text:
Love & Responsibility – The Dawn Davies Collection
By lisa in News on December 3, 2012
Her home is a sight to behold – a journey through Bahamian art history, the pieces displayed upon very inch of wall space and every nook of her yard range across styles and eras, proudly celebrating our rich artistic heritage – and it only scratches the surface of the 1,600 odd pieces or so that she has collected in the span of 40 years.
It used to be that one could only enjoy the overwhelming display through a coveted invite to the collector's beautiful home – and if you were truly lucky, a tour with Davies sharing her stories about every piece and a knowledgeable artist or two in tow with whom she shared a long friendship.
Yet with the publication of "Love & Responsibility: The Dawn Davies Collection", anyone can begin to fathom the expansive collection right at their fingertips – the 547-page book gathers every piece in gorgeous full color, providing an unforgettable visual journey through the Bahamian artistic landscape.
Thursday evening, artists and art-lovers gathered at the National Art Gallery of The Bahamas to celebrate the publication of this opus. Edited by Erica M. James, PhD, with contributions by Petrine Archer-Straw, the book presents the Dawn Davies collection through the lens of 14 themes – including "Little Nassau", "Amos Ferguson and the Intuitives", "The Personal and the Political" and "Ceramics featuring Denis Knight" – and 15 artists important to the collection, all masterfully designed by Dionne Benjamin-Smith.
At four years in the making, "Love & Responsibility" stands as a true labor of love, said Davies at the launch. Like her collecting, the book began as a small personal project but due to its undeniable importance to Bahamian culture, soon ballooned into a perfect mix of coffee table book and academic reference, providing arguably the most important publication for Bahamian art history.
"Initially, I wanted to create a book for my own personal use – a catalogue to document the collection that I could show to various people and say that this is/was my collection," she said. "I thought of it as the end to my collecting days."
"But what happened, of course, after I asked Dr. Erica James for her curatorial advice and assistance, was that the project became bigger and broader, particularly as I continued collecting – although considerably less and with a more discerning eye."
"So, I wanted the book to be both a beautiful coffee table book as well as to have more substance," she added. "I wanted it to have context and information on artists, and to celebrate the talent of our artists and the development of Bahamian art."
Though Davies insists on avoiding the spotlight, it's an impossible task to separate the collection from the collector – so closely are they intertwined that to directly address one is to indirectly address the other – so it is no wonder that Maxwell Taylor's iconic woodcut of a woman bound, "Love or Responsibility/Am Tired", echoes in the book's title.
In her essay preceding the book, "How on earth did this happen?" Davies recounts the way she fell deeply in love with the art of her birthplace. The collection, which grew organically "is heartfelt and it has tried to be broad and representative" and reflects a love as deep and wide as the sea, one that begins at first sight with the purchase of a whimsical Alton Lowe painting and grew to encompass all styles, from her beloved impressionist landscapes by Dorman Stubbs to the most abstract masterpieces by John Cox, and continues to this day to grow.
This kind of love is ripe and mature and not without a great effort to keep it alive – indeed, Davies has been in it for the long haul, fully committed to nurturing it through her willingness to grow along with the Bahamian art world and through constant strengthening of her many strong relationships with Bahamian artists.
Speaking to the relationship between artist and collector at the launch, Holly Parotti – who is one of the 15 featured artists in the book – credited Davies with her ever-constant presence in the happenings of the art world and her invaluable support, financially or otherwise, especially to student artists.
"She's willing to take a chance on the less successful pieces because she understands the place of them in the story of the artist," said Parotti. "She bought a lot of my university pieces and even though those aren't considered successful in terms of my portfolio, she understands how they fit into its context."
"I've enjoyed a great relationship with Dawn both as a friend and as a collector and I'm so grateful to her for what she has brought to my growth just by the way she is genuinely interested in what I am doing as an artist. She's someone who makes you look twice at yourself, because she challenges the way I look at my own work," she added.
Yet Davies' passion is also an important learning tool. The book, a love letter of sorts to Bahamian art from the collector, is an invaluable contribution to the history of The Bahamas. Editor Erica M. James in her curatorial essay preceding the book, "Love at First Sight", points out that in the charming pictorial essays and artist spotlights arranging pieces that range from 1881 to 2011, we bear witness finally to the shape of our cultural past and present, and develop excitement for the future.
"You can't tell half of the story," she said. "We have to show what Bahamian art is and teach people because many think that Bahamian art is a neo-impressionist painting of a Poinciana tree only, and we need to address that."
"We need to address representations of Caribbean artists and how we can own them – from impressionists and beyond – because it allows us to see the full picture and the complexity of Bahamian art which is more than one thing, more than one style, and you can see all of that in Dawn's collection in an unique way, whereas in other collections we may not have been able to do that."
Indeed the "Love & Responsibility" will provide a powerful reference of Bahamian art for teachers and students locally while encouraging critical engagement with Bahamian art in order to present it to a regional and global conversation about culture. Most of all, however, the book will help others fall deeply in love with Bahamian art and culture.
"We have a rich history of shows, but not in critical engagement," said James. "I hope the book encourages us to look beyond artwork and engage with it, especially through writing, so that we can get the word out about what we are doing."
"We take for granted that we see what we are shown, and it's not true. We need to encourage everyone, especially students, to pause and engage with Bahamian art on a deeper level. Hopefully the book is a stimulus for that, a way to start this conversation."
• To order "Love & Responsibility", please contact Ms. Dawn Davies at dawndavies@coralwave.com. "Love & Responsibility" is a not-for-profit project and any benefit from its sale will be donated to The National Art Gallery of The Bahamas.
Sonia Farmer
The Nassau Guardian
Published: Saturday, December 1, 2012


White skinny jeans with knee distressing. Perfect jeans for any occasion!
Model Stats: Models wore their normal sizes.
Leah is 5'2, wearing a size 11.
I was eyeing these pants for a LONG time. Finally they went on sale so I bought them. I love them!! Super stretchy and comfortable.
These are the most comfortable, cutest white pants ever! They are like wearing sweatpants! Adorable on! Wish I could have one in every color!


text:
Ploceus golandi е вид птица от семейство Ploceidae. Видът е застрашен от изчезване.

Разпространение
Видът е разпространен в Кения.

Източници

Тъкачи

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaWikipedia


Pacha Sharm has a unique cosmopolitan charm thanks to its vibrant mix of cultures and countries, all blended with the positive energy of an open-air venue. The club is a fusion of modern of nightclub design and Arabesque architecture mirroring images from 1001 Arabian Nights. The dancefloor is surrounded by domed white roofs and terraces for VIP tables; you can even reserve a private balcony with personal salon and bathrooms. Enjoy its swimming pools, foam parties, and alternative hide-aways such as the Bus Stop, where you may even find live music bands. Pacha Nightclub Hotel is a unique experience. The Hotel's bedrooms and suites are part of the nightclub and from their terraces clients can enjoy the whole audiovisual scene in a very special VIP way. The Hotel offers 24 hour entertainment. Enjoy the Pacha Boat during the day with sunshine and music along the Red Sea!


The Book of Acts offers an invaluable link in the New Testament between the gospels and the epistles. Luke, the author, according to Church tradition, recorded the continuing ministry of Jesus through His servants. Jesus had left the Earth with the command to His followers to minister His Good News in all the world. They immediately began to follow in Jesus' footsteps with signs and wonders following.
Gordon Lindsay's narrative is clear and scripturally literal. He unwaveringly holds to the relational dynamic, which Luke identifies in Acts – True apostolic ministry is always marked with fervor and the signs of Pentecost. Once believers were empowered with the same Spirit Jesus was, they began to do the same extraordinary things He did.
As the Christians grew in number, they became a powerful force which angered the Jewish authorities, and those who preached Christ were punished and persecuted. Gamaliel, a leader of the Pharisees, advised the Sanhedrin to leave them along. ". . . for this plan or this work is of men, it will come to nothing; but if it is of God, you cannot overthrow it – lest you even be found to fight against God" (Acts 5:38, 39).
The Christian movement had internal struggles, as well as external pressures. However, whenever it moved in the power of the Spirit and in the Word of eternal life, it proved to be a united force that even hell's gates could not withstand.
Born in 1906 in Zion, Illinois, Gordon Lindsay was greatly influenced by the powerful healing and miracles he witnessed. After his conversion to Christ, he quickly began to study the Word and start his ministry. In 1937, he married his wife, Freda. In 1948, he started a monthly publication called The Voice of Healing, which was sent around the world to inform believers of the miracles that were happening during the tent meetings of the great revivalists in the 1950s and 1960s. In 1970, Gordon and Freda co-founded Christ for the Nations Institute, a Bible school that is designed to teach the uncompromising Word of God and how to be led by the Spirit. He has authored over 250 books/booklets that have been distributed to disciple believers all over the world.


text:
Q: Javascript - how to retrieve html tag's value from a response Sending HTTP GET to a server. Having the payload response returned from the server, i need to extract the value of a html tag. I don't know the code to do this
This is the code to send HTTP GET to the server:
<html>
 <script>
  function TEST()
  {
   var data = null;
   var xhr = new XMLHttpRequest();
   xhr.withCredentials = true;
   xhr.addEventListener("readystatechange", function () {
   if (this.readyState === 4)
   { console.log(this.responseText);}
       });
   xhr.open("GET", "https://webadmin.domain.local/authenticate.html");
   xhr.send(data);
  }
 </script>
 <b onmouseover = "TEST()">pass mouse here</b>
</html>

The server returned response, and i need to extract Session-Key's value:
<input type="hidden" name ="Session-Key" value ="05aa6221dc982adb"/>

I need to extract Session-Key's value so i can use it for the next request to the server. What's the code to do this in my script?

