text:
The Tao of Grief
A Travel Journal
On a much earlier part of my timeline our son had a remote controlled car and he took it out into the road by our garage and he played and he jumped and he fell. The movement of the vehicle tripped him up, unexpected and sudden. I was in the lounge, I heard him cry and I was there, you know, like you are when half of your genetic material is entwined and buzzing in another's form and I held and wiped the tears. It's what you do.
Sometimes I wonder how much of the joy of repair is in the fact that you can do something to help, that although it appears outwards and all for the other's sake, that on some level it is for yourself. In the act of wiping tissues around the smallest of noses you are soothed yourself, not just because you take their pain away but because you yourself are soothed by the act of being useful.
We spent many years with a background of usefulness under the sound of peeping engines. The Fat Controller ran an efficient yard and we lived and loved through a variety of scares and disasters but somehow it was always resolved by a Really Useful Engine within the hour or even under ten minutes in the early morning breakfast pre school slots and they were part of our world.
In games and often in life I became Mummy Fat Controller because I made most of the decisions around him and when behaviour needed railing in I would put on my best yorkshire accent and pull him to the sidelines and resolve the situation, kneeling by his side with my virtual top hat and words. We had our favourite engines, he would be Thomas and I would be Percy unless we passed on the stairs. In this precarious manoever we moved up a gear to his guise as Murdoch on the down line which, in turn, made me Spencer on the up line and we peeped to each other and we chuffed in our days.
The wooden replicas have dust on them now, although the odd one can be found, as I did the other day, lost behind a photo frame, a frozen shot of me in my wedding dress, taken just before the reception when friends and family peered out of the windows while I twirled and smiled, and they waited for the photos to finish and they waited for their food. They watched us from the sidelines, observers of our land.
Now this ancient picture masks the old train shunted behind it and I picked it up the other day, a random plastic version with a turning knob on the side. I turned the knob and the wheels whirred for a while, relieved to have purpose after years of being caked in time and they span for a moment and then stopped, clogged up and chocked with dust. The familiar sound of motion, the background radiation of our world.
I put it back behind the photo. The wooden ones live out of sight, a stored story in the waiting, packaged up, narratives for grandchildren down the line.
And I look out. The leaves have all gone from the tree outside our window. The berries are bright almost orange like Murdoch, almost vermillion like James, hundreds of tiny red engines waiting for the beaks to come, to pluck them from the rain.
And I look back.
I think about our home, the first one not far from here and the way I ran to his derailment and the warmth of holding him close, the plasters, the soothing biscuits and the role.
The commitment of being the balm to another, of having purpose and being able to heal. And my wounds are aching, it's easy to get stones in these old cuts, easy to feel them rub and scrape along the scars and I dab.
I treat my own injuries and I crave. I crave the scrub of the carpet when the hardest thing about the day was the build of the track, when we puzzled over making the pieces fit. And now I sit here, desperate to make his pieces fit, needing to help him build his route. Our derailment, a constant in our narrative and all I want is to scoop him up but I can't, I want to brush away the gravel and all it would take to stop the tears would be a warm drink and a hug. And my comfort in the primal need to sooth it, to wrap around him and to take away the pain.
But I have no plasters now. The autumn winds blow around the wounds, the train is on its side behind the photo and we make new tracks. Our scar tissue turns to steel as we construct, like when I used to kneel beside him.
And in this autumn, calling winter –
I still do.
Tags Children's Grief Awareness Week, griefencounter.org.uk, Toys, transitions
Categories Grief, Loss, parenting
And now Key Stage 4 scoops up the child we knew into the confident teenager he's becoming. Armed with fresh hormones and a barber's shop cut and he's off again, polished up to take on the new timetable with a refuelled sense of what lies ahead. And in all the change I see that nothing changes, that the permanence sits below the shifting patterns, the threads that bind us tight. And we move and we grow and the deeper things remain.
New bags and a brushed up resolve. Our son, heading out on the next part of the journey. The keratin in his hair catching the early morning light.
Long ago in a distant land when our son was first learning language, we started to name all the animals. His expanding repertoire included a selection from the farmyard: Le Ma (sheep), Le Mei (cat), Da Woof (self-explanatory) and Le Moo (ditto). We never understood where the Frenchness came from but like all things it was a transitory phase. Wild animals were also covered with a particular favourite being an elephant or 'A Twunk' as he would say, swinging both arms as the two trunked creature stomped around the lounge and of course there was the lion. A-Wor, loud and fierce prowling the kitchen for the next biscuit or two.
Years and worlds later he has gone back to school tonight to see the evening production of The Lion King. His best friend is playing the young lion cub and I wonder how that will be. Watching James act out the rights of passage that our son has had to live through.
We had both wanted to go. In the old world I almost lived at school, helping out here and there, in class supporting, Governoring and Chairing, more assemblies than I can remember and any production going. At Primary I would not only have been there, I'd probably have run up a few lion costumes in the process.
But by last week there were no tickets left.
This afternoon he announced that Phoebe didn't want to go and that she'd offered him her ticket… so with an earlier tea and tightly squeezed in home work, he decided to go by himself.
The temperature is cooling now, though I wonder how hot it is in the hall, I wonder where he's sitting and if he's buzzing with some friends.
We had a brief talk before he left and then he strode off wearing his new top looking older, with a swagger that comes from pushing boundaries and testing out his worlds and I'm sat here, quiet in the echoed scent of underarm spray with his discarded comb on the chair, wrestling with a foreshadowing of the empty nest to come. A lounge packed with the prowl of conflicting emotions.
I like to believe we're ageing well, me with my deserting hormones, mellowing into my new roles and our son, sat there now, not here on the Pc but there, on the plastic chairs under lights with his mates. I hope he's found some familiar faces to sit by, not just surrounded by whole families sat together. I hope his face is turned upwards towards the stage, glowing in the heat, projected colours reflected off his changing contours, eyes watching James as he roars.
Our son, striding forwards, his mane brushed back from his forehead, stretching out, growing strong towards the light.
In his best shirt, without me.
Finding new lands, our heir taking it all on – and he roars.
An end of hot-day-fly hums around the house. The trees brush rustle against the sky with the hope of a storm to break the heat.
I wander to the kitchen for some earl grey.
It's quiet – I'm surrounded by lions.
Tags cycles, our son, Tao, transitions
Categories Loss, parenting, Uncategorized
February 15, 2015 //
It's getting close now, it's February 5th, moving around again, noting the dates as you can't help doing.
Our son is off in the frost, no winter coat. It's not the done thing as it's more to manage at the other end. Bags and bustle to organise so you don't need anything else to complicate the process even if it makes you slightly cold.
We've had the letter now. Next week is Options evening. Somehow we've arrived at that point, already planning for the next two years. I wonder about the conversations we're not having, the other versions of everything from a parallel world. And I wonder if the end results would have been much different, if we'd been talking on un-reupholstered settees. Would he still be taking triple science? I believe he probably would.
I can't know of course, I have to just work with what we have, with these conversations and the choices we make now. I find it so hard to keep up with him these days. I've been left way behind with maths, not hard really as we were both so rubbish weren't we? I think he's skipped a generation and picked up the skills from your Mum. Maybe it's just who he is – the sum total of all his genes and experiences fermenting into so much more.
I guess he's down the long road now, he walks so fast these days and the pavements are full of children chuffing, red cheeked, dripping noses, bags stuffed ready for the day. If I listen deep enough I can hear it. The sound of traffic, the floof of exhaust fumes around the car behind and the footsteps. Quick, focussed heading off to do what needs to be done.
It's grey today. Solid low cloud, not like the rain from back then. I remember walking through the puddles with Jenny and following your Father's back when I couldn't raise my head. Some of it is so fragmented now like a broken mirror on the past. But it's still there in the pieces and I can look at the shards and if I choose to I can reassemble the moments with care, hold the sharp edges in my hand and look deep inside.
He'll be nearly there now, in the noise and throb of day. I need to fill in the form for the meeting, need to talk to him about the questions we need to ask, the things we need to understand and the decisions that we need to make.
I watch him straighten his tie in the mirror, the reflection clear and strong. And next week we'll be going out to have conversations in different rooms with different faces. Walking alongside him as we plan the times ahead.
It's after the 11th now. We negotiated the old faces on the bus, felt the shock and judder of who we used to be in their awkward smiles and I followed him around the rooms, sat through the presentations that explained the jobs to come, the roads that he would walk down.
It's the 15th now as I tap this and I remember walking home with him after the Options evening, down the long road that seemed shorter as we talked. He's just taller than me now and he was buzzing, so sure of the direction he needs. I can't take it all in, the distances we've travelled, the new lands we've found. He walks so fast, like he talks when he's in full flow just home from school. I wasn't looking forward to Options evening, it seemed so out of place. But part of me looked out for people I might have known and felt less inclined to hide that night. And I sat next to him with my silver shot hair and best coat and scanned the crowd for the backs of heads from our past. I felt us pivoting into some place new and did my best to hide my beaming as he nodded to mates and clocked girls from a world that's all his own. We did it all and did it well, an unexpected excitement running on top of these parallel lands underneath us.
Somehow so many tiny steps are making miles now. We are right where we belong.
We have choices.
It's up to us.
Tags anniversary, our son, Tao
Categories Loss, parenting
Sitting Comfortably
January 11, 2015 //
Through the dark and scary woods, a long long time ago we visited Brei in Oxford. I believe it was the winter after we'd lost your Mum and we pulled up and parked by their tiny stone cottage and waited for the sound of the dog. I can't remember which breed it was now but I wasn't comfortable around it and with a certainty, protected our son. I remember when we visited their workshops in the woods that the dog would be locked in the toilet. A rescue dog, the potential to be so lovely but they were always too busy to train him so he forged his own path with no boundaries, galloping around the rooms and leaping up at customers.
That was the last time we visited. We talked on the final stretch of the journey home. She hadn't seemed that interested in the things you needed to say and you felt it wouldn't be worth the effort to divert our route south again. But she still promised to re-upholster our settees. We confirmed phone numbers and emails, she vowed she'd get back to us but of course she never did.
I remember when they bought them down, right at the start in the autumn. Both she and Colin negotiating our new threshold and squeezed the sofas through on their sides. We paid for one each didn't we, (though I'd agreed the fabric) mine was the terracotta one, a slight nap to the fabric, almost suede and yours was old gold, although she insisted the shade had another name. I'd bought fabric too for curtains and took forever to make them up. Always more confidence than competence when it came to sewing and I was there in full bloomed pregnancy, over two years later, crawling on the floor with pins in mouth trying and just succeeding to get the others finished for 'the baby's' room. I believe my plan was to alter the lounge curtains to make them fit the play-room, years later when we moved in. But as with many things in that world, it didn't quite happen and I didn't get around to it and now the sun comes in with ease through those windows at the back with nothing to block the light that falls in, charging photons on the things I need to sort.
It's the end of the year as I tap here, another swathe of time moved through and at the bottom of the stairs I have some swatches. Our son has chosen the new fabric and new colour. Soon as the days dance into weeks they'll come to squeeze them out of these new doors, just after my birthday will be the way to go and I'll watch the shapes of memory as they pile into their van.
And now I've crossed that bridge again into another year. My birthday tears up at me, somehow welcome, somehow unknown. I drop back to our hotel and the waiting faces that you planned for me. Ten years back then, with the friends who cannot be there for me now and the ones who remain by my side. And our settee that I sat on, on the eve of our eve that was piled high with cushions months later when my back had had enough and I sat through the hours like the Princess and the Pea until I could sit once more like a proper person again.
There's something right about the timing now. Easing the old for the new and I'll look to the door and our son as he tries it out for the first time. Making indents in new fabric. The fabric that sits on the top, the structure solid underneath. The foundations firm under a wave of change. The places where we sat, the life and times around us. Us in the moments, in the threads that bind and us now testing out of new material. Making our way, with new places to rest and to be.
Fifty years ago my Mother went into labour and last week on a rare trip to town, I stood behind a fresh young couple. They bristled with new life, chirping over the pinkness that was snuggled deep in their pristine pram. I overheard their conversation with the cashier. How the baby was born at the start of the year, they were in the papers, and the Father yawned about how tired he was. I didn't see the Mother's face, but I could sense it, her exhausted euphoria, her aching pride and her primal commitment to the work to come.
They were on their way to the Registrars, they were excited to sign proof of her birth. I remember the building, where you went fourteen years ago while I lay upstairs on the bed, immobile with our own wrap of pinkness by my side.
I walked past the building many times in the old world, buses to catch, places to work. I see it now, from my wrapped up place on the journey home, I pass the small window by the railings, where from my inside view back then, I saw people's feet walking by, and Jenny sat beside me and I couldn't hold the pen. Couldn't form the letters, couldn't focus and all I remember was the enduring sense of Jenny on my left, their Pc screen and rub of tissues.
Same room, different forms and the circle completes again. My wanderings around town is framed in the look in their eyes, their joy carved out in the moments that lie ahead of them. And me, framed by the seat I sat on at the beginning of this journey. A document signed to force a new me to begin. And it's that new me now who, with our son, has chosen the fabric to coat our life for the years ahead.
They'll be taking the sofas away soon, peeling them back to their basic form and building them up again, into something new, something more padded, something able to withstand the moments to come. And we will sit and settle and welcome the newness.
Sofas and softness, stainings and scars and a life turning to renewal.
The re-upholstering of the girl I used to be.
I think of my Mother in labour,
I remember myself in labour.
Your face, his face
and our sofas at the door.
Tags anniversary, beginnings, cycles, friends, nature, roots & shoots, Tao, transformations, transitions
Categories beginnings, Loss, parenting
The Final Frontier – Part 2
A special post today, from my favourite blogger – our son xxx
It's here! It's arrived! And just time for Father's Day! My very favourite episodes from Star Trek Deep Space 9 and Enterprise, enjoy:
Star Trek Deep Space Nine.
Move Along Home
Series 1 – Episode 10
A new species boards DS9 (the Wadi) they bring gambling games and Quark is naturally interested. But as he plays the game, the senior officers vanish in a maze of death and danger. Can quark save his friends or will they die when eliminated?
If Wishes Were Horses
In this episode a strange energy force consumes the space station causing every member of the crew to experience exactly what they think. The promenade becomes a blizzard, Rupelstilskin turns up and the space station is uncontrollably sucked into an obliterating anomaly (capable of destroying solar systems).
Who remembers the TOS episode Mirror Mirror? Where a transporter accident creates a parallel universe full of death and violence. Well, Bashir and Kira have a plasma leak inside the wormhole, this sends them to the parallel universe, where the empire is at war with the Klingons and DS9 orbits Bajor.
The Way of the Warrior – Parts 1 & 2
Series 4 – Episodes 1 & 2
After the destruction of the Enterprise D (Generations,) Worf joins DS9 to assist Sisko with a fleet of Klingon ships helping the Federation to prevent a Dominion attack. However after Worf uncovers a plot to attack Cardassia he tries to stop General Martok (Second in command of the Klingon Empire) from doing so but when accords get out of hand Sisko must prepare for a full scale Klingon attack on DS9.
Trials and Tribble-ations
Series 5 – Episode 6
After Kira finds the Bajoran Orb of Time a runaway miscreant of the Federation steals it and sends the Defiant back in time almost 80 years to deep space station K7 where a well known TV hero is dealing with tribbles. Sisko and the crew must blend in to stop a bomb disguised as a tribble from destroying the U.S.S Enterprise and all her crew.
In the outbreak of the Dominion war Sisko and crew are forced to abandon DS9 and retreat to safer territories. But Sisko won't hand DS9 over to Gul DuKat that easily. He minds the entrance to the wormhole with self replicating bombs and bar obliterating DS9 he utterly ruins all systems leaving just Kira, Quark, Odo and Jake to greet the unfriendly arrival.
Sacrifice of Angels
Out numbered by two to one on Sisko's riskiest plan ever against over a thousand Dominion and Cardassion ships, the Federation tries to retake DS9 from the Dominion.
One Little Ship
Starfleet gives Sisko a break from the front lines and tells them to study an interesting astronomical phenomenon, fly into it and all sense of size shrinks by a hundred and fifty percent. But when O'Brian, Dax and Bashir get stuck at finger nail size, can they do anything to stop a Dominion invasion on the Defiant and more importantly stop being the size of half a paper clip?!
Badda-Bing, Badda-Bang
After a new interactive hologram programme malfunctions, can the crew do anything to help the new holographic counsellor from going bust?!
Shock Wave – Part 1 & 2
After destroying a planet, Enterprise is ordered back to Starfleet Command where a special visitor reveals what is actually happening and when the Enterprise is over run by the Suliban and the Vulcans want an end to Earth's space programme, Archer is dragged to the 31st Century because he's the cause of a drastic change in the temporal war.
