pay phones and relatives' phones. She just wouldn't leave a message, ever, and while on the phone, she wouldn't refer to people she knew by name, and if you lingered without speaking for more than a couple of beats, she'd hang up on you. If behind this paranoia there was a delusion, however—some belief that would make sense of this—she has never explained it to me.
A new pattern emerged when I moved to New York, and she stopped calling me. Before moving I reiterated several times that I wanted her to call me regularly, but she skirted the issue, and it was only after I left that I realized there was something in her mind getting in the way.
When I visited Santa Fe a few months later, I tried again, although I didn't think it would make a difference. "Mom," I said. "Call me."
"Oh, well, you're over there now," she said. "So far away! I think it's better to—to stay close."
"Yeah but, Mom. Why does that matter? It's a phone."
"Hmmm. I try to call Sadie," she said, referring to my younger sister, who lived in Santa Fe too. "I've been trying to call Sadie! She never answers."
"Sadie has to turn her phone off when she's at work. So call me."
"Well. I think I'm just going to stay focused on what's nearby. I just think that's a good idea right now."
Our conversations are riddled with these inexplicable refusals—inflexible positions she won't relinquish and won't, or can't, explain. They emerge from nowhere and stick like cement. A decade ago, when I lived in New Hampshire, she called me often. But in New York it is as if I have fallen off the edge of the world. Recently she got a phone again. Now I can call her, and she's delighted when I do, but she still won't call me herself.
Certain places, it seems, must be avoided. When my older sister got married in Bozeman, Montana, my mother missed the wedding. I cajoled and then harassed her about it as the date approached, but she was evasive. Every time I brought it up, she shifted the focus to the lovely wedding gift she had bought.
At first I thought she didn't like the idea of attending a crowded event, so I tried bargaining. "You don't have to go to the reception," I told her. "You can just go to the ceremony." When that failed, I went all the way. "You don't even have to go to the ceremony," I said. "You can just see her beforehand, on that day. Or the day before that."
I got nowhere. She wouldn't relent and wouldn't say why. I have since racked my brain trying to understand what it is about Bozeman. If it is about Bozeman at all. But her whole world is a cipher, and in it there are codes I can't break.
In her youth my mother was one of those people who seemed to catch everyone's eye. "Like a sprite," my aunts say. "Like an elf." Petite and pale, with a heart-shaped face and a delicate smile, she was beautiful and alluring and had a distinctive, distant charm. Now approaching seventy, thick around the middle, with her once dark hair a peppery gray, she still seems somehow like a pixie. Her eyes dart about her, and her hands flit with precision as she speaks. When quiet, she turns inward, and it is almost as if I am watching her curl her head under a wing. She isn't beautiful anymore. Jowls hang low on her face, and when she smiles she reveals teeth weathered and crooked from malnutrition. But her blue eyes seem to have intensified in color, and her bony fingers are as articulate as ever.
These days my mother has a very clear sense of what kind of information upsets others—things "people don't like to hear about." So she has been in the habit, for nearly two decades, of reserving discussion of certain topics for my sisters and me.
"Marin, I'm glad you're here because there are some important things I need to tell you about," she says, peering at me with wide eyes, her hands clasped politely in her lap. "I've learned about a few things that I think you might want to do. I have found out—I've found out that now is a good time to move to Pluto."
Despite her refusal to accept her illness, she knows that the world reaches her in a different form than it reaches others, and I am almost certain she knows that something about this cripples her. But she still fights for the validity of her thoughts, as anyone else would.
"Pluto?" I ask. "Like, the planet?"
"There are some exciting developments happening there right now, and you can buy a home at a good price. Right now, before it really catches on. They're setting up a colony there. Homes for young people, and you're at the age that you could go there and really get started on your life."
"Mom," I say, "I have a life."
"Oh, but this is such a great opportunity! It's so affordable! You could really find a nice house there and have a nice place to live."
There is no point in arguing with delusions, but I hate to play along with them, either. Usually I engage just a little, to show I care. I offer something like, "So, how do you know they're colonizing Pluto?" But I'm not very good at hiding my impatience.
"I've seen it! I've seen—I know this, Marin. I've—I understand this." She pauses, her eyes searching. I can practically see the wheels turning as she sorts through her mind looking for a response solid enough that I won't silently reject it. As much as she's shared the material of her delusions with me, she's almost never let slip anything about where they come from or how they're formed. And she knows I'm a skeptical listener.
"Such a beautiful place! Do you know the oceans there have waves that are capped with fire? Can you imagine? Fire-capped waves?"
"That's a beautiful image, Mom," I say, genuinely, picturing it. "It kind of takes your breath away."
"Yes, it does, doesn't it? And there are all these condos for sale there now! You might want to do that!"
"Mom," I say gently, "I just really want to be here right now, okay?"