A: str is the  response as an html string received from api

  let str = '<input type="hidden" name ="Session-Key" value ="05aa6221dc982adb"/>'
     let doc = new DOMParser().parseFromString(str, "text/xml");
         let val = doc.firstElementChild.getAttribute('value');
         console.log(val)

A: You can simply set
xhr.responseType = "document"

and then get xhr.responseXML instead of xhr.responseText.
xhr.responseXML will be the instance of HTMLDocument, so you will be able to use querySelector method to get the data you need.
// ...
if (xhr.responseXML) {
    const sessionKeyNode = xhr.responseXML.querySelector('[name="Session-Key"]');

    if (sessionKeyNode) {
        console.log(sessionKeyNode.value);
    }
}
// ...

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaStackExchange


2) compiles the generated files.
The package name for the parser is au.id.pbw.simplex.grammar.
I now want to create clojure files in the au.id.pbw.simplex.parser namespace.
However, Idea won't let me do it. The only way I have found to be able to accomplish it is to touch a file in au/id/pbw/simplex; let's call it "junk". Then the package au.id.pbw.simplex appears in the project, with the file "junk" and the package extension "grammar," containing the existing Java sources and the Antlr4 grammar file. Is there another way? This woudl seem to affect Java developers as well.


NORTON COUNTY– The Kansas Bureau of Investigation (KBI) and the Norton County Sheriff's Office are currently investigating a homicide that occurred in rural Norton, Kan. on Sunday.
The Norton County Sheriff's Office requested KBI assistance at approximately 3:50 p.m. on Sunday, April 7. Special agents and the crime scene response team responded.
Preliminary information indicates that the Norton County Sheriff's Office received information Sunday afternoon that a female victim was deceased at 16353 U.S. Highway 36, in Norton. At approximately 3:40 p.m., sheriff's deputies responded to the residence where they discovered 38-year-old Lori Shields, of Norton, deceased inside.


text:
package org.elasticsearch.common.logging;

import org.apache.logging.log4j.message.MapMessage;
import org.apache.logging.log4j.message.ParameterizedMessage;
import org.apache.logging.log4j.util.Chars;
import org.apache.logging.log4j.util.StringBuilders;

import java.util.ArrayList;
import java.util.Collections;
import java.util.LinkedHashMap;
import java.util.List;
import java.util.Map;
import java.util.stream.Collectors;
import java.util.stream.Stream;

/**
 * A base class for custom log4j logger messages. Carries additional fields which will populate JSON fields in logs.
 */
public class ESLogMessage extends MapMessage<ESLogMessage, Object> {
    private final List<Object> arguments = new ArrayList<>();

    public ESLogMessage(String messagePattern, Object... args) {
        super(new LinkedHashMap<>());
        Collections.addAll(this.arguments, args);
        Object message = new Object() {
            @Override
            public String toString() {
                return ParameterizedMessage.format(messagePattern, arguments.toArray());
            }
        };
        with("message", message);
    }

    public ESLogMessage() {
        super(new LinkedHashMap<>());
    }

    public ESLogMessage argAndField(String key, Object value) {
        this.arguments.add(value);
        super.with(key, value);
        return this;
    }

    public ESLogMessage field(String key, Object value) {
        super.with(key, value);
        return this;
    }

    public ESLogMessage withFields(Map<String, Object> prepareMap) {
        prepareMap.forEach(this::field);
        return this;
    }

    /**
     * This method is used in order to support ESJsonLayout which replaces %CustomMapFields from a pattern with JSON fields
     * It is a modified version of {@link MapMessage#asJson(StringBuilder)} where the curly brackets are not added
     * @param sb a string builder where JSON fields will be attached
     */
    protected void addJsonNoBrackets(StringBuilder sb) {
        for (int i = 0; i < getIndexedReadOnlyStringMap().size(); i++) {
            if (i > 0) {
                sb.append(", ");
            }
            sb.append(Chars.DQUOTE);
            int start = sb.length();
            sb.append(getIndexedReadOnlyStringMap().getKeyAt(i));
            StringBuilders.escapeJson(sb, start);
            sb.append(Chars.DQUOTE).append(':').append(Chars.DQUOTE);
            start = sb.length();
            sb.append((Object) getIndexedReadOnlyStringMap().getValueAt(i));
            StringBuilders.escapeJson(sb, start);
            sb.append(Chars.DQUOTE);
        }
    }

    public static String inQuotes(String s) {
        if(s == null)
            return inQuotes("");
        return "\"" + s + "\"";
    }

    public static String inQuotes(Object s) {
        if(s == null)
            return inQuotes("");
        return inQuotes(s.toString());
    }

    public static String asJsonArray(Stream<String> stream) {
        return "[" + stream
            .map(ESLogMessage::inQuotes)
            .collect(Collectors.joining(", ")) + "]";
    }
}

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaGithub


So anyways, let us go ahead and get started with the review. But, before doing so I would like to once again say thank you to Technic Cosmetics for the lovely products!!
You could apply this strobe cream either before applying any foundation to give your skin a lovely natural glow or else you could just apply it as your cream highlight on your cheekbones. I have tried it both ways and found that applying it before anything else, really does help with giving a nicer glow to your skin and to your overall makeup look! It can be a little sticky but after setting your face with some powder, I think you will be all good!
The shade that I was sent was a banana shade and this meant that it kind of was too dark for me. I mean you could use it to help cover redness or set your concealer but I prefer to use light skin shades rather than yellow tones. But when I applied it underneath my eyes, even though I did not like the colour I still felt that it set my concealer right without any creases.
The Get Gorgeous Highlight range is so cute and pigmented from Technic. Pink Sparkle is literally a glittery pink highlight. I don't like glitter sparkles in my highlight and I preferred the one that I will be mentioning next!
I prefer this shade from the Get Gorgeous Highlighter range for sure! I think this highlight during summer with your summer sun tan will look great. It doesn't have any glitter specs running around but it just glides onto your cheekbone and gives you a pop of colour and a glow! You could also apply it to your collar bones! It works perfectly and isn't patchy at all!
The scent of this spray isn't that nice BUT I love the way it sets all my makeup. It just helps me makeup last all day and if you feel your skin tacky or sticky, this will help reduce that feeling. How it sprays is good too and so is the packaging but the scent I am not too keen on. I prefer this to the primer spray that I tried from Technic.
This palette has such lovely tones of browns and reds and matte shades as well as shimmer shades. You can create a number of looks from evening makeup looks to morning ones too! It is a perfect starter palette and it also comes with a double ended brush. One side is a blending brush which I loved using and the other side is a flat shaded brush which I am not too sure about! But this palette blends well, is not too powdery and lasts long!
I love this blush palette, honestly I do and out of all the products I will mention today, this has to be my FAVOURITE product out of them all!! You can mix different blush shades to create your choice of blush for the day. You have natural blush shades whilst you also have more intense ones. I found them to work well and apply well on my skin and they blended nicely too!
The wand of this mascara is great for gripping all your lashes and giving them volume. It doesn't lengthen my lashes all too much but it does give them volume. It doesn't transfer and it is waterproof! I love the packaging of it too!
I prefer this shade to the one I will be mentioning after this one! It is a little patchy if you are going to apply it on its own but I like applying it on top of a matte lipstick, I find the colour is much better than applying it on its own! It has a sweet smell and even though it is a gloss it isn't that sticky!
Like I wrote, I prefer the shade Aphrodite, but this one I guess is a perfect colour for summer or for those festivals like Coachella! I think they will spring a pop to your makeup look!
And those were the products I had to review for today. If you want you could check out my video down below where I show you how these products applied and also some other products from the brand which I bought myself!
The makeup look I created in the video using Technic Cosmetics!
Have you ever tried Technic Cosmetics? What do you think of the brand? Comment down below!!


"Squire 1600-2018″Open Concept Two Storey!
Menard Build – Holmes Inspected & Approved!
STATUS: Ready for Occupancy! only remaining work is the hardwood flooring: Purchaser can make this selection!
House style: Open concept two storey – Double Garage – 2 ½ baths – Great room Tray ceiling!
Basement Layout: Ideal open layout allowing for future open space!
Hardwood Floooring to the remaining areas: Purchaser to make selection!
We can build your new home on your own lot or on one of our many building lots and subdivisions!


text:
Why We Need Encryption
As the smart home develops, questions of privacy have never been more pronounced
Cyber securityDigitalInternet Of Things
Maria Maguire
The explosion of IoT devices and the impending smart home revolution is an exciting next stage in the development of the internet. Promising to make lives easier and further integrate technology seamlessly into our lives, the number of connected devices is expected to explode in the coming years. There is, however, a temptation in the tech industry to create new products and get them to market before fully considering potential complications. It's because of this that we see major data breaches, hacks of sensitive information, and standoffs between law enforcement and tech companies over the release of potentially incriminating data.
In the wake of March's Westminster attack, UK Home Secretary Amber Rudd appeared on television and called for a ban on end-to-end encryption, suggesting that apps like WhatsApp 'provide a secret place for terrorists to communicate with each other.' Tied up in her stance is a fundamental misunderstanding of how both technology and encryption work. WhatsApp reportedly has a backdoor, which could allow law enforcement agencies access to messaging records in the most extreme cases. Otherwise, the encryption works to safeguard messaging records against hackers, and give users sanctuary from unprecedented levels of government snooping.
Last year, Amazon reportedly denied Arkansas police access to voice recordings taken from a murder suspect's Amazon Echo. Importantly, the police were reportedly less interested in the actual questions or demands asked of the device - likely to be nothing explicit - but more interested in the possibility that the device was inadvertently activated in the hope that is unearthed any evidence.
Amazon saw its denial as a matter of principle: 'Amazon will not release customer information without a valid and binding legal demand properly served on us. Amazon objects to overbroad or otherwise inappropriate demands as a matter of course,' Amazon spokesperson Kinley Pearsall told Fortune. This stance is sensible; it is unclear legally how much of the information gleaned would be admissible, given that it is an illegal recording (against the defendant's consent) and a defendant could challenge it as hearsay. Handing it over, then, seems unnecessary. Also, given the inherently invasive nature of home assistants, without effective encryption and security, they will struggle to be adopted.
The prevailing opinion among those working in tech seems to be that encryption should be everywhere and should be the default option for connected products. Top cryptographer Bruce Schneier said: 'Encryption works best if it is ubiquitous and automatic. It should be enabled for everything by default, not a feature you only turn on when you're doing something you consider worth protecting.'
A very interesting TechCrunch piece explored the fact that smart home devices warp the traditional boundaries between private and public spaces. The physical perimeter is one thing, but the 'vocal' perimeter extends past the walls and windows of a property. Because Amazon's Echo currently has no way of distinguishing between different users through biometric vocal identification, Echo could feasibly be operated by anyone, whether inside or outside the property.
Couple this, then, with all of Echo's many capabilities - from unlocking the front door, to turning on the car, to reading out personal emails - and the full scale of the IoT's security problem becomes more apparent. WiFi faced a similar problem and countered it with encryption, but this level of security would fundamentally damage Echo's usability. The obvious answer is to incorporate some form of biometric vocal identification into Echo. This is not easy, though, and the existing systems that do this are fraught with mistakes at present. Also, the issue is only complicated further when we take into account the myriad other devices that could be voice controlled within a home.
An example of how this lack of distinction could become irritating (rather than dangerous) is Burger King's new 'Connected Whopper' ad. The 15-second commercial ends with a Burger King employee saying 'Hey Google, what is a Whopper?', triggering Google Home devices within listening range and having them do the advertising themselves. One of these ads may be funny, but when other companies jump on the bandwagon this kind of marketing will quickly tire.
Encryption is important, as both a matter of privacy and of security. As devices proliferate and adoption picks up, it's now more important than ever that lawmakers and users understand how encryption works on at least a basic level. Very few people would welcome a device into their home that can be tapped by the police with little more than a warrant. Equally few would be comfortable with their front door being operable through an open window on a warm day. We need encryption, and if it denies law enforcement agencies access to potentially useless information, then so be it.
Innovation Is As Much About Environment As Ideas

