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Q: How and where is better to execute a periodic code on Android Hi everyone (i'm a newbie in android and kotlin),
What i need to do is send periodically (every 10 sec) some information, of may application, on a remote server whit a POST request independently if the application is in foreground or background.
Now i found some interesting source like this: https://guides.codepath.com/android/Repeatinag-Periodic-Tasks#alarmmanager.
But i have some perplexity:

*

*how would you structure this task?

*is a bad idea to start aThreadPool on an application class?

*is better to use a Thread or    service?

Thanks everyone in advance!
More Info:
The information in question are logs, so every 10 sec the app send it's logs(if present) to a logstash -> Elasticsearch.
I know that 10 sec is a lot, and it will drain the battery of the device, but i'm not the one in charge of this decision and i can't change it.

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Any time that you're hosting a large event, whether it's a golf tournament, a fair or anything else, you have to focus on the environment you will be providing attendees. Creating an event with no tents can lead to a number of problems. Adding clear span fabric structures will enhance the look of your event while providing a comfortable environment for a number of reasons.
While you'd like to hope that you have booked your event on the perfect days where there will be no rain, you simply don't know. You can prepare for problematic whether more effectively when you have a covered structure. It will give people a chance to get out from under the rain. If you have any performances or speeches scheduled, you can set up the stage and the AV under the tent, too. This way, your event can go on rain or shine.
Even with sunscreen, people don't want to spend extended time out in the hot sun. If you don't provide them with any kind of shelter, they likely won't stay at your event for long. You can get people out of the sun by having a covered structure in place. Seating can be added underneath, too, ensuring people have a place to sit and relax before going back into the sun.
You may have a lot of vendors in attendance at your event. The more vendors you have, the better it can be for all of your attendees. It will be easier to entice vendors to attend your event (and pay for a table) if they are going to be under some kind of covering.
Clear span fabric structures will make it easier for you to provide a comfortable environment. This way, if it rains or is particularly hot outside, people are able to get the necessary protection. You can choose to set up the buildings and break them down as quickly as needed or leave them up for extended periods.
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The Cheese Stands Alone
Cheese is made in Wisconsin. The people of Wisconsin are very proud of their cheese. In fact, they are so proud of their cheese they wear it on their heads. Do you know how cheese is made? Neither do I, but I have a vague memory of something I learned in school or I learned from Mister Rogers or my brother told me.
You start with dairy in an okay state. You let it go bad. You let it go bad some more and... cheese. But after a while it goes bad again. In the lifespan of cheese there is only a small window when it's something acceptable. It eventually turns into a green, furry, moldy block that smells like a fart. (It seems more likely this information came from my brother than Mister Rogers.)
Donald Trump is basically cheese. In the eighties, he was a pompous rich guy with some tacky gold buildings. This was his okay state. Not great, but okay as far as pompous rich guys go. Then he cheated on his wife and got into a nine hundred million dollar debt situation. This was his going bad. Then he starred in a reality show, discovered Twitter and dedicated an obscene amount of time attempting to prove his theory that Barack Obama is a pod person or something equally as stupid. This was his going bad some more. Then in the beginning of an already insane primary season where forty-seven people were running for the Republican nomination, Trump announced his candidacy. He was a crazy, pompous, rich celebrity spouting idiotic rhetoric with no basis in reality. It was hilarious. It was cheese.
Like most people, I never believed Trump had a chance. I severely overestimated the intelligence and compassion of a frighteningly large amount of voters. Over the past ten months, Donnie has attacked Mexicans, the disabled, Muslims, POW's, African-Americans, China, Syrian refugees, protestors, journalists, Univision, the stupid people of Iowa and Megyn Kelly to name a few. None of this has mattered to his supporters. This moldy fart became the Republican front-runner.
However, over the past few weeks it seems Trump's hateful bullshit has finally caught up with him. The people of Wisconsin aren't digging his attacks on women, his idiotic remarks about nuclear weapons and his defense for the campaign manager who manhandled a reporter. I fucking love Wisconsin right now. Guess what, asshole? You're a loser.
It's not over. We still have three long months to go before the convention. Obviously, a lot of people have voted for and are still supporting Donald Trump. But who are these poorly educated people who didn't realize Trump was insulting them because they are so poorly educated? I only know one person who openly admits to being a Trump supporter. The person is a slovenly redneck who breathes heavy. It sounds like a stereotype, but it's true. Support for Trump is like herpes. We know a lot of people have it, but very few admit it.
To get an idea of the type of people who are voting for Trump, I'm taking a look at the D-List celebrities who have endorsed him. Perhaps, this will give us some insight into what is causing this epidemic of ignorance.
Chachi, Chachi, Chachi. You're ruining my childhood, you jackass. Baio said he likes Trump because, "he talks like me." No one wants a fucking President who talks like Chachi. And if we did want a President who talks like a sitcom character we would obviously choose Fonzie. "My fellow Americans, aaayyy...." Everyone knows Fonzie is the coolest.
Other than he's Chachi, the only thing I know about Baio is he's a womanizer who banged his way through the cast of Baywatch, Hasselhoff included. (I could be wrong about the Hasselhoff thing, but I don't care.)
Cross-dressing friend of Kim Jong-un.
One of the Duck Dynasty Guys
Crusty redneck capable of killing ducks, yet hasn't mastered a razor.
He's an alcoholic who got into a fight in a Waffle House. Every drunk in the South knows you go to Waffle House to eat greasy food and sober up. Waffle House is a place of peace and cheese grits, dammit. I hate him for supporting Trump. I hate him for besmirching the good name of Waffle House. However, Bawitdaba, da bang, da dang diggy diggy, diggy, said the boogie, said up jump the boogie, are still the coolest song lyrics ever.
A cannibal, woman-beating rapist.
Brain damage.
Gun toting, one-hit wonder who adopted a teenage girl so he could screw her. If any scientific researchers are reading this, please work on a cure for Cat Scratch Fever. No one should have been infected with this disease for more than fifteen minutes back in 1977.
After all this extensive research I've come to the conclusion that the average Trump supporter is a brain-damaged, cross-dressing, alcoholic, redneck, rapey, pedophiliac womanizer who has a taste for human flesh and hangs out with terrorist dictators.
That's some funky bad cheese.
Namaste, Bitches
guytroy2579 said:
Hey, this is your brother. So, I've heard that The Nuge can really cut the cheese. Not only that, but he said he shit his pants to avoid the draft. I guess he's only a bad-ass rifleman when nothing is shooting back at him. *mic drop*
Posted by Donna Troy at 9:48:00 AM
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1) The agent clearly explained the answer to the customer's question.
2) The agent acknowledges the situation and is sincere in helping to resolve the issue.
3) The agent demonstrates urgency in resolving the customer issue.
4) The agent suggests next steps and provides a timeline for resolution.
1) The agent had access to account information during the call.
2) Information that the customer entered into the IVR was made available to the agent.
3) The agent personally followed up with the customer after the transaction to make sure the issue was resolved.
4) The agent offered their contact information so that the customer could contact them directly.
Although many companies have a lot of work to do when it comes to delivering personalization that matter to customers, some companies are doing a great job in this area—and it's making an impact on their customers in the form of higher performance metrics and loyalty scores.
1) Recognize customers by their phone number, not hard to find serial numbers, account numbers, VIN numbers, etc.
2) Send a post-call, closed-loop text that includes agent names and a phone number.
3) Develop training around call handling and agent behaviors that relate to the personalization drivers.
4) Train agents to listen to the tempo of the customer and match that tempo.
5) Build a formalized, systematized, and standardized agent notes system that creates a virtual, personalized repository of information on a customer.
6) Integrate one-stop-shop desktop tools and automatic agent alerts for easy access to prior channel contacts, payment history, customer information, sales data, etc.
7) Leverage call listening for more than just quality monitoring. Use it to deliver a better solution fit via new product features, product packaging and pricing models.
There's a lot more to the story! At CRS Austin, Gina Massa, Senior Director, Operational Performance Analytics at Convergys, will be sharing more data from our survey and going into much more detail on the topic of personalization in customer care. You'll discover more insights and strategies that will help you design and execute a plan that establishes better customer loyalty through personalization.
Kathy Juve is Senior Vice President, Global Marketing & Product Development at Convergys where she also drives the company's Customer Interaction Technologies (CIT) and Analytics business units. With more than 10 years experience in developing on-trend tech solutions to help global clients improve the customer experience for business results, Kathy advises clients on the emerging role of using analytics to drive and support customer care strategies across digital and assisted-channel.