"Well, think about it and see if you don't change your mind. Also, there's something else I want to explain to you, too. Your uncle Robert has been staying in the condo in Santa Fe, and I want you to know that the condo belongs to me. It's mine, and he—somebody—took it away from me. Now, while I don't have a home at all, Robert goes and stays in that place and acts like it belongs to him."
I'm annoyed now, inevitably. I rub my forehead. I say something like, "As far as I know, the condo has always been Robert's." I say it wearily, not to convince her but just because it's a reasonable response that is neither condescending nor untrue. The condo does belong to Robert, but I qualify the statement because I recognize that I've never actually seen the deed.
"Well, it wasn't always his. He went and got the papers from where they were filed, and the people at City Hall didn't notice, and now he's told everyone it's his, and there are no papers, so everybody thinks it is his. But maybe one of these days, Marin—this is why I'm telling you this—those papers might turn up. So if you see, at some point, some papers that look like they have to do with a house, if you find them lying around somewhere, I want you to take them and keep them someplace safe. Because then I might be able to get my house back."
"I don't think they would leave those kinds of papers just lying around."
"Well, you never know. You never know!"
Sometimes I just stare at her and remind myself that she's on her own trip and it's not my job to fix the unfixable. But she tends to persist until I say something like, "If I happen to come across some papers that look like the deed to Robert's condo, I'll do that."
"Good," she'll say. "Now, what are you up to today?"
Other times, though, her voice might turn sad. As in dreams, much of the symbolism in her delusions expresses her own feelings about her life as she struggles to understand it. But this is a dream she can't wake up from.
"All these homes I've had, that people have taken away from me!" she once said plaintively. She lifted her chin and gazed into the distance with innocent eyes. "It's almost too much for a person."
And that was too much for me. Although I know that nobody has ever taken a home from her or even claimed any property that was rightly hers, I wanted to tell her I wouldn't let anything bad happen to her. But I could never say that, really. I've never been able to protect her from anything.
For a decade or more, since my mother sold her last residence, she has been wondering how she lost her home. She keeps searching for a place where she can live and be safe for the rest of her life. But she's too erratic and irrational. She has spent all the money that bought her former houses—a trust fund from my once wealthy grandfather, a divorce settlement, her own sporadic earnings. Now she rents small apartments, one after another, rarely committing to a lease longer than six months.
To explain this, I have only a theory: when she arrives at a place, it is new, unsignified, a clean slate. Then her visions and voices begin interacting with this physical environment, and, slowly, over the course of months, meanings accrue. All the powers of the universe work their way into the smallest details. Here is where a bright light visited me one night. I stayed quiet for it, and watched. Loaded with emotional import, the details often turn ominous or antagonistic. Someone has been burying horses in the backyard. I've seen the teeth coming up out of the ground! Eventually, every detail of the place seethes and echoes so resoundingly with the influence of powers only she can see—everything pointing back to her, for her, about her—that the only way to keep it under control is to flee.
This is, I think, why she wouldn't live at her mother's house in Roswell, her hometown, despite being welcome to live there for free until my grandmother passed away last year. The dozens of paintings on my grandmother's walls made her uncomfortable. She started moving things around, hiding things. It baffled my aunts and uncles and frustrated my grandmother. I could only guess what my mother wouldn't say outright: the paintings were looking at her, talking to her, and when they upset or frightened her too much, she had to escape. She put them away in corners to sap them of their power, and when my aunts and uncles tried to convince or force her to stop doing this, she moved out. Nowadays she rents an apartment for a few months or a year, buys a white comforter, and keeps nothing on the walls but a small cross and an image of whatever saint has recently caught her attention.
I think if she had a house of her own, she would still leave it periodically for months at a time. But she wants that house, her house. She wants to see the return of at least one of the many homes she has lost in her lifetime, which she believes were stolen. And the weird truth is that, in a way, they were stolen. Schizophrenia stole them, by taking away her capacity for long-term planning and remembering. The ability to keep track of time is a prerequisite for virtually everything a person can have or do in life. In the timeline of the universe, my mother lives in a bubble that disintegrates into chaos two weeks in either direction. That's about the extent to which she can pin down reality well enough to manage her life within it. Beyond that it becomes too warped to be of use.
She can manage a weekly budget but not a yearly budget. She can sublet a room, but she can't get through the paperwork required to qualify for low-income housing. In her paranoia, she often refuses to sign her name on official-looking documents. She hasn't worked in over a decade. For several years she has lived on Social Security benefits and an allowance from the family. She can do fairly complex tasks like shopping, cooking, or balancing a checkbook, but she has trouble maintaining the relationships required to keep a job. Momentary concerns overwhelm the bigger picture, which dissipates into mist.
