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john sweet, JULY 2019, Poetry
July 19, 2019 JONAHmagazine	Leave a comment
and in the frozen sunlight we
are burning gods and
their bastard prophets for warmth
but it still hurts growing old
it's inevitable that every truth we
find will be lost again
that you'll be crushed by the landslide and
i'll be crucified by the zealots but
in this barren field
in this upstate desert
the air is bright blue and as
beautiful as any poison
the naked man falls asleep on the
railroad tracks and wakes up sacred and
we are hungry but not defeated
we are liars
but never alone
just an army of crows
waiting patiently for the corpse of
the future to arrive
john sweetpoetry
or here where
shopping carts rust at the river's edge
or here where empty parking lots
fill in the spaces between
abandoned factories
here where plastic bags flutter
like the flags of defeated nations
from the branches of february trees
spent all day in this forgotten
room searching for the sun
took the pills but still didn't
feel much like eating
didn't feel much like breathing
just kept waiting for the end of a
winter that never came
JULY 2019, Michael Smith, Poetry
Kintsugi (金ぎ,)
Time is a writer
of little diffidence – a sprite
who draws on everything:
the wrinkle next to the eye,
the fading of the light,
into an artistry of go(l)d —
wabi sabi, loving imperfections
we ponder.
Oh, the strange splendor of despair,
I'd despair, for as we age
we all age, and
these marks, a kintsugi
upon fragility, whose fragility is
persistence .
Such is the dialogue
Our faces hold, sans word
In the more golden years.
Painting: "Young", 1975, by Vania Comoretti, as seen in the Municipal Museum, Salo, Lake Garda, Italy
Note from the poet:
This poem is part of a collection on lost (or dying) art forms. They play the part of ode and lamentation at the same time. Calligraphy speaks of its namesake, which has deep roots within both the Western and Eastern worlds. In some cultures, calligraphy was (and is) seen as the epitome of art. Dark Room is on print photography. Printing photographs using traditional light sensitive photo paper is dying away in the digital age. Even the materials for printing photos in a darkroom (film, developers, fixers, various chemicals, etc.) are becoming less available with fewer and fewer companies manufacturing them. The day will probably soon come when only niche boutique companies catering to artists will make these materials. Kintsugi (金継ぎ,) is an art form in which broken pottery is visibly repaired using lacquer and gold dust. Underpin fragility and make virtue of not concealing it. The objects are made stronger and more valuable by repair. The poem above uses this as a metaphor for the body.
Michael Smithpoetry
JULY 2019, Milt Montague, Poetry
by milt montague
sleep eluded me
my mind kept churning
scenes of long ago
in the flush of memory
a small white light
penetrated the shadows
growing brighter
a beacon
shining on a gravestone
Morris Kaplan
loving grandfather,
father, son
survived the horror of
rest well old buddy
our years together
were few but memorable
I fell into a deep and tranquil sleep
when I awoke
there on my night table
next to the alarm clock
sat a small white stone
Milt Montaguepoetry
Ilona Martonfi, JULY 2019, Poetry
I would go and gather stars
bury the black urns at the cemetery
by the Kirche at the top of the hill
remains kept in glass jars
sealed in paraffin wax.
Lay the children to rest
killed under the euthanasia program
Kinderspital am Spiegelgrund
the ward where the children died
say never, never again
located in Penzing, the 14th district of Vienna.
The gassing of the inferior
for the defense of the Reich
patients with hare lips, stutterers, the slow ones,
idiocy. Epileptics. The useless
photographed before their death:
Hansi, Herta, Jörg. Annemarie.
Lay the children to rest.
Unworthy of life.
play the funeral sonata by Beethoven
place white roses at the field of stelae.
Ilona Martonfipoetry
JULY 2019, Poetry, Shaman Keyote Wolf
Out of loose buttons, found a fresh way to
Weave clothes around thoughts so we had
Something to tear away;
Our idea of revelation was to absorb
The other in a way that settled
Deeper than flesh, until breath became
A flurry of footsteps through
The street of dreams, where thoughts kissed
Our strength back; and we could somehow say
That faith was an emotion
Born between us, a line always ringing,
We knew we could walk across the world on,
Never feeling the fall;
You said: "We will never be more beautiful than
We are right now."
I told you: "Now is an eternity."
poetryShaman Keyote Wolf
JULY 2019, Kaileen Campbell, Poetry
he stepped through the woods.
His feet falling on
the leaves of trees. A man
seeing through his gun.
He looked to pull another deer from its skin.
He sowed this tale into my young ears. How he walked
into a perch
to be cradled by a tree
and two red ears heard anew. He said he put out his hand
and it taught a fox into movement
by inches
until its nose met a new friend.
Then his gun
sang to its head.
Kaileen Campbellpoetry
Fiction, JULY 2019, Rima Lyn
Iluna was confident that today was a very important day. She added extra moonshine to her sleigh. She showed her intended path to her four milky-gray horses. "We must stay in alignment. We must keep our pace," she instructed them. She zipped up her soft faux-fur coat with the pearlized sheen. The fabric had the magical ability to keep her warm or cool depending on the heat.
The heat would depend on how angry Solaris became when she blocked his view. He was so arrogant and full of his own magnificence that daily dominance wasn't enough. His horses were even bolder. They never became tired, for they were made entirely of fire. The golden skin of Solaris would never burn from the heat because he was the heat.
Solaris, who so generously warmed them all, spoke his mind at all times. His sculpted legs never faltered. His chiseled arms never became fatigued from reining in his majestic solar steeds. But today would be different. Today, when sleep would normally claim her, Iluna would be wide awake.
Awake and floating like a cloud of stars. Her unusual activity would give parts of the Earth two unexpected hours of cool relief. The stars would shine in the morning. A pleasing breeze would billow, and her lunar love would cool the sizzling Solaris to a fizzle.
This did not happen often. Zoyu would not allow it. But today! Today was her day. She kissed the whiskery nose of each moon pony. One by one, she rested her smooth brow against the foreheads of Star, Silk, Sand, and Stellar. She fed them each a treat, a small square of milky whey cubes.
Iluna closed her eyes and took a deep breath. When she exhaled, the sound of wind chimes blew through the air. She gracefully stepped into her silver sleigh and reclined on her llama-hair pillows. She gently claimed her pearl reins and started the countdown…five, four, three, two, and RISE.
The mythical ponies took to the sky. Iluna donned a pair of iridescent glasses, the rims studded with stardust. Again she took a breath, deeply calm. The large but elegant ponies flew straight up like a team of equine fairies. High above they rose, to where the steeds of Solaris were beginning to flick their ears along the horizon.
Iluna flew in what seemed like the opposite direction, but she knew where she was going. Unerringly, she navigated the sky to reach the impasse ahead of the fire. Instead of oozing through the sky like marshmallows, she rolled along like a tidal wave of pure foam.
There! A flick of her ring finger against the reins and her beasts hovered to a pause. The moonglow radiated from the ponies' manes and tails. They floated, galloping in place, gaining strength and speed without moving forward.
Unaware, Solaris charged upward into the shimmering sky like a wildfire. He didn't even see her. Enchanted by his own glory, confident that everything would be the same today as always. (It wouldn't be.) He felt victorious in advance. Yes! Once again he would rule the day and enjoy a sense of accomplishment. He was amazed that something so simple could provide such endless enjoyment for him.
As he hit the 9:00 a.m. section of the sky, everything went dark. Solaris looked up in confusion while Iluna held her position and closed her eyes. He checked the dial he kept on his wrist. Why was the sky a cavern at 9:00 a.m.? Why could he see the stars? It was impossible. Utterly ridiculous in fact.
For a moment Solaris assumed Zoyu was playing a trick on him, one he would consider forgiving this once. He looked to his right and saw Iluna and her silver sleigh glowing below him. Her horses continued to thunder in place.
The beams of moonlight flowing from her chariot calmed him down. And yet, he was furious and wanted to punish her for interfering. Before he could plan his revenge he decided that a nap was the best idea. Solaris drooped into drowsiness. His chin crashed to his chest while his horses buckled their knees.
Iluna removed her glasses and stood up. She stretched her arms wide and tilted her head back to take in her beloved stars against a daytime sky. The stars smiled at her. Iluna swayed and the light from her hair looked like shooting stars to the people watching below.
Iluna enjoyed every extra minute of this glorious freedom from the heat of the sun—every delightful drop. But she did not stay a moment longer than the fates had planned. The hours felt like years. She was luxuriously drunk on moonshine.
At exactly the right moment, she sat back down. She replaced her eye guards and deftly flicked the luminous reins. She moved out of position, and as she did, Solaris awoke as if from a dream, disoriented like a confused child after a sticky summer nap. His chariot lurched ahead as his horses came back to life with fiery snorts. Within minutes they were awake and scorching the sky with contained fury.
The day proceeded without further incident. Solaris managed to forget his misty interlude. At the end of the day he devoured a bottomless bowl of fireflies with lamb as his second course. His horses dined on lava from a nearby volcano.
Iluna went to bed much later than usual. High on her invigorating change of routine, she skipped dinner altogether. Iluna had the most delicious, peaceful sleep. It was a restful, dreamless sleep. She floated on moonbeams, and relaxed to the smell of jasmine and gardenia. The whole time a smile played across her incandescent lips.
Racy stood on the tarmac with all the other sixth graders and their pinhole shoeboxes. She'd cut the hole in her box with Aunt Becky's sewing scissors. With precision, she taped the small piece of aluminum foil over the square opening. Then she poked a hole in it with a needle. How could anything come through such a tiny hole?
At the opposite end of the box she'd taped a small piece of printing paper as instructed. Instead of making her peephole round, she made it the shape of her eye and drew purple eyelashes around it. Miss Simmons had complimented Racy on what she called her artistic touch.
The eclipse began at 9:00 a.m.. From where they watched in central California, they would only see a partial eclipse. The moon would completely align with the sun, covering it all except for a ring of light around the edge. A total eclipse would only exist for people halfway around the world.
They were waiting in orderly lines, organized by classroom. Racy searched the yard for Cory's class. They were clear across on the other end, which might as well have been the moon it seemed so far. But if he was there, Racy felt sure her eyes would recognize the imagined halo around his blond head. That was how keen she was on bumping into him on any given day.
The sky was clear. The children turned their boxes and the sunlight came through the pinhole in the tinfoil. Racy lined her right eye up and looked into her shoebox with wonder and anticipation…
It worked! The shadow of the sun projected through the tiny hole and onto the piece of paper. It looked like a cookie with a bite taken out of it. As she watched, the shadow became a half-eaten cookie. Then the moon took one more small bite out of the sun. Racy resisted the urge to look directly at the sun. She didn't want her eyeballs to burn. Would they really?