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Boreal Caribou
Boreal Caribou (Caribou [Boreal population])
Rangifer tarandus caribou
Boreal Caribou are members of the deer family. Compared to Barren-ground Caribou, Boreal Caribou are larger and darker, have thicker and broader antlers, and have longer legs and a longer face. Boreal Caribou look the same as Northern Mountain Caribou but have different habitat preferences and behaviour.
Weight: 110 to 210 kg (240 to 460 lb)
Height at shoulder: 1.0 to 1.2 m (3.3 to 4.0 ft)
Report Boreal Caribou sightings to WILDLIFEOBS@gov.nt.ca
Boreal Caribou live throughout the boreal forest of the NWT in small groups and prefer to stay within the forest year-round. During calving, Boreal Caribou females space themselves out throughout the range, often where access is difficult for predators. Boreal Caribou need large areas of intact habitats so they can spread out to avoid predators.
Boreal Caribou use almost all forested areas east of the Mackenzie Mountains. They tend to spend time in mature coniferous forests with plentiful lichens. Ridges, swamps, burned areas and meadows are also important in spring and summer.
Boreal Caribou are well adapted to their northern environment. Their large, well-insulated hooves prevent sinking when traveling on wetlands and snow and are adapted for digging through snow for food.
Boreal Caribou are sometimes called the "grey ghosts of the forest" because they are secretive and difficult to find, and when disturbed they usually disappear quickly into the forest.
Boreal Caribou populations have declined in most of their range across Canada. In the NWT, the population of Boreal Caribou is estimated to be between 6,000 and 7,000 animals.
Population trends vary across the NWT. Boreal Caribou numbers appear to be stable or increasing in some parts of the territory. However, there is evidence of population decline in the southern part of the NWT where the majority of the territory's Boreal Caribou occur.
Potential threats in the Northwest Territories include:
Habitat disturbance, both human-caused and natural, that leads to more predators on the landscape.
Linear features (e.g. seismic lines and roads) that result in increased access by predators and hunters.
Climate change impacts on the forest landscape over the next 20-40 years.
The NWT Species at Risk Committee assessed Boreal Caribou as Threatened in the NWT in 2012 and again in 2022. Boreal Caribou was listed as Threatened in the NWT under the territorial Species at Risk (NWT) Act in 2014. An NWT recovery strategy for Boreal Caribou is available here. A progress report on implementation (2017-2021) is available here.
COSEWIC assessed Boreal Caribou as Threatened in Canada in 2000, 2002 and 2014. The species was listed as Threatened under the federal Species at Risk Act (SARA) in 2003. A national recovery strategy and action plan are available at www.sararegistry.gc.ca. The national recovery strategy identifies critical habitat as a minimum of 65% undisturbed habitat throughout their range.
Five regional range plans for Boreal Caribou in the NWT are being developed to ensure that critical habitat is maintained and protected. Range plans are guided by the NWT Framework for Boreal Caribou Range Planning.
Status Report and Assessment of Boreal Caribou in the NWT (2012)
Status Report and Reassessment of Boreal Caribou in the NWT (2022)
Consensus Agreement on Listing Boreal Caribou as Threatened in the NWT (2013)
NWT Gazette Notice of Listed Species - Boreal Caribou (2014)
Notice of Extension - Boreal Caribou, Polar Bear, Peary Caribou (2015)
Consensus Agreement on Accepting a Recovery Strategy for Boreal Caribou in the NWT (2017)
Recovery Strategy for the Boreal Caribou in the NWT (2017)
Consensus Agreement on Implementing the NWT Boreal Caribou Recovery Strategy (2017)
Boreal Caribou Progress Report (2022)
NWT Environment and Natural Resources - Boreal Caribou webpage