When Starfleet find a perfect sphere and a frozen cybernetic body buried deep on the Arctic circle,
Enterprise is recalled home to investigate. They unfreeze the bodies to see if they are friendly but what they find is far worse than mean.
After a shock wave causes a piece of the bulkhead to land on T'Pol and Archer rescues her, an unusual infection causes Archer to be unable to form any new memories. Almost 35 years into the future he wakes up in a camp where T'Pol explains his condition and the dreadful outcome of the Xindi conflict. Can Phlox eradicate the virus and ultimately restore the timeline?
In a Mirror, Darkly – Parts 1 & 2
Series 4 – Episodes 18 & 19
In the 700th episode of Star Trek ever to be broadcast, we find Archer in the evil parallel universe. The uniform has been changed, the Vulcans are in slavery and there is an all new title sequence! Archer find a rip in space time going to an alternate universe (the original universe). He also finds that the rip goes approximately 150 years into the future. He decides to enter it in the hope of finding second Empire but what he finds is the U.S.S Defiant (as seen in original series episode, The Tholian Web). Archer uses this new found power and attempts to become Emperor of the Empire but it's not just him who wants to grab futuristic weapons…
These Are The Voyages
Series 4 episode 22
The crew faces one final mission to rescue Commander Shran's kidnapped daughter. After a mostly successful mission but the unfortunate emotional death of Charles Tucker 3rd (Trip) Archer makes a speech that will be the beginning of the Federation as we know it. Which is then memorised by 24th Century grammar school students.
This marks the end of great series of episodes and even though J J Abrahams continues with his films it will never be the same as good old fashioned Gene Rodenberry's Kirk.
Tags anniversary, our son, Star Trek
Roots & Shoots
Twenty years ago I sent you a card and you thanked me for the 'home-made' one. At the time I was almost offended, from my old bedroom masquerading as a studio, where I painted with care, in soft subtle shades, where I'd sat, considered and produced the piece. Home-made? It was a one off, obviously, Designed by Hand watercolour, finished off with my finest 000 sable brush, of course. You never quite 'got' my work in those days. I showed you the cats at some point and we talked about what I was doing and why but we both knew they were too garish for your sensibilities.
You commissioned me once at Christmas, and somewhere in a drawer I still have the small sign I made for your front door, the door I got used to, at the side in your small cave by the candlesticks and curtain rings and the wooden stairs over your corner.
Sometimes I used to try to prove that I could draw 'properly' with sketches of our baby and all sorts. I was going to copy that favourite photo of your Mum, the one where the negatives were reversed and she came out back to front like this parallel world now. Like many things when life was linear, I didn't get around to it, like finishing sticking in the photos in her big brown book. I remember you delegating the onerous task to me when it slipped into being a task too difficult, not long before I had tasks of my own.
The only drawings I do now are silly ones with our son, his People City concoctions. And I don't paint now, hardly ever, I don't need to anymore
– I write.
I got into the back of things today, underneath and out of reach and found the bits that we'd forgotten, the bits we'd shoved away and the hard fast memories of the lives we used to know.
The collection of pots that are going to Mum and the toy remnants that I can recycle, the skipping rope from the last days at primary, the mug tree from the old place when your Dad used to send us presents. It was all there, the things I'd hung onto just incase and under the fluff and muck and time I find our son's first changing bag, battered with love with tissues in the front and I remember how it felt to push it over the handle of the pushchair, the tight fit and early shopping when we lumbered round panniered and loaded like the amateurs that we were. And it travelled with us to Grandma's home, up the hill singing that song and she used it when she took over, when she cleaned and cooed when we lay in, in the Devon days when we were all young.
And behind it I found your old briefcase, the lock pinged up despite rust and it had lived in this cave since you placed it there, when the job encouraged less formality and you tucked it away with the things that I found. I peered inside like Pandora, half mesmerised, half petrified and found letters and slips of notes and documents that document things that have long since passed. I found a letter to William from your on going discussioned debate and you leapt from the old paper in an unformatted type with all the strength of your convictions and enquiry. I was grateful for this print, the hand written stuff was always a challenge to read, but this was neat and thought out and sent to him who struggled so much. Strange how the most religious of your friends couldn't cope with the event, couldn't deal with me or the service and for all his faith and intellect he crumbled and disappeared like the arguments he'd trounce you with, when you listened and learned until you found your own way. I found your dissertation too, unseen throughout our marriage but I found it today and skimmed through, the type of a world before me on a typewriter before we had Word and it was kept locked safely away, a part of you that time can't touch.
And I started a new road today, long and complex but it rises up behind me gives me momentum, gives me torque. I can feel it pulling me to sort, to discard and to keep and I'm here on the carpet by our life, in the dust and moments holding on and letting go, respecting the transient and being with permanent. I move while I'm here, in time.
It's only time.
It's cold outside although it looks warm. I get layered up and find my gloves. I'm continuing with the work I started yesterday but now I've gravitated to the garden and its jobs.
We were never gardeners. We got 'men' in even when our terraced courtyard became overgrown. I fiddled and failed with hanging baskets, tweaked on the surface but ran away from the bugs. You did the lawn and watched nature do its thing, studying the leaves from where I sit now in the sun. We weren't really designed for outdoors, we liked the idea of it, appreciated seasons and force but hacking and pruning weren't in our books so we paid out and sat down and looked on.
Our friend The Gardener took root, helped out in the days before I let the garden grow. We were keen to employ him and talked about it before that world stopped and I took over the jokes about the 'staff' and you'd have found it funny too if we'd have continued on that path.
I'm brushing up now, annoying beetles and soft brown worlds that I can't see. These leaves seem to have etched themselves into the fabric of concrete itself and take all my weight and a coarse broom to shift them. There's something quite respectful about clearing up from storms, renewing and breathable and I feel it as I struggle and fight with my gloves. The cold burrs my nose, my eyes runs and my hair gets in the way as I pick through sodden memories of where we used to be. The table we built the last snow shapes on had long since given up, its cheap coating sagging with the weight of mud and slick. We were out there me and our son, too early, the snow too powdery to do anything so we just made his school logo and photographed it before the thaw. His old wheelbarrow's there that we picked up from 'you know who' at the car boot when you bought their book on Italy because we were heading out that way.
The bamboo is still in charge, forced back where I cut it last year. It's relentless isn't it? Nothing is still despite leaving it, it piles and seeps and mulches down, feeding the earth turning round. But while we're here, we interact, we have effect if we choose, we work with nature not against it.
I like the sound of bristle on wet concrete, something determined, something focussed about it. I gather leaves. I notice their colours and shades, a glossed out collection of polished wood, deep and aged, crumpled in my hand.
I may clean the windows later…maybe. The patio is cold, chilled through from the saturation of winter. I'm cold but it's ok.
I feed the earth, I'm turning.
Everything moves, including us.
11am – Today
Sun's up, first time in ages after months of rain. Pools of white shining off our life, lighting up the places I need to look at. It's warm, our son wakes – I'm waiting for a delivery.
Tags Jane Goodhall, nature, our son, seasons, Tao
As we float out again, me and our son, into these familiar waters, I see how we've learned to sail. It's odd, the skills you learn when there is no choice, nothing but to hold onto the rails, to feel the rope burn in your palm, the saltwater bite your skin and your sea legs gaining strength because they have to.
It's raining, it seems to have rained forever, as though the thought of sun on your face was a chink of memory from someone else's life. But this grey ocean is known and understood, somehow the whip of wind is no problem, these gales can only hurl us as we steam out of port again. The salt scrubs our face and stings our eyes but we keep going. Our leathered skin maps our journey, shields us in the storm. We tap the compass, watch the needle twitch, looking back over our log book now that we are sailors.
October 9th 2013
I look out from my lump of carbon through the condensation, dripping white worlds upside down and watch the steady smiles peel down the window. Though my feet feel carpet I'm not here, I'm three years ago up high on our deck, I stand by the outlet pipe with our son and we squeal as the blasts push around us. My scarf and hair compete for position till we find seats in the warmth and watch the people and land get smaller. I remember standing down at Weston or was it Woolston in the years before we slowed and we perched on the edge of the jetty waving at the ships leaving home. And later or maybe earlier, leaning up a barrier in the skirt that doesn't fit me now and my favourite white top, clutching my sunhat in the breeze, smiling into the lens with Enchantment or was it Independance behind us and we raced up by the old sheds, parallel with the water, bombing it in the Orion to catch one last glimpse of the beast.
But I'm back on board now, excited and scared with unknown storms ahead of us. I see us wandering, working things out, testing ourselves in our new glistening place. I'm there in the cold, in the anticipation, in the promise of the waves ahead while I sit behind these steamed up windows in a room where the floor keeps still.
And further underneath it all, I travel to my start, the first day with our son on my own, when all the help had gone. Proud of myself, washed and dressed before the midwife arrived though it rarely happened again and I positioned his kit on the bed armed with all equipment, playing solitaire around his needs. I learned to change a nappy kneeling into the bedside, him kicking springing legs on top because I couldn't bend to the floor and my days and nights merged into an inching journey, in that room, by those curtains from this day and ever outwards. And I feel his soft new warmth, his smells and dribble, a comfort of heaviness in my hand and an ache I grew to live with.
And I live with different pain now,
moving things around to meet our needs, focussed on the job, the path ahead. I'm layered, waiting for the doorbell of the midwife, as I lean up railings looking out at blue and wherever I am, I am travelling, my luggage changing shape while I heave it alongside with us, muscles straining, strengthening in the weight.
We pull out of port,
the midwife turns up.
I need a drink in the present.
I brush the hair from out of my eyes across these three realities.
Plaited journeys – on my path.
The light throws out strong contrasts today, the shadows are long and stretched in the low bright sun. I make shapes in the condensation till it liquifies the image out there. The tree ripples and drips, distorted in front of me like the shattering of its temporal signature.
I remain fragmented myself, back in an early visit, Mahler and the Celestine Prophesy on the day I took photos that didn't come out.
I go outside now, called by a strangeness in the tree, I can't make it out with the light and my eyes but I find it to be an odd clump of turned leaves, crisped and auburn amongst the green. I investigate its dryness, not quite brittle but almost, as I'm sandwiched between heat on my back and a biting breeze in my face.
Back inside the ancient timelines in a room where the bookcase was stronger, years before its current lean, I wander around watching her while this day is outrageous in bright with leaves twirling into windscreens, crumbling and dancing with no thought.
A shimmer of space time and I'm nearer to now, that grey heavy black morning, Voyager on TV and I'm rushing in a coat too big for me now.
And I drift on the air blown in and out of my places, curled and orange in the passage of time, my shape holding true despite elements as I am carried by the day and the season, leaves of moments, crunched loud colours, from the forests in my head.
The creases in the sycamore spore mirror the waves in my fingerprint. I hold it up in these unforgiving rays. Something cheeps over my shoulder like a creaking door as we leave your shack, packed up and heading out to plough new fields.
And in the distant fields I see from now the whirligigs twiddle and twirl, spinning silent circles at the edge of my view.
I remember this day in Nice after the breakfast fiasco and the stressed rush to Cannes We stood high up on the curved road, looking down on white, bleached walls reflecting us in heat, markets that led to Matisse's place and a beach, wide stark and alien. And while I tap the sand from my new trainers I feel me sitting by the bed on a Saturday evening in a different world, days and dates doing their thing and I leave them to it while I wash up by hand.
A novelty, like years ago when I stood by the sink, son roped in, in pushchair and me proud and resplendent in marigolds and suds as I'd managed to take my own weight on what remained of my back, for the first time in the strange land of motherhood.
I see the old dishwasher, that belonged to Mrs Mouse, that you started up while I looked after our son, and we got used to its clunks and forgot how to use bowls of water. Though you never really liked washing up bowls, too scanky underneath and I didn't like a full sink, snorkelling for the plug through the debris of our meals.
And now this bit of back then has broken and I clean round in preparation for men, tomorrow's job of welcoming something new and shiny into this changing place.
I remember leaving your early cave, at the start when you were at work and my mid morning trips home on Mondays. Tidying round everywhere but the kitchen, leaving jokes in the lounge while the dishes piled high
and tommorow I'll pile them here in polar white, the old things, the chipped things and our son's best Star Trek mug.
I find the photo of our son in a sombrero, dates shouting out and the last frame I bought which clashed with the colours, in these old rooms with the smell of encyclopaedias, the preserved smell of childhood, the ancient book from his Great Grandad
presented eons ago in a different world before engines had grunt or TV on demand, from a slower, stranger time than my strange world now.
He can almost lift me now, growing solid, sinewed, with strength to come and the trees are heating up now in this late autumn sun, flaring Spanish colours as we pass by and somewhere on a distant sea of pitching waves we sway home, tired, travelled, bagged up washing and memories, sailing into new water, in our way with gifts yet to open, in the dregs of a journey, in the preface of the journey to come.
You know what it's like when you travel – you always over compensate, take too much, forget something else. Lug heavy cases around full of 'just incases' and wherever you go, you find you had enough anyway. We pack with great care. The anchor is heavy but we can lift it, steering out with wind through our hair. We plot a new course and head out.
Tags birth, Journeys, Mediterranean, our son, travel
September 19, 2013 //
I remember the late days of pregnancy, the heat of summer evenings and the walks up to the ridge before my back went. It was the first season of Big Brother, a novelty – something to watch back in those days. I see our tiny house, the faded green carpet that we inherited, your rug from the people at work and our airer by the kitchen door, by the breakfast bar space that was just used for boxes.
I have boxes now, different ones, full of toys and years, the jobs in front of me stack higher than these memories, things to sort, to sell, to chuck and everything needs looking at. I'm overwhelmed by the work ahead but can only chip away, paying attention to the moments and moving towards now.
I need to find the old book I wrote in, in that other life, where I scrawled something in it every night, even if it was just a sentence and I kept it for months and months. Years later I would add to it on key dates. The book was filled up, evolved to become folded up A4 sheets, in a stash inside the cover, notes and thoughts of the world you'd passed through. I remember changing the style and the tone. I hadn't worked out when I'd give it to him, maybe aged seven? Couldn't imagine having a seven year old, what would that be like, what do they do? What are they into? what do they need? Or maybe I'd keep it till he's ten? Still writing to a child, adapting memories to my perceived sense of what he'd understand by then.
Unresolved. Maybe it was best for an adult, a gift at twenty one, so it shifted and changed as our life moved and the hardback red book I originally wrote in moved from its home by my bedside to some box, in some cupboard waiting to be unearthed, tucked away by your old telly, the one you used to watch from the floor in your first home, a floor more comfortable than that settee.
So the words remain in the cupboard though I'm drawn to get them out, pour over that life and write up and neaten the things I need to. Looks like it's heading for an adult gift then and by then he'll have these chapters too. This other book that evolved from the sidelines, from out of nowhere, this record of movement and change, a permanence of thoughts in this constant flux. He will have your book too, the one that sits on your bedside table and the printed up version lying flat in the bookshelves. Collections of words that form us, tell this story, map the journeys as we move and through the ink splots and lines of print he'll see it all, see the process, the patterns and the love.
Some time ago, in the old world, I bought a book. It talked about the power of Story, about gifts handed down through generations. Nothing tangible, wrapped in bows, or beautifully packaged like the slick layers of an Apple product box – but tales, stories, memories carved through eons, the sounds of a soul through its ages. It talked about a gift for a child, to write them a story about who they are, their qualities, skills and dreams woven through words, something you can't buy. A story of them from the inside out.
Somewhere I made notes, had thoughts on the structure, tried to form it from a wondering of who he'd become. But I didn't write the story then, I just bought things to wrap, life pushed in the way and we slipped suddenly between the worlds to this place now.
Looking back to that old red book about broken nights and full nappies
I see the start of this road. It feels high up here from this distance, like the top of the hills that we climbed and the stones we picked up, kept tucked away, safe in pocket, another solid something to look on, to hold a piece of that place. And I feel the gusts blow around me, make my eyes run as I look down on the town and fields, the life before us, down there, in the cradle of hills with the winding path up to this one.
It's just turned September today, I was due to give birth back then but it didn't happen and continued not to happen for another two and a half weeks. And that story was thirteen years ago – thirteen, really? I remember your words on that subject and now I'm here on a different page, writing it, breathing it with him.
I see all the strands entwined, the individual tales weaving one coat, worn by us all but hanging differently on each of us. I take a deep breath as I push out into this next chapter, I've written what I can for him so far. We've given him his own pencils and paper, I help him sharpen up the colours that he chooses, the colours that belong to him.