Later, the children stayed outside on the schoolyard, talking and playing for over an hour. When they went back inside, there was juice and round, yellow crackers. She tried to make her first bite look like the partially eaten sun.
After the bell rang, as she was leaving school, she forced her mind away from possible Cory sightings. As her mind cleared and became quiet, someone ran up behind Racy and put their hands over her eyes. First, she wondered if it was one of the girls from recess—but the hands were rough, so she knew it had to be a boy.
She wasn't friendly with any other boys besides Cory, so common logic said it had to be him. But she didn't want him to know that she knew it was him, so she pretended not to know. She tried to turn around. "Who could it be?" She said aloud with what she hoped sounded like genuine surprise.
"No, no. No cheating," clearly Cory's voice said. His body standing right behind hers kept her from turning and looking. Racy peeped a smidgeon. She could see through Cory's fingers and saw her shadow against the cement. For some reason, she had an extra head.
She realized that Cory's head was higher than her own. Their perfect alignment made them look like a tall creature with a giant Adam's apple. In their joint shadow, her pony tails landed somewhere near his armpits. She laughed.
"What's so funny?" he wanted to know.
"Oh nothing. I wish I could figure out who you are…" Racy laid it on a bit thick.
"Guess."
"Ummm…Jamie?"
"Who's Jamie?" Cory actually sounded worried. This made Racy giggle.
"Now what's so funny?"
"Your hair is tickling my neck." Racy laughed through her words. As Cory let go, he tickled her ribs and goosed her under her armpits. Racy shrieked, "Stop, stop, please…" Her request dissolved into laughter. She was aware that some of the other kids were watching them, but she didn't care.
"Truce!" Racy shouted.
"Okay, okay… Truce." Cory put out his hand for her to shake, but as she grabbed it, he pulled her closer and began tickling her again. Then he grabbed her under both armpits and swung her around in a circle.
Racy closed her eyes and felt the wind lift her as the sun warmed her face. Cory put her down after what seemed like hours and then collapsed to the ground. "Man, you're heavy!"
"I am not. Take it back!"
"I'm just teasing."
Racy looked at him, trying to catch her breath. She wanted to stay mad, but she couldn't. She flopped to the ground beside him and blew air across her lower lip.
"Nifty trick with the shoebox, huh?" Cory asked her, as his gaze drifted up at the sky. He folded his hands behind his head.
"Yeah…I looked for you this morning, but your class was on the opposite side from mine."
"I looked for you too," Cory said, as he lowered his voice and stared at her.
Her red-hot face was saved by the sound of a car honking. Cory leapt to his feet. "That's my mom, I gotta go. But we should hang out sometime—with or without eclipses."
Racy smiled and nodded at the sunlight that rounded his head in rays. She shielded her eyes and waved as he jogged backward toward his mother's station wagon. After they drove away, Racy got to her feet and dusted off her cotton print dress. If it wasn't for the warmth lingering on her cheeks and the smile in her heart, she would have doubted the whole thing.
fictionRima Lyn
Creative Non-fiction, Joan Potter, JULY 2019
It was the leather jacket – scuffed brown leather that I knew would be soft to the touch and carry a musky scent. It was the kind of jacket a bohemian would wear, I thought, a poet. And sure enough, one day the jacket's owner, a lanky guy with rumpled brown hair and an ironic grin who sat next to me in my economics class, his long, dungareed legs stretched into the aisle, passed me a folded sheet of paper. On it he had written a poem.
I don't remember the words or even the theme, but I was impressed. I soon fell in love and we became a couple. It was 1953; we were juniors at Cornell. Although I was in the school of hotel management and Larry was studying engineering, we thought of ourselves as literary. We read the New Yorker religiously. We pored over E. B. White's essays and his short pieces in "Notes and Comments," and J. D. Salinger was our god. We'd just read his story "Teddy," the one about a ten-year-old spiritual genius who predicts his own death in a fall into an empty swimming pool on a cruise ship. "Wow," we said. "Amazing."
One day early in our relationship I was skimming through a collection of T. S. Eliot's poetry and noticed some familiar words. It was the poem Larry had passed to me in economics class. I wasn't as bothered by his deception as I probably should have been, and decided not to tell him about my discovery.
Larry and I remained a faithful couple during the whole spring semester, and the weekend after it ended he drove me to my home upstate, where he would meet my parents and two high-school-age sisters. He had filled the back seat of his car with random piles of dirty clothes; I can still picture a pair of grimy boxer shorts. The drive was long and Larry was tired when we got there. While I was unpacking my bags, he stretched out on the floor under the baby grand piano in the living room and fell asleep. The family tiptoed quietly around him. My parents were prepared to forgive him anything. Like us, he was Jewish, after all.
At the dinner table Larry was chatty and charming. He told a vivid story about how he'd taken a year off after high school and hitchhiked through Alaska, working in canneries and fish-processing plants. I was surprised he'd never mentioned this to me.
Later in the meal he told us that he'd taken some kind of test to determine his masculine and feminine traits. "It turned out that I'm thirty-percent feminine," he said. My parents received this news with polite smiles. My sisters were wide-eyed and silent.
After a few days Larry drove back to his hometown of Mount Vernon, which also happened to be the birthplace of our idol, E. B. White. I had landed a summer job at the front desk of the Waldorf-Astoria Hotel, and after a couple of weeks at home I flew to New York City to start work. I had dressed up for the flight, and was wearing new shoes, the best my hometown department store had to offer, brown-and-white spectator pumps with chunky Cuban heels.
Larry and a few of his friends were there to meet me as I stepped out of the plane and down the metal steps onto the tarmac. They drove me to the YWHA on 92nd Street, where I had reserved a small room for the summer. Later, when we were alone, Larry told me I had disappointed him.
"We were all watching everyone's feet when they came out the door of the plane," he said, "We were trying to guess which ones would be yours. But I didn't think you'd be wearing those old-lady shoes. I was pretty embarrassed."
I cringed inside and kept picturing how my feet must have looked, stepping jauntily down the steps in those clunky shoes that I'd thought were so fashionable. But living in the city offered me an education in urban fashion. It also gave me a chance to spend a weekend at Larry's Mount Vernon home. When we arrived on a Saturday morning, his mother, a plump woman with a curly blond perm, emerged from the kitchen to greet me. She told me I could use Larry's room during my stay while he slept on the couch.
I was in his room hanging up my clothes when I overheard his mother on the phone, telling a friend that her son's girlfriend was visiting. "He's crazy about her," she said. "I don't understand it."
While Larry was in the bathroom taking a shower, I was sitting on his bed, looking through the books on his shelves. I picked out his high school yearbook, class of 1950. There was his picture among the rest of the class.
This time I confronted him. "I was looking at your yearbook," I said. "You graduated in 1950. We're both juniors in college. How could you have spent a year in Alaska?"
He launched into a rambling explanation, something about starting school a year earlier, a mistake in the yearbook, nothing that made much sense. I was beginning to understand that Larry had a skewed notion of the truth. But he was still cute and sexy so I convinced myself it was not an important problem.
Larry transferred to the City College of New York for his senior year – his father, who was separated from his mother – said he could no longer afford Cornell's tuition. I went back to Ithaca and we kept in touch with phone calls and occasional visits. After graduation I moved to New York City to start a new job with an accounting firm.
I was sharing an apartment with two girls I'd met at the 92nd Street Y. We lived in a one-bedroom, fifth-floor walkup on East 26th Street; I had the pullout couch in the living room. My job was boring and tedious; I knew I should have majored in English.
Over the next few months I became increasingly sick of my work and annoyed with my roommates. I was also tired of Larry, who was now in his fifth year of engineering school and spent much of his spare time lying on my couch. I was beginning to meet new people, young men with jobs and ambition who also read books and the New Yorker and loved Salinger. I decided to break up with Larry.
It was a weekend afternoon. My roommates were both out. The buzzer sounded and I knew it was Larry. He gave me the usual hug and headed for the couch. I took a deep breath.
"I want to start dating other people," I said. "I don't want to see you anymore."
He rolled over and turned to face me.
"You just want another E. B. White," he said, "and you're never going to find one."
Creative Non-fictionJoan Potter
Fiction, JULY 2019, Michael Johansen
"Coat-racks!"
That was Stig talking.
That was me.
"Coat-racks!" Stig was adamant. "We can sell 'em as coat-racks."
"Sell what as coat-racks?"
Stig was always trying to sell something as something else.
"The old hydro poles by the railway line."
"Hydro poles? They'd make pretty big coat-racks," I said.
"Not the whole thing! We take the cross pieces with all the insulators, turn 'em sideways and mount 'em on a wall. Two hundred bucks, easy. We sell loose insulators for 20 bucks a pop down in the city and add five bucks if it's still got a peg poked up its ass."
Stig had his thinking look on his face.
"You know, we could roll up the wire, 'cause there must be all copper inside them, what?"
What nothing. For once Stig's idea wasn't so stupid. He was right about the wires. There were miles and miles and miles of them alongside all the tracks. They must go right across the country. They used to turn switches and stuff like that, but the railways started using satellites instead. They let the wires go dead. They let them rot, too – just letting the poles fall down any way they like: easy pickings for a fellow like Stig.
He was right about everything else, too. I've seen myself how much people charge for old glass and that wasn't even in the city. I thought his coat-rack idea could work. Slap on a bit of paint, or call it rustic. Some'll pay good money for stuff like that.
That's how Stig got me out on snowmobile. I followed him way the hell back off the trail. I pulled a bobsled – better, he said, for the cross pieces. He had an ordinary box sled and said we'd toss the loose insulators in there. He said he'd already found a spot. We just had to follow his old tracks. The spot was perfect, he said, because none of the poles had fallen down along that stretch. They're still fresh, he said.
He was right about that, too. There was a whole long straight row of poles and none of them were down. All the insulators looked ripe for picking, all the wires still strung between them all the way down the stretch.
"You sure they're dead?" I asked.
Stig ignored me.
We had two chainsaws with us, but Stig wanted to make the first cut. I didn't care. He said he wanted to do it just right, so we left the snowmachines down the line where the bushes would keep the railway folks from seeing them. We walked and Stig picked the pole just about in the middle and started up his saw. I stood back. He cut out a big wedge on the side where he wanted it to fall – away from the tracks – and then tramped around in the snow to make the third cut on the other side.