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The term 'Ayu' (also spelled as aayu) means lifespan. It is generally considered age, but it has broader aspects in ancient texts. Ayu is defined as span of life or the continuation of consciousness. Ayu starts with the union of sperm (shukra) and ovum (shonita) during fertilization and ends with the departure of consciousness (prana) from the body. In Ayurveda, Ayu (life) is defined as the combination of body, sense organs, mind and soul. [Cha.Sa.Sutra Sthana 1/42] Their combination leads to genesis of life or consciousness, and the loss of this combination leads to the loss of Ayu or death. The definition of Ayu and its classification into Hitayu, Ahitayu, Sukhayu and Dukhayu in Ayurveda is quoted in a way that covers both the individual and social aspects of life. The ancient holistic science of life - Ayurveda is principally the means of attaining knowledge about Ayu. [Cha.Sa.Sutra Sthana 30/23] Infact, Ayurveda is defined as the science which comprises knowledge of life span and perception of the status of the living body. [Cha.Sa.Sutra Sthana 1/41] According to Acharya Sushrut, Ayu is therein and attained thereby, thus it is called Ayurveda. [Cha.Sa.Sutra Sthana 1/23] Knowledge of Ayu is important because it helps assess the life span of a healthy person, residual life span of a person suffering from severe illness, and the rate of mortality.
Concepts / Ayu
Bhojani M.K.1, Yadav Vandana1
Basisht G.2Khandel S.K.3
Deole Y.S.4
1 Department of Kriya Sharira, A.I.I.A. , New Delhi, India
2 Rheumatologist, Orlando, Florida, U.S.A. 3Arogyalaxmi Ayurveda Consultancy, Jaipur, India
4Department of Kayachikitsa, G.J. Patel Institute of Ayurvedic Studies and Research, New Vallabh Vidyanagar, Anand, Gujarat, India
meera.samhita@aiia.gov.in, carakasamhita@gmail.com
1 Etymology and derivation
2 Synonyms
3.1 Features of hitakar and ahitakar Ayu
3.2 Features of sukhayu and dukhayu
4 Directions for measuring span of life in Ayurveda
5 Assessment criteria
5.1 Quality of Life Scale by World Health Organization (WHO-QOL)
6 Importance of concept
7 Significance of every component of Ayu
8 Contemporary approach
Etymology and derivation
The word Ayu is derived from prefix aa (आ) upasarga and yujiryoge (युजिर्योगे) dhatu. Thus the etymology of ayu आसमन्तात्चेतनयायुनक्तिइतिआयुः| means ayu is the one that connects to consciousness from beginning to end.
तत्रायुश्चेतनानुवृत्ति| means from zygote formation till death, the soul stays tuned with the body, and it is Ayu.[Cha.Sa.Sutra Sthana 30/22]
Dhari: the one that prevents the body from decay.
Jivita: which keeps alive.
Nityaga: which serves as permanent substratum of the body.
Anubandha: which transmigrates from one body to the other.[Cha.Sa.Sutra Sthana 1/42]
Chetnanuvritti: continuity of consciousness. [Cha.Sa.Sutra Sthana 30/22]
Ayu can be divided into four types: [Cha.Sa.Sutra Sthana 1/41]
Hitayu: A kind of life that benefits the self and society.
Ahitayu: A kind of human life that is not beneficial for the self or the society.
Sukhayu: Happy, ailment-free life; a life pleasant for self and society.
Dukhayu: A kind of life full of sorrow; unhappy life, unpleasant social life.
Although sukhayu and hitakar ayu seem the same, but these are different entities. Sukhayu means instant pleasure, whereas hitayu may or may not be pleasurable at the instant but is pleasurable for self and the society in the future. Sukhayu (pleasurable life) and dukhayu (unpleasurable life) may be either beneficial (hitakar) or nonbeneficial (ahitakar). For example, drinking alcohol may provide pleasure for a short time, but its consumption for a long time is not beneficial. Here living a life that comprises regular consumption of alcohol is sukhayu, but is ahitayu. Similarly, exercise may be unpleasurable, but making exercise a routine is beneficial in the long run. So life that comprises regular exercise may be dukhayu, but is hitayu.
Features of hitakar and ahitakar Ayu
Life is said to be beneficial if the person's life shows the following features:
well-wisher of all the creatures
abstains from taking other's possession
the person is truth-speaking, calm, devoted to attaining knowledge, understanding and serenity of mind
steps after examining the situation
free from carelessness
observing the three categories (virtue, wealth, and enjoyment) without their mutual conflict
worshipping the worthy persons
keeping company of elderly persons
the person has controlled well the impulses of attachment, aversion, envy, intoxication, and conceit
the person is engaged in various types of donations, constantly devoted to penance, knowledge, and peace
has knowledge of and devotion to metaphysics
keeping an eye on both the worlds and is endowed with memory and intelligence. [Cha.Sa.Sutra Sthana 30/24]
Contrary to these features, the person's life is known as non beneficial.
Features of sukhayu and dukhayu
Life is said to be happy, if the person is not afflicted with any somatic or psychic disorder. He is particularly youthful, capable with strength, energy, reputation, manliness and prowess. He is possessing knowledge of self, specific knowledge of scientific scripts and strong sense organs and sense objects. He has immense wealth, various favourable enjoyments, and has achieved desired results of all actions and freely moves about where he likes. [Cha.Sa.Sutra Sthana 30/24]
Contrary to these features is an unhappy life.
Directions for measuring span of life in Ayurveda
The age of a healthy human being to be around is one hundred years. [A.Sa.Sharira Sthana 8/26][1]
Due to the deeds of human beings, one year of life span is lost after every hundred years.[1]
The lifespan depends on the constitution of the person. Kapha predominant person lives a longer life, [Cha.Sa.Vimana Sthana 8/96] while vata prakriti individual has a shorter life span. [Cha.Sa.Vimana Sthana 8/98]
Short life span can be predicted by sudden abnormal changes in sense organs, their receptions, and interpretations of objects. [Cha.Sa.Sutra Sthana 30/25]
A grave prognostic sign (arishta) in the body and constitution indicates a person's decreasing lifespan and approach toward death. [Cha.Sa.Sutra Sthana 30/25]
The deeds of past life/destiny (daiva) and deeds of present life (paurush) decide the Ayu of the person.[Cha.Sa.Vimana Sthana 3/29] The excellent blend of these leads to a long and healthy life span, while their inferior combination leads to a short and agonizing life span.[Cha.Sa.Vimana Sthana 3/34]
Assessment criteria
Ancient scientists described the criteria to assess the age and lifespan of a person. The life span assessment should be done before treatment commencement. If the person has residual life span, then only treatment should be started after considering disease, season, digestive power, age, body build, mind, conducive factors, constitution, drug, and habitat. These examinations help in planning the management to obtain desirable results. Along with these criteria, the life span also depends on a person's lifestyle.[Cha.Sa.Vimana Sthana 3/38]
Features of the person expected to have a long life span or ayu:
A person is known to have a long lifespan who has hidden (well covered & nourished) joints, blood vessels and ligaments, compact body parts, firm sense organs, and successively better physical areas. [Su.Sa.Sutra Sthana 35/5-6][2] A person who did not suffer from any disorders during intra-uterine life and who grew with appropriate physical and mental faculties is expected to have long life span.
Features of the person expected to have a medium life span or ayu:
A person is known to have a medium lifespan, in whom two, three, or more distinct and extensive marks are present below clavicles, whose feet and ears are fleshy; tip of the nose raised, and streaks in the upper portion of the back. Such a person has a lifespan of around seventy years. [Su.Sa.Sutra Sthana 35/7-8][2]
The above features indicate such disorders in childhood may reduce lifespan. Any child who suffered clavicle fracture or dislocated shoulder during labour, or was born with thoracic outlet syndrome is likely to have marks below clavicles. Child with Winkler's disease or polychondritis have fleshy ear; and plantar fibromas, dyshidrotic eczema, plantar warts, bursitis, cysts, synovial sarcoma or Haglund's deformity may cause fleshy feet. The nasal polyps or sinusitis may cause the raising of the tip of the nose.
Features of the person expected to have a short life span or ayu:
A person is known to have a short life-span, if his phalanges are short, penis enormously big, crisscross hairs on chest, back is not broad enough, ears positioned upwards from its normal place, nose higher and gums visible while laughing or talking and looks bewildered. Such a person lives a short life span of around twenty-five years. [Su.Sa.Sutra Sthana 35/9-11][2]
The signs indicate that a child who is physically or mentally compromised, immune-suppressed, and suffering from severe metabolic or genetic disorders is expected to die early. Symbrachydactly may cause short phalanges. Hypospadias or varicocele may cause enlargement of the genitals. Kyphosis, Lordosis, and spinal or bone disorders may cause back deformation. Visible gums may cause gingivitis and other buccal or respiratory conditions in the future.
Quality of Life Scale by World Health Organization (WHO-QOL)
The World Health Organization (WHO) has developed a quality of life instrument, the WHOQOL, which captures many subjective aspects of quality of life). The abbreviated version of this scale is known as WHOQOL-BREF. It is applicable for cross-cultural comparisons of quality of life and is available in more than 40 languages. The WHOQOL-BREF is a 26-item instrument consisting of four domains: physical health (7 items), psychological health (6 items), social relationships (3 items), and environmental health (8 items); it also contains QOL and general health items.[3],[4]Currently this scale can be applied in research related to Ayu.
Importance of concept
In current times, ayu is regarded as age and deals only with the physical entity, the body. The age ranges from birth to death and depends on the vitality of cells and tissues of the body. But a deeper understanding of ayu reveals that life surpasses the limits of the complexity of cells and tissues. Aspiration to seek hitakar ayu aids in developing human personality and helps him achieve the highest order of harmony in life. It flourishes the psychological and spiritual aspects of well-being, and then the human becomes healthy in the true sense.
Ayurveda believes that freedom from cycle of life and death (moksha) can be achieved only if a person lives healthy life. He can achieve eternal duties (dharma), wealth (artha), and desire (kama) to ultimately achieve moksha. Ayu is required to achieve dharma, artha, and kama. Indian philosophy believes that every person has to pay off the debt to three people (sages, god, and parents) before dying by giving birth to a child. The birth of the person in the world is for paying off debts which the service of society can do. For this purpose, the person will have to maintain a healthy body. To pay the debts, a person needs a long life span, and hence the knowledge of ayu.
Knowledge of ayu teaches that life's moto is not to attain instant pleasure. Instant pleasure is not real happiness.
Ayu vis-à-vis Vaya:
In Ayurveda texts, in different contexts, the terms Ayu and Vaya have been referred. The word 'Ayu' denotes the life remaining, and the word 'Vaya' denotes the age passed. Thus, 'Ayu' is a positive notion of the futuristic life, signifying the scope of furtherance of health and happiness.
Ayu vis-à-vis Panchakosha:
The concept of Ayu resembles and incorporates the Panchakosha Theory (Five interconnecting sheaths) of Yogic sciences'. The Annamaya and Pranamaya Kosha, which are the outermost represents the body component of ayu (sthula sharira), the Manomaya and Vijnanamaya Kosha represents the indriya and mana component of ayu (sukshama sharira) and Anandamaya Kosha represents the Atma component of ayu (karana sharira). Thus, the concept and components of ayu are comprehensive in all health aspects.
Significance of every component of Ayu
As per the health definition by acharya Sushruta, all four components of life should be healthy. As per this definition, health is the equilibrium of body components and a blissful state of body, mind, sensory-motor organs, and soul. This classification of the Ayu or life into four components might also have a specific implication. It signifies that not only is each of the components important, but each has its peculiar pathology as well. These components have their nourishment. Considering the wider understanding of the word 'Ahara', each of these has different ahara, as requirement of each is diverse. Although the food we take nourishes body, senses and mind, but specifically and precisely, the body (sharira) needs to breathe, food and water (prana, anna and udaka), and the senses (indriya) require a balance of the sensory inputs (samyoga of indriyaartha), mind (mana) needs proper subjects to ponder upon (samyoga of chintyadiartha) and the soul (atma) needs peace and bliss (bhutdaya, karuna, kshama, akrodha, sattvikbhava, lokakalyana etc.)
Contemporary approach
Before starting the patient's treatment, the clinician must determine his life expectancy. Nature of disease, season, digestive power, age, general health, psyche, favourable diets and habits, constitution, medicines, and geographical locality should be assessed in a patient with good life expectancy.
Importance of ayu pareeksha for the management of diseases
The difference between Ayu (span of life) and vaya (age) is defined. Vaya is defined as the state of body corresponding to the length of the time since birth. Characteristic features of the lifespan are presented in detail in the article. The dhatus are in the developing stage during childhood, develop during middle age and start degenerating during old age. Kapha dosha remains predominant during childhood, pitta during adulthood and vata dosha dominates during old age. The treatment of different age groups must be planned to keep the dhatus and dosha in equilibrium. Time factor (kalayoga) is the ideal time for the proper growth of the child in the uterus. Factors responsible for longevity include excellence of diet, absence of opposite factors of dhatu, practicing exercise, cheerful frame of mind, equilibrium of doshas and dhatus, hereditary factors, immunity, etc.[5]
Symbiohealth – Need of the hour
A symbiotic relationship between Allopathy and Ayurveda is fundamental in creating a health care system that is more effective than either system used alone, less expensive, less toxic and more likely to create a healthier society. Maintaining the health of self and creating a healthier society is one of the aspects of Hitakar Ayu, whiche imphasizes the role of Symbiohealth in Ayu. The human body is not like a machine but rather an ecosystem that is formed by Ashtanga Yoga at the upper level, diet rejuvenation and detoxification at the middle level, and Kayachikitsa and modern medicine at lower level. Maintaining this human ecosystem via symbiohealth is required to acquire Hitakar ayu and Sukhayu.[6]
Utility of Vaya and Ayu pariksha according to Ayurveda
The classification of vaya according to different opinions has been presented in the article. Vaya pariksha is an essential factor for ascertaining proper diagnosis, the prognosis of the disease, and also for the appropriate treatment. Fixation of dosage is dependent on age and body mass.[7]
Rasayana effect of Guduchi powder (churna) on the life span of Drosophilla melanogaster
Regular food media mixed with Guduchi churna in different concentrations (0.25g/100ml, 0.50g/100ml and 0.70g/100ml) were exposed to Drosophila melanogaster for 30 days and increase in life span was observed in both parent and F-1 generation.[8]
↑ 1.0 1.1 Vridha Vagbhata, Ashtanga Sangraha. Edited by Shivaprasad Sharma. 3rd ed. Varanasi: Chaukhamba sanskrit series office;2012.
↑ 2.0 2.1 2.2 Sushruta. Sushruta Samhita. Edited by Jadavaji Trikamji Aacharya. 8th ed. Varanasi: Chaukhambha Orientalia;2005.
↑ WHO. Available from https://www.who.int/publications/i/item/WHOQOL-BREF accessed on 13/08/2022
↑ Vahedi S. World Health Organization Quality-of-Life Scale (WHOQOL-BREF): Analyses of Their Item Response Theory Properties Based on the Graded Responses Model. Iran J Psychiatry. 2010 Fall;5(4):140-53. PMID: 22952508; PMCID: PMC3395923.
↑ Agrawal M, Byadgi PS, Dwibedy BK. Importance of Ayu Pareeksha for the Management of Diseases. J Clin Diagn Res. 2017 Jan;11(1):OE01-OE04. doi: 10.7860/JCDR/2017/20881.9144. Epub 2017 Jan 1. PMID: 28273996; PMCID: PMC5324441.
↑ Basisht GK. Symbiohealth - Need of the hour. Ayu. 2011 Jan;32(1):6-11. doi: 10.4103/0974-8520.85715. PMID: 22131751; PMCID: PMC3215420.
↑ Shankar H, Dixit M, Meena HN, Meena NN. Utility of Vaya and Ayu Pariksha according to Ayurveda. World Journal of Pharmaceutical Research. 2020 July;9(8): 1125-1131. doi: 10.20959/wjpr20208-18267. ISSN 2277– 7105.
↑ Pathak P, Vyas M, Vyas H, Naria M. Rasayana effect of Guduchi Churna on the life span of Drosophila melanogaster. Ayu. 2016 Jan-Mar;37(1):67-70. doi: 10.4103/ayu.AYU_11_16. PMID: 28827958; PMCID: PMC5541470.
Retrieved from "https://www.carakasamhitaonline.com/index.php?title=Ayu&oldid=42003"


text:
Q: Magento 2.1.9 - CSS files not being merged I'm running Magento 2.1.9 on nginx 1.8.1
In Stores - Configuration - Advanced - Developer under CSS Settings
I've selected:

*

*Merge CSS Files: yes

*Minify CSS Filey: no

Then I'd flush my Magento cache.
php bin/magento setup:static-content:deploy

My shop is in production mode but I still see my CSS files:
<link  rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"  media="all" href="domain.etc..Smartwave/porto/en_US/mage/calendar.css" />
<link  rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"  media="all" href="domain.etc..Smartwave/porto/en_US/css/styles-m.css" />
<link  rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"  media="all" href="domain.etc..Smartwave/porto/en_US/bootstrap/css/bootstrap.css" />
<link  rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"  media="all" href="domain.etc..Smartwave/porto/en_US/bootstrap/css/bootstrap-theme.css" />
<link  rel="stylesheet" type="text/css"  media="all" href="domain.etc..Smartwave/porto/en_US/owl.carousel/assets/owl.carousel.css" />

19 CSS files in total.
Is it possible to merge them somehow?

A: This is because of the media="all" param. If you remove it, CSS will get merged.


text:
## Auguries of Innocence

## Patti Smith

A skylark wounded in the wing,

A Cherubim does cease to sing.