Trying to help my mother is a frustrating and usually useless effort. She won't often accept help, preferring, she says, to take care of things herself. The harder we push, the more she resists. I try to be as cooperative as possible, hoping she'll go along with my plans if I act optimistic. But mostly, my hands are tied. Over the years, we in her family have sometimes tried to maneuver around her to get her finances under control, but we couldn't legally do much without her permission. No one could have forcefully intervened. She functions far too well to be declared incompetent. This is how it happened that she spent and wasted all she had, spending more to live than she could earn, buying and selling a long series of houses, condos, apartments, and cars, each time losing money on the deal until she had nothing left.
When people first meet my mother, she peers up at them expectantly, immediately asks how their day has been, and often says something disarmingly cute. She's fond of giving gifts, doling them out almost as offerings to the gods: a coupon for a latte at Starbucks, a brochure for a luxury cruise in the Caribbean. "Look at this," she'll tell my friends, holding up the photo of a jewel-blue seascape. "You may be interested in doing something like this in the future. Maybe this will give you ideas."
She may or may not decide to say something risky. And if she does, it may or may not be apparent that it's a delusion. Often it's necessary to know the people she mentions in order to know whether what she's saying is true. Relating to my mother involves a delicate interplay between realities, one that few people are prepared to learn. So my role is to be her translator. When she speaks to friends of mine, I try to stand slightly behind her so I can signal—a sharp nod or a quick shake of the head—to indicate whether they should interpret a given story as fact or fantasy.
When my mother first met my husband (then a new boyfriend), in a Santa Fe bookstore, she pulled a book on Italian cooking off the nearest shelf and asked if he liked Italian food. She concentrated hard for a moment, and as she continued I could see her working her way toward a thought. It was clear from her manner that she was seeking, not scheming—listening, perhaps, to the ruler of her strange, secret world. Then she announced that T.J., my father, was a friend of the book's celebrity-chef author, Giada De Laurentiis. Only after we left could I tell Will that my dad had never met Giada De Laurentiis—though my father does make great Italian food. The delusion apparently sprang up as my mother was speaking.
Other things my father has done, according to my mother, include being swept away in a tsunami in Hawaii in the mid-'80s. As she tells it, he drowned, and in the confusion, another man appeared and took his place. This man was very helpful and began taking care of us, and after a while nobody noticed anymore that he wasn't T.J. He let everyone call him by that name, and for a while my mother believed that he was the real T.J. But a few years later she caught on, and when I was about twelve she explained to me that the man I called Dad was not actually my father but a replacement. "I call him Mr. Ree," she said. I didn't catch the significance of the name until my older sister sardonically spelled it out for me: "Myster-ry."
As the rest of us experienced it, my mother divorced my father in 1984, when I was nine, in a period of sustained and probably paranoia-based rage, after nearly a dozen years of marriage and the birth of us four children. My dad, stunned and horrified by her descent into madness, moved into the house next door, and we settled into a joint custody arrangement. Years later, when I asked him why he hadn't fought for sole custody, he said, "I just couldn't do that to your mother." For the rest of my childhood, my father was in that same house and my mother stayed within the neighborhood. We moved back and forth between the two homes about once a week.
For years my mother would refer to my father only as "Ree." "How is Ree?" she would say when I was at her house. "Are things okay over there at his house?"
At some point in my teens, I dryly asked her if it bothered her that her children were being raised by a stranger.
"Well," she said, "he seems to be a nice enough man, and he has really, truly accepted this work of taking care of you kids. So I guess it's worked out okay."
Her mind is forever another country, a long-lost homeland that only she has seen. And I am her bridge, even when I can't see one side from the other.
Nowadays my mother's delusions fade in and out, and with these shifts, her memory changes. Sometimes she still calls my dad Ree, other times by his real name. He first became Mr. Ree not long after their divorce—not long after he, in a last-ditch effort to get help for her, had her briefly committed at the state psychiatric hospital. During the next two or three years, her rage and paranoia toward him were so thick that she couldn't speak to him without shouting, and for a while she wouldn't allow him to see her face. She kept her head shrouded in a scarf when she drove up his driveway to drop us off. Now, when her stolen-house delusions turn toward a cabin he owns and when she tells me why it rightfully belongs to her, he is Ree. But when, maybe, she hasn't thought about him for a while and isn't upset about anything relating to him, Ree slips away, and he is T.J. once again.