Sept 4th
Sat in that familiar space, the first day of term. Same yet different as the condensation obscures my view in my wooden place. The pigeons are close. I feel like I'm inside a flock, soft battering of feathers all around me. I could be anywhere on the planet in this sense of space-time and this feeling would wrap around me now. I brush my fingers down the glass, confused that the mist is on the outside, I don't understand it. I stick my hand out of the window and draw shapes from the other side. It's all different to what I'd expect but that's how it is.
I'm cast back to last September and the moments that came years before when the fabric on the rocking chair was still golden and rich and the pine bed was new in its warm honeyed glaze.
And here now, by the pond in this gentle ripple of morning, under this cloudless sky, I see his book wide open, the parts we've written and the smooth pages calling him, (with these flutter of wings), calling him to fill them with his own words.
I remember writing in another world, in another place, that the spiders had reclaimed the swing. It's a similar feeling now though I can't see the swing from here. The pigeons are so noisy today, prompting me to move, showing me the way.
I feed the fish and go in.
I'm in both places, aware of the act of memory, aware of the act of seeing.
I have an all permeating sense of my story and its sounds and shapes are jangling around me now.
I see where the stories start to merge, existing dependant on each other and I see their separate paths, letters and words forming new routes as his story evolves in parallel to mine.
I have a sense of sitting somewhere,
moving through time and experience, my colours changing and deepening. Paint loaded on the brush, nib shined gold under this sharp pungent pool of ink. The black blue drips onto the page as I stroke through it, forming lines and curves, this story in some guise – through time, being in the words.
I hand the pen to him, but he already has his own, he's busy, focussed – becoming.
We write.
The night whips around me, the trees sing in the storm. I remember the willowing calls, the pierce of lightning on my glass, the loud tick of clock as I slipped into sedation, in the late evening of my longest day to come.
I bring the presents in, in the present. The moon shuffles behind a country sky, its bluster fits the day. The night plays around me, peeling back layers of our world.
Everything tingles on the turn of this new wheel.
Tags anniversary, books, our son
I always liked compasses, as I child I coveted their slick shined domes, arrows twitching mysteriously. I can't see them from my youth but I know they were there. I can only see the recent one, bought in a gift ship at end of a walk, half for our son as he chose the green one. And the image flips me to another shop buying up bits while you rode the mud together and I met you both by the front low wall as you screeched up and leaned by the side. I remember the tyre marks on the back of his top worryingly strong and clear but he'd only been leaning up the wheel as you stopped for juice from the little carton with a 'stwor' and he was smaller than now and the wheel was big. And I can see you bombing off from the carpark up the dusty road while I wandered to the shop and once, just once, I came with you and stood by the wooden bike hire shack, trying to find the one for the fit and wibbled and wobbled with you through the undergrowth, by the station and booted it over gravel before my knees gave in.
And my compass banged up and down on my small red rucksack, the one I bought for the Alps from the old sports shop where my hiking boots were a size too big to fit my fuzzy socks and our son wasn't made and my jacket was red and yours blue. The rucksack lasted on all the walks, a tardis of treasures that you both teased me about, in the forest, in the teashop, warm butter and china mugs, laughing at me as you ticked off the things I'd carry while I triumphantly pulled out the ubiquitous banana. And the table was wide old walnut, just up the road from the horses where you clopped down the lane and I followed.
In this world a proper summer has returned, like those from 70's of my childhood when you were back in the North and I sweltered in the South.
I wake, the overnight fan blows strong and loud, its confident whirring sounds like a plane. I'm up high somewhere in metal hurtling but directed, the pilot knows where he's going.
On land in my bed I'm muddled in memories, the morning before the birthday meal, tipping up the old camp bed and laughing in the hours before the quotes. The quotes around a different table at the last meal, the last Sunday, four days before this one. Rushing back from school now to the start of the end and although I know where the dates are leading me, I'm sticking with the thought of flight, watching us in my little room pack and prepare for this journey. Younger eyes knowing much less, a different world view from this Unknown.
I bounce all over in the turbulence finding things that I'd forgotten, peering through old windows and looking carefully through the fragile and delicate, the solid and permanent, the moments of our world.
The engine's strong, directed. I may go into the cockpit have a word with the pilot. I'd like to know what he does but maybe I'm not allowed, maybe I have to stay here in my seat, bump along the air pockets and look down, observe the scenery with awareness be in the moment of flight.
He has his altimeter, I have my alethiometer still heavy, strange, a precious responsibilty. But it was given, this gift, in its rust velvet sack, the chord golden and twisted.
I know when to hide it, I know when to fetch it out, to tap its crystal screen, watch the needles spin and twitch, then feel. Feel where the symbols are pointing, lift up into their meaning, let the images dance and shift until they make sense.
Then I move, then I act, reading the symbols, wrapped in fur on my journey North. The snow bites as I follow bear prints. It's cold, it's confusing but I'm learning through the dials.
Guided, driven.
In this plane, on this journey.
Here in my bed on this day, drifting and watching. The fan burrs out across the room. I'm lying flat watching ceilings, just like back then.
Such a strong sense of travel.
I am everywhere. I grab the compass.
I remember being lost in Valencia with our end of trip verve we branched out and split from the herd. Our insurance policy was the guide ordered taxi who would whisk through new streets to the cathedral. With a tour pick up from there with bright buses to show us the way, we couldn't go wrong… So we peeled off and piled in our rattle trap taxi, bouncing on the low soft sprung seats, our son unsure of the steps we were taking but we reassured him, we had instructions, we knew what we were doing.
The driver dropped us in his appointed place, I can see it now, light, heaving, chaotic with tourists and sights and though the cathedral shouted out to us from its gothic spires, it was quickly obvious we weren't at the right side. Amongst concerns from our son about what we would do if we missed the boat and all our possessions sailed without us, we hid our concerns and stumbled into tourist information. In broken English with biro stabbed maps we grappled to find the direction and as our clock ticked down we rushed and flustered to a different street, clutching our son's hot hand, to find the boarding point we needed later.
In our noticeable relief you found an outside table serving Guiness while confident of our directions, we plotted where you were in relation to the shops and spires, straight up passed the fountain and swung our rucksacks in the glare of Spanish sunshine to find a fairytaled sweetshop. The owner who appeared like Mr Ben from behind a twinkling curtain helped me part with the last of the euros in exchange for a plastic cement mixer loaded with marmallows (such an obvious souvenir). And though the clock ticked we didn't care because we knew where we were, we knew where you were sat and we knew where we were going.
Sweets in hand, under the loud blue sky we made our way back to you and in the carefree moments before the jostle of bus, we took a final photo, you and our son by the fountain, shining into the light, him in holiday brightness and you in the same alluring pose from that first ever photo all those hours ago, from the world before I knew you, when you sat infront of Niagra in those vile and zany lemon shorts.
We caught the bus in time despite our fear, despite out foolish challenges, despite losing our way for a while. Travelling, testing ourselves, finding answers on our path.
Two and half years ago tonight I was shoved off the path, knocked down and smashed my compass.
Still clutching our son's hot hand as we fell inexorably towards tomorrow.
It's raining today, I can hear its hiss through these thin windows. The drops are quite uniform, speckled on my glass, varieties of wishes upside down in each one, a world turned on its head under the breaking grey of sky.
My back's playing up, just like 13 years ago in the month before I gave birth. In today's careful steady steps I remember those movements, the inching along and I flip around to the memories locked away.
Our son is messing with the sprinkler, firing droplets into the trees. The sun pushes through, I tell him he may make a rainbow as the water flys and dances in photons. He tells me 'Yes, but you need to sit inside the raindrops to see it…'
Pointing towards Polaris, through the rain and rays.
And now a word from our sponsor – our son…
Hello viewers of my Mum's blog. I need your input on my next post. Please look back at my post called The Final Frontier,
https://thetaoofgrief.com/2012/06/17/the-final-frontier/
pick out your favourite episode, then leave it as a comment on this post. I will then describe it in a much detail as I can, in my next post entitled
'To Boldly Go Into As Much Detail As Possible'
Thank you:-)
Tags anniversary, his dark materials, the forest, travel
(In Parentheses)
July 30, 2013 //
Last day of year 7. I've been in the garden, in this quiet before the storm. The bamboo has moved in, left to run free, has flourished and beamed its way to fullness. The rain's overdue, the soil waiting for revival. We have work to do out here.
Last month I approached the first Secondary parents' evening.
I walked with him through the tumbled leaves and by the steps where he waits with his friends a feather caught and played with the breeze, (my eyes locking it for a moment as I passed.)
And I'd been dreading it all day, this looming evening and I wasn't quite sure why. Was because of my chance to talk, to meet these people who've known him nearly a year, to look into faces who don't know me and snatch a chat to put it all in context.
I was cold on the inside, familiar management of a hoard of feelings.
And the PTA smiled and welcomed and I couldn't find his name, couldn't make sense of an alphabetical list as I searched for his first not his last and it only served to make me feel incompetent as we were sent off with a map and a tick.
And a shift had taken place as though I'm still the parent, he had taken charge, he knew the maze, which stairs to take and I didn't so followed him dutifully seeing the change. And the more I saw of him and his environment the more I saw his world and the leaps and strides he's taken because he had to and because he's our son.
And I was glad, glad to be looked after and escorted by him as with my head and my sight, in the glare and the heat, I'd have lost the plot without him.
And the signs were not quite big enough and the light not bright enough and the corridors swelled with parents half knowing what to do and the doorways were chocked with children, bored, out of uniform on iPods waiting for the imminent praise or fallout.
And I waited with him, beaming and wailing on the inside, smiling and nodding through my practised thin exterior.
And we waiting and hovered with the cattle while he acted up and I let things ride in the busy fug of his rooms.
As eventually we were seated in a heated room around their sweating clamour and I breathed and listened and played my part. My confident handshake disguised my brittle mind as we weaved out of chairs and in between summer clothes to rush to our next slot.
And even now, reviewing this and writing it up later, it's still surreal. Not quite gettable, not understandable. And we're still waiting for you after drama lessons near the highly polished floor and you sweep in through the heavy doors with your Saturday morning face. And he's younger than this, not so lippy and I try to work the vending machine before we pile in the car and go home.
And of course I see it all on the way in, his walk along the wall with smaller shoes but I have to just note it, watch us pass by, and need to keep moving and I do.
And I'm told he has a maths brain and we know it's not from us. While the science teacher smiled and nodded. We scuttered around too fast to think much, to follow him and his enthusiasm and his animated stories about the rooms that are his world and I nearly lost the plot with Spanish and her warmth and words.
But it wasn't what I thought, I thought there'd be space and time and I could mention our world and our challenge and they might be surprised and I'd try not to let the emotion out. But it wasn't like that, it was loud and heaving as huddles of parents sat, hot in waiting and while the plastic chairs heated up I changed my approach of what to say and what to ask.
And it was strange, smiling and conferring and I felt false and shaky because they didn't know and even if they did know back in September it wasn't mentioned now. And I wanted to shout and clear the room,
I wanted to be free of this surrounding, rise out of this sweating sea of dads in an assortment of sizes. I wanted to follow you, following our son and feel the pride together as we compared notes with our secondary lives and shook heads at how he'd changed and I wanted to sit there with you and your questions and come out with our words and our ways and drive back to one last chat, feeling the years shift around us. A glimpse of things to come and your eyes looking at him, a teenager in the making, a product of us, a forming of self, seeing you, seeing him and the things I see now.
And by the final teacher who put him on the spot, (which I didn't like, as you wouldn't have liked) I had my act sharpened and polished and he wasn't like the other younger ones, he was like our-day teachers and he waffled and rambled and I smiled knowing how we think and the subject encouraged more questioning, a syllabus geared to the things you talked about and knew about, while I held myself sticky taped together through the fresh aired walk outside.
Back out passed the trees where you used to wait, (grateful for the lift back home) and in that buzzing place, those rooms of words and hurdles, I negotiated this new way, and in the presence of polished up teachers looking at the slick knot of his tie, as he ran through his script, I saw our world and my work now in the way that I got through it, in the feelings that I hold and in our son's eyes, steely and bright, making the connections in his new way, with our roots and his shoots leaning into the light,
becoming.
Ps. July 23rd
Yesterday he was off with his friend at an activity centre, the one he negotiated last year. And he went to face his challenges. His older face was full of news on his return, as he tumbled over tales and triumphs from the day. He beamed out his rock climbing achievements and explained,
'It's strange, you just keep going, looking for the next hand or foot hold, focussed on what's in front of you and you keep moving up. But it's only when you look back down you see just how far you've come.' (Indeed).
And now, I've got about an hour till his end of year face bursts through the door, from a year of growth and planting. Our little boy, one year down at Secondary, shining out, surrounded by new leaves.
I can smell the rain in the air, I've pulled out the bindweed, I study the growth and note where I came in at the start. Photos and photons, light breeding light. I'll get out gloves ready for later – a thorough job together.
Roots and shoots, as always.
Doing it.
Tags Jane Goodall, our son, the garden, transitions
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Home repairs come in all shape and sizes, not only that but costs deviate wildly depending on the need for the repair. You can get away with a washer replacement for a sink, or have to have your entire water return system replaced because the pipes are starting to rot and the costs of the repair are going to be through the roof. An eavestrough replacement in Innisfil, a fascia replacement in Innisfil and a soffit replacement in Innisfil can be the type of repairs that cause difficulties. When the need has to be addressed and roof repairs need to be made, get a professional roofing contractor for the work you need to be done. At AM Roofing Solutions we can meet the demands of the work and our team is highly skilled with a wealth of expertise.
The roof gets water moving through a series of interventions from different parts of the system and it starts at the eavestrough. The eavestrough is the recipient of water from the upper roof and it arrives in the channels via the shingles. Once there it is moved through the network and off to the downspouts for eviction on the ground. Clogs or blockage is a problem that can affect the movement of water and an eavestrough repair in Innisfil is a source for problem-solving activities. Once you can examine the eavestrough more closely when you are on the roof, you can determine what if any damage has been done to the channels. Pinholes or small cracks can become bigger problems and an eavestrough replacement in Innisfil will correct the problem and increase the water flow. Problem with the clogs is that it will bottleneck water and force it over the sides of the rain gutter channels and that is bad for the house. A rain gutter repair in Innisfil to get eh clogs out of the system is the best way to prevent water from getting into your home through the overflow of the channels. The biggest problems with clogs and blockage that it can do untold damage to the house and in the unlikely event a repair isn't possible a rain gutter replacement in Innisfil should be a path to protecting your drainage system.
Water moving over the gutters means it has to go somewhere and the first place it arrives is at the fascia. The fascia is installed in an area just under the eavestrough and it makes sense that it would experience the water damage first. A fascia repair in Innisfil might be just what you need to protect your home from wood rot or mold. Before you can make a judgment on the condition of the fascia, you need to see it first – it the problems have slithered along the track of the fascia a fascia replacement in Innisfil is what you need – what is the point of replacing a strip of the fascia when you need to replace all of it. The second part of fascia damage comes from the attic and it is the insulation that causes the problems. You need a certain amount of insulation in the attic to prevent heat loss to the roof. If you are bleeding heat to the shingles, it will warm any snow on the roof and the snow will melt. Once the process has started it will be reversed when the temperature drops and then you have ice dams at the eavestrough. Once there, the dams can rip the gutter from the fascia through pressure and a new fascia is going to part of any replacement protocol for your home.
Your roof's soffit sits on the underside of the eavestrough and is perforated with holes to allow air to makes its way to the attic. Fresh air is important for the attic because it prevents humid, moist air from permeating into the supports – like the trusses or rafters – causing them to buckle or sag. To get off on the right foot, a soffit repair in Innisfil can help increase attic ventilation to cool the it and dry the air that is present. If that doesn't work, it might be high time for a soffit replacement in Innisfil to keep your attic protected from humid conditions that can occur when there is no ventilation.
With more than 60-years experience in the roofing business, we at AM Roofing Solutions are best positioned to provide the kind of help you need when an eavestrough replacement Innisfil, a fascia replacement in Innisfil or a soffit replacement in Innisfil is required. Any job we do that requires us to provide one of those repairs/replacements will come with our 10-year workmanship warranty to cover any problems that may occur in the future.
For a free estimate, a no-cost consultation and free roofing system inspection can be obtained when you call us at AM Roofing Solutions today at 1.877.281.6900.