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


text:
menu_issue14
A New Zealand Literary Showcase
Issue 14 Guest Artist:
Past Features:
Glasgow Voices
Volta: A Multilingual Anthology
(One poem: 93 languages)
15 Miami Poets
President: Peter Robertson
Vice-President: Sari Nusseibeh
Advisory Consultant: Jill Dawson
General Editor: Beatriz Hausner
Art Editor: Calum Colvin
Deputy General Editor: Jeff Barry
Marjorie Agosín
Daniel Albright
Maria Teresa Andruetto
Rosemary Ashton
Leonard Barkan
Michael Barry
Shadi Bartsch
Thomas Bartscherer
Susan Bassnett
Gillian Beer
Richard Berengarten
Sujata Bhatt
Mario Biagioli
Jean Boase-Beier
Elleke Boehmer
Eavan Boland
Carmen Boullossa
Rachel Bowlby
Svetlana Boym
Peter Brooks
Marina Brownlee
Roberto Brodsky
Carmen Bugan
Jenni Calder
Sampurna Chattarji
Sarah Churchwell
Hollis Clayson
Sally Cline
Kristina Cordero
Drucilla Cornell
André Dombrowski
Denis Donoghue
Klaus Ebner
Robert Elsie
Stefano Evangelista
Tibor Fischer
Shelley Fisher Fishkin
Maureen Freely
Marjorie Garber
Anne Garréta
Marilyn Gaull
Zulfikar Ghose
Lydia Goehr
Vasco Graça Moura
Stephen Greenblatt
Lawrence Grossberg
Edith Grossman
Benjamin Harshav
Geoffrey Hartman
François Hartog
Molly Haskell
Selina Hastings
Valerie Henitiuk
Kathryn Hughes
Aamer Hussein
Djelal Kadir
Kapka Kassabova
Martin Kern
Mimi Khalvati
Joseph Koerner
Annette Kolodny
Julia Kristeva
Chang-Rae Lee
Mabel Lee
Linda Leith
Suzanne Jill Levine
Lydia Liu
Margot Livesey
Julia Lovell
Willy Maley
Alberto Manguel
Ben Marcus
Richard McCabe
Campbell McGrath
Edie Meidav
Jack Miles
Toril Moi
Susana Moore
Laura Mulvey
Azar Nafisi
Paschalis Nikolaou
Molly Peacock
Pascale Petit
Clare Pettitt
Caryl Phillips
Robert Pinsky
Elena Poniatowska
Elizabeth Powers
Elizabeth Prettejohn
Kate Pullinger
Paula Rabinowitz
Rajeswari Sunder Rajan
François Rigolot
Geoffrey Robertson
Ritchie Robertson
Avital Ronell
Élisabeth Roudinesco
Carla Sassi
Michael Scammell
Celeste Schenck
Hadaa Sendoo
Miranda Seymour
Mimi Sheller
Elaine Showalter
Penelope Shuttle
Werner Sollors
Frances Spalding
Gayatri Chakravorty Spivak
Rebecca Stott
Kathryn Sutherland
Rebecca Swift
Susan Tiberghien
John Whittier Treat
David Treuer
David Trinidad
Marjorie Trusted
Lidia Vianu
Victor Vitanza
Marina Warner
David Wellbery
Edwin Williamson
Associate Editor: Neil Langdon Inglis
Assistant Editor: Ana de Biase
Assistant Editor: Eugenio Conchez
Assistant Editor: Patricia Delmar
Assistant Editor: Sophie Lewis
Assistant Editor: Siska Rappé
Assistant Editor: Robert Toperter
Art Consultant: Verónica Barbatano
Art Consultant: Angie Roytgolz
Recreation by Sue Orr
It might have been fifty years ago when it happened. Fifty, or forty or sixty. Hei aha… doesn't matter, time, but if you're fussy well it was long before we had the fancy satellites bringing us the panui on the sky's business.
I was a weather presenter; one of the first when television started in New Zealand. I was the only one in the Auckland studio. Later on the other cities had their own television stations, but Auckland was first so it's true I was it. I was young and not too bad looking either; long time ago now! Charisma was the word they used, when they talked about Tāwhiri-matea. Charisma and potential.
By chance I'd bought a new suit earlier that particular day, a lovely new suit and a tie to match. It had been a really beautiful morning – a breeze, a nice dry heat that played with washing on clotheslines and made the womenfolk happy. February, or March, I think it might have been. So, at the end of this beautiful day, I was in the studio in my new clothes, feeling good about life, all set to go.
The picture of New Zealand was on the wall behind me, and I had my pointer in my hand. I stood before the camera, ready to read off my cue, and I pointed to the map. First, the kōrero on that day's weather, that big bold word FINE printed in yellow boxes across the country. That's how they did it then, yellow boxes and big simple words.
That all went okay. I mean, that bit was always a bit hōhā, in my opinion. Everyone already knew they'd had a fine day. It was the next part people were interested in. What tomorrow would bring.
The markings on the map were complicated – highs and lows coming at us from all directions. I had just begun my commentary when, pai kare, everything failed. All the equipment.
My cues stopped rolling. The guys scrambled around, fiddling with the electric cables, smacking the sides of their cameras with the palms of their hands, trying to get things going. It had never happened before. We had no instructions on what to do in a situation like this. There was no picture going out, nothing on anyone's television screens, just black.
While all the fuss was going on, I closed my eyes. Things ran through my head. They played themselves fast-forward, fast-backward, all over the show. The words were out of my mouth before I knew it. There was just the sound of me, telling people what the weather would be like the next day.
…Heavy rain way up north, hard, fast, flooding out the little bridge just outside of Kerikeri. Thunder, lightening. I told the viewers all about that. Steer clear of there tomorrow, kia tūpato. Dangerous, you better stay home. Dust stirring in big clouds further down the east coast, skinny cows pushing their heads through wire fences, mouths reaching for grass on the roadside. Drought. Nothing new there, not worth a mention but I talked about it, all the same, talked about those skinny cows with nothing to eat. Down down down the coast, across the Cook Strait., view tilted in the wind. The coast again, then inland. A shiver. Wrong season. What's this? Crisp, crunchy frost touching the ripe stonefruit on the trees in central Otago – kia tere, people, hurry up, get outside now, see to your crops. Cover them up… and on I went, right to down to Stewart Island.
When I opened my eyes, the lights were on. The studio was silent. Everyone was staring at me. The producer, who had a huge brown moustache, came in. The moustache quivered like a mouse under the paw of a cat.
"What the hell was that?" he yelled at me. He was straining at me; if the camera guys hadn't stepped in he would have punched me, without a doubt.
"The weather forecast," I told him.
"Whose bloody forecast?" he stormed on. "The viewing public…Jesus…"
"There wasn't a viewing public," I said. "No-one could see me."
I was only young, remember. Pretty cheeky back then.
"You're fired," he said. "Get out." Then he turned to the crew. "How much of that shit went out?"
"Not much," one of the camera guys said.
"Thank Christ for that," said that producer.
The next day, it rained and rained up north. Flood waters broke through the banks of the Kerikeri River and washed right through the settlement, taking out a bridge on the edge of town. There was a car on it, a green Zephyr. The driver made it out okay, but the river took the car.
A freak frost spoiled acres of apricots in the deep south.
I sat at home, by my transistor, and listened to the reports of the chaos around the place. In between the bulletins, I worried about how I was going to pay the bills now that I was out of a job.
The next day, I got a call from someone at the station. Could I come and see the boss, this person wanted to know. I put on my new suit and a clean shirt, and went in.
It was quiet as I walked through the corridors. I'd never been in that part of the building before. The door to the boss's office was open. I stood there and waited, there was nothing to knock on. The boss, I forget his name now (they came and went) was sitting behind his desk. He jumped up, and came to the open door, holding out his hand for me to shake.
"It's Tar-ferry, isn't it?" he said, and I nodded. Back then no-one made an effort with the reo. "Come in, come in. Take a seat."
He was pretty nervous, I could see that, one hand shaking mine, the other not knowing where to put itself. It hovered over my back, nearly touching me but not quite. I think he feared a shock if he closed the circuit between our bodies.
The office was all dark wood panels, with a couch and matching armchair in the corner and two little round tables shaped like kidneys. We sat facing each other over one of the little tables.
"What happened the other day. Tarferry."
I wasn't sure whether this was a question, it sounded more like the beginning of something. I thought he might be working out what to say next. I waited.
He scratched the back of his neck. "Well, what the hell did happen?"
"There was a power failure…"
"I know that. I know about the bloody power failure. I meant, how'd you do it? How'd you predict what was going to happen… with so much detail?"
The poor guy was hunched forward in his chair, hands clasped between his knees. The look on his face was somewhere between excitement and terror.
"I'm sorry, I really can't explain it." I wanted to laugh but I held back; I could see that it would upset him more.
"Does it happen often?" he asked.
"It's the first time there's been a power failure when I've been on," I said.
"No, no… I mean, can you do it all the time, predict with such accuracy?"
I shrugged my shoulders. These questions were a bit much. "It's just something that happens."
I forget exactly how the rest of the conversation went, but what it came down to was this: I had got the forecast right, but they couldn't have me closing my eyes and chanting my predictions on television.
It wasn't professional, the boss said. Science was marching on, worldwide, new gadgets being invented every day that would improve the accuracy of weather forecasting. My particular method wasn't the future direction of the New Zealand Broadcasting Corporation.
"That's okay," I remember saying, standing up to leave.
"I want to keep you," he said. "I want to keep you, but I don't know what the hell to do with you."
"Kei te pai," I said, and he looked at me blankly. "That's alright. Good on you."
He wouldn't let me walk out the door. I'd get up to leave, thinking our kōrero was over, and he'd get all anxious again; leaning forward, blocking my way. In the end, we came to an agreement. We agreed that I would be the back-up weather presenter, in situations of extreme emergency. I would stay on full pay, come in every day as usual. Everything would be the same, except I wouldn't go on camera. Unless it was an emergency. If that happened, I would step forward and repeat the performance of the previous day.
"But, if you could just stick to the facts," said the boss. "Without the embellishments and the lingo. Just use words like fine and wet and windy. That would be good if you could do that, Tarferry."
I wasn't happy with this suggestion, but I had to accept it. It wasn't just me I had to think about – I was also supporting my elderly father, who lived on his own way out in the country.
"Alright," I said. "That sounds okay to me."
As far as these sorts of agreements go, it was a pretty good one. It outlasted his career, whoever he was, and several bosses to follow. It outlasted entire changes of staff, changes in policies. Changes, even, in the weather patterns themselves.
It happened now and again that I was called on to present the weather. I managed to stick to the rules: no matter what was going on in my head, I kept to the script. Fine, wet, windy, cyclone… these words were all okay.
Sometime further down the track, the deal was altered. When was it? I can't recall. But just as seasons had come and gone and returned, change caught up with me.
One day, the boss told me not to bother with the makeup. The new weather presenters were all trained as meteorologists, capable of winging it if the technology went pakaru. I could just stick to showing school groups around the studio. You've got so much knowledge about the place, Tāwhiri she said. It was a she by then, and people were starting to make an effort with the reo. More than anyone else here. The look on her face was gentle, kind – she was doing me a favour.
Now I'm an institution; part of the PR. I'm the old fella who comes in every day, looking sharp in his suit and tie, kept on to entertain the cheeky school kids. This is Tāwhiri! He was one of the original weather presenters! And he's still with us!
My pay got dropped back ages ago. But I keep coming in. What else would an old weatherman do with his time?
Children in the corridor – the slap slap of loose leather sandals against tough heels, a chicken-coop racket. They burst through the doors of the newsroom.
"Shush, you've got to be quiet in here," their teacher says.
I watch them over the top of my newspaper, from my chair in the corner. Rich kids, you can tell – little hands gripping i-things, all the expensive shirts and shoes and hats.
The teacher's a young man, barely taller than some of the boys. His head's shaved, he wears an earring. His students have infected him with the excitement of celebrity-spotting. His eyes dart around the room. He glances my way, but my face is not one to know.