"Get ready!" he shouted when he was just about through, stepping back when his saw bit air.
Stig let the motor stop and then gave the pole a push. It teetered a little one way and then back, but it stayed upright. It looked like the wires were holding it there.
"We'll need to take another one down," Stig said.
Five poles later and they still wouldn't fall. I've never seen Stig so pissed off. I was thinking I should take the chainsaw away from him. He was hardly even taking any care any more, just hacking through the pole as fast as he could, no wedge or nothing. When it wouldn't go down he just cursed it and stamped to the next, attacking it like all the others. I was glad when his saw ran out of gas and sputtered off by itself. He cursed that, too, and it looked like he was going to throw it, but something caught his eye and he just cursed that instead.
"That's it," he shouted at me and pointed. "That's what's doing it: It's that tree!"
He was right again because a few poles past us there was a big tree had fallen across the lines and was pinning them down, pulling them really tight. It sure looked like what was holding our poles up and I wondered how we were going to get it off. I wanted to think about it some more, but Stig already had the answer.
"I'm going to pull that son of a bitch down," he said and stamped to where we left the snowmobiles.
He didn't say he needed me for anything so I just had a smoke. It really was a nice day – sunny and not too cold. Without the saw running I could hear birds in the trees and wind and stuff like that – and far away I'm pretty sure I heard a train. It was a good smoke.
Stig started up his machine and drove towards me along the poles he'd just cut, but then he did a little loop in the woods around me, coming out not too far from the big tree. He had me take a rope and go back to tie it as high up as I could, so he could drag it off.
It was a spruce, so it wasn't too hard to climb, especially as it was laying down pretty straight. I was still thinking about everything and I wasn't sure if his rope was good enough for the job and I was thinking he should maybe cut the tree first, before he pulled it, but I climbed up it and tied the rope and got down again and Stig never gave me a chance to say anything. I was walking back to him where he was gunning the motor and he couldn't hear me. He couldn't wait so even before I got to him he took off fast, spraying me with snow, 'cause he must have figured the faster he pulled the rope tight the easier the tree would come down.
Well, he was right about that, too, but I was right about the rope. When the rope came tight the tree kind of bounced and the snowmachine bounced too and the tree came over sideways, but then the rope was tight again and it snapped. I could hear it and then I could feel it because I was right beside the rope and it wrapped around me and jerked me off my feet. I just had time to grab the rope myself so at least I'd be dragged frontwards and I yelled at Stig to stop and for once he heard me and stopped, looking back to see what I was yelling about. I rolled over onto my back so I could get the snow out of my nose. That way I could see Stig had been right about the tree holding the poles up. The tree was down and the first pole was starting to teeter, first one way and then the other, and then it started to fall. The second pole was right beside me and I knew where it was going to come down.
"Go on, drive!" I yelled. "Go on, man!"
Stig couldn't hear me though, 'cause suddenly there was this train running right alongside us and blowing its horn. Stig must have seen the poles coming down anyway because he booted it, jerking me on the end of the rope and dragging me backwards. First I was too busy to notice anything else happening because I was watching one pole after the other slam down right behind me, the coat-racks pounding themselves deep into the snow right where I'd been seconds before, but then I saw these faces staring out at me from the train windows – a few little kids with these shocked little expressions on their faces seeing me almost get clobbered by those hydro poles. I tried to give them a smile and a wave – let them know I'd be all right so they shouldn't be afraid – but Stig had come to the end of the trail and had to veer around the sled he'd left there. The rope hauled me clear into the air and then let go of me. Lucky for me I didn't hit anything except a thick drift of snow, but I sank into that pretty quick. It took me a few minutes to dig myself out. The train was gone and Stig was looking at all the poles. They'd fallen just like they were supposed to, but the wires had wrecked all the insulators, shattering them when they pulled tight and snapped.
"Barn boards," Stig said.
"Barn boards," he repeated. "We take the broken insulators off and sell the cross pieces as barn boards. You know how much people will pay for stuff like that?"
fictionMichael Johansen
Creative Non-fiction, JULY 2019, Suzanne Ondrus
Some plants live for life, despite their two-year visible life, continuing on forever, full in imagination. Maybe it is those joyful things gained with pain that we cherish most– our children, degrees, homes, gardens, and citizenship. I cherish the blackberry patch that I grew up with by my house. Every year in May half the stalks would set their tiny white flowers and half would wait for their turn the following year to bloom, resting on the dead ones. I think about how we humans rest upon layers and layers of civilizations, how we individually stand thanks to those fallen, for our nation, for our family. I remember how the flowers would then die and green nubs of berries would come, growing to red and finally to full dark blue, black. The important men in my life are snared by this small, dark fruit, painful to gather.
Growing up my sister and I would take old metal coffee cans and go out back to the patch with my Dad. The three of us spread out in the patch. We were flexible then, bending down to stare up at the silent burgeoning beauties hanging. We always came back with colanders filled and with one or two thorns somewhere in our flesh. The patch thrived between a row of pines and a willow.
The berries were so abundant that we froze bags and bags of them. They went from dark purple to red in the freezer. I cannot remember when the patch started to thin. I suppose it happened gradually or when I was away at school. I remember when the willow by the patch started to die, its large limb broken, swaying downwards. It was the start of my parents' divorce. The tree went untended, just like the patch. While my Dad threw furniture around and we righted it, nature was left to tend to itself. The hanging limb withered year by year, but still hung, like the noose my Dad told the therapist was around his neck; the noose was us.
One day I noticed poison ivy around the blackberry patch. I was picking in August. The patch was thin, and there were few berries. The berries there were small and not plump. I remember spotting one plump one on a low plant. I bent down to pick it, then suddenly stopped as I saw the three leaves signifying danger. The berry was so ripe, so full of juice, but I could not proceed to pick. How would I put it in my mouth? I stopped and retreated. I could only look at this berry. I dared not to touch it.
After my Dad had moved out of the house, he was not allowed on the property. The land and the house that he spent thirty years in were verboten by law to him. You strike your wife, you threaten her, and you may not come near her. The trees he planted grew. When he came to pick us up he could only stop at the driveway. The land that he had lived on for so many years was forbidden territory. The hanging limb stared at him from down the driveway saying, "it's over, it's over." But he still asked us to bring him berries when we saw him in July or August, and every time we came with a handful he was in disbelief, as if we were hoarding barrels of them at home. The patch had simply stopped. Instead of picking with colanders and coffee cans, a small bowl sufficed.
Perhaps the patch was destined for decay, being that it was by a dilapidated barn. Half of the barn had to be knocked down so the rest could remain usable. Maybe that corner of the property pulls things down. Adjacent to this corner stands a tall oak tree. It has grown wide and is firm in place. Sometimes I would go to sit there during my parents' divorce, my back to the patch, staring at the corral, remembering how my father had wanted to burn the field, to make anew. We were small. It was a Saturday. We were doing family yard work when he decided to burn. The whole corral started on fire and we turned to see him standing there yelling. We came with shovels and buckets of water. Everyone covered a different side, working for a common cause. We were lucky that day. The fire was contained. It did not spread to neighbors' land. My favorite childhood knickknack is a candle of a little firefighter girl holding a hose, with the inscription at the base that "only you can put out the fire". I like to think of how we are responsible for our anger. My Dad had such difficulty controlling his anger, whether it was his loud voice, curses, angry eyes or red face, and I too have trouble maintaining composure or right words when something pricks me. With fire and anger comes responsibility.
Some of my fondest memories are of my family together on our land, doing yard work. You cannot really talk when you are doing yard work, so I guess there is very little chance of things going wrong. And this was a plus since my Dad liked to say things to get a rise out of people. Picking up sticks and raking leaves were big family projects, helped by the trailer attached to the little yellow Sears tractor my Dad drove. It was time to breathe the same air, look at the same things and time to reach out together. I do not see many families working together in their yards today, and it makes me sad. There is something so beautiful about pulling a tarp together, grunting till reaching the dropping place. There is a sense of united entitlement to end the day together. We give something very important away when we hire landscaping crews to do our yards for us. Perhaps the moment we hired others to come to work on our yard is when our family really started to fall. There was no need to work together on the outside, on the visible, the tangible. Maybe we lost a connection to our land at that moment. Maybe our land lost its connection to us too and started to die, the blackberry bushes one by one lost.
Our next-door neighbor to the North was like a grandfather to me growing up. He'd been there since my parents had moved in. When my Dad learned about the neighbor's blackberry patch in the woods he asked if he could have a few bushes. The neighbor later told me my Dad had cleared the whole patch; he was shocked. After our neighbor died about forty years later, a huge blackberry patch came forth between his garage and row of pines. It was like those berries came to stitch his fifty-year spot he had on that piece of land in place, as if someone would be sure to lose some blood if his property was altered. When I saw the blackberry patch on our neighbor's land, I felt like he had given us a sign that he was o.k., that he had given us a present, as if to say that new patches will come into your life. Those berries were like justice served, though too late, but they stand and flower returned back to where they first came from. Maybe because our neighbor was so deeply rooted to his house and his land, he was able to be porous, to let my Dad come like a hawk and take those blackberries, because he knew the flux of nature, that what goes out finds its way back eventually. My Dad died two years after my neighbor. Now they are both in the invisible patch; it is abundant beyond my human eyes. There is sweetness in their mouths.