The hardest losses for me to witness are this kind—not of home or fortune but of the relationships her illness has made so difficult. Or impossible, as for anyone she comes to fear through her paranoid beliefs. I know she feels these losses as much as any. The inevitable by-product is her own loneliness.
Even for my sisters and me, loving our mother is never simple. My younger sister, Adrienne, is an ongoing point of confusion because she usually goes by her nickname, Sadie. My mother seems to assume that Adrienne and Sadie are different people, but she doesn't take issue with it. I didn't even realize that this was the case until one of my aunts mentioned a conversation she had had with my mother while Adrienne was traveling in Asia. "Is Adrienne still in India?" my aunt asked. "Yes," my mom answered, "and I think Sadie is, too."
For a few years she also thought there were two of my older sister. I may be the only one who remains singular, and I admit this has always been a relief for me—although I know my doppelgänger could emerge at any time.
"Mom," I once asked her, "don't you think it's strange that I'm the only one there has never been two of?"
"Oh, I know!" she said. "Isn't that remarkable? It's amazing how things can happen sometimes. Everyone but you!"
For many years, my mother was sure that my brother had, like my father, been swept away in a tidal wave in Hawaii and that this little boy who called her Mom was another child. This boy, this false son, was just as sweet as her son, however, so she embraced him as her own. But she worried that her real son was still out there, lost and alone. She only hoped someone kind and loving had taken him in.
She finds lost children everywhere she goes. They're always young people, often travelers, and when she speaks of them to me, it is to ask for my help in keeping an eye out in case they might need shelter or a surrogate family. "You can adopt each other!" she says sometimes. One of her more elaborate delusions involves an actual organization, the Arc of Anchorage, which in reality provides support for people with disabilities but which she says facilitates the process by which people can adopt each other. Because there are so many of these orphans wandering around, she explained to me, somebody decided to help them take care of each other.
She has often suggested that I adopt my brother, whom she hasn't seen in about ten years. She knows, because I have told her, that he is in Anchorage but that on any given day I don't know where he is. I don't know what she makes of that. But I can tell that she knows, from her own observations and intuition, that her son is struggling and isolated.
"Any news from up north?" she asks me every time we talk. This is her way of saying, "Have you heard from your brother?"
"Not lately," I almost always answer.
"Why don't you give the house a call?" she suggests next.
"You mean Dad's house?"
"I can't reach Tom by calling Dad's house, Mom. He doesn't like to go to Dad's house." For a long time I used this reply to evade what I never had the heart, or the guts, to truly explain. But when Adrienne told me she had already tried to explain that Tom is mentally ill, with unclear results, I thought I should give it a try too. During a visit to Santa Fe, my mother asked for news from Alaska. I looked at her squarely. "I can't call him because I don't know where he is, Mom," I said. I took a breath. "He's homeless. He lives on the street."
She looked down, her face furrowed in annoyance, and began picking a cuticle.
"Tom has schizophrenia, Mom," I said.
"Oh, don't say that!" she said, pulling her hands back close to her body, still looking down and picking at her fingers.
"Mom, that's why I can't call him." She wouldn't look at me.
"Come on, now, Marin! Let's not talk about that today."
My words sounded cruel in my ears as they grated across her. But I hate to hide the truth from her. Her mind does that so brutally well already.
"Tom is going to deal with his life," she said sternly, "the way he decides to. Now, let's not talk about this." I realized she had already thought this through. And she got it right—for years my brother has refused help from anyone, even help to get off the street. My mother understands, perhaps better than anyone, that his troubles are ultimately his to overcome.
The balm for these rough times comes in the small moments with my mother, the easy ones. Moments when nothing can be gained or lost, when one of us notices something lovely in the world: she sees a bird outside the window and remarks at the brilliance of its red wing. She bends to pet my dog and comments on how daintily she lifts her paw! For all the confusion and fear induced by her ever-reconfiguring world, it also grants her the full richness of its magic.
Driving down the road in Santa Fe one spring morning, when a gust of wind picked up a spray of fallen pink petals and swirled them over the road in front of my car, I wished she were there to see it. I knew she would feel its beauty and for a moment be filled by it. I miss her whenever I have these moments alone. One day in Central Park, I walked past a shadowy grove of leafless trees after a morning rain had left their branches laden with drops of water, clinging so densely that they seemed like pearls strung along the undersides of the limbs. "Mom!" I wanted to say. "Look at the droplets of water shining on the trees!"
"Oh!" she would say. "Isn't that lovely!" Her voice would be high, captivated. She would pause. Her bubble in space-time would encompass us both, and for a moment I would feel as if the entire world began and ended there.
Marin Sardy's essays and criticism have appeared in Tin House, Guernica, the Rumpus, Fourth Genre, Missouri Review, ARTnews, and Art Ltd., as well as in two award-winning photography books, Landscape Dreams and Ghost Ranch and the Faraway Nearby. She has also been the arts editor in chief at Santa Fe's Santa Fean magazine.