Complete the online form below or download application and return via email. Please note: After June 9, applications require a $100 fee. This fee goes towards tuition if you are accepted on the program. It is only refunded if we cannot offer you a space on the program. Paying this by internet will be available June 12 or you can send a check to MPaffard with Panca Bhuta Yoga in the Memo, to PO Box 225 Yorkville CA 95494.
Why are you interested in this program? What do you bring to a community-based program like this?
Please make sure you have read all the information on the web page before completing this form!
Please give a short history of your yoga and meditation practice? If you are a teacher and/or trainer/trainee, please give us an idea of your teaching experience, training and focus/style.
What is your current state of daily practice? Include if you practice pranayama and/ meditation here and for how long a period of time regularly?
What else do you do with your life besides yoga and how do you see this program being brought into your life?
What is your ecological and ayurvedic interest (if any), activity or aspiration at this time?
Can you attend the majority of weekends in the course? You must be able to attend a minimum of 80% of class hours and be OK with doing make-up contact hours which may require further payment.
Do you understand and agree to the payment agreement (below) and the refund/cancellation policy?
There are no refunds after June 9, 2018. In an emergency situation, a $500 administrative fee will be charged. After 8/1/18 there are no refunds under any circumstances. Please make sure you want and are able to do this program!
Any concerns or particular questions at this time?
You are required to attend 25 hours of classes/workshops with Richard/Mary and 22 class/workshop hours, three private sessions and 5-10 assisting hours with an approved mentor (or RR/MP). Do you know right now how you will complete this requirement? If you are not interested in teaching, will you still complete this part of the program?
a) Are you able and willing to commit to a minimum of 45 minutes of daily practice? Are you able to commit to yoga study and assignments that will take a minimum of 12 hours a month and could take much more if you so wished? b) You will need to purchase some books and access material sent by email/on web. c) Are you willing to check in with one other person in the group in person or on the phone during the month? Suggested time 20-30 minutes—in an ideal world, it would be a time to practice together and work on suggestions from the weekends. d) You will need to complete an assignment where you arrange to teach three classes as a volunteer to a group of your choice. Part of the last class (10-15 minutes) we ask you to record with the participants permission, and we will view/discuss in our final session. Are you okay with this assignment?
By checking this box, you are agreeing to the terms and conditions of the program and payment arrangements. We will notify you within two weeks of receiving your application if you are accepted onto the program. You will then have one week to decide if you wish to fully commit by paying the fee as outlined in Payment Information page.