Creative Non-fictionSuzanne Ondrus
Creative Non-fiction, Glen Moss, JULY 2019
In the Summer of 1967, as heat and anger gathered to explode in Newark and Detroit and love gathered in San Francisco, I boarded a bus in New York's Port Authority with my parents. This was the last vacation I remember my parents taking and the last I felt obligated to take with them. I was 13, wouldn't be turning 14 till after we returned with images in my bag I would unpack and explore after Midnight when the voice of WNEW-FM's Allison Steele added her purple throated voice to my Brooklyn nights.
My parents could teach a class in pretending to a middle class life while seeking to cover working poor income. This may be far more common today with great recessions recent and looming, and an economy of deepening and widening divide, leaving many with memories of assumed solidity and finding liquidity only in the sweat from fear. Back then, even as the '60's opened rifts in perceptions of permanence, we weren't yet at recessions, gas shortages, and disco.
My few friends were all at camp, volunteering or working at places with doors opened by parents. Me, with a stutter and imagination, I packed a small bag and joined my occasional bookkeeper mother and always women's shoe store salesman father. How did they even come up with the money for this 7 day tour of upstate NY and a day trip to Expo '67 in Montreal…the last world's fair of any note. Back in September, when I had my poor kid bar mitzvah on a Thursday morning, apparently the other sanctioned day for this particularly Jewish American affair, what little money was offered by the 15 or so family in attendance was quickly handed to my parents so the rent could be paid that month. "Today I am a renter", is what I should have said.
The "should have saids", especially self-damning for a stutterer, would have prominence one particular night on this trip. The thread of that evening's tapestry began when we first entered the bus. My parents sat in the fifth row of two seats on the left side while I took the window seat across the aisle so I could lose myself in the scenes that would roll by, knowing that everyone else would be coupled up and no other kid would be dragged along.
Within minutes, my parents and the couple in front of them started talking and laughing. I was pointed at, and I turned my head and waved. No need to attempt saying "hi"…I could get stuck on that 'h" until the bus reached Westchester. So began a vacation connection that dominated my parents' attention, not to my surprise but to my liking as it allowed me to be separate and wander.
The other couple, Sal and Donna Bonneti from Newark, was as authentically middle class as my parents were not. Sal owned two plumbing and hardware stores and Donna was a junior high school teacher. They had two kids, both boys, 16 and 17, at sports camps in Pennsylvania. Just the kind my father wished I was and knew I'd never be. I was the son who he beat at boxball and handball every Sunday morning. The one who threw the Passover meat down the incinerator by mistake.
As the bus took its route north to the first stop in Lake George, I heard the shared laughter as my parents and their new friends exchanged histories, real and shaded. I looked out the window as suburbs and then more rural space opened up to the July sun. In just a few days we would hear the news about riots in Newark with fires burning a city that would see ashes and broken glass as a turning point; where blood and national guard boots marked spaces where homes and stores stood only a week before. Sal and Donna, shaken and the easy smiles gone, would leave the tour early to return home and become part of the Newark exodus to find a new place to try and start over in middle age. Memory advises that they moved to Westfield, with a new hardware store and stories to add to the July that changed Newark and Detroit, and the hopes from 1964 and 1965.
Lake George was a half-day stay in a town where a beautiful lake and history from the French and Indian War were obscured by the honky-tonk commercial drapes. We likely had lunch somewhere but no memory is attached even as an aftertaste. The taste that mattered would come that evening.
We pulled into the parking lot of the St. Moritz in Lake Placid around 5 PM. It was a large Victorian hotel with all the requisite dark wood and American imaginings of Old World grandeur. High ceiling lobby, polished floors, uniformed employees, overstuffed chairs and a genteel hush.
My parents' room had a large bed and thick curtains. Mine, smaller, had a single bed set against the wall with the window opposite. The Casser group was set to have dinner at 7, so I asked if it was OK to take a walk to town and be back in time. As I took many walks on my own in Brooklyn, this was an easy ask.
An Adirondack town of once and future Olympics, Lake Placid allowed me to easily imagine I was walking in a village in Switzerland or Germany. That's the beauty of an imagination nurtured by time alone and internal architecture; my eyes become a projector of images that mix reality and dreamscape. Walking past shops keeping winter like a child you don't want to change, I could feel a chill and hear the glide of skis.
I made it back by 6:30 and my parents were wearing their best. My mother in a dark blue floral dress and my dad in a suit. I had dark brown corduroy pants and a dark shirt. We took the elevator down to lobby and were shown to large dining room, almost a ballroom it seemed, filled with tables for the Casser tour and one or two others. Sal and Donna were already seated at a table and waved us over to the three empty seats.
As we walked over, my heart sped up and I could feel sweat forming in my scalp. She wore a black dress and black stockings, and her black hair framed a face with red lips that were slightly open and eyes the color of a lake at dusk. We sat down and no one noticed my sweat or my breathing. And then, she came to the table.
"Good evening. Welcome to the St. Moritz. My name is Beth and I'll be serving you tonight." I saw my father and Sal glance at each other and I felt angry. I tried to lift my eyes to hers but couldn't. Donna told her how lovey she looked and asked if she was a student or worked at the hotel full time. Beth said she was a student at Ithaca College, majoring in English and her family lived in the area.
She asked for drink orders and when she came to me, I managed to look up and, in one of those moments I could never rely on, I said, "Coke" without a stutter. She smiled and I reached quickly for my water glass, almost knocking it over.
Dinner was a blur of my watching Beth as she approached the table, asked how everything was, asked about the tour and where we were from. When she heard, "Brooklyn", her dark lake eyes widened and she said a friend lived in Brooklyn Heights. She visited during Christmas break and the streets were so pretty and did we live near there. My mom smiled and said we lived across the street from Prospect Park, only a few subway stops away. Hinting that it was as nice as the Heights, maybe even a little finer. Another pretend, but so much had become that I wasn't sure if she knew the difference. Beth looked over at me, smiled, and said,
"Sounds like a nice place to grow up."
I swallowed my third Coke and managed,
"Oh, yeah. I l-l-love the park." My stutter brought looks from Sal and Donna, but it was Beth's that mattered. In her eyes I saw more than the usual mix of embarrassment and pity. Or believed I did. I wanted to say more but could not.
I did love Prospect Park. It was my escape in many ways; a place where I could be in Middle Earth or the England of Edward III, anywhere but Brooklyn and the three room apartment I choked in. I would sit in the living room that was my parent's bedroom at night and read Compton's Pictured Encyclopedia. Or sit out on the fire escape outside the bedroom I shared with my older brother and read, getting lost in the story and the sound of the open subway trains rolling noisily just beyond a concrete wall. In that moment looking into Beth's eyes, I knew I added something special to my walking dreams. And maybe to my sleeping ones.
As dessert was being served, a group of four from the hotel came into the room carrying a microphone and moved to a space at the back of the room near a large piano. Three were musicians, one guy carrying a bass fiddle, another a saxophone. The third sat down at the piano.
The fourth guy set up the microphone and said, "Good evening, ladies and gentleman. On behalf of the entire staff at the St. Moritz, we hope you are all enjoying your stay with us and thanks to Casser Tours and McClellan Vacations for choosing us for your visit to Lake Placid. Tonight we would like to continue with a tradition we have here at the hotel. We've discovered through the years that every summer we are lucky to have among you some real talent in song. So, we'd like to invite anyone who has talent and feels brave enough to come up and share a song or two."
Oh no. I knew what was about to happen. Whatever happened to their lives, however smaller and plainer they became, my parents always saw themselves as entertainers, at least together. My mother did have a fair husky kind of voice and back in the late 1930's was asked by a quartet who played Brighton Beach to accompany them on a tour. They had heard her sing, maybe on the boardwalk one summer afternoon when she was with friends, and thought she'd be perfect for their sound. They even had a group name picked out, Gypsy and the Four Kings. But when she asked her parents, Rachel and Morris, a clear 'no' kept her in Brooklyn and singing at family gatherings, and maybe still at the boardwalk. But no farther.
My father wasn't a singer. He could help my mother keep a tune moving, but his real talent was in dance. He looked a bit like James Cagney and he moved a bit like Gene Kelley. Together, my parents found their escape through dancing, gliding in sync with an energy and grace they could never replicate in lives that seemed to forever recede from pre-war dreams. And I existed in the regrets when the music stopped.
One or two people from other tables found the courage and need to step up and sing a standard the band knew and could adapt to the singer. Then, I heard the chairs move and I saw my parents heading toward the microphone and the space where, for a half hour, they could make all the pretend real.
As they began with Gershwin and switched to Berlin and began to dance, you could feel each table's conversation turn to silence and surprised admiration. All the attention they always wanted right there amidst the coffee and chocolate cake in a ballroom at the St. Moritz in Lake Placid, New York. Sal and Donna watched them, smiling. Sal turned to me, and whispered, "Hey, they are really good. You must be proud." I nodded, looked down and wished I could get up and leave. I thought about it and then suddenly, sitting down next to me was Beth. She leaned over to me and I stopped breathing. She leaned into me and said, "I know. " She put her hand on mine and continued, "Once you are a little older and can get away, it will be OK. I promise".
She got up and maybe she smiled at me but I couldn't look at her then. Only when she walked to other tables could I watch her walk, stop, and lean in to a whispered request. I wished I had said something.
My parents continued to dance, now to Porter. I got up and walked away, unseen. Or so I thought. As I turned to look back, I saw Beth looking at me and she waved.
I walked to the lobby, sweating and my hands shaking. I heard applause as I left the hotel and walked towards town. The lights from the shops were on now and I stopped to take a breath, and then another. I started walking again, and imagined Beth was with me, not saying anything, just holding my hand. After a while, I imagined telling her about England in the 14th Century and her smiling. I saw that smile for a long time. After I had left for college, as Beth had promised, things did get better, and I was able to smile back.
Creative Non-fictionGlen Moss