"That's what's-her-name," he says, elbowing one of the fathers with the group. The teacher and the father-help ogle at Carole in the way men have looked at women since time began. "What's her name, you know, the weather chick?"
The children have spotted Carole too; they nudge each other and point, then set about the business of checking that it really is her – ticking off this flesh and blood female against the real Carole Joseph; the larger-than-life beauty on their big plasma screens.
Long blonde hair, parted on the side and layered to frame her face. Skinny as. I reckon you've got to look like that, to be a weather presenter now. Immaculate makeup, sapphire earrings picking up the blue of her eyes.
The girls like Carole's ruby red shoes. "See, sir, she doesn't wear her slippers on tv," they giggle.
Carole swivels in her chair, gives them a wave. "Welcome."
The girls smile coyly, hands fluttering back like birds in a birdbath. The boys look down, scuff their expensive runners at invisible spots on the floor.
"Looks like a good weekend coming up," says Carole, pointing at the big anti-cyclone on her computer screen. "Who's got plans to do stuff outside?"
The children say nothing. They stare at each other and giggle.
"Don't be shy guys," says the teacher. He's a puffed up rooster now. "I have," he says to Carole. "Big beach party up at Orewa. My birthday."
"Well, you're lucky, it should be fine," says Carole. "What school are you from?"
"Crawford Intermediate," says a boy at the front, fists shoved hard in the pockets of his baggy jeans. One of his friend's sniggers and the boy punches him in the arm.
"Ouch. Fuck off."
"Ryan," the teacher says vaguely, still looking at Carole.
"What's the day looking like out there?" Carole carries on through that beautiful white smile, ignoring the swearing, the gawking of the men.
"You should know!" the children chorus, giggling.
"Oh yeah, suppose I should," says Carole, grinning. She uses that line every time a class visits.
A boy at the back of the group says "lame." Three brisk steps, the teacher is next to him. He grabs the boy's arm tightly, above his elbow. The boy does not pull away.
"Ta-ferry, I warned you," the teacher says to the boy.
My namesake stands taller than his classmates, his arms folded across his chest. His clothes are hand-me-downs. His hair is cut short and his eyes are the same colour as mine, pounamu.
He is covered in eczema, this boy; angry red blotches on the backs of his legs, on his neck and inside his arms. He's agitated, scratching at himself with his free hand.
The teacher's voice is calm; there is no emotion. His jaw is clenched, sinews in his neck stretched taut, as though he wants to bite the boy. I wonder whether manhandling is allowed again in schools. I thought not, but I can never keep up with the changes.
"Well sorry, but it was lame," my namesake says.
"That was rude, and you will apologise," says the teacher.
"No offence," this boy says, looking straight at Carole. "I just thought it was a bit lame, you know. A bit of a lame joke from a weather person."
Carole laughs. "You're absolutely right. It is lame. Sometimes I get away with it, and sometimes, when the kids are smart, I don't."
"Watch yourself, Ta-ferry," says the teacher. He's still holding the boy's arm.
I hear it, clearly, from one of the other boys. Cheeky darkie. Sniggers ripple around the group. The teacher tries not to smile.
Patty from Public Relations has finally caught up with the group. "Sorry guys," she pants, as she comes through the door. There are little beads of sweat across her top lip, damp half moons under her arms. She glances around the room, looking for me.
"There you are, Tāwhiri," she says.
"Yes, here I am," I reply, and I fold my newspaper and stand.
The visitors swing around too, startled to see me – even the teacher, who has forgotten I am in the corner. They look me up and down, trying to place me in the women's magazines. They take in my grey suit, my white shirt and my meteorological tie, the one with the big H against a bright yellow background. The children – some of them – are sniggering again… hey Taferry, he's your grand dad… I wait for blunt words of reprimand from of the teacher but he says nothing.
"Everybody, over here please," says Patty. "This is Tāwhiri. Tāwhiri is our, how shall we say, Tāwhiri?"
Patty sweats at me, thin eyebrows arched so high they almost touch her fringe. I try not to close my eyes but the sudden drop in air pressure is pushing hard against my temples …cyclone leaves the strangest of molds and fungi in its wake… and when I open my eyes, Patty's mouth is stretched wide in a tense smile, her teeth clamped together as though she is frightened to breathe the same dehydrating, aging air as me.
"I'm the schools' host," I say.
"Yes," Patty shrills great westerly winds summonsed by Titokowaru to mask his gun-fire attacks against the land-grabbing British...
I drag myself back to now.
"Tāwhiri is our host! He was one of our first weather presenters! He's been here longer than anyone else. How many years now, Tāwhiri?"
I shrug and smile. How many years?
"A long time anyway," says Patty. "He could step into that studio and present the weather off the top of his head! Probably… couldn't you Tāwhiri."
I smile again.
"So. Who knows anything about reading a weather map?" says Patty.
One of the girls standing next to Tāwhiri-my-namesake says something under her breath. The class sniggers and the girl dances a hiphop shuffle, fingers pointing to the ground. The teacher rounds on young Tāwhiri and takes his arm again. I can see that the grip is tight, that the boy must be hurting, but he doesn't flinch.
"I warned you, Taa-ferry," says the teacher.
The boy closes his eyes and opens them again. "It wasn't me, sir." He's brave, but not so far from tears now.
"Get out," says the teacher. "If you insist on ruining it for everyone, just get out."
The boy moves away from the group, towards the door. I'm surprised he backs down so easily but then I see the faces of his classmates: in this group, he is utterly alone.
I step forward and reach out, letting my hand fall on the teacher's arm. "The boy's right," I say. "It wasn't him."
The teacher's eyes roam the length of me – the ancient skin on my hand, my old suit. I see the beginning of a sneer; only the beginning – I leave my hand resting on his bare skin. It cools under my touch. I feel goosebumps rise. The sneer falls away.
"Oh," the teacher says. He would like to say more but can not.
"You're sure about that?"
"Oh yes, I'm sure. I was watching, you see."
"Alright then." He glares at the boy: The boy looks at me.
"And his name is pronounced Tāwhiri. Taa-whiri," I say quietly.
The sneer returns, but the teacher says nothing. Soon he will feel a shiver run through his body. For the rest of this stifling, still day he will be chilled to the bone, unable to warm himself up. By tomorrow morning, he will be confined to his bed. When the shiver happens, that almost imperceptible quiver, I deliver him my widest, most charming weatherman smile.
Tāwhiri-my-namesake is standing tall again, at the back of the group. Those green eyes are fixed on me now. I meet his stare and hold it.
"Kia ora koutou. Would anyone like to start with a question?" I say to the group, and the boy raises his hand. The teacher shakes his head in disbelief.
"What would you like to know?" I ask.
"Everything," he says.
"Where shall I start?" I say.
"At the beginning, please."
The beginning's so long ago, too long. But when I close my eyes, it's all there. It's the boy. With the boy standing there, it is all clear in my mind. I open my eyes. There is only him and me.
There were six of us, all boys. I was the youngest. We were the sort of kids who spend all our free time outside, I suppose these days we would be skateboarders, or rugby players. Back then, we found our own fun.
We lived miles away from anyone else. I can't tell you whether we learned the same things as town kids; our mother just taught us things as we needed to know them.
You know what it's like when you're the youngest. You get no say in anything. There'd been this business going on at home, my older brothers getting angry that they were missing out on stuff. Things you could do in towns, like school and sport, girls probably. Anyway, these fights had been going on for a while and Tāne and Tū – they were oldest two – they'd been talking to Mum a lot, when Dad wasn't listening, trying to get her on their side.
But the thing about Mum was she was stubborn. No matter how much Tāne and Tū would talk to her, trying to get her to convince Dad to even think about shifting, she wouldn't listen. We belong out here, in the country she'd say. We all belong together, out here.
One time, it was getting towards nightfall. We were summonsed to hear some news, not by our mother and father, as you might expect, but by Tāne. He stood on the back steps and hollered for all of us. "Kia tere, get inside, you guys," he called out. "There are things to be said."
The house was a wooden cottage, small for a family of eight. It was on top of a hill, near the sea. Don't ask me where, I can't remember. Hei aha, doesn't matter.
So Tāne stood on the steps and yelled. This was back before there were all the modern gadgets, playstations and the like, certainly no cellphones, no texting us to get home. Tangaroa was down at the sea swimming and old green fingers Rongo was round the back, fixing stakes in Mum's vege garden. Haumia was off in the bush doing who knows what, he spent hours in there and when you asked him what he'd been up to, he'd just shrug his shoulders and say this and that. Looking back now, I have my suspicions as to what he might have been growing in there. But that's another story.
Where was Tū? Off causing trouble somewhere, of course. He just couldn't help but pick a fight. I saw him arguing with himself one day, marching along the dusty metal road bare-chested in his raggy shorts, ranting and raving to himself, waving a long stick, conducting one side of an armed attack on The Enemy, then taking up The Enemy's position and defending it to the death.
I was just inches away from Tāne. I was hiding under the house, under the step he was standing on. Under the house was where I went when I got the itch. The itch came before a rise or fall in the air temperature; it started in my hair and it spread down my neck, down my back and front. It was a rash that crawled all over my body, I couldn't stop scratching. It drove me mad and also everyone around me. I'd disappear under the house to get away from annoying everyone with my scratching. Once the storms started, the rash would fade and the itching would stop. It was just a matter of waiting it out.
So I was right there as Tāne stomped down the steps. When he stopped to yell, I reached up and laid my hands against the hard underneath of the step, the wood separating me and him. I felt the vibration of his call run through his body, through the soles of his boots, right through the timber and into the palms of my hands. When I lifted my hands away from the wooden surface, the rash was deep and pulsing on my palms. I could feel tiny blisters forming. I listened as he stomped back up the steps inside.
The first lightening struck just as I was crawling out through the gap in the weatherboards onto the damp grass. A flash of pale, like a sheet flicking in the wind.
I was crouching on the ground, my head tucked into my shoulders. How many seconds? I guessed at six, and started counting slowly. One, two, three, four, five… six. The thunder felt as though it was deep in the ground beneath me; more vibrations, like the ones from Tāne's foot steps. I grinned. I always got it right. I jumped to my feet and took the steps, two at a time, into the house.
I was the last to come in. The storm had knocked the power out, candles were burning around the front room. There were six; two on the mantelpiece, one on the window sill and three on the wooden table. The candles were always ready, boxes of matches sitting nearby. In those days, the power seemed to be off as often as it was on; any storm would take it out.
Ae, everyone was there. My mother was sitting in the armchair in the corner. My brothers were gathered around her. There was Tāne at the back of her chair, his hand resting on her shoulder, as though he owned her. On either side were two more of them, I think Rongo and Haumia , then the other two were sitting at her feet. I thought maybe we were going to have a family photograph taken, maybe that's what the occasion was, because that's exactly how everyone looked – all stiff and uncomfortable. I'd probably get told to go and tidy up for the photo, get some decent pants on at least.
Dad was on the other side of the room, standing in the doorway.
Is the boy still with me? The others have drifted off elsewhere with Patty, but I don't care about them.
Yes, he's there, hasn't moved all this time. How long have I been talking? The big black clock on the wall says no time at all, but that can't be right. I'll speak to someone about the batteries in that clock.