Feng Jin was born in Harbin, China. In 1992, he received his BA in Sculpture from the Central Institute of Fine Art, Beijing.
He started working with stainless steel and various metals with abstract curves ever since his art school ages. In 1989, Jin participated in designing and co-producing "Goddess of Democracy" statue for student movement in Tian-An-Men Square. In 1995, Jin came to the U.S. and resided in San Francisco Bay Area pursuing his artistic career as a metal sculptor. Jin concentrated on becoming a professional sculptor without making any political statement through out his art. His favorite subjects are life and women.
Fifteen years living in America, Jin has exhibited his work widely.
Major exhibitions include: Alameda Museum, San Leandro Historical Museum and Art Gallery, Los Gatos Museum of Art and Stanford Art Space at Stanford University.


There are currently 2 homes available in Lenox Park with an average price of $240,000. For availability or more information about homes for sale in Lenox Park call Anne Rains - Rains Team at 404-620-4571 .
Lenox Park is located in Sugar Hill GA, Gwinnett County. There are currently 2 homes active and for sale inside the neighborhood with the average price being $240,000. The number of homes for sale in Lenox Park is always changing so if you see a home you like and you would like to schedule a time to take a look please give me a call at 404-620-4571.


Sweet, juicy Florida mangoes are at the peak of their season. In this dinner, I use them to make a quick, rum-flavored sauce for pork scaloppini.
Simply buy a pork tenderloin and cut into one-inch-thick slices and flatten to ½ inch thick. Serve the pork with a coconut-flavored rice to complete the meal. Make the rice first and set aside. The coconut milk with be absorbed by the rice.
The mango sauce calls for two mangoes, one pureed and one cubed. Here's a quick method for cutting mango cubes: Slice off each side of the mango as close to the seed as possible. Take the mango half in your hand, skin side down. Score the fruit in a crisscross pattern through to the skin. Bend the skin backward so the cubes pop up. Slice the cubes away from the skin. Score and slice any fruit left on the pit.
Quick tip: It takes a few extra minutes to prepare the fresh mangoes. Some markets carry frozen mango pulp, which also works well in this recipe.
This meal contains 614 calories per serving with 19 percent of calories from fat.
Helpful Hints: Boneless skinless pork chops can be used instead of pork tenderloin. They are ready when a meat thermometer reads 145 degrees.
Lite coconut milk can be found in the ethnic section of the supermarket.
Light rum can be used instead of dark rum.
Fred Tasker's wine suggestion: This dish, with the sweetness of mangoes and coconut milk, would go nicely with a rich, white gewürztraminer.
Staples: Vegetable oil spray, salt and black peppercorns.
Remove visible fat from the pork and cut into 1-inch-thick slices. Place pork between two pieces of plastic wrap. Flatten slices to about 1/2-inch thick with the palm of your hand or use a meat bat.
Heat a nonstick skillet over medium-high heat and spray with vegetable oil spray. Brown pork for 1 minute on each side. Season each cooked side with salt and pepper to taste. Reduce heat and cook pork another 2 minutes to cook through. A meat thermometer should read 145 degrees. Remove to a plate and add mango puree to pan. Cook puree for about 30 seconds, scraping up brown bits of pork as it cooks. Add the mango cubes. Toss cubes in puree for another 15-20 seconds. Spoon sauce over pork. Makes 2 servings.
Per serving: 345 calories (17 percent from fat), 6.5 g fat (1.7 g saturated, 3.1 g monounsaturated), 108 mg cholesterol, 37.0 g protein, 25.3 g carbohydrates, 2.6 g fiber, 95 mg sodium.
Cook rice according to package instructions. Measure 1 1/2 cups and set aside the remaining rice for another dinner. Add the coconut milk, peas and salt and pepper to taste. Makes 2 servings.
Per serving: 269 calories (21 percent from fat), 6.2 g fat (2.3 g saturated, 0.8 g monounsaturated), no cholesterol, 8.3 g protein, 41.4 g carbohydrates, 4.5 g fiber, 107 mg sodium.