WILLIAM BLAKE

## Contents

Epigraph

The Lovecrafter

Worthy the Lamb Slain for Us

Sleep of the Dodo

The Long Road

A Pythagorean Traveler

Desert Chorus

Written by a Lake

The Oracle

The Setting and the Stone

The Mast Is Down

The Blue Doll

Eve of All Saints

She Lay in the Stream Dreaming of August Sander

Fourteen

Birds of Iraq

Marigold

Tara

To His Daughter

The Pride Moves Slowly

The Leaves Are Late Falling

Wilderness

The Geometry Blinked Ruin Unimaginable

Fenomenico

Three Windows

Our Jargon Muffles the Drum

Death of a Tramp

Mummer Love

The Writer's Song

About the Author

Credits

Copyright

About the Publisher

## THE LOVECRAFTER

I saw you who was myself

slightly stooped whistling mouth

with leather sack and breeches brown

striding the naked countryside

with summer bones long and dry

into the breadth of our glad day

mid afternoon the longer night

as you tread bareheaded bright

I saw you a wraith bemoan

stir the fires of the ancient ones

scarred with sticks pome and haw

as the nectar for their script

I saw you walk the length of fields

far as the finger of Providence

far as the mounds we call hills

ranges cut from the heart of slate

I saw you dip into your sack

scattering seeds where they may

as the woodsman hews his way

through oak ash and variant pines

for writing desks that shall reflect

a sheaf of lines that speak of trees

all sober hopes required within

all drunkenness as sacred swims

I saw the book upon the shelf

I saw you who was myself

I saw the empty sack at last

I saw the branch your shadow cast

## WORTHY THE LAMB SLAIN FOR US

On the edge of a pasture in a confusion of stones,

obscured by the long grass and floramour,

the footprint of horror cloven and drawn.

She had a beautiful name: freedom.

Pretty little chop. Unmarketable, light

the bleating of new life.

He loved her mouth, tiny feet dressed in pleats.

Hearing her cry, he picked her up by the stem

of her throat in his thick arms slick with dew.

And he, a governed soul, broad shouldered

with eyes like Blake, lamented who bred thee, nursed

thee on mead and flowers, as he ripped her apart.

The barn was burning an indifferent hell,

engulfing little maids in their curly coats.

The field and fell lay empty as the heart.

He called to his god gasping for breath

we abandoned the farms we culled,

cut the cord, incinerated our little ones.

We did it for love we did it for man,

the hawthorn and the cuckoo,

the footpaths of Cumbria.

We did it for a beautiful name.

freedom, baa baa baa,

nothing you could put your finger on.

## SLEEP OF THE DODO

The dodo sleeping, dreaming of himself,

lost in his daily doings. His wife mounted

in a menagerie of mogul extremes.

His children born and slain for sport,

with nary a nod save the wind,

echoing an old dance tune.

Funny squawks: coracoo, coracoo

swept by mist into the grotto,

the sugar plantation. Funny beaks

bobbing the swamp's dreaming pond.

Comic bodies washed up on the craggy

shore. Funny bones, then no more.

The sun hung, bled into the clouds.

God's bloodshot eyes, such sad surprise.

The dodo awoke, and seeing them,

slowly closed his own again.

Out of this world, into the indistinct

memory of a line that had forgotten itself.

## THE LONG ROAD

Here we had best on tiptoe tread

While I for safety march ahead.

ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON

We tramped in our black coats,

sweeping time, sweeping time,

sleeping in abandoned chimneys,

emerging to face the rain.

Wet, bedraggled, a bit gone,

trudging the grooves, chewing bulbs,

we were so hungry, tulips

blazed with ragged petals.

We adorned ourselves in pennywort,

slogged 'til spent the elected front,

the whisper of a trail we somehow knew,

rain that was not rain, tears not yet tears.

And the grail, oh the grail was just this close,

finished with foil, wrapped in sun.

Gladiolas were in bloom, bursting

from every crack. The whole world

anxious for holy mother to inspect

our chins with this familiar song—

Do you like butter?

Oh you like butter...

then set upon a hill yellow everywhere.

We mounted horses, rambled forests

mischievous fairies danced underfoot.

Branches snapped in our faces.

Our kingdom behind a chain link fence...

We grappled in the quarries, polished marbles,

knelt and shot for spoils in fervent circles.

We set up our furious camps,

our tents punctured with pegs,

nicked with pocket knives—

little foxes gauging the hard earth,

cursing the bottomland for making us soft.

We gathered rye, stuffed sacks, made pillows

for our men. We wrung the blood from soaking beds,

covered the martyrs' rolling heads, balanced

the buckets filled to the brim,

and we saw nothing and everything.

We rode on the back of the great bear, dipping our ladle

into the milky liquor spread like a white lake before us.

Our ships boasted obscenities scribbled

on parchment sails, floating illiterate rivers overturned

in bloody pools of rainwater muck.

We blew songs of praise into horns of sacred animals—

catcalls, confessions, teenage prayers

woven into tapestries of cloistered gardens.

No mother had we now, and rapping infinitesimal threads,

vows erupted with a new violence bearing no ill will

save to be born—our allegiance to motion

and the movement of the stars.

A blue light projected from the cap of a being

we could no longer name. We climbed the stairs

into a bluer heaven scarred with streamers,

bleeding the wind. We savored the spectacle.

Then it disappeared, but we were already gone.

We possessed a new radiance. Dew dropped

from our noses. We boasted shining skin,

shedding it without a sigh. Some raised their lanterns.

Some seemed to walk in a light of their own.

Fiery mounds that were not mounds, on the horizon...

Drawing closer we fell upon masses of greatcoats

abandoned by admiralty, deposed kings' purple,

medals of honor, regulation boots of dog tongue leather,

chits, animal hides, ermine and fleece worn by those

of high rank, princes and pilots, the magus and mystic.

Yet no rank had we fishing glad rags woven by the blind.

Ours was a country of sockets. They were empty.

And yet within one would find all a child hopes—

our own sweet story, our own sweet life,

cut with the cloth of ecstatic strife.

Once we knew where we were going, we leapt

in consecrated coats. We could have gone on forever

if not for this and that pulling at the starch of our sleeves.

We broke our mother's heart and became ourselves.

We proceeded to breathe and therefore to leave,

drunken, astonished, each of us a god.

Now you turn out the light.

Press your thumb to the wick.

If it sticks, you will burn.

If it goes poof, you will turn

into a beam that will extinguish

with the night into a dream

peppered with gimcracks.

We saw the eyes of Ravel, ringed in blue, and blinking

twice. We sang arias of our own, bummers chanting

dead blues of hallowed ground and mortal shoes,

of forgotten infantries and distances never dreamed—

yet only as far as a human hill, turned for wooden soldiers

stationed in the folds of blankets, only as far as a sibling's hand,

as far as sleep, a father's command—

...the long road my children.

We broke from our moth husks alive in the night,

the sky smeared with stars we no longer see.

A child's creed stitched on handkerchiefs—

God does not abandon us

we are all he knows.

We must not abandon him,

he is ourselves

the ether of our deeds.

The whistling hobo calls, sweeping time,

sweeping time. We sleep. We scheme, pressing the vibrant string.

Happily self conscious, we begin again.

## A PYTHAGOREAN TRAVELER

Awoke in a light not known before

the lodging's glass door mirroring

a likeness not hoped to glimpse again

clouds of my childhood, clouds of God

that supported the feet of Jesus Christ

ascending the brush of Raphael.

The young on their motorbikes do not lift

their heads nor cry: The clouds, the clouds.

They are always there—Mediterranean arias

mounting with swift and terrible calm.

Do they know me? Do they know I am here,

scribbling as they are decomposing?

The moon rises filled with moon blood

drawn from the Italian skies. Here Byron

unwound his turban and shook out his locks

as gulls dropped into the sea. The moon

knew her rival and hung like an ornament

from the ear of a bright deity curling his lips,

expelling great puffs, the clouds of San Remo.

I will sit here until dawn tripping the spine

of the stars, a Pythagorean traveler marveling

another numerical scheme, adding to his shoulder

a music not heard but attained.

Beauty alone is not immortal.

It is the response, a language of cyphers,

notes, and strokes riding off on a cloud charger—

the bruised humps of magnificent whales.

Clouds of my childhood, clouds of God

awash in rose, violet, and gold.

## DESERT CHORUS

In the rich chorus of night, cosseted

beneath a web of diamonds, tiny

as mosquito eyes, a stranger mourns

the brevity of desert rain

a swaddled enemy's cries.

Soon the sun will ascend over Libya.

Can it matter? We have bombed

Benghazi. A dazed warhead struck

the compound of our foe lying alive,

his eyes white, black rimmed.

He could be heard crying in the desert

with arms now orphaned,

his infant swept into a burlap sack.

To what purpose?

The gold leaf of surrender?

The sun will ascend. Can it matter?

A poet sealed in skin disrobed, split.

Jean Genet, a thief in flight,

astray in the weave laid down

his arms spiraling in a length

of mosquito netting, dotted with eyes

of onyx, blinking above a one-star

Paris hotel indifferent to a bugger

a swaggering son of a bitch.

How shall his soul be redeemed

If not suffered by a little girl?

The dawn breaks the tempered heart

exposing a love for all things.

Hana Qaddafi, child of the flowers,

lead him across the violent threshold

where his marvelous pals await.

His prison a house of cards

collapsing in columns of roses—

a garland for your head.

Let your ashes anoint him.

He will magnify your name.

Opal hands gathering you

in a bridal train.

## WRITTEN BY A LAKE

New Year's Day. Rain. Two candles light the room where they sleep. He writes. She confesses. This is where she weeps. She is the cause of the rain. She could not stop weeping and the sky obliged to follow.

(How is it mapped? What is the refrain? Why must the sky follow?) The heart drops in the center of an inexhaustible lake. How light the heart appears, yet how weighty a thing. A powerful stone carved in the shape of an organ with chambers pumping. How slick a shadow it leaks as its signature. Sticky, oxblood, the color of new shoes. High topped, gold laced and worn with expectations poised to ride out life on horseback. Racing from hill to hill with humor, horror, bits of Spanish stitched on sleeves.