The boy nods at me, carry on is what he's saying. If he moves away with the others, I will no longer remember.
It is a joy to remember, a joy.
Dad was as tall as the doorframe, only just fitting under it as he passed through. His shoulders filled the space sideways. I always thought that one day he stood quite still in an empty green field, his great arms crossed on his chest, and men had come with their timber and their tools and built our house around him.
That is what I didn't understand, on the night that Tāne called us to the house. My father was standing in the doorway but he had shrunk. I could see great dark spaces above his head and around his body.
His head hung low, his dark curly hair falling forward over his face.
"Dad, are you okay?" I said. "Are you sick? What's wrong with you?"
My father said nothing. He didn't lift his head.
Tāne spoke. In the flickering light of the candles, I saw that his hand was still on my mother's shoulder.
"For a long time, things haven't been right," Tāne said.
I looked at Mum again. This was probably going to be a bit of a telling-off. We had these family meetings now and again, where we all got pulled into line for playing up. Mum and Dad would let things go for ages, then they would decide enough's enough and get us all in together for a bit of a kōrero. That's what this was. A telling-off.
"We're sick of living out here in the wops," Tāne went on. He was staring at Dad. "We've had enough, man. We're going."
"We're going to the city. No future here, no jobs, no nothing."
"No." Barely a whisper, this new voice of my father.
"You can stay. Please yourself. Mum can please herself too. But we're going, all of us kids."
Outside the house and inside my head, the pressure rose and fell. The pain was like fire.
"No one asked me," I said. I'm sure I said it out loud but no one looked my way. "No one has asked me."
Tāne stepped out from behind my mother's chair. Every time he took a step forward, he seemed to grow taller, broader. I looked back at my father, who seemed to be disappearing with each of Tāne's movements.
"What are you doing Mum? Staying, or coming with us kids? "
The idea was so stupid, I laughed. I cracked up, you'd say these days. Outside the storm was cracking along too, the wind had come up and was hissing through the crannies of the weatherboards, bringing a chill to the room. Rain smashed hard against the windows, as though it was knocking to come in and dampen my pōrangi giggling.
What were my brothers doing? Nothing. They sat quite still, at my mother's side, and let Tāne speak for them. After a time, I stopped laughing.
"Mum," I said. "Tell him to cut it out."
My mother had lost her will to speak. Her eyes were dark, empty. I watched as they filled with tears. She didn't brush them away, they ran down her face in two tiny wet lines. I looked over again to Dad. He had put his hands against the doorframe, as though he needed it for support to stop him falling to the ground
Tāne started pacing around the room. With every step, he seemed to grow; pulsing and pumping life, energy. I had always been frightened of him, my oldest brother; the only one to take on Tū and win a fight. He put himself out there as a peaceful guy but look out if anyone challenged him.
"Mum won't let us down. What mother would let her kids go off to the city? On their own?" Tāne was ranting now.
A terrible tight feeling was building in my chest. I'd had enough of this. Tāne had gone pōrangi. Bloody crazy. I got up off the floor and stood before him, between his huge body and my father.
"Kāti," I shouted at him. "Cut it out. What do you think you're doing?"
He pushed me away from him. "Keep out of this," he said. "You're the youngest, you don't understand."
The power came back on, though the wind and the rain were still howling outside. I turned back to my mother. Under the harsh glare of the bare light bulbs, she looked so pale. She was sobbing.
"Tāwhiri's right," she screamed at Tāne. "You're mad. I don't know what all this is about, but I'm not leaving. I'm not going anywhere."
"You see?" I shouted at Tāne. "What are you doing? They're happy. We're happy. What else do you want?"
My father looked up at Tāne. "Don't take her, son," he said.
Tāne loomed tall over Dad. "She's going, Dad," he said. "We're all going."
It was like a strange dream, none of it making sense but rolling on anyway, out of control. Mum didn't want to go. Dad didn't want her to go. The whole thing was driven by Tāne, supported by all my other brothers.
I went to Mum, still in her chair. I wanted to climb into her lap – as the youngest, I could still get away with doing that – and she reached forward to pull me towards her. But Tangaroa kicked out at me, forcing me away from her. "Get off," he hissed. "Don't be such a baby."
Back to Dad I went, backwards and forwards between the two of them, trying to make reason. The house was shaking in the storm and the air pressure in the room rose and fell, rose and fell. My ears were hurting more and more and my rash had returned. My whole body burned.
Tāne leaned over Dad and spoke quietly into his ear. "Let us go, Dad," he said, pushing me away as he spoke. "Let her go. She can't survive here without her kids."
He and Dad had locked eyes. I fell back from them both; whatever this thing was, this enormous thing, it sat between them now.
"Go," Dad said, waving his hand, dismissing us. "All of you, go. Take her with you."
He walked away, down the hallway, into the darkness.
Tāne turned and smiled at me. "In time," he said "you'll understand."
My brothers had released my mother; she sat slumped in the chair like a sad clown, her mouth turned down at the corners. Tāne spoke to me quietly. "Go and pack your bags," he said. "We're going tonight.'
I was full of rage: the rage of not understanding, the rage of powerlessness, the rage of being the youngest. It started as the itch, then it built up inside me to something I couldn't control. It bubbled hot beneath my skin; my whole body turned pink, then dark red, as though I'd burned myself under the sun.
I think you'd say today, I lost the plot. I don't actually recall the moment, but some time later, I found myself sitting on the floor in the middle of the room. The tables were broken, smashed into pieces. The candles were waxy pools on the floor, stomped flat. Every window was shattered, the thin curtains ripped from their rails, the stuffing torn from the insides of the armchair and sofa.
I was covered in blood; my hands cut. There was no sign of my brothers or my mother. I got up and walked through the dark house: everything belonging to them was gone, it was as though they had never lived there.
I heard crying. I opened my parents' bedroom door. My father was on the bed, curled up like a child. I climbed onto the bed and lay behind him, wrapping my arms around him. "I'm not going, Dad," I said. "I'm staying with you."
With the hands on the clock not moving, I have no idea of the time. The late afternoon light in the newsroom hasn't shifted either. The others in the school group are nowhere to be seen.
"Shall I go on?" I ask the boy, and he nods. Green eyes glistening, are they tears?
My mother and brothers never came back. They settled in a big city a long way away. Tāne became an influential person in the conservation movement, Tangaroa an entrepreneurial fisherman, with his own fleet of fine trawlers. Haumia and Rongo pooled their knowledge of plants and gardening, and together established a big gardening store. Tū? No prizes for guessing. Soldier first, then later a politician.
All this I learned over time, a bit of gossip here, a snippet from a newspaper there. It was of little interest to me; I could think only of my mother. I obsessed over her. I couldn't leave home, couldn't risk leaving my father in his fragile state. I made do with scavenging news of her from any source.
I watched, listened, read. Once, when I was lighting the fire in the kitchen, I happened across a photo of Tū in an old newspaper. He was in the foreground, at a lectern, giving a speech about the importance of maintaining old military alliances in an ever-threatening climate of unrest, or something like that.
Behind Tu's earnest face was my mother. Her hands were clasped beneath her chin, almost as though she was praying. She was looking at the back of Tū's head, but the camera had caught her face perfectly. The expression was one of enrapture; absolute, unconditional devotion.
I finished lighting the fire and hammered on my father's bedroom door.
"I need to talk to you," I shouted. I expected the usual response Go away, leave me alone. But for once, he called me in.
He was sitting up in bed. Although I saw him most days shuffling around the kitchen, it was only then, swaddled in dirty bedclothes, in the middle of a too-big bed, that the true depth of his despair revealed itself. Everything about him had turned grey: his hair, his skin, even, it seemed, the room. The air was heavy and putrid – the windows had not been opened since my mother had left. Black mold grew up the walls and across the ceiling. It was as though my father was embedded in the calm, foul vortex of an ugly storm.
"Enough," I said.
He looked at me as though he had no idea who I was.
"Let's go. Let's pack up our stuff and go to the city."
"No," he said.
"We can't stay here Dad. This is hopeless. Look at you. Look at us."
"No. It could never work out." He recited the words slowly. His eyes wandered to the window as he spoke. "She made a choice. The boys ahead of me."
The itch was coming: the tingle on my scalp, the prickle on my neck.
"I stayed with you Dad. Now you should do something for me."
"I owe you nothing," my father said. "It was your choice to stay." And he turned away from me again.
The rash spread like fire down my body, across my shoulders, down my arms and chest and into my groin. It came down my face, searing my eyelids, parching my lips. I ran my touch over them and felt the fragile skin beginning to crack, as though I had spent months with my face turned up to the blistering sun. I started for the door, for my usual hiding place under the house. Then I remembered – there was no-one to bother now with my scratching, no-one except my father, who no longer cared about me.
I got as far as the front door of the house. A rage was building inside me but it was different from the rages I had experienced in the past, the ones heralding a storm. It was a rage against myself – my stupidity at choosing to stay with my father, with a man who clearly did not value my sacrifice.
The blind white anger that had engulfed me the night our family split came over me again. My last recollection was standing in the doorway, looking out at a beautiful clear, warm day. My next knowing moment was coming to, in the same place at the front door, in the middle of a hail storm – a whiteout of freezing cloud, ice balls as big as my fists smashing hard against my face.
I stood quite still, cold white mist touching my hot skin, cooling it down. It was beautiful relief. I tore my shirt off and let the invisible droplets take the rage out of my body. I closed my eyes. The cool brushed against my eyelids like an iced feather.
I should have been frightened, but the relief at the timely whiteout was too great for me to feel panic.
The day unfolded like most others around that time; my father remained shut in his room, exiting only to nibble at whatever he could find in the kitchen and to use the outhouse. I roamed the hills around our house, bare-chested, enjoying the delicious chill of the mist on my tender skin. I stayed out until night fell and the mist turned into a thick wet fog. I lay on the wet grass and tried to peer through the strange white stillness to the stars.
While I looked at the fog and the sky, I started to think about the whiteout. How I had not felt its approach. How I had wished for something to cool my itching, raging skin. How I had wanted something like that so badly, and how I had got what I wanted.
For a long time after the day of the whiteout, I misused my gift. Don't forget, I was still a kid; an angry, lonely boy caring for a man who didn't seem to want him. Instead of letting the anger build up inside me, I had a bit of fun.
I'd think of Tangaroa out fishing, bringing home kai for them all to share while my father and I made do with the sad, straggling remains of my mother's vegetable garden. A wild storm would pummel the seas, tearing his precious boats to pieces and casting fisherman to their death.
I would think of my two green-fingered brothers and their successful gardening shops. A salty wind would blow hard from the sea, through the rows of plants, burning their green leaves to a black, brittle crisp.
I thought of Tū, his desire for conflict charading as noble loyalty. That one was easy. Did it ever rain on his military parades? Always.