text:
Bill Rosenthal Appointed President of Midnight Oil
The Imagine Group, LLC
LOS ANGELES, Jan. 24, 2023 /PRNewswire/ -- The Imagine Group, a leading provider of visual communications, today announced that Bill Rosenthal will assume the role of President of its entertainment marketing agency, Midnight Oil. Rosenthal will report to The Imagine Group CEO Chris Cavanaugh.
Bill Rosenthal assumes the role of President of award-winning entertainment marketing agency Midnight Oil.
Bill has over 20 years' experience building and growing successful creative agency teams and supporting a variety of clients across consumer categories including theatrical, streaming, gaming, CPG, QSR, and technology. Bill most recently served in the joint role of Chief Operating Officer and Chief Financial Officer at creative marketing and communications agency Rogers & Cowan PMK. Previously, Bill was the Chief Operating Officer at digital marketing agency Ignited. He began his entertainment career at Disney with several roles in its consumer products division.
In his new role, Bill will leverage his deep expertise to Midnight Oil to further cement the award-winning agency's standing as a leader in entertainment marketing while helping pave the way for growth in new markets.
"Bill and Midnight Oil have a lot in common, chief among them the ability to build strong client partnerships and deliver high-value creative work that drives engagement across digital and physical assets," said Chris Cavanaugh. "Bill's people-first approach aligns with our values and supports our long-term goal of building strategic relationships with our clients in an ever-changing marketplace."
"Midnight Oil has an outstanding reputation, and a strong and dedicated team of professionals serving some of the world's most iconic brands," says Rosenthal. "For that reason and so many more, I'm excited to work alongside this dynamic team." Rosenthal assumes his new role effective January 24, 2023.
The Imagine Group conducted an extensive search for this important role in partnership with entertainment industry veteran Shayne Lightner at Stanton Chase Los Angeles.
About Imagine
Imagine is an industry-leading provider of visual communications solutions. As a trusted partner to the world's most successful brands, Imagine designs, produces, and delivers beautifully crafted print and digital solutions that inspire action and get results. From concept to consumer, our end-to-end solutions include creative design, pre-media, décor, commercial print, store signage, specialty packaging, OOH, and fulfillment & kitting. Learn more at theimaginegroup.com.
About Midnight Oil
For 45 years Midnight Oil, an Imagine Group company, has been partnering with the entertainment industry to create, adapt, and produce campaign messaging for virtually every consumer-reaching medium worldwide. Famous for its custom billboards that can be seen across the Sunset Strip in Los Angeles, Midnight Oil has a reputation for bringing high-quality and innovative thinking to every promotional campaign. Learn more at moagency.com.
View original content to download multimedia:https://www.prnewswire.com/news-releases/bill-rosenthal-appointed-president-of-midnight-oil-301729633.html
SOURCE The Imagine Group, LLC