The work wrung with this cry. Look you radiant wash yard. The sheets billow. Their wet folds tell a tale. Once there was a girl who walked straight, yet she was truly lame. She walked upright in new boots, yet I tell you her feet were bare. She lives forever, yet she lies buried in a vault of fertile air.

New Year's Day. The wicks twist. The insistent mirror winks. An eye with time as her lashes. And if he—slipping at last, face pressed against the glass, releasing beads of spittle from parting lips—should suddenly speak, what would he say? And if she, shaken from her torpor, should rise to write, what would she write? Their table is laid with the promise of the lake. Water sighs for want of blood. It is nothing. These remains, malleable ash, are nothing. Signs for want of substance. A sack of sticks spilling order upon the surface. Words traced on a slab hewn from another forested mind.

a postscript prefiguring—

Your fingers press the door triggering a spring exposing the hard corner where you have walked. You shall not stumble. Offer a fist encasing rivets extracted from the wet pout of this time or that. Prick the hour's hand with nothing but eyes. Think nothing of it. For what remains to flush is nothing but salt jamming the mechanism of formal delights, former misery. Nothing but salt to bundle and fling over a shoulder. Nothing but clumps of salt to toss, years later, like dice across a board of glass where you'll sit on a ledge circling a glowing body, unfastening the dressings of a burden gone. The cremation of all my sorrow—may you spread the singed grains with your fingers, and without thought brush them aside.

Thus free to drown in sorrow of your own, may you sit in the shadows of our lost life, immersed in stillness, flanked by translucent hills, one a mountain coated immaculate and ringed at the throat with beads of cloud.

These words were written by a lake.

String them around a wrist. Do not grip a sword or draw what might be drawn, for wisdom is a dying bird, engraved on a palm. Next to nothing. And these words were written by a lake, before being as being was scripted and dealt. A pack of lives, each with a winning face, each with this blushing command:

Prick this. This moment the hand is free.

## THE ORACLE

He was a stone boy divined by his sister.

She slept standing while he by the rim

played with a ball the color of water,

gazing all reason therein.

He was summoned to the sibylline barren,

carried by sweetness his mouth drew the spring.

They rejoined through the ball of water,

patterns foreshadowing.

Darts of fortune scattered unnoticed,

flew like the raven in a twisting scrawl.

His transitive senses he left to his sister.

Her tears were the color of stone boy's ball.

## THE SETTING AND THE STONE

The setting is a barren place

colorless, with dry purple shrubs,

small rocks sheaved in light

and dust, dust everywhere.

The stone is betrayal,

rich, energetic,

the color of an elf 's slipper.

He skips over the landscape,

his tiny tracks alive

with the lustrous fibers

of his soles:

The red beat of betrayal.

Three halves and the moon

is suddenly undone.

The mountain knows this,

as do all the idols

laughing at our futile efforts

to be whole, to be holy

without them.

The ring around our neck

has a weight, a weight.

Look, the prophet waltzed

this arid place and baptized

it with his sweat.

He was mad, by God.

Naked, he tread vipers

and felt nothing.

Yet he was drawn

from the smooth

crown of the locust

into Herod's nest,

the palace of lust,

a teen-age dance.

She encircled him.

and he lost his head.

## THE MAST IS DOWN

We lay in the cursed grass devoid of magic,

tracing our disintegration in the kinetic sky.

I touched your arm and the flesh fell away,

and my hands were no longer empty.

Our mount is made of blood earth,

when wet a clay thing writhing.

If you breathe in its mouth it will fly

above the Moorish towers into the blue.

The Pinta is a ship the lone navigate,

channeling the mind once beguiled.

I touched your hip, the bone fell away

and the sea was no longer empty.

We love yet reclaim our dark sails,

gorging the belly of a red dog.

## THE BLUE DOLL

This morning I dreamed you returned and left a blue doll face down on my mother's quilt. I reached to turn it over, as a black liquid seeped from a crack in the wall and bled into a pool, rising beneath our bed. The doll had blue hair and a blue face. I gripped it by the ankles and shook it like a medicine rattle. I shook it with such force, the head spun and I felt remorse.

I rose and fastened my hair. My robe trailed the rim of the black water. My nose began to bleed, slowly at first, then tear sized drops that slid down my throat, staining my collar and bodice. My dress was the dress on the blue doll. I walked on the water through the walls into the forest to a rocky hillock. I cut a path and ascended barefoot.

I lay face down on the crest, humming the music of a fluted sun. I was no longer angry. I was no longer than the span of a note sounded by a thrush in the wood.

## EVE OF ALL SAINTS

The writer who did not write moved by feel alone, was eaten by his words, by drink, his own hand casting a line, drawing empty river. He felt a glow, not his, wrapping around him in the tavern—a silent salute from the strangers he loved and who loved him.

The writer who did not write suffered to return, dragging his foot. The willows swayed a greeting, ever so slightly. The shouts of little beggars, with their sacks and jack o' lanterns, spilled through the dusk as they flew past him, trampling the marigolds growing wild on his dead end street.

She held the screen door open, as he approached the laughter of their children, the spoils of their pillowcases, fruits and candy soul cakes spread across the floor. He stepped over their masks—handkerchiefs with holes for eyes—and hobo shoes. The potatoes had yet to be peeled. His shirts were rinsing in the sink. He felt within his cheek and extracted a tooth, an ivory charm, for his love to wrap in silver paper. In her hand, beating like a small drum, he placed it.

The writer who did not write mounted the stairs. His children watched him faltering, his feet going on him. She followed and lay down beside him. He rested his head on her shoulder. A macabre magic filled the air. Little beggars raced from house to house, calling "trick or treat," ringing bells, lacing the bushes with long veils of tissue. He dreamed of a fishing tournament, a musky strung up on the back of a truck. It was a lucky day for the old fisherman and he felt strung up as well and still aglow. It came in waves in his sleep—labor without pain. No life. No life anywhere and the blood had a metallic smell like a freshly painted retablo framed in flowers, carved in sugar.

She clipped a lock of his brown hair and wrapped it in the silver paper, with his tooth and a gold ring. She made a reliquary of him. His half-empty can she drained into the mouth of the river. She flattened the tin and painted a fish hanging in the green sky. She sat in the grass where they sat in the night. The willows swayed a greeting, ever so slightly, as she prayed, not to God, but to him. The stars scattered like a rosary suddenly unstrung. Medals embossed with saints rained upon the grass. The little beggars filled their sacks with them and handed one to her—St. Federico, the writer who does not write, the patron of forsaken fields.

My dove, your name is water in my hand.

I will offer it with salt and bread and the charm extracted

without resistance from your silent mouth.

I will canonize your name for mysteries unsolved,

words unborn,

because you suffered, my calavera, my sad, sad saint,

my writer who did not write.

Because your beautiful sorrow sprouted like a stalk,

blossoming calligraphy.

## SHE LAY IN THE STREAM DREAMING OF AUGUST SANDER

for Diane Arbus

You, I write beloved black ace Ophelia

extravagantly pierced dread pale moon.

Negatives inflame your immutable eye,

hands face feather soaked in love.

Cast your pearls pen the pink fat night.

Comb ashes from the garden asylum,

the white cliff of ambition shedding.

Shoot baby shoot, powers can alter.

Her human cathedral hung with tassels

of hair threaded with golden string.

And she sang as she slid dangerously alive

through long arms of trailing algae.

I have collected children. I have felt

the museum fled that mountain—viewed

with suspicion memories snowing.

the white cliff of ambition

in those soft trine

She unfastened the strings and fruit erupted.

The flayed mule became one with her,

they lay uncorrupted in the deep grass

pecked palm to palm by ebullient fowl.

You are my summer knight she whispered.

The spokes of the wheel bear witness.

A barren heart is a heart that does not choose.

Beloved, come down fluid like naked convinced

a heart has stopped floating orchid child.

Horns of angel turned in virulent dust,

being to feel found shelter in fire.

The first roar dry and blood brown

crisscrossing the kingdom of a wrist.

## FOURTEEN

There will always be devotion,

smoke coiling the open wound,

snaking the deep loam, molding

a clay head twittering the end.

There will always be romance,

the tit and the mouse,

and the defecating louse.

A curtain drops cabbage-edged,

anklets slouching schoolgirl shoes.

She tiptoes the stage, curtsies

her closing piece and purses

a mirror anticipating a kiss.

Invective pours an unruly mouth.

She is as hard as you, hard

as your dreams rolled between

fingers, bled out of the blue.

Fourteen, each year a station crossed.

Her head droops, a capricious rose

crushed by gravity. How so and why

sours the tiny bud. She was fouled

in the leaves and the negative space

between them burnt into tears. She was

fouled in the leaves and the earth

shuddered, as the clay heads spoke.

What will we learn from all these words?

There will always be smoke, a satchel

of crumbling verbs, lusted by gods,

devoured by birds as they hit the sky—

their bellies full of India ink,

tales of assassins, the death of a pink,

extracting from its scalloped heart

pollen that could bruise a child's cheek.

Clambering, grasping a small handful

of grass, poets and liars moan in the glass—

the glare masking the green of her eyes,

that moisture absorbed, the salt of the sky.

They sing of her lovely life,

what a number she is, a form of prime

strung like stars circling the throat

of a petulant muse whose crinolines

test cultures' wriggling death.

## BIRDS OF IRAQ

March twentieth

awake spring.

The birds are silent.

It is happening again.

I rise yet cannot rise.

I take to my bed

wind the sheet

about my head.

It is coming on

a nerve storm

triggering

the current

source of suffering

stones pelting

the human spring.

And I am myself.

And I am another.

And now my mother

stretched retching

in a bucket

fan spinning overhead

her children in a row

observing by the door

with scientific wonder

they've seen it before.

No dinner no story.