Mostly, though, I thought of Tāne. I played out, over and over in my head, the night he called us all together then split us all apart. I thought about him carrying on about the wildlife cause. I would think about it, sitting on the front porch, looking way into the distance. I would sit and look and think and soon I would see it: the haze of a bushfire drifting across the horizon.
Over time, the news came that my brothers had married and had children. It was only then that I came around to understanding that our family would have just died away we'd all stayed together, alone. I still wasn't happy about things though. I still reckoned we could have worked things out a different way.
Tāwhiri-my-namesake is smiling.
"You understand, don't you," I say, and he nods.
"Shall I continue? You want me to continue the story of how I became a weather presenter?"
The boy shrugs his shoulders.
Everyone is back, each child standing exactly where they were before, the two men still glancing at Carole. The long black second hand on the clock has just started moving again.
"There's an old rumour round here," says Carole. "That Tāwhiri's been here so long, he can predict the weather. And that's how he came to be a weather presenter - one of the first ones."
"You don't want to believe those silly stories Carole," I say. "Sounds a bit far-fetched, doesn't it kids?"
Ugly sneers from the boys at the front of the group; mutterings stupid old coot… impatient shuffles.
"No no," I carry on, ignoring the boys. "It was nothing as mysterious as that, a far more ordinary story, I'm afraid."
I tell how a young man with a passion for watching the clouds moved from the country to the city, worked hard, got a job at the television station and worked his way up to become a weather presenter. The children are bored, who could blame them? I'm bored too with that talk. I've given it too many times to count.
I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the window. An old man in a suit that's too big for him. Look how my shoulders fail to fill the jacket. And the trousers, sagging in the backside, pulled tight by a belt on its last notch. At the end of my talk, I look to the back of the group.
Tāwhiri-my-namesake isn't there. I search the faces. He's nowhere.
Carole has been listening too, perched on the edge of her desk.
"Tāwhiri, can I have a quiet word?" she asks.	"I just wondered, do you want to read the weather today?"
"Why?" I ask her.
"I'm not feeling that well," she says.
"Are you sure you're not well enough?" I can tell she's fibbing.
She looks at me, grinning. "Actually, that's rubbish."
She feels sorry for me, having to perform in front of these rude class groups. I won't accept pity, and I'm about to tell her so, when I change my mind.
"Okay," I say. "You take over here."
The make-up girl is new, fresh out of training. Her long black hair is clipped back and coiled into a shiny eel bun. Her name is Wanda, she tells me brightly.
"Kia ora Wanda, I'm Tāwhiri," I say, reaching forward in my chair to shake her hand.
For a moment we look at each other in the wide mirror: one ancient, crevassed face and one new pale canvas. Wanda puts a hand on my shoulder.
"So, Tāwhiri. What do we usually use for you?"
The fat little make-up pots with the black lids line the heavy glass shelf under the mirror. There are ten of them, identical in size and shape, each containing liquid of a different skin-tone. They graduate in colour: an alabaster white to the sunkissed tan in the middle to a syrupy black oil on the far right.
I shrug my shoulders, remembering a time long ago. "It doesn't seem to matter, Wanda, which one you go for. Once it's on, it always turns out the same."
Wanda's neat, pruned eyebrows knit in confusion, then relax. Silly old fella is what she is thinking. "Okaaay…" she says politely, and goes over to Reina.
"Reina, what do we use for Tāwhiri?" she whispers.
Reina is distracted, filling bottles at the bench. "Take your pick."
Wanda giggles. "Alright then," she says. She runs a finger down my face, as though checking for dust. "Let's try this one."
She reaches for the alabaster white. They always do.
The smooth, thick liquid sits on my skin. Wanda's hand moves quickly – more and more of it scooped from the pot, dolloped on to me. The brush swirls like a feather duster over my closed eyes, my nose, down over my cheeks and lips. I feel the heaviness of the cream hanging off me, and Wanda's mutterings. Jesus, man, weird.
When I open my eyes, the job is done. It's heavy-handed, but the exact shade of my skin. Wanda's pretty cupid bow of a mouth is hanging open.
"I don't get it," she says. "What happens, under the studio lights? What does it look like on-screen?"
Reina joins her behind me. She rubs my shoulders.
"Tāwhiri doesn't usually do the broadcast, Wanda," she says.
I lift my old bones, rearrange myself in the chair for comfort.
"Reina's being kind, my dear," I say. "This old man has nothing much to do and the network keeps him on to talk to rowdy school kids. Except for today. Today I get to present the weather."
I smile at the silliness of it, at the pity on both their faces, that kind, sad grimace reserved for the aged.
"Ah, go on with you both!" I say, chuckling under Reina's hands. "Where else can an old koro get a free massage from beautiful young girls?"
"Excuse me," Reina says. "Old man getting a free massage? Who else would put up with those little shits? He's the man, Wanda," she says, laughing. "I mean it. You deserve more than a massage, Tāwhiri."
"More than a massage, really? If you're offering…" I wink at her in the mirror.
I sit back to let Reina and Wanda trim my eyebrows and spray my hair into perfect silver waves.
It feels strange not holding a pointer. Oh, I know things have moved on, but still. That pointer was lovely to hold; smooth, cool, like a wooden taiaha. It kept the nerves at bay.
Now I have this gadget, this tiny clicking thing. Just hold it in the palm of your hand they told me. When you're ready for a new screen, just push the button. Simple!
So I stand, waiting, in the studio as the sports presenters finish their bit.
How different everything is. The light-hearted banter between the presenters, as though we are all sitting comfortably in someone's front room, chatting about world politics, who's winning the golf. It's a big, bright, friendly moment.
"We've a special treat for you tonight folks – a face from the past…. Did they have televisions back that far, Tāwhiri?"
Ha ha, the the wit of it all! That's my cue.
"Thank you, and yes they did. Grainy old black and white screens, but televisions nonetheless. None of these television remotes, though, just an old wooden pointer…" I wave the remote towards the camera, give it a great big presenting smile.
"Well good luck then Tāwhiri, let's hear what tomorrow brings, weather-wise."
Weather-wise indeed.
I begin.
The forecast is good for the whole country, I say, clicking my little button to move the images behind me.
Up the country we travel – south to north these days - how smooth it all is, as though we are birds passing over the land. I do the right thing, remember to warn about strong sunshine, remind everyone to slip, slap, slop, cover up.
On we go, across Cook Strait – calm seas, people, put the boat out – and onto the North Island. I pause the graphics over the East Coast.
There will be rain, I tell the camera, a slow, steady fall that will go on for days. There will be significant breaks – time to get a load of washing dry before the next shower, time for the parched land to absorb the moisture before the next downpour.
All the time I'm talking, I remember the dry dust clouds, dying cattle and devastated farmers of decades ago. It feels good to settle that debt.
Up the country, nearly done. The camera man is moving towards me, zooming in on my face, and I remember what Carole said about ending the segment: finish on a personal note.
I look calmly into the camera. I am talking to millions of people, but I can see only one person staring back at me down the lens.
Tāwhiri's school teacher.
His hard face, smug at having destroyed the boy's spirit, excited about his big beach birthday party with the generator pumping, music blaring, coloured lights swinging from the pine trees.
I remember what Carole told me, and smile into the camera.
As though you're there with them, in their homes. It's like you're part of the family these days, Tāwhiri. So personalize it, as much as you can.
"Tomorrow night, folks, the place to be is Auckland – just north actually, up there at that beautiful Orewa Beach. That's the place to head to, if you're planning a big birthday party. The weather will be fine, perfect."
The vision in my mind is in black and white. The electrical storm will be one of those rare, freak events touching just a tiny pocket of land, leaving surroundings untouched. So small, it never featured on the computer screens before we went to air. The storm is hardly worth mentioning. Hardly worth mentioning, so I don't.
If I closed my eyes, I would hear a man screaming, ambulance sirens in the background. I would smell it too, the smell of burning. But I leave my eyes open, stick to the cues. Smile into the camera, until the signal that we are done.
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Even in those places where snow may still be on the ground, gardening is in the forefront of people's minds. Daffodils are popping up, loquat trees are fruiting, and the March winds are blowing in the April showers.
April is a month of many things: Earth Day (4/22), National Poetry Month, Kids Gardening Month, and Kite Flying Month to name a few. To keep your April chock full of nature fun, I created a round-up to keep you and yours creatively connecting all month long!
The birds and I are loving the abundance of mulberries on the Florida trees this month.
I've never been great at writing (or reading for that matter) poetry myself, but I do really like writing simple nature poetry with children. Try your hand at garden and spring nature inspired poetry with these activities!
Fear Poetry? I Challenge You! – Make an acrostic poem – this is great activity for the poetry averse (like me if I'm honest) or for doing with young children or in groups.
April Shapes Up for Poetry – Learn to make poetry in the shape of the nature you're writing about.
Wonder Wednesday 56: Found Nature Poetry – Cut up words gathered on nature walks and reassemble them into a poem. This activity has a pdf for you to make your word tickets too!
Wild violets are an early sign of spring and are popping up everywhere in Virginia.
Join the Kid's Grow Contest! Open to children ages 0-18, submit visual art, recordings of music, videos, photography, or creative writing illustration what grows in their gardens.
Each week Kid'sGardening.org will choose an entry to receive a prize and 2 grand prize winners will be chosen at the end of the month. Learn more and get the submission details here.
Vietnamese spinach is blooming in my Florida garden.
Earth Day is Monday April 22 this year and can be fun, but also be a guilt trip in its own way. This year, make it about celebrating the little natural wonders we discover right outside our doors.
10 Ways Not to Save Anything for Earth Day – "Let them love nature before we ask them to save it" David Sobel, need I say more?
Celebrate Earth Day with a Tree Ceremony – Celebrate the trees that offer us shade, fresh air, fruits, medicines, act as climbing hideaways, and a serve as beautiful backdrop to our lives!
I especially love to climb the Japanese Magnolia trees when they are in bloom.
To encourage gardening at home and school, on tiny scales and large, I'm having a sale on online gardening consultations purchased during the month of April!
Online consults will be $50 off through April 30! Yahoo!
Click here to learn more about what a Garden Consultation includes.
Click here to contact me to organize an online Garden Consultation with you!
Sage blooms abound in my garden this month!
Did you see last month's Wonder Wednesday activity "Go Fly a Kite"?
It teaches you how to make your own little kite and find a kite flying festival near you! Check it out here.
The spring wind blew the stamen of a citrus bloom right into a bundle of lichen in the lemon tree.
I hope these ideas and photos get you inspired to get out and discover the whispers nature has waiting for you. And if the time is right, I'd love to help you get your garden growing this spring.
No space is too small, too urban, or too lacking "green thumbs", I promise! You can grow some fresh veggies no matter where you live. I would love to help!
What would you most love to do in nature this spring? Share in the comments below!
Share pics of your spring fun on Instagram #wingswormsandwonder!
Spring Events – I have lots coming up – including the Spring Bada-Bing in Richmond this weekend (4/13). Check out all my upcoming events here.
This is the first belladonna bloom of the season in my garden.