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


text:
Comparison Articles
$241.78 Million in Sales Expected for Extreme Networks, Inc. (NASDAQ:EXTR) This Quarter
Posted by Emily Schoerning on Jan 13th, 2021
Wall Street brokerages expect that Extreme Networks, Inc. (NASDAQ:EXTR) will report $241.78 million in sales for the current quarter, Zacks reports. Two analysts have provided estimates for Extreme Networks' earnings, with estimates ranging from $240.00 million to $243.55 million. Extreme Networks posted sales of $267.47 million in the same quarter last year, which suggests a negative year-over-year growth rate of 9.6%. The firm is expected to issue its next quarterly earnings report before the market opens on Wednesday, January 27th.
According to Zacks, analysts expect that Extreme Networks will report full year sales of $954.58 million for the current fiscal year, with estimates ranging from $947.60 million to $961.56 million. For the next fiscal year, analysts forecast that the business will report sales of $986.89 million, with estimates ranging from $983.70 million to $990.07 million. Zacks Investment Research's sales calculations are an average based on a survey of sell-side analysts that follow Extreme Networks.
Get Extreme Networks alerts:
Extreme Networks (NASDAQ:EXTR) last posted its quarterly earnings data on Wednesday, October 28th. The technology company reported $0.09 earnings per share (EPS) for the quarter, topping the Thomson Reuters' consensus estimate of $0.06 by $0.03. The business had revenue of $235.80 million during the quarter, compared to the consensus estimate of $234.70 million. Extreme Networks had a negative net margin of 10.55% and a negative return on equity of 114.29%.
EXTR has been the subject of several recent analyst reports. B. Riley upped their price objective on shares of Extreme Networks from $9.00 to $9.50 in a report on Friday, October 9th. BidaskClub raised shares of Extreme Networks from a "buy" rating to a "strong-buy" rating in a report on Tuesday, December 8th. Finally, Zacks Investment Research raised shares of Extreme Networks from a "sell" rating to a "hold" rating in a report on Tuesday, January 5th. Three analysts have rated the stock with a hold rating, five have assigned a buy rating and one has assigned a strong buy rating to the company's stock. The company presently has a consensus rating of "Buy" and a consensus price target of $6.30.
NASDAQ EXTR opened at $7.82 on Wednesday. The company has a current ratio of 0.93, a quick ratio of 0.81 and a debt-to-equity ratio of 33.85. The company has a fifty day simple moving average of $6.65 and a 200 day simple moving average of $4.99. The company has a market cap of $961.96 million, a P/E ratio of -9.54 and a beta of 2.11. Extreme Networks has a 1 year low of $1.43 and a 1 year high of $8.00.
In other news, CEO Edward Meyercord sold 50,000 shares of the firm's stock in a transaction dated Monday, November 30th. The shares were sold at an average price of $5.61, for a total transaction of $280,500.00. Following the completion of the transaction, the chief executive officer now directly owns 592,522 shares of the company's stock, valued at approximately $3,324,048.42. The transaction was disclosed in a legal filing with the Securities & Exchange Commission, which is available through this hyperlink. Also, Director Raj Khanna acquired 10,000 shares of Extreme Networks stock in a transaction dated Friday, November 6th. The shares were acquired at an average cost of $4.43 per share, with a total value of $44,300.00. Following the completion of the acquisition, the director now directly owns 179,883 shares in the company, valued at approximately $796,881.69. The disclosure for this purchase can be found here. Over the last three months, insiders sold 137,677 shares of company stock valued at $899,578. Insiders own 3.15% of the company's stock.
Several large investors have recently added to or reduced their stakes in EXTR. RMB Capital Management LLC bought a new position in shares of Extreme Networks during the 3rd quarter worth about $41,000. Schonfeld Strategic Advisors LLC acquired a new stake in shares of Extreme Networks during the 3rd quarter worth about $54,000. Bank of Montreal Can increased its position in shares of Extreme Networks by 801.7% during the 2nd quarter. Bank of Montreal Can now owns 15,058 shares of the technology company's stock worth $61,000 after purchasing an additional 13,388 shares in the last quarter. Pillar Pacific Capital Management LLC acquired a new stake in shares of Extreme Networks during the 3rd quarter worth about $74,000. Finally, Keebeck Alpha LP acquired a new stake in shares of Extreme Networks during the 3rd quarter worth about $84,000. 73.03% of the stock is owned by institutional investors.
About Extreme Networks
Extreme Networks, Inc provides software-driven networking solutions for enterprise, data center, and service provider customers worldwide. It designs, develops, and manufactures wired and wireless network infrastructure equipment; and develops software for network management, policy, analytics, security, and access controls.
Further Reading: What are earnings reports?
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Capital One Financial Weighs in on TechnipFMC plc's FY2021 Earnings (NYSE:FTI)
MYT Netherlands Parent B.V. Plans $267 Million IPO for January 21st (MYTE)
RedstoneConnect Plc Shares Cross Below 50-Day Moving Average of $101.25
Harleysville Financial Shares Pass Below 50-Day Moving Average of $21.85
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Great Thunder Gold (CVE:GTG) Stock Price Passes Below 50 Day Moving Average of $0.48
ENAGAS S A/ADR (OTCMKTS:ENGGY) Short Interest Up 32.4% in December
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Fosun International Limited (OTCMKTS:FOSUF) Sees Large Decrease in Short Interest
Airbus SE (OTCMKTS:EADSY) Short Interest Down 26.8% in December
Sienna Resources Inc. (SIE.V) (CVE:SIE) Share Price Passes Above Fifty Day Moving Average of $0.06
TwoKeyEconomy (2KEY) Price Down 30.8% This Week
Nyzo Price Reaches $0.20 on Exchanges (NYZO)
2key.network (2KEY) Trading Up 20.1% Over Last 7 Days
BiFi Price Hits $0.0138 on Exchanges (BIFI)
SmileyCoin (SMLY) Trading 13.9% Lower Over Last 7 Days
TriMas Co. (NASDAQ:TRS) Expected to Post Earnings of $0.31 Per Share
Basic Attention Token (BAT) Achieves Market Cap of $415.68 Million
Rayonier Advanced Materials Inc. (NYSE:RYAM) Expected to Announce Earnings of $0.04 Per Share
MATH (MATH) 24-Hour Volume Reaches $203,780.00
Zacks: Brokerages Anticipate Winnebago Industries, Inc. (NYSE:WGO) Will Announce Quarterly Sales of $801.01 Million
© 2018-2021 Modern Readers


text:
#pragma once

#include <atomic>
#include <chrono>
#include <limits>
#include <assert.h>
#include <errno.h>
#include <linux/futex.h>
#include <sys/syscall.h>
#include <unistd.h>
#include <boost/noncopyable.hpp>

using std::chrono::steady_clock;
using std::chrono::system_clock;
using std::chrono::time_point;

namespace folly { namespace detail {

enum class FutexResult {
  VALUE_CHANGED, /* Futex value didn't match expected */
  AWOKEN,        /* futex wait matched with a futex wake */
  INTERRUPTED,   /* Spurious wake-up or signal caused futex wait failure */
  TIMEDOUT
};

/* Converts return value and errno from a futex syscall to a FutexResult */
FutexResult futexErrnoToFutexResult(int returnVal, int futexErrno);

/**
 * Futex is an atomic 32 bit unsigned integer that provides access to the
 * futex() syscall on that value.  It is templated in such a way that it
 * can interact properly with DeterministicSchedule testing.
 *
 * If you don't know how to use futex(), you probably shouldn't be using
 * this class.  Even if you do know how, you should have a good reason
 * (and benchmarks to back you up).
 */
template <template <typename> class Atom = std::atomic>
struct Futex : Atom<uint32_t>, boost::noncopyable {

  explicit Futex(uint32_t init = 0) : Atom<uint32_t>(init) {}

  /** Puts the thread to sleep if this->load() == expected.  Returns true when
   *  it is returning because it has consumed a wake() event, false for any
   *  other return (signal, this->load() != expected, or spurious wakeup). */
  bool futexWait(uint32_t expected, uint32_t waitMask = -1);

  /** Similar to futexWait but also accepts a timeout that gives the time until
   *  when the call can block (time is the absolute time i.e time since epoch).
   *  Allowed clock types: std::chrono::system_clock, std::chrono::steady_clock.
   *  Returns one of FutexResult values.
   *
   *  NOTE: On some systems steady_clock is just an alias for system_clock,
   *  and is not actually steady.*/
  template <class Clock, class Duration = typename Clock::duration>
  FutexResult futexWaitUntil(uint32_t expected,
                             const time_point<Clock, Duration>& absTime,
                             uint32_t waitMask = -1);

  /** Wakens up to count waiters where (waitMask & wakeMask) != 0,
   *  returning the number of awoken threads. */
  int futexWake(int count = std::numeric_limits<int>::max(),
                uint32_t wakeMask = -1);

  private:

  /** Futex wait implemented via syscall SYS_futex. absTimeout gives
   *  time till when the wait can block. If it is nullptr the call will
   *  block until a matching futex wake is received. extraOpFlags can be
   *  used to specify addtional flags to add to the futex operation (by
   *  default only FUTEX_WAIT_BITSET and FUTEX_PRIVATE_FLAG are included).
   *  Returns 0 on success or -1 on error, with errno set to one of the
   *  values listed in futex(2). */
  int futexWaitImpl(uint32_t expected,
                    const struct timespec* absTimeout,
                    int extraOpFlags,
                    uint32_t waitMask);
};

template <>
inline int
Futex<std::atomic>::futexWaitImpl(uint32_t expected,
                                  const struct timespec* absTimeout,
                                  int extraOpFlags,
                                  uint32_t waitMask) {
  assert(sizeof(*this) == sizeof(int));

  /* Unlike FUTEX_WAIT, FUTEX_WAIT_BITSET requires an absolute timeout
   * value - http://locklessinc.com/articles/futex_cheat_sheet/ */
  int rv = syscall(
      SYS_futex,
      this, /* addr1 */
      FUTEX_WAIT_BITSET | FUTEX_PRIVATE_FLAG | extraOpFlags, /* op */
      expected, /* val */
      absTimeout, /* timeout */
      nullptr, /* addr2 */
      waitMask); /* val3 */

  assert(rv == 0 ||
         errno == EWOULDBLOCK ||
         errno == EINTR ||
         (absTimeout != nullptr && errno == ETIMEDOUT));

  return rv;
}

template <>
inline bool Futex<std::atomic>::futexWait(uint32_t expected,
                                          uint32_t waitMask) {
  return futexWaitImpl(expected, nullptr, 0 /* extraOpFlags */, waitMask) == 0;
}

template <>
inline int Futex<std::atomic>::futexWake(int count, uint32_t wakeMask) {
  assert(sizeof(*this) == sizeof(int));
  int rv = syscall(SYS_futex,
                   this, /* addr1 */
                   FUTEX_WAKE_BITSET | FUTEX_PRIVATE_FLAG, /* op */
                   count, /* val */
                   nullptr, /* timeout */
                   nullptr, /* addr2 */
                   wakeMask); /* val3 */
  assert(rv >= 0);
  return rv;
}