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Milla Moilanen's awarded animation WANTED (11 mins, 1999, 4K/DCP/35mm) at the Brest International Short Film Festival, Nov 8th 2017.
Producer Paula Pitkänen joined the Kroma team. Welcome Paula!
"Tales from Frontiers" at the ARTEGROUND BALTIC 2017, Viljandi, Estonia, 28.-29.8.2017.
Marikki Hakola's early work "The Time is Right for…" at the Summerhall, the Edinburgh Summer Festival 2017.
Kroma attending Avant Première 9.-19. February 2017.
Kroma at the ECACon2017, London Feb 3rd 2017.
"Tales from Frontiers" at the LUMO Light Festival in Oulu 18.-20.11.2016.
Marikki Hakola, Maya Deren and Meredith Monk, in flux: artists' film screenings at the Hales Gallery London New York, 26 July – 6 August 2016.
Turppi Group Exhibition "Turppi Games 82-83" at the EMMA museum Espoo, 6.-9./2016.
Marikki Hakolan varhaisia videoteoksia 80-luvun taiteen "Palavat tornit" näyttelyssä Kouvolan taidemuseo Poikilossa 19.5.-4.9.2016.
Kroma has become a member of the international Event Cinema Association ECA in October 28th 2016.
TALES FROM FRONTIERS, a video documentation and interviews.