text:
Site Name: Marysville-7th Ave
Location: Marysville (7th St), WA
Marysville (7th St) WA, US: 48.055, -122.175797
Jan. 13, 2022, 6 a.m. N/A N/A N/A N/A N/A N/A N/A N/A N/A 0.0 μg/m3 (0) 0.0
Jan. 13, 2022, midnight N/A N/A N/A N/A N/A N/A N/A N/A N/A 1.0 μg/m3 (5) 5.0
Jan. 12, 2022, 9 p.m. N/A N/A N/A N/A N/A N/A N/A N/A N/A -2.0 μg/m3 (0) 0.0
Jan. 12, 2022, noon N/A N/A N/A N/A N/A N/A N/A N/A N/A 0.0 μg/m3 (0) 0.0
Jan. 12, 2022, 11 a.m. N/A N/A N/A N/A N/A N/A N/A N/A N/A 0.0 μg/m3 (0) 0.0
Jan. 12, 2022, 7 a.m. N/A N/A N/A N/A N/A N/A N/A N/A N/A -1.0 μg/m3 (0) 0.0


How to Become a Male Model. The fashion industry is full of famous female supermodels. Their images fill television ads and magazines. Although they never get as famous as female models, fashion needs male models, too. A modeling career may look easy, but it takes lots of hard work, drive and devotion to become a male model.
Try to meet the industry's standard requirements. Most male models are between 5' 11" and 6' 2" and under 175 pounds. Males can start a modeling career from the age range of 18 to 25 and their careers can last well into their 40s, which is much more relaxed than their female counterparts. Don't worry about being all around perfection, if one body part is exceptional, there's work for hand models and eyewear models, too.
Keep toned. Although the modeling industry doesn't want a body builder's frame, they do want a fit and healthy appearance.
Move to a big city. New York City is the best place for modeling as it is considered the modeling capital of America. Other large cities need models, too, so check around via the Internet and in phone books for modeling opportunities in these areas.
Create a portfolio. Get several head shots and full body shots in both sportswear and business attire taken. Keep information like clothing size, height and weight on the back for potential clients to look at.
Get an agent. A good time to find one is when a modeling agency holds open call, which is when anyone can go in and be informed of their potential in the industry. Sometimes a model search will go to smaller towns to look for talent. Be sure to research their legitimacy before signing up. There are even scouting companies (See Resources) that can send information to modeling agencies for their clients.
Be persistent. Even today's top models have been rejected more than once. If one agency passes on you, think of it as an opportunity to find a better agency.
Keep a flexible schedule. Once an agent starts booking shoots, a model must be ready to be on location on short notice. A passport is a must for any model.
Always have an attorney go over any legal contract, such as with an agent, before signing. Be punctual and courteous at photo shoots.
&, Careers. "How to Become a Male Model." , https://careertrend.com/how-2096925-become-male-model.html. 20 December 2018.