/* Convert std::chrono::time_point to struct timespec */
template <class Clock, class Duration = typename Clock::Duration>
struct timespec timePointToTimeSpec(const time_point<Clock, Duration>& tp) {
  using std::chrono::nanoseconds;
  using std::chrono::seconds;
  using std::chrono::duration_cast;

  struct timespec ts;
  auto duration = tp.time_since_epoch();
  auto secs = duration_cast<seconds>(duration);
  auto nanos = duration_cast<nanoseconds>(duration - secs);
  ts.tv_sec = secs.count();
  ts.tv_nsec = nanos.count();
  return ts;
}

template <template<typename> class Atom> template<class Clock, class Duration>
inline FutexResult
Futex<Atom>::futexWaitUntil(
               uint32_t expected,
               const time_point<Clock, Duration>& absTime,
               uint32_t waitMask) {

  static_assert(std::is_same<Clock,system_clock>::value ||
                std::is_same<Clock,steady_clock>::value,
                "Only std::system_clock or std::steady_clock supported");

  struct timespec absTimeSpec = timePointToTimeSpec(absTime);
  int extraOpFlags = 0;

  /* We must use FUTEX_CLOCK_REALTIME flag if we are getting the time_point
   * from the system clock (CLOCK_REALTIME). This check also works correctly for
   * broken glibc in which steady_clock is a typedef to system_clock.*/
  if (std::is_same<Clock,system_clock>::value) {
    extraOpFlags = FUTEX_CLOCK_REALTIME;
  } else {
    assert(Clock::is_steady);
  }

  const int rv = futexWaitImpl(expected, &absTimeSpec, extraOpFlags, waitMask);
  return futexErrnoToFutexResult(rv, errno);
}

}}

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaGithub


text:
Andy Ihnatko's Celestial Waste of Bandwidth
The blog of Andy Ihnatko, intermittently-beloved technology journalist.
Boston Public RADIO
Links for Listeners – 12/28/18
First off, dear WGBH listeners: know that I see my mission as a technology journalist/broadcaster/pundit/lackaduffer as a holy thing. Sir Galahad, when faced with the reality of needing to take an earlier train to make it to the Holy Grail on time, waking up at six thirty, for heaven's sake, would have slept straight through the alarm. Or maybe he'd have shut it off and then gone back to sleep, figuring "I'm sure Gawain's on top of this."
But not Andy Ihnatko. On previous occasions when I exhibited this kind of commitment, people said that Edwin Abbey should have immortalized my struggles in a magnificent mural sequence at the Boston Public Library, and not Sir Galahad's. They're right, of course, but I suppose Abbey's hands were tied; he died several decades before my father was born.
Second-off! A shout-out to Edward, the Lyft driver who got me to the train station. His radio was tuned to WGBH when I got in and when he asked me where I was headed from the commuter rail station, he was happy to tell me how much he and his wife enjoyed Boston Public Radio and Margery in particular.
Onward! Here are some links related to my tech segment on today's show:
Comicraft's New Year's Day Font Sale
Honest to God, buying new fonts on New Year's Day is as big a holiday tradition for me as Patrick Stewart's audiobook of "A Christmas Carol" and making big plans about making and sending custom Christmas cards but not following through.
I've got dozens of their fonts on my computers. Here are the three I called out on the show. These, and all other Comicraft fonts, will be marked down to $20.19 for New Year's Day:
Comicrazy
"Comicrazy," because not getting a professional, hand-lettered-style comic book font seems like a shame. Comicraft offers plenty of 'em, each with their own unique charm. "Comicrazy" is by far the most expensive of them, at $395.
"Sign Language," because it's the only answer you need when it's time to make a sign or a label or a placard or something. The package includes several thicknesses.
"Extra Extra," to fill the role of "just a really cool and awesome font."
But by all means, hit the site and browse, browse, browse. I've already filled my shopping cart with a few of Comicraft's 2018 releases. One of them is earmarked as the masthead font of a new site I'm building. When January 1 hits, the prices will be automatically updated and I'll just click one button.
What's better than getting a $395 font for $20.19? Getting all of the books, movies, music, poetry, paintings, etc. published in 1923 for free!
January 1, 2019 — the first release of new material into the public domain in over two decades — has been as eagerly anticipated as The Rapture. Well, surely that's an awkward analogy but let's just roll with it.
The usual libraries of free public domain content are prepared for this day and will have mountains of new material ready to go the moment it passes into the hands of The People. These are my usual first stops when looking for public-domain content:
Open Culture isn't so much a library as it is a blog about public domain and other free media.
And, honestly, any Google search for ["public domain day" 1923] turns up lots of blog posts of people's individual favorites entering the public domain on January 1.
Apple's $29 iPhone Battery Replacement Program Ends December 31
Phone batteries naturally lose capacity as they get older. If your iPhone is a couple of years old, getting a brand-new Apple-branded battery installed by Apple for $29 is a steal.
Here's the info, on Apple's support page:
iPhone Battery Replacement
Set up an appointment at your local Apple Store's genius bar sooner rather than later.
The Latest iPads Are Bent, And Apple's Fine With That
Disgraceful. The iPad Pro is a premium product and purchasers shouldn't just take Apple's word for it that a visible bend won't eventually lead to hardware failures.
If you've bought an iPad Pro in the previous two weeks and there's a visible bend, return it for a full refund within Apple's standard 14 day return window. If you bought it before that…well. Just hope for the best. And reflect on the many, many times Apple fans have quoted Steve Jobs' line about craftsmanship and pride and making sure that even the paint on the side of the fence nobody will see is perfect.
But! Good news if you bought it between November 14th and December 24, you can return your iPad (or anything else you bought from Apple during that period) as late as January 8. My friend Paul has kindly reminded me of Apple's annual Holiday return window.
Apple confirms some iPad Pros ship slightly bent, but says it's normal [The Verge]
No, Apple, bent iPad Pros are not acceptable [Macworld]
Amazon's Alexa Had A Meltdown In Europe On Christmas Day Didn't get to it!
…Which was embarrassing but not entirely unexpected on a day when hundreds of thousands of people were trying to activate new Echo devices at the same time.
Amazon's Alexa suffered outages on Christmas Day as people around the world started using their new Echos [Business Insider]
The bigger problem was an iOS app pretending to be Amazon's official Alexa setup app. It made it into the App Store's list of top ten most-downloaded utilities before Apple took it down:
Beware: There's a fake Amazon Alexa 'Setup' app climbing App Store charts [9to5Mac]
The app asked for the Alexa device's IP address and serial number. What the app's creators are doing with the data they collected is anybody's guess but it can't be good.
Folks who downloaded "Setup for Amazon Alexa" can be forgiven for not noticing that the developer's name was "One World Software" instead of something Amazon-ey. This is just a reminder that there are stinky people out there and many of them are trying to trick you into downloading their app instead of the one you were looking for. Check for the developer's name, the app's history, and number of downloads.
Why Do People Give Up Their Privacy Online? Because They've Become Resigned To It
Nice piece by Sapna Maheshwari for The New York Times:
Sharing Data For Deals? More Like Watching It Go With A Sigh [New York Times]
I agree with the central point. People aren't giving up their personal data because they don't care or they're unaware it's happening. They're doing it for the same reason why we all pay "convenience charges" when we buy tickets to shows: we feel like the whole system is stacked against us and it's part of this vale of tears known as Life In 2018.
When the Internet and digital services were first rolling out to the launch pad in the Nineties, Congress' broad attitude was "For God's sake, let's not interfere with this; we've no idea what we're doing as lawmakers and we'll probably wind up killing off a huge and important new industry before it even gets started."
And that was absolutely the right call. In the Nineties. Now, we've seen what happens when an industry is allowed to operate unregulated, practically. Just as their came a time when the coal industry had to be explicitly told not to hire eight year old children, the time is coming when Facebook, Google, and every digital marketing platform is going to be told that there are going to be some Rules, going forward.
Switching from a Smartphone To a Dumbphone Didn't get to it!
…A device which the phone industry prefers to refer to as a "featurephone."
Here's an article about that from The Boston Globe:
Featurephones — phones that rely on built-in apps instead of an App Store with a huge library — have suddenly become very interesting again. They've always had advantages like extra-long battery life, durability, and a variety of shapes and sizes to fit into even small pockets. Today, we can add "your kids can get into much less trouble" and "no apps mean fewer ways that companies can track you and collect your personal data."
You don't have To Carry A Smartphone: Here's how to switch to a dumb one [Boston Globe]
Though of course there's always going to be a way. Most modern featurephones regard a Facebook app as being about as negotiable a feature as the "7" key on the dialing pad.
That's all. My music while writing this little bagatelle was this recording of "Lucia di Lammermoor," featuring Diana Damrau and Joseph Calleja.
This entry was posted in yellowtext on December 28, 2018 by Ihnatko.
← Material ep. 180: "Fuschia" (Podcast) The Comicraft Font Sale →


It's common to overlook your split system air conditioners maintenance and health checks. But like most things, there are huge benefits to being proactive with your split system air conditioners.
Dirty air conditioners breed airborne bacteria and mould. Dirty air conditioners operate inefficiently and use more electricity. Dirty air conditioners have a shorter operational life from working harder than they need to do the job of cooling or heating.
Here are just some examples of dirty air conditioners the team at Electrical Embassy restore back to full health with our Hydoclean service.


Everyday, we connect people from different walks of life. Autism Awareness Month is no different.
Don't wait for the future…come build it. The #BuiltOn5G Challenge is searching for the biggest ideas to bring #5GUltraWideBand to life, with the chance to win up to $1 million, access to our 5G Labs and an opportunity for Verizon to invest in your company. Apply now.
🙌 What good is a phone without any coverage??


The 2 Pack Modern Cotton Stretch Woven Trunks from Calvin Klein comes in Stan Plaid/Grey colour, featuring a branded elasticated waistband and button fly. These trunks sport a body defining fit and an added stretch for comfort and shape retention. Note: This item cannot be returned or exchanged for hygienic reasons.
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