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An introduction to the issue of drunk driving in todays society
Essay writing on human values
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Hitler and Stalin are abortions of the democratic era — cases of what Jacob Talmon called totalitarian democracy. The DRV addressed the famine through careful rationing and a mass campaign for planting food crops.
Suffice it to say this is not how broad human universals are established. This is easily seen in their unprecedented efforts to control public opinion, through both propaganda and violence.
The revenue acquired in these acts of piracy was invested in the economic expansion of the colony and led to repopulation from Europe. According to Pons, "Once the Indians entered the mines, hunger and disease literally wiped them out.
This was a steel collar to be hand-fitted round the neck with a large number of sharp steel spikes pointing outwards. Even more confusingly, sometimes the same people seem to switch among the three without giving any indication they are aware that they are doing so.
My first wish is to see this plague to mankind banished from off the Earth, and the sons and Daughters of this world employed in more pleasing and innocent amusements, than in preparing implements and exercising them for the destruction of mankind: Ghanaians are tired of the corruption and cronyism.
Here we see that no second variable that is not perfectly consistent has been interfering with the general economic growth effect. Imagine the US presidency as a dynasty, the Line of Washington.
How Republic Day is Celebrated Events and celebrations are organized with great effort by the government of India in order to celebrate Republic Day in the Capital. Earlier during s, it was developed as a Madras European Regiment by the East India Company; however later during s, it was developed as a battalion by the Major Stringer Lawrence.
Mencius is probably the most famous Reactionary, one of the founders of the movement, and an exceptionally far-thinking and knowledgeable writer. For some reason, the Reactionaries have made crime an absolute linchpin of their case.
When Beating Retreat Ceremony is celebrated? According to the American scholars George M. I literally cannot conceive of a way that the data could be less consistent with the theory that Progressivism inhibits economic growth. Johanna Nichols "has used language to connect the modern people of the Caucasus region to the ancient farmers of the Fertile Crescent" and her research suggests that "farmers of the region were proto-Nakh-Daghestanians.
But when his mother died, Charles took power in his own name and ruled for four years. The statistics for homicide are therefore probably closer to the real level of the offence. Those relatively few farmers who did benefit from the program were most often than not northerners, refugees, Catholics … so that land reform added to the aura of favoritism which deepened peasant alienation….
As discussed above, monarchies have traditionally been rife with dynastic disputes, succession squabbles, pretenders to the throne, popular rebellions, noble rebellions, impulsive reorganizations of the machinery of state, and bloody foreign wars of conquest.
Top right corner, Chechnya is labeled as Gelia, with Chechen cities: Between andthe United States dropped 6, tons of bombs on Southeast Asia, which was 2. And in the important revolution just accomplished in the system of their United Government, the tranquil deliberations and voluntary consent of so many distinct communities, from which the event has resulted, cannot be compared with the means by which most Governments have been established, without some return of pious gratitude along with an humble anticipation of the future blessings which the past seem to presage.
What are the odds?!
Make the most you can of both, by sowing them again in drills. On this day, the soldiers of armed forces, common people and students from the school are honored with various national awards, such as Maha Veer Chakra, Ashok Chakra, Param Veer Chakra and Veer Chakra along with bravery medals for their exemplary work and performances.
One of the floats from Income Tax Department displayed anti-black money drive swachh dhan abhiyan. November 30, Hunger Games Catching Fire: Letter to the Marquis de Lafayette 25 July As the complexion of European politics seems now from letters I have received from the Marqs.
Some victims were fried in giant frying pans and others were flayed alive. They promoted competing plans to annex the new nation to another power: The great statesman Klemens von Metternich used Reactionary ideas to create a brilliant system that kept peace in Europe for nearly a century!
I had then perhaps some claims to public attention. As far as I know no Reactionary has ever dared to cite statistics that they say support this claim, which is probably for the better.
The Concert of Europe lasted from to This is not a historical accident. Acheson was of the view that all communist movements, political parties, leaders, and liberation armies were part of a global conspiracy directed by Moscow.
For a Demotist leader, there tends to be far fewer checks and balances.Yahoo Lifestyle is your source for style, beauty, and wellness, including health, inspiring stories, and the latest fashion trends.
December 4, PM | Posted by Anonymous: | Reply. I thought the berry trick from the first movie was heroic. Peeta would have allowed her to kill him, but she chose to break the rules instead. A toolbox for analysing political texts.
Discourse analysis is a useful tool for studying the political meanings that inform written and spoken text. In other posts, I have provided a quick video introduction to the topic, and have discussed the ideas behind discourse theory, the main questions that students and researchers will likely ask as they set up their discourse analysis project, and.
Republic Day in India. Republic day in India is celebrated every year with great pride on 26th of January to honour the Constitution of India as it came into force on the same day in the year Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela is the son of Nonqaphi Nosekeni and Henry Mgadla Mandela, a chief and chief councillor to the paramount chief of the Thembu and a member of the Madiba clan.
[Edit 3/ I no longer endorse all the statements in this document. I think many of the conclusions are still correct, but especially section 1 is weaker than it should be, and many reactionaries complain I am pigeonholing all of them as agreeing with Michael Anissimov, which they do .
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redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