text:
Title Fight "Secret Society"
Hannah Roman and Title Fight
Hello programming friends, it's Andy and the HIP Video Promo staff dropping you a line with the new video from a band we hold near and dear. With their raw and influential music videos, Title Fight has been increasing their fan base by presenting the hardcore music scene with jaw dropping masterpieces. From the upcoming album Floral Green, SideOneDummy Records presents an eager and restless group of musicians that radiate a certain type of unexplainable electricity in their new video for "Secret Society."
SPIN Magazine predicts "Title Fight are going reshape the entire punk genre with their 2nd full-length album, Floral Green" while NPR says that "Title Fight hits the sweet spot between the heartfelt, road-trip-proven pop-punk of Jawbreaker's Dear You and the melodic post-hardcore of Hot Water Music." As these glowing quotes imply, Title Fight's music reflects a higher level of human existence. With profound lyricism and gritty guitar sounds, the band has received honorable critiques by fans of the hardcore music genre. After touring the US with bands such as Senses Fail and Bayside, we can say that Title Fight's music is timeless, yet honorably contemporary. Performing at music fests, such as This is Hardcore and Sound and Fury, earned Title Fight a spot in SPIN's 25 Must-Hear Bands at Bamboozle list while gaining highly praised recognition by new fans of their music. We were all inspired by the last video for "27," but it is with the release of "Secret Society" that we realize what this band has created can be deemed as true art.
The topics and evident themes that Title Fight expresses in their music videos are sometimes disturbing, yet very monumental. In "Secret Society," we are introduced to a world of chaos and self-destruction and even murder that occurs within one young girl's life. Shot entirely on a VHS camcorder, the video rocks out a sort of Carrie-meets-indie-rock-meets-home move vibe. The plot turns obsessive, gory, and ironic, but as a viewer, you won't be able to peel your eyes away. Maybe it's the wild video, or maybe it's the heavy hitting song. Either way, it is a strong example of the intricate time these band mates have put in to create songs filled with impressionable images. "Secret Society" is a song that utters the gritty elements of contemporary hardcore music through powerful vocals and strong rhythm.
Title Fight is a band that has written their own rules and has found a strong and loyal fanbase because of it. Their new album for Floral Green will ultimately take their standing to an even greater place amongst fans, and we would love to hook you up with copies if it would ultimately score the "Secret Society" video some programming. For more information on their upcoming album Floral Green, please contact Andy Gesner and the HIP Video Promo staff at (732)-613-1779 or email us at info@HIPVideoPromo.com. You can also visit www.SideOneDummy.com or TitleFight.tumblr.com for more info on Title Fight.
Visit SideOneDummy Records Visit Title Fight
For info about Title Fight's previous video, "27" click HERE
For info about Title Fight's previous video, "Shed" click HERE
We are forever grateful to @DualtoneRecords for bringing us @thelumineers! 🌟 Read about them and their impressive r… https://t.co/EUTFfhvh56 about 23 hours ago from Twitter Web App ReplyRetweetFavorite
If you're looking for some tips and tricks on how to navigate the #music #industry then check out The @TravTorch Sh… https://t.co/qYHTHzpUQs 04:42:00 PM January 18, 2021 from Twitter Web App ReplyRetweetFavorite
Don't miss "Lift You Up", the latest from Thee Holy Brothers ft. Stephon Ferguson as the voice of Dr. Martin Luther… https://t.co/zqHQJFkgsF 04:42:16 PM January 15, 2021 from Twitter Web App ReplyRetweetFavorite


951 Tech – Got Help?
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Read the sign! Make sure you know the hours so you don't go when it's closed.
So sad that it's closed Sunday and Monday! I've tried to go before on a Monday and I didn't know the hours...now I do!
If you go through the patio you can see this door.
Alright...let's get straight to the video then you can see more pics of the food up close and personal!
I know! I couldn't stop making little notations after I was done eating...I just feel like it's so important to talk about the specific things that make the food good. When I mentioned that they didn't need salt or pepper, because the food is so well seasoned, some people may feel it's bordering on salty...but with the sour cream it really just balanced it all out.
My favorite!! A super icy cold Coke!! I can not NOT drink a cold Coke when I'm having Mexican food, or burgers, or anything fried, or pizza and ...DAMN IT! I just love drinking Coke!! I try to drink it in moderation though.
Gotta get the Cheese Crisp with everything on it! I saw some other customers who ordered it with everything on it! Oh man!! It looked so good! And don't forget to order that side of home made sour cream...or if not completely home made, but doctored up sour cream. Tasty!
The pork adovada was so insanely tender! Make sure you get this burrito enchilada style and of course, use that sour cream!
I enjoyed this restaurant and the food...I want to go back. If you're out in South Phoenix...so check out. It's a quirky little place with fun decor and it's just funky. I liked it.


text:
Q: Some actor's lines from film 'Insomnia'
You do everything around here?
Yes.
I'm going to cut the deal.

Why isn't the phrase just "you do everything here"?
I know cut and deal, but it doesn't seem not mean "cut the deal" or "cancel the deal;" it means "make the deal."
For many times, I know each word of a sentence, but I still cannot understand the sentence. This is my feel about English.

A: The phrase around here is a colloquial expression that's used to suggest a region that's broader or less defined that simply saying here. Take this sentence:

You do everything here?

This might mean "you do everything in this office", or "you do everything in this particular place".

You do everything around here?

This might mean "you do everything at this company" or "you do everything in this general area".
The phrases aren't entirely distinct, and there are many situations where either might be appropriate, however.

A: To answer the second part of your question, cut a deal is a colloquial way to say "make a deal." I never realized before how counter-intuitive it is, but you're right: It sounds like the opposite of making a deal. The Online Slang Dictionary defines cut a deal but doesn't give its origin. There is another site that claims the phrase

goes back to ancient practice of killing an animal and slicing it up to mark the beginning of a new agreement.

A: Yes, "cutting a deal" means "making a deal" (usually in a disparaging sense, that the person arranged a shameful bargain with the enemy, betraying his allies).  For speculation on the origin of the phrase (first found in print in 1979!), see here.
To my ear, "You do everything here" means "Everything that you do, you do here." whereas "You do everything around here" means "Everything that is done here, you do."


A paper recently published in the Journal of Natural Products describes these exciting studies. The prestigious web portal "ACS News Service Weekly PressPac" of the American Chemical Society (ACS) now also presents the new findings to a broader public in a press release of 14 November 2018.
Some researchers are therefore looking for compounds with antiausterity properties that disrupt this pathway. Substances that are preferably toxic to cancer cells under nutrient deprived conditions are called antiausterity compounds deriving from the Greek word "austerotes".


This notable source for college students bargains a step by step, useful creation to English syntax and syntactic ideas, as built through Chomsky during the last 15 years. Assuming very little past heritage in syntax, Andrew Radford outlines the middle thoughts and the way they are often used to explain quite a few elements of English sentence constitution. this is often an abridged model of Radford's significant new textbook Analysing English Sentences (also released by means of Cambridge college Press), and may be welcomed as a convenient advent to present syntactic theory.
Grammar Gaffes is an fun examine English grammar via Alan Rutkowski, who grew to become referred to as a grammar guru via readers of his column within the Edmonton magazine. A solid of characters with names like Jadwiga and Colbart illustrate the gaffes and foibles that plague even local English audio system. particularly attention-grabbing is the bankruptcy on puppy peeves despatched in by way of readers.
This quantity explores the interaction of syntactic version and style. How do genres emerge and what's the position of syntax in constituting them? Why do convinced buildings look in specific sorts of textual content? The ebook takes the idea that of style as a reference-point for the outline and research of morpho-syntactic edition and alter.
A scholar Grammar of Turkish is a concise creation to Turkish grammar, designed in particular for English-speaking scholars and execs. Written with the desires of the learner a great deal in brain, it units out the grammar of the language in a transparent and jargon-free variety. The e-book not just explains the basics of the grammar, but additionally assessments scholars' figuring out in an interactive method with greater than two hundred routines.


Are you unable to play AVI files on Windows Media Player or some other players? Is the error code 0xc00d5212 is the reason behind this issue? Every time you try to play .avi file on Windows 10, but getting the error "Can't play. This item was encoded in a format not supported 0xc00d5212"?
Many users have resolved the error code 0xc00d5212 by simply changing their default Windows Media player to VLC Media Player. There are many file formats that Windows Media player doesn't support them. In this case, you need to download and install VLC Media Player. After installing VLC completed, you right-click on the video that is throwing the error and open it with VLC Media Player. Now you will see the file should play smoothly in VLC Media Player.
Lastly, restart your computer and see if the error code 0xc00d5212 is fixed.
If the error code 0xc00d5212 still occurs, you can visit the manufacturer website of the computer to download and install the latest the display driver or go to next solution.
When the video can't be played on Windows 10 and error code 0xc00d5212 pops up, chances are your file has incorrect Codec. Many videos taken from Smartphones or any other device may have the wrong Codec. It is a reason that you can't play AVI videos. To fix this issue, you need to convert your video from one file format to another.
To do this, install Video Converter tool on your computer. Then you just select the file in the Converter tool and Convert. When the Conversion process is completed, you open the file with VLC Media Player and check if the error code 0xc00d5212 is solved.
Changing registries by your own may be dangerous as the whole system depends on these registries. So, it is recommended to use a professional tool that can do this job for you.
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Apart from all these, there is one more reason for Encoded Format Windows Error 0XC00D5212 while trying to play AVI videos on Windows 10. That is AVI video file corruption. To repair damaged AVI video file, make use of video repair tool by name Remo Repair AVI Software.
So these are the methods to fix the Windows error 0XC00D5212 which will pop up while trying to play video files like AVI. If you have any other issues like AVI file is unreadable, then you can make use of video repair tool to easily fix the issue.