Hammering the wall

wet cloths and balm

hennaed strands

soaked in sweat

loosening her sun dress

barely casing toppled flesh

howling Jesus

Mary and Joseph

my head my head.

I the eldest

administering

in dutiful silence

condemned

as I am now

administering myself

grasping the towel

the storm in the air

is also my brow.

Yesterday

the nineteenth

her birthday

St. Joseph's day.

She will not

return as swallows

to perch on a rock

in Capistrano

with the casual

symmetry

of a setup

a shooting gallery

bird heads

plopping

basket of ironing

that I will have to do.

Throbbing images

melodies looping

mother wailing

our childish games.

Can't I have some peace?

Can't I have some peace?

Can't I have some ice?

What are they doing

wild little mice

bombing

the first day

of spring?

Baghdad

the city of peace

the caliph and the thief.

I remember nights

swept by the sea.

I read the Waves

but never ventured in

the polio epidemic.

Indians don't swim.

They worship the tides

and they are coming in.

Virginia praying for night

refusing to be black

for the moon is full

spilling the skylight

dripping voices

or are they birds?

Why did they cease chirping?

When will I cease retching?

And how did my head

learn to swim?

The equinox passed.

She marched

to the river.

A letter for L.

A letter for V.

Stone by stone

the ring ouzel

and starry rooks

the weeds floating

the pitted mirror

a glimpse of gone

a quiet hand

twisting a sheet

between her teeth

pleading amnesty

whispering

nervous hummingbirds

dreaming of asylum

Saint-Rémy

impossible peace

hammering inventory

ruthless embroidery

painted trays

ambulance spattered

in Julian's blood.

Madder palette knife.

Discard possessions.

Cut hair cut hair.

Rose growing annuals

thorny hair

would not stop

piercing her scalp

thick-walled gardens

Vanessa in heaven

Thackeray's great

glass-fronted cabinet.

It was a dream.

It was her head

hammered head.

And she wonders

how could I think

such a violent thing?

How could I think

such a violent thing?

And Buddha

was unaware of Isaiah.

And Isaiah unaware

of Heraclitus.

Yet all existed

in the same moment.

And who exists as we exist?

Fingers inch by inch

spread the country of her bed

through the window

shattered cabinet glass

shams wet with tears

spittle and sweat

desperate eyes

clasping vines

counting beans

the murmur of leaves

a history of the world

written on the humps

of broken beasts.

The birds are silent

before they cease

before the bough breaks.

Iraq spring awake.

Bombs fall like fruit.

The peach trees

lining the boulevard

behind the mosque

in flames

the hoopoe

the turtle dove

showering

remains

spattering sheets

children toting guns

women soldiering.

And I am not them

wrapped in muslin

bric a brac flying

no connection

no culminating

piece of action

no end no end.

Over the Tigris

the Euphrates

helicopters

drop leaflets

for people to eat.

They paper the moon

the hammered mind.

What century is this?

Truly the last

as camels race

freed from embroidered

vests and leather saddles

sacks of spice

and water gourds.

They run and the sun

explodes.

The lamb of god bleats.

Goats separate from the sheep

their beards are woven

into scarves

adorning priests and freaks.

Camels in the dust

astonished by their wounds

their racing minds

Ata Allah—bedouin name

their small ears lined with fur

filter dust and sand

double row of curly lashes

shields their large soft eyes

from the desert sand

hair they shed in spring

highly sought

for artists' brushes

Vanessa's

Duncan's.

The band tightened

around my head

slid, encircled my wrist.

I couldn't write

couldn't grasp

a single thing

not word

nor world

just time

beading

a long

fragile

string.

When you snap

a neck

something stops

turning in

a jewel box

beneath a hammered lid.

We met in the spring house

enacted our play

slept in a tent of sheets

and dreamed of the desert.

We heard the call to prayer

and the sky was magic.

Men were leading camels.

We knelt in the thorny scrub

and when I awoke

there were scratches

on my knees.

And never again

will vision be so acute

that dreams could

produce blood

a thorny path

littered with wings.

If we tape them

to our shoulders

surely we could fly.

We would be free

like the hoopoe

like the curlew

singing in spring.

Are you coming

my sister?

Are you coming?

Mother's better.

We are flying

on our own

flapping

up and down

up and down

discarding

sweaters

baring

arms.

Oh

to be

so small.

## MARIGOLD

He had a face of long ago

Driven and strange with sad, sad eyes

And a smile to raise paradise

She tended her flock upon a hill

Observed him from a place above

Obscured by light, blushing gold

He traced the path of star and sun

A nature torn as prudence spun

Beheld the eyes of the beguiled one

Through field and fell she swiftly fled

Unveiling air, her bonnet slid

Tossed to the shallow divining good

As faith a flower where he stood

Providence speaks another tongue

He traced the path of star and sun

He smoothed it with his healing hand

And made his way into the cold, cold wind

And the heart is its own

Yet not as God plans

And n'ere will she know

So fine a man

## TARA

She stood by the door

of her Virginia farm

pulling a sweater on

the branches

of the dogwood

were bowed

blossoms tossed

in sudden snow

the deer stood

in mute wonder

at the garden's edge

she slipped the phone

in her pocket

her daughter

unharmed

amongst

petals gone

she snapped

a branch

a tempest stalled

she felt the boy

she felt the dead

she felt the families

she felt the wind

the deer don't do that

she said

the deer don't do that

## TO HIS DAUGHTER

What is the heart but a small hand

of agonies? What is the immobile

stag, but a blessing disguised

within the pages of a book?

Little one, set down your hymnal,

rest it upon your knee. Tears

may stain the fragile leaf,

let them fall, let them fall.

Your father has rushed forth

in a column of mist. Now you seek

him in columns of words, water

and stone. He is here little heart.

The stag fell under the stroke

and into a blackness

so bright as to fold

light. Here. Pressed between

hymn and hymn a perfect thorn,

the spear of your father's love.

The hart faltered and fell.

The red-skinned hart.

He is the gust that lifts a bit of sail

to press your cheek, wipe the tears.

A bit of sail without moral, turning

like an apron upon a cloud.

## THE PRIDE MOVES SLOWLY

I heard you crying in your sleep

and stood above your contour there.

I saw the moon behind your ear,

wrists as mine, my mother's hair.

I saw you with your father's arms

and so possess his blades,

protruding like small wings

I thought I'd never see again.

The lamp of his boyhood glows,

the pride moves slowly

as in a dream. Circling

the shade 's lucent plain.

Bequeathed with certain calm,

the outline of their forms

diffuse as memories stream,

sown in sadness, sleep.

## THE LEAVES ARE LATE FALLING

The leaves are late falling, the plane trees

gowned as to partner air.

Star to star, they hold fast in the cold

light filtering music.

Two hands ago these fingers were yours,

folding a guitar placed by our son

closing his eyes, a metronome pacing

the percussion of an errant wind

as the lid fastened, marking time,

year's mind and mind's end.

In a circle, on a rise, currents waltz

the restive plane,

their gowns loosening, they fall

one by one shimmering,

signing as their word

that somewhere you are good.

## WILDERNESS

Do animals make a human cry

when their loved one staggers

fowled dragged down

the blue veined river

Does the female wail

miming the wolf of suffering

do lilies trumpet the pup

plucked for skin and skein

Do animals cry like humans

as I having lost you

yowled flagged

curled in a ball

This is how

we beat the icy field

shoeless and empty handed

hardly human at all

Negotiating a wilderness

we have yet to know

this is where time stops

and we have none to go

## THE GEOMETRY BLINKED RUIN UNIMAGINABLE

She clawed through the rubble of her world

head covered a scrupulous maid searching for gems

a necklace mislaid by her mistress on the marble floor

of a ballroom set against the battered sky

She crawled with her babe limp as a doll in floral crayon

fleeing hell straight into the light of her ancestors

She crawled through arches suspended

wrapped her babe in the shawl she had worn

to market no more than a scar on the face of a hill

hair ribbons fluttering girders blood silk

oozing the wounded sky shot with holes

foxes scuttling crackling wires

patches of honey colored coats shivering

down mixed with bits of calico and flesh

She crawled a chessboard a cage of gold

scaffolding she crawled with her face oblique

placed her babe before the altar of the Art of War

She picked through the remnants of the Basque

countryside a cockeyed dress-maker

piecing a pattern gone awry

Through the rubble she crawled

with one shoe the other foot gone

a trail sticky and warm

She crept into the belly of a fallen horse

drawing its life into her mouth

covering her doll with kisses

she knelt entreating her god

an immense crucifix swathed

in telegraph wire that spun

like a bottle in the center of a circle

She made a sign over her breast

and stuffed her mouth with biscuits

Body of Christ...Body of Christ

Horses wept jewels the size of fists

swept by scholars with a mind

to twist and level facets

of each plane to be raffled

when the bombing ceased

Before the Art of War she laid her babe

To be raffled with the heart of the artist

bulldozed crucified then razed again

to house an outstretched arm

hoof and thigh reins that ran scarlet

streaming the horse 's knotted mane

dripping blood from the wounds of Christ

dripping blood from the wounds of Spain

Black and white blood dripping

The ghost of Sophia pranced in her rag dress

through walls of glass—the unspeakable

The hairs on his forearms bristled the sense

of her pressing in like a dosed handkerchief

He picked up a stick and covered fresh sheets

Dripping the hardened horn

Dripping the indignant ring

Slaughter flower dead child hoof capacious eye

lighting the halls of the Spanish pavilion

He bore down on the stick to canvas spent

and on the seventh day he wept

## FENOMENICO

The music of the spheres knew not of what it sang.

The flame of love mounts quicker than the flame of sacrifice.

This flame burns slow and the body consumed holds its form

a small slumping figure stripped and shorn

mouthing the words: "Jesus, Jesus."

She reached, not with her bound hands, but with her eyes.

The sacrifice made on the cross harmonized with her own.

Her banner, intact, hung from the arches of the sky.

I sat in a square humming a song of the shepherd girl

who rose above her station to liberate her king.