Ok. Polarization being the name of the game, us dads have to stick together. So, even though I like Abby's platform better I'm sticking with you. This way, I know you will be obligated to give me a position in your government, though I don't live in your district…much less your house. My specially interests will get special attention from you also (Captain Crunch every morning!) Finally, if my constituants ever give me a chance to run (my wife won't let me hold office until Layla can walk…what's up with that) I know now I have bought your support! I love the political machine!
a swing voter! thanks dude. gotta love those shady backroom government deals. and speaking of cap'n crunch, we are one specially marked package away from a new cap'n crunch t shirt! (plus $4.95 s&h).
how is Layla? and steph and ryder (sp)?


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-{Funisciurus carruthersi}- је сисар из реда глодара и породице веверица (-{Sciuridae}-).

Распрострањење
Ареал врсте је ограничен на мањи број држава. Врста има станиште у Бурундију, ДР Конгу, Руанди и Уганди.

Станиште
Станишта врсте су шуме и планине од 1.500 до 2.800 метара надморске висине.

Угроженост
Ова врста није угрожена, и наведена је као последња брига јер има широко распрострањење.

Референце

Литература
 -{IUCN}- црвена листа угрожених врста, детаљнији подаци о врсти

Funisciurus
Сисари Африке

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaWikipedia


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Aleksandra Milentijevic
Democratisation of the Serbian urban planning system
Primary supervisor: Dr Ben Clifford
Secondary supervisor: Dr Jessica Ferm
Projected completion date: September 2024
Countries with post-socialist legacies face many issues including democratic reforms, privatisation, a rapid influx of the free market, and the adaptation to the neoliberal realities. As a former Yugoslav state and with only 20 years since the first democratic elections, Serbia is still finding its way through the complex environment of transitional democracy. When it comes to urban planning, this includes the explosion of the so-called 'investor urbanism' in which investors and developers benefit from powerful positions, as do the political elites while citizens have limited opportunities and influence in the planning processes.
The research question is focused on the analysis of the current public participation approaches in the urban planning system in Belgrade and how people raise their concerns in post-socialist environments. The research also aims to focus on the power relations between various actors in the governance processes.
Aleks is a part-time PhD student at the Bartlett School of Planning. Born and raised in Montenegro, she completed her BSc degree in Architecture and Urban Planning in Belgrade and MSc degree in Spatial Planning at the Oxford Brookes University.
Aleks has worked in the local government in London since November 2016, and her experience includes leading on a variety of projects relating to policy-making and implementation of plans. Throughout her professional planning work, Aleks developed a particular interest in the participation of local communities and the general public in planning processes. Her interest lies in the social and historical development of spaces, democracy and post-socialist environments.