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Jessica Lucas est une actrice et chanteuse canadienne née le  à Vancouver.

Elle se fait connaître, à la télévision, notamment pour avoir joué dans les séries télévisées suivantes : Edgemont, Melrose Place : Nouvelle Génération.

Dans le même temps, elle apparaît au cinéma, dans plusieurs longs métrages tels que le film catastrophe Cloverfield, les films d'horreurs Amusement et Evil Dead, les comédies Big Mamma : De père en fils et Célibataires... ou presque ainsi que dans le blockbuster Pompéi.

Elle s'installe sur le petit écran, à partir de 2015, en rejoignant la distribution régulière de la série télévisée dramatique et fantastique Gotham, jusqu'en 2019.

Biographie

Enfance et formation
Jessica est née et a grandi à Vancouver, plus exactement en Colombie-Britannique, une province du Canada. Son père est afro canadien et sa mère est caucasienne.

Jessica Lucas est diplômée de la Children's Theatre Arts School et ses débuts commencèrent au théâtre, elle se retrouva sur scène dans des pièces populaires tels que Blanche-Neige, Cendrillon, Grease ou encore La Souricière.

Révélation à la télévision et débuts au cinéma
Après des apparitions mineurs dans les shows Sept jours pour agir et The Sausage Factory, en 2001, elle passe des castings et décroche un rôle régulier dans la série dramatique canadienne Edgemont, qui met en scène le quotidien d'adolescents, évoquant des thèmes comme l'amour, la découverte de la sexualité, le militantisme etc. Elle interprète Bekka Lawrence jusqu'en 2005, son personnage finit, en effet, par rejoindre la distribution principale au fil des saisons.

Parallèlement au tournage de cette série, qui permet de révéler également Kristin Kreuk et Grace Park, elle intègre le casting d'une autre production canadienne 2030 CE, mais qui est annulée à la fin de la première saison.

Elle joue dans un épisode de la série The L Word et continue ses apparitions régulières comme dans le show pour adolescents La Vie comme elle est, le temps d'une saison.

En 2006, elle fait son entrée au cinéma et tourne avec la production DreamWorks SKG dans le film She's the Man d'Andy Fickman, aux côtés de Amanda Bynes et Laura Ramsey, et tient également un rôle important dans Le Pacte du sang de Renny Harlin dans lequel Jessica retrouve Laura Ramsey et partage la vedette avec Taylor Kitsch et Chace Crawford. Ses deux projets réalisent des performances correctes au box office. Cette même année, elle est supposée rejoindre la série Secrets of a Small Town avec Angie Harmon et Leighton Meester mais le projet n'est pas retenu.

En 2007, elle rejoint le casting de la série policière Les Experts, elle incarne Ronnie Lake, une novice en formation, pour un arc narratif de quatre épisodes malgré des rumeurs persistantes qui la voyait remplacer Jorja Fox. Elle apparaît également dans le téléfilm Split Decision.

En 2008, elle joue les guest star pour 90210 Beverly Hills : Nouvelle Génération, une série dérivée de la série culte Beverly Hills 90210.

Puis, elle fait partie d'un des films événements de l'année, Cloverfield, réalisé par J. J. Abrams, cette production rencontre un franc succès commercial et séduit également la critique. La prestation de Jessica y est d'ailleurs fortement remarquée.

Depuis 2006, elle est rattachée au film d'horreur Amusement, le film devait initialement sortir sous la houlette de New Line Cinema mais face aux premières réactions négatives, il sort directement en DVD, en 2009.

La même année, elle décroche l'un des rôles principaux de la série Melrose Place : Nouvelle Génération, diffusée sur le réseau The CW qui fait suite à Melrose Place diffusée dans les années 1990, c'est la  série télévisée de la franchise Beverly Hills 90210. La série bénéficie d'une grande promotion avant son lancement, les audiences des premiers épisodes sont positives mais s'écroulent au fur et à mesure de la diffusion et malgré un reboot créatif, amorcé par l'équipe scénaristique à la mi-saison ainsi que le retour d'acteurs emblématiques comme Heather Locklear ou Laura Leighton, les audiences ne sont pas au rendez-vous et la série est annulée, en 2010.

Confirmation télévisuelle

Jessica persévère et signe avec le réseau NBC pour la sitcom Cherche Partenaires Désespérément, diffusée durant l'été 2011 avant d'être interrompue une nouvelle fois en raisons des audiences insuffisantes.

Elle renverse la tendance au cinéma, avec la comédie Big Mamma : De père en fils qui fait suite à Big Mamma et Big Mamma 2. En plus d'y dévoiler ses talents de chanteuses pour les titres Ain't Nobody et Baby You Know, le film réalise de bonnes performances au box office, un succès.

Elle apparaît également dans un épisode de Psych : Enquêteur malgré lui, une série policière et comique.

Elle retrouve ensuite The CW pour la série dramatique Cult. Elle renoue avec le succès avec le film d'horreur Evil Dead  coécrit et produit par Sam Raimi et réalisé par Fede Alvarez, sorti en 2013. Il s'agit d'un reboot du film Evil Dead sorti en 1981.

En 2014, elle décroche un second rôle dans Pompéi, blockbuster de Paul W. S. Anderson, le film s'inspire de l'éruption du Vésuve en 79 et de la destruction de Pompéi mais déçoit la critique et réalise des performances nettement en déca des attentes.

À l'inverse, elle joue dans la comédie romantique Célibataires... ou presque avec Zac Efron et Michael B. Jordan qui rencontre un franc succès. Cette-même année, elle fait partie de la distribution régulière de la série Gracepoint, un remake de la série britannique Broadchurch, vendue en tant que mini-série il existait des possibilités de voir apparaître une seconde saison mais les audiences ne suivent pas et le programme est annulé. À noter qu'elle apparaît dans le clip du single True Love du groupe Coldplay.

En 2015, elle rejoint la série de la FOX, Gotham, à partir de la seconde saison. Ce show est basé sur les personnages des comics créés par Bob Kane et Bill Finger et plus spécifiquement ceux de James Gordon et Bruce Wayne. Elle interprète Tabitha alias Tigress, une impitoyable tueuse. Au fil des saisons, son personnage se lie étroitement avec celui d'Erin Richards, une relation ambiguë entretenue par la production et approuvée par les fans.

Gotham se termine au bout de cinq saisons, en 2019. Jessica Lucas est alors choisie pour tenir le premier rôle d'une série thriller canadienne, The Murders. Pour cette série, diffusée en France sur la chaîne 13e rue, elle officie en tant que productrice et incarne le rôle de Kate Jameson, une jeune recrue de la police qui trouve dans son travail, une forme de rédemption après avoir accidentellement causé la mort de son équipier. La première saison se compose de 8 épisodes.

Le , elle rejoint la distribution principale de la série médicale The Resident lors de la quatrième saison. Elle donne la réplique Matt Czuchry, Manish Dayal, Emily VanCamp et Morris Chestnut. La série est diffusée depuis le 21 janvier 2018 sur le réseau Fox.

Vie privée
En , en escapade à Venise, Jessica Lucas annonce ses fiançailles avec son compagnon, Alex Jermasek, boucher dans le restaurant Gwen, renommé à Hollywood.
Le , le couple se marie en Grèce.
Jessica est maman d'un garçon prénommé Jett né le 9 août 2019. Elle donne naissance à un deuxième garçon, Mack, en juin 2022.

Filmographie

Cinéma

Longs métrages
 2006 : She's the Man d'Andy Fickman : Yvonne
 2006 : Le Pacte du sang de Renny Harlin : Kate Tunney
 2008 : Cloverfield de Matt Reeves : Lily Ford
 2009 : Amusement de John Simpson : Lisa
 2011 : Big Mamma : De père en fils de John Whitesell : Haley
 2013 : Evil Dead de Fede Alvarez : Olivia
 2014 : Célibataires... ou presque (That Awkward Moment) de Tom Gormican : Vera
 2014 : Pompéi de Paul W.S. Anderson : Ariadne

Télévision

Séries télévisées
 2000 : Sept jours pour agir : Rita (saison 2, épisode 13)
 2001 : The Sausage Factory : Haley (saison 1, épisode 1)
 2001-2005 : Edgemont : Bekka Lawrence (47 épisodes)
 2002-2003 : 2030 CE : Jakki Kann (7 épisodes)
 2003 : Romeo! : Jessica (saison 1, épisode 5)
 2004 : The L Word : Roxanne (saison 1, épisode 6)
 2004-2005 : La Vie comme elle est : Sue Miller (13 épisodes)
 2006 : Secrets of a Small Town : Rôle inconnu (projet annulé)
 2007 : Les Experts : Ronnie Lake (4 épisodes)
 2008 : 90210 Beverly Hills : Nouvelle Génération : Kimberly McIntyre (4 épisodes)
 2009-2010 : Melrose Place : Nouvelle Génération : Riley Ann Richmond (18 épisodes)
 2011 : Cherche Partenaires Désespérément (Friends with Benefits) : Riley Elliott (13 épisodes)
 2011 : Psych : Enquêteur malgré lui : Lilly Jenkins (saison 6, épisode 2)
 2013 : Cult : Skye Yarrow (13 épisodes)
 2014 : Gracepoint : Renee Clemons (mini-série, 9 épisodes)
 2015-2019 : Gotham : Tabitha Galavan / Tigress (67 épisodes)
 2019 : The Murders : Kate Jameson (8 épisodes)
depuis 2021 : The Resident : , résidente en neurochirurgie

Téléfilms
2001 : Les Sorcières d'Halloween 2 de Mary Lambert : Une fille Vampire
2002 : Le prix de la santé de Harry Winer : Tasha Peeno
2007 : Split Decision de Simon West : Heather Faustino

Musique

Bande Originale
2011 : Ain't Nobody et Baby You Know pour Big Mamma : De père en fils

Clips
 2014 : True Love de Coldplay

Références

Liens externes

Naissance en septembre 1985
Actrice canadienne
Naissance à Vancouver
Actrice de The L Word
Acteur ayant interprété un personnage DC