Yet he abandoned her to secular authority

and she languished in chains

a daughter of deep neglect.

Her harnois blanc lay upon the altar

Her difformitate habitus shredded immaculate

Her broken sword, an ex-voto, caught in the bramble

the sweetbriar enmeshed in sad soldier thread.

I reached to touch but was moved by the rustling gowns

of the conclave; the lapping of the Apostolic See.

A moat encircled the Duomo and I noticed a small boat

laden with bread and fishes.

I reached for the oar but was suddenly drawn by the

geometric design paving the wide quadrangle of the piazza.

The mosaic sang beneath my feet as I entered an ancient

garden winding the heart of the perennial cycle.

A long-stemmed boccolo with magnificent thorns appeared

before me. I knelt to claim it when I saw you standing by

the column of the winged lion in your overcoat, smiling.

A golden ball balanced above the tumulus

like a small planet eaten away by a spiral mist.

The music of the spheres knew not of what it sang yet

filled the heavens with a bold and jubilant silence.

I felt the lantern of your arm

the pageantry of your breath

the source of an exquisite wound.

## THREE WINDOWS

In the garden of the fugitive

he knelt singing

I am with thee

In his white cassock he cried

I pray for that brother

who shot me

A black crucifix appeared

as he lay dying

forgive me

I am one

Crepe streamed from three windows

a flag dropped bound in mourning

these words entered the heart

You have come

the door is open

you will not find me

you will find my love

## OUR JARGON MUFFLES THE DRUM

Children marching scraps of humanity beating their drum of blood rushing streets buried alive on the moral high ground burned in their beds in the name of crusades not sanctioned by law any savior at all small limbs severed in the name of gods fleeing holocaust streets of the wrong dawn blighted angels swarming burrows wading sewage sleep of the ragged caged glue sniffing packs of the dogged pinned and glazed and bound by fashion rubber shoes stitched by child hands and where shall they dream dancing splintered streets naked feet with none to remove slivers of fiery ice to warn hearts underfoot to wash the tears of children streaming by twos and tens and tens of thou sands with small hands open to fallout follies frozen embryo stem cells blown promises lowered into plundered shafts and children are swarming mounting refrigerators no more cookie jar just rounds of ammo to pump into their pals by the grace of our stupidity they say we have your guns your lack of recognition that we are children and we mimic like parrots and we are going to play you taking down all in our wake in a pink buzz on the way of swollen bellies enslaved ignored skewered abhorred embedded in the new century that has abandoned their hands prayer common mind signs worth deciphering code worth dying words worth living force fed fast food educated by tube entertained with sex scandal serial killer white supremacists and gaudy rappers spoiled like carcasses of studded beef swinging in the sun shot by princess deprived paparazzi grieving images icons blown by fame by their own silver hand jobs presidential blow job mourning the death of stars while babes are left in swaddling heaps babes to languish in streets of blurring mists not parted nor blessed and the children coming with their hands outstretched and we fill them with stinging amendments material rites non patriot acts to play entrap avenge revenge yet there is a higher flower waiting to be plucked a recompense worthy of their pure palm and it contains nothing but itself to raise the head of the son to bathe in lucid milk drink the radiance within the stream and the children are racing streets with no name besieged streets of the veil of the blue mosque streets of the jubilant damned street of the nailed the pawned profiteer street of the prophet hanged man rapist priest amorphous children glowing from dark to dark to dark and the way of the bread and the empty hand of innocence transfusing street of the sorrows and children of the wood hounded shredding all veils unwinding all sheets of the dead world droning overturning tables laden with silver sacrificial birds beating goatskin drums advancing with hands outstretched and we keep filling them with mercury nitrate asbestos baby bombs blasting blue scavengers picking through the ashes of city of the dead exploited raging children of the mills children of the junkyard malls trafficked children high risk asylum children orphaned abused shining children damned and gifted blind scorned and beautiful toughs funneling traumatized hungry for lullabies sucked through the shafts sleepy illiterate fuzzy little rats haunted paint snuffers stoned out of their shaved heads forgotten foraging sex slaves sleeping urine and excrement gutter saints mystical children foul mouth glassy eyed hallucinating hallowed nameless soldier blitzing the pure street of the numb with outstretched hands and children are raging like packs of dogs and who shall feed them shall serve up centuries of love lost as they squat in our shit unable to comprehend their own beneath constellations of fear as we wield vanities gesturing extinction and the children are mouthing natures small agonies and fish are writhing in the desert and the sea no longer shining sea and mountains shall be razed erupting small fingers tracing the end of things and children are marching beating their drums of blood joined by ghosts offering sweet cornflowers to fold and stuff the cheek of the future tiny fists signaling take heed thee guardian for none shall be first and none shall be last and who shall greet the sun if the air be pink with folly and who shall remain save the children of the game and they shall be as bread upon the earth and they shall build monuments to the saints of their day and they shall shed all veils unwind all flags and hail their mother who found them naked abandoned in coffin shaped baskets and lifted them bathed and clothed them in the finery of her love and they shall remember her in cloth of blue dawn anchored in faith bathed in hope with charity unfurled as they rebuild our world.

## DEATH OF A TRAMP

The hills were green and so were we

but not in the way men talk about

we had not known death

nor walked with stain

for all was bright about the hand

We had not known death

yet the sparrows ring

set like a wreath upon the marsh

marked for all that shivered cross

in cast-off clothes himself cast-off

In sun and wind his tramping drum

the high grass knew his shuffling

kindness wrapped his being mild

his countenance moved the brethren

The stench and sense of aimless wrath

now we know death not so the man

a wildflower stowed in ragged breast

the hills are grieved their innocence

## MUMMER LOVE

Come in lovely Mummers don't bother the snow

We can wipe up the water sure after you go

Sit if you can or on some Mummer's knee

Let's see if we know who ya be

TRADITIONAL

A face pressed to mine. A black hole planting a kiss, an uproarious cry. It was not cruelty, not even insult, but a quirky form of universal love. An impulse of great narcotic joy. One of the lower orders, a lone mummer from Conception Bay, engaging in horseplay far from home. He pressed his face to mine, then staggered away, howling, while I, small and reproachful, tried to wipe away the smear of a vague initiation into the festival of life.

I fled the masquerade through ranks of grotesque string bands shaking down Market Street. Through the heart of Philadelphia I ran, toward City Hall, topped with the imposing figure of William Penn breathing upon my startled being.

Brothers in blackface splendidly clad chasing small boys and whipping their legs. Gaudy tattlers parading the streets and performing rude dances. Strays dragging plumes in the slush splashing as little ice crystals formed in my socks.

I did not join the other children throwing pennies on Ben Franklin's grave, crying good luck, good luck. But something struck me as I scraped the clover from my shoes. Why should there be clover? I was driven to the snow. Why should there be clover—each one four leaved, boasting the luck of his caste?

I was left to wonder of this raucous swarm why I, in my plaid coat and little watch cap, was chosen by the King of Fools for a bristly greasepaint kiss. It set me apart, in heart, year to New Year. Assailed by winter fever, no longer dead, I vainly attempted to peel the mug of mummer love.

My coat reeked, my face sooty with indignant tears. It didn't really matter then. It doesn't really matter now. I can make it matter or not. I can be beatific or dead. I can be bountiful or a shriveled branch. I long to see, to hear that which I create. The moods storm the impossible sink flushing water the wrong way corkscrew style. I long to hear that which I made and not outlive it. Not outlive it.

oh stolen book my salvation no crime sweet no scent mesmeric no snow so light than the simple knowledge of you rimbaud sailor face words hidden in my blouse so close to my breast

—piss factory draft

The years saw me grow long-limbed awkward inexplicably maverick. I sought my kind and found none. How you rescued me. Your peasant hands reaching through time wrapping my young heart. Your poems, found in a stall by the greyhound station I dogged dreaming of escape, were my ticket out of my cloistered existence. Words I could not comprehend and yet, deciphered by blood, illuminated adolescence. Armed with you I fled the rural suffocation of southern New Jersey past the streets of our forefathers to New York City of poet rats and public transit. I wrote with the image of you above my worktable, vowing to one day trace your steps dressed in the watch cap and coat of my present self.

This morning, pulling into your town, I walked the streets that you despised, the streets I love for your having despised them. I sleep steps away from your child sleep and awake to hear you call. I sense you loitering by the river, willing me to rise.

I will go to the train station in Roche, touch the remains of the wall of the farmhouse where you wept A Season in Hell while your sisters harvested the fields.

I will walk the road you raced as a sturdy-limbed boy. The road you were carried on with one leg, facedown on a litter, flanked by misery who loved no company—the road to Marseilles, to a ship returning to Abyssinia, to descend into the abyss, the black hole of universal love.

I will be there at the station in Roche. I will piss in the urinal you pissed in. A young man cursing existence. And then a dying man. I will squat and rise. I will stand. I will give you my limbs, no longer young, but sturdy all the same.

Mummers ask for nothing in return. They give a sign to sign. Then they're gone. I project from the urinal to Marseilles that you gave glory and they just tossed it away into the river—a discarded wreath where rats sit, using it for a nest. A. Rimbaud, the rats' poet laureate.

A rat is all I have been, scurrying through the streets of the city of brotherly love. I am here my brother. I am here where you were and I feel as if I could find you waiting, if I only drew myself from this torpor and moved into the empty streets. I know your loneliness, which I desired to fill with my own. But I am no longer lonely. I am this close to a shade. Yet I still feel. I long to peel the last of my face struck in mummer love and left the impression of a festival. To the new. To the new year. And it's not clear at all why it embedded itself in me. That phantom clown chose me, unformed. He left me branded forever it seems, until perhaps, this moment while I peel the last face. The last phase of my existence. As you read. As I have written. As I have gone.