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Tag: computers
Linkdump for May 3rd through May 7th
Sometime between May 3rd and May 7th, I thought this stuff was interesting. You might think so too!
Connecticut OKs Bill Pledging Electoral Votes To National Popular-Vote Winner: "The bill adopts an interstate compact that's officially called 'The Agreement Among the States to Elect the President by National Popular Vote.' The agreement won't kick in unless it's backed by enough states and other voting areas to claim a majority of Electoral College votes. In addition to Connecticut, the other jurisdictions in the pact are California, Hawaii, Illinois, Maryland, Massachusetts, New Jersey, New York, Rhode Island, Vermont and Washington state, along with Washington, D.C."
The original iMac: 20 years since Apple changed its fate: "Sitting in the Flint Center in 1998, it would have been impossible to imagine the Apple of 2018. But without that day, and the product that Steve Jobs unveiled on that stage, it's hard to imagine that Apple would have ever had the chance to become what it is today."
One space between each sentence, they said. Science just proved them wrong.: Bah! Science did no such thing! It's one study with a small sample size, screwball parameters (Courier? Seriously?), and a barely measurable result that only really affected those participants already predisposed to two-spacing. Sentences get one space, and one space only. (My favorite part: "Note: An earlier version of this story published incorrectly because, seriously, putting two spaces in the headline broke the web code.")
'Who Gets to Be Sexy?': Interesting look at how the porn industry is changing. "Amateurs are flooding the internet; piracy has addled the once-dominant studios; production has atomized and scattered. But along the way, something interesting has started to happen: Women are rising up."
Swedish Meatballs Are Turkish? 'My Whole Life Has Been a Lie': "The country's national Twitter account made the announcement in a tweet this week. 'Swedish meatballs are actually based on a recipe King Charles XII brought home from Turkey in the early 18th century,' the tweet said. 'Let's stick to the facts!'"
Posted	in links	| Tagged apple, computers, computing, culture, electoralvote, english, feminism, food, history, imac, language, linkdump, politics, popularvote, porn, pornography, sex, sexuality, sexwork, sweden, technology, turkey, typography, writing


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Dr. Charles "Chuck" Binford
Don't expect a haircut on Monday!
Ernest M. Ertell
Dr. Charles "Chuck" Binford, a longtime resident of Houma, La., died at Leonard J. Chabert Medical Center where, prior to retirement, he had served 25 years as staff pathologist, Thursday, May 22.
He is survived by his wife, Joanne Fulton Binford of Houma; three daughters and their families, Lynette Pfund and husband, Christopher, sons, Calvin and Warren and daughter, Cordelia, of Beacon, N.Y.; Lizabeth Tedder and husband, Wayne, daughters, Sierra and Isabel of Tallahassee, Fl., and Lizette "Charlene" Thomson and husband, Robert, and daughter, Audrey, of Houston, Tx.; one sister, M. Lynette Binford of Arlington, Va.; and cousins, Robert Harris of Spout Springs, Va., and Douglas Hotchkiss, of Manchester, Ma.
He was preceded in death by his parents, Dr. Chapman Hunter Binford, internationally renowned pathologist and authority on leprosy and fungal and tropical diseases and Thelma Beauchamp-Binford.
Dr. Binford was a diplomat of the American Board of pathology and certified in pathologic anatomy as well as clinical pathology. He was greatly influenced by his father's example to choose a career in pathology.
He received his Bachelor of Science degree from Hampden-Sydney College, Hampden-Sydney, Va., in 1952. He received his MD degree from the University of Virginia in 1959, and received further professional training when commissioned as a junior assistant surgeon in the United States Public Health Service. He was stationed at the United States Public Health Service Out-patient Clinic, Washington, D.C., and at the National Cancer Institute, Bethesda, Md.
Prior to his employment with South Louisiana Medical Associates at Chabert Medical Center, he held staff pathology positions as the Veterans Administration Center, Bay Pines, Fla., Washington Hospital Center, Washington, D.C., Fairfax Hospital, Fairfax, Va., and the United States Public Health Service in New Orleans, where he was one of three pathologists involved with the supervising of residents in anatomical and clinical rotations. He also served as assistant professor, Department of Electronics and Instrumentation in the clinical laboratory at the Medical University of South Carolina in Charleston, S.C.
In lieu of flowers, memorial donations can be made to Leonard J. Chabert Medical Center Foundation (LJCMC) Laboratory Fund, 1978 Industrial Blvd., Houma, La., 70363. Contact Lisa Schilling at 873-1808.
A memorial service will be at 11 a.m. Thursday, May 29, at Mulberry Baptist Church on Bayou Black Drive in Houma.
Chauvin Funeral Home is in charge of the arrangements.
Dr. Charles "Chuck" Binford
Zachary Brower


text:
Q: Lattice divisors of 150, ordered by divisibility. Draw Hasse diagram, get complements, check if distributive, check if Boolean. I have the following exercise:
Having the lattice $D_{150}$ of the divisors of 150, ordered by divisibility
1) Draw Hasse Diagram;
2) Find all complements;
3) Check if it's a distributive lattice;
4) Check if it's a Boolean lattice.
My development:
The divisors are $D_{150} = \left \{1,2,3,5,6,10,15,25,30,50,75,150 \right \}$
point 1)
I have tried to draw the Hasse diagram in this way:

I have also realized that I can draw two cube structures like the following, and I don't know if this fact can help to resolve the exercise:

point 2)
assuming that I have done right the diagram, I have found some complements, but, not every elements have a complement:
$$\begin{array}{c|c}
\,       & 1 & 2 & 3 & 5 & 6 & 10 & 15 & 25 & 30 & 50 & 75 & 150 \\
\hline   1 & - & - & - & - & - & - & - & - & - & - & - & * \\
\hline   2 & - & - & - & - & - & - & - & - & - & - & * & - \\
\hline   3 & - & - & - & - & - & - & - & - & - & * & - & - \\
\hline   5 & - & - & - & - & - & - & - & - & - & - & - & - \\
\hline   6 & - & - & - & - & - & - & - & * & - & - & - & - \\
\hline  10 & - & - & - & - & - & - & - & - & - & - & - & - \\
\hline  15 & - & - & - & - & - & - & - & - & - & - & - & - \\
\hline  25 & - & - & - & - & * & - & - & - & - & - & - & - \\
\hline  30 & - & - & - & - & - & - & - & - & - & - & - & - \\
\hline  50 & - & - & * & - & - & - & - & - & - & - & - & - \\
\hline  75 & - & * & - & - & - & - & - & - & - & - & - & - \\
\hline 150 & * & - & - & - & - & - & - & - & - & - & - & - \