Seedless winter. Yet it springs with life. There should be fireworks. It's Independence Day. The sky, which I cannot see, is alive with colored wheels and I know saints have been stretched on such glowing racks. Girls as sweet as stems and gloomy priests. Everything compressed into a leaf pressed in a book. The book of summer, when I wrote about winter. The book of life that told of the dead. Everyone wears a corpse about their wrist. Just a bit of twine, but a corpse all the same. A dead thing proclaiming I have you and you. I will snip all these things and hurl all rings in the urinal you knelt in. Your tears made it overflow. All the sewage covered the station and made you shudder. This was as close to a laugh as you could get. The image of a shit-covered wagon. You stood clad in white, trembling.

Once I awoke and heard your voice. I caught bits of nature, in truth, our whole natural world. I heard the dead. They were calling to me. I felt my powers. Yet I did not go out into the night. I did not go out into the world. I did not use my powers but I wrote what I wrote. My heart cries but my eyes are dry as a salt bed.

The cursed mist shall lift and all the infants' breath. I will butter my hair. I will unfasten the last. I will tremble like you when I glimpse the visible ink peeling at the edge of my cheek. I have danced on the edge of ignorance. I have wept impossible dreams. I have melted nothing. I have stood in the warped curve of a light that should have taken me away yet left me with the human kind I have never been.

Everything here is a small offense and not of value as art or confession. It is not a whim. It is an attempt to peel another putrid skin. The greasepaint of mummer love. The honor and the stain. So when it happens, I can say I did it. I'll be okay. Just a kid. A severely gimped little goat, yet sturdy limbed, who can hold you up. The goats once ran wild over the cobblestone streets of the city of brotherly love. And I am as they on your road my brother.

Who can color a corpse around the wrist and call it blessed? All because of mummer love. One deep and scratchy greasepaint kiss on the day of the new and spotless. This is what I know. I am here for a purpose. The purpose changes. Gifts that are not mine. Children who are not mine. An angel who is not mine. And this—to meet you at the urinal and draw you upright in my arms. I am still sturdy. This memory may enter me and I will realign the clay of my being. Will be you. Muscle shall be ours. All limbs intact. All brutal mirrors cracked. I am here and that is something. I am here my friend, and have always been. As much as for any living thing.

## THE WRITER'S SONG

I did not wish to work

I did not wish to earn

but to curl with my jar

in the sweet sorghum

I laid my mat among the reeds

I could hear the freemen call

oh my life

what does it matter

will the reed cease bending

will the leper turn

I had a horn I did not blow

I had a sake and another

I could hear the freemen

drunk with sky

what matter my cry

will the moon swell

will the flame shy

banzai banzai

it is better to write

then die

in the blue crater

set with straw

I could hear

the freemen call

the way is hard

the gate is narrow

what matter I say

with the new mown hay

my pillow

I had a sake and another

I did not care to own nor rove

I wrote my name upon the water

nothing but nothing above

banzai banzai

it is better to write

then die

a thousand prayers

and souvenirs

set away in earthenware

we draw the jars

from the shelves

drink our parting

from ourselves

so be we king

or be we bum

the reed still whistles

the heart still hums

## About the Author

PATTI SMITH is a writer, artist, and performer. Her seminal album Horses was followed by nine releases, including Radio Ethiopia; Easter; Dream of Life; Gone Again; and Trampin'. Her artwork was first exhibited at Gotham Book Mart in 1973, and she has been associated with the Robert Miller Gallery since 1978. Strange Messenger, a retrospective of three hundred works, made its debut at the Andy Warhol Museum in Pittsburgh and has been exhibited worldwide. On March 28, 2008, a retrospective of her visual work opened at the Fondation Cartier pour l'art contemporain in Paris. Her books include Witt; Babel; Woolgathering; The Coral Sea; and Complete Lyrics. On July 10, 2005, she received the Commandeur dans l'ordre des Arts et des Lettres, the highest grade awarded by the French republic to eminent artists and writers. On March 12, 2007, Patti Smith was inducted into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

Smith resides in New York City and is the mother of two, Jackson and Jesse.

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## Credits

Frontispiece photograph © 2005;

endpiece photograph © 2008, Patti Smith.

## Copyright

AUGURIES OF INNOCENCE. Copyright © 2005, 2008 by Patti Smith. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

EPub © Edition JULY 2008 ISBN: 9780061982675

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text:
Home » AGAINST ERROR » ERROR: 70AD-FUTURE MILLENNIUM Post...
70AD-FUTURE MILLENNIUM Post-Millennialism, Partial-Preterism
BEGAN ABOUT OLD JERUSALEM'S DESTRUCTION IN 70AD.
WILL END AT A TIME STILL FUTURE.
Postmillennialism and Universalism
Postmillennialism says that the Millennium began long ago, (at Christ's birth, death, resurrection, Pentecost, or at old Jerusalem's destruction).
Postmillennialism says that the 1,000 years of Rev 20:1-7 is actually a good deal longer than a 1,000 years.
Postmillennialism says that the Lord will return at the end of this 1000+ year Millennium, (rather than its beginning).
Postmillennialism forgets that Paul considered the Lord's Return possible within his lifetime, (1 Thess 4:17), not a 1000 years later or more.
Postmillennialism says that the Resurrection of the Blessed & Holy Ones, (Rev 20:4), is a past event and is, therefore, something different than the Resurrection of Christians at the Lord's Return, (1 Thess 4:17), a future event according to Postmillennialism.
Postmillennialism teaches that the resurrection of Rev 20:4 (that of the Blessed & Holy ones) is past so it was not a bodily resurrection but a coming to covenant life.
Therefore, Postmillennialism makes the same mistake as Idealism, Amillennialism, and "Full" Preterism by interpreting "resurrection" in Rev 20:4 as "coming to covenant life." This forces the conclusion that "resurrection" in Rev 20:5 is the "coming to covenant life," as well, since these two adjacent verses speak of resurrection of the two groups of the dead with the same words and grammer, LINK.
The logical conclusion is the same: if resurrection in Rev 20:4 is "coming to covenant life" then the resurrection in Rev 20:5 is "coming to covenant life," as well. That is, Postmillennialism also supports the false teaching that "the rest of the dead" (Rev 20:5) eventually receive the same covenant standing as the "blessed and holy" (Rev 20:4): they both eventually "come to covenant life" whether they are among the souls of the blessed & holy martyrs or from among the rest of the dead. That is Universalism. Because of this error, many of the same arguments against "Full" Preterism apply against Postmillennialism, also, LINK.
Any time the Resurrection Rev 20:4 is made out to be something different than the Resurrection of 1 Thess 4:17, it invariably is contrived a "coming to covenant life" which, in turn, supports the conclusion of Universalism.
So, only Futurism and the 70-1070AD Millennium can possibly make a stand against Universalism. All the other systems support Universalism by their wrong view of the Resurrection of Blessed & Hoy One's of Rev 20:4 which then supports Universalism's view of the Resurrection of the Rest of the Dead, Rev 20:5. They refuse to equate the resurrection of Rev 20:4 with 1 Thess 4:17 at the coming of the Lord.
Rev 20:4 is not equivalent to being born-again. Rev 20:4 is the same event as 1 Thess 4:17. It is the Resurrection of the Just, the Blessed & Holy ones, the coming to life again of the Dead in Christ and their being changed into a bodily form just like what Jesus enjoys.
Postmillennialism refutes itself
Keith A. Mathison
The Pretzel Logic of "Orthodox" partial Preterism
Matthew 24: Is Double Fulfillment Possible?
ERROR: Bi-Millennialism
‹ Questioning "Full" Preterism, Covenant Eschatology up ERROR II: "The 1000 years of Rev 20:1-7 is not an actual 1000 years" ›


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Tacori >
Tacori Wedding Bands
Classic Crescent (35)
Dantela (11)
Petite Crescent (13)
RoyalT (39)
Reverse Crescent (8)
Sculpted Crescent (53)
Simply Tacori (10)
Coastal Crescent (14)
Gents Band (13)
Characteristics of Tacori Wedding Bands
Tacori has been on the market since 1979, and in the decades since, this California-based jeweler with a history that stretches back to the 1900s has been refining their styles to impress customers who want a wedding band that reflects their passion and desire for a beautiful piece of art. Here at Long Jewelers, we're pleased to be an authorized retailer of Tacori wedding bands, and we're always thrilled to pair a bride- or groom-to-be with the band whose diamond-studded excellence and sculptural brilliance reflects their personal aesthetic. From the RoyalT collection to Sculpted Crescent, you can always find something new and exciting at Long Jewelers!
Popular Collections of Tacori Wedding Bands
Women have access to some of the most remarkable collections of wedding bands on the market when they browse the looks designed by Tacori. For example, we mentioned the RoyalT collection, and looking through those pieces, you'll see eternity-style bands studded with carats of near-flawless diamonds held in place with delicate strands of platinum, creating an effect like catching a halo of pure light around one's finger. The Dantela line is no less gorgeous, with platinum channels holding round-cut diamonds in a wonderfully modern style. Along the sides of these bands, one can observe the iconic "Tacori crescent" curling like lace against a woman's finger.
Men can find their own Tacori treasure when they browse the collections available at Long Jewelers! If you're a man who's more partial to the simple wedding band, you'll find a lot to appreciate in the Classic Crescent collection. The minimalistic gold faces of these bands belie their textured finishes and the barest hint of milgrain beading along their sides. If you prefer a more stylistic band, turn to the Sculpted Crescent line. Multi-metal pairings, channel-set diamonds, textured finishes, and artisanal etching into the metal creates a wedding band that'll reflect your dedication to a restrained sense of fashion.
Why Shop at Long Jewelers?
Long Jewelers has been serving the Tidewater area of Virginia for over 30 years, and every year, we strive to find new designers, new collections, and new treasures to impress the men and women who rely on us for their jewelry and timepiece needs. Tacori represents a cornerstone of our business, and their collections of wedding bands, engagement rings, and fashion jewelry add a flash of unique glamor to our showcases. Whether you're planning your happiest days or you're searching for the right piece to add a splash of color to your wardrobe, you can trust Tacori. If you'd like to find out more about Tacori wedding bands, don't hesitate to contact Long Jewelers today. You can reach our Virginia Beach, Virginia showroom at (757) 498-1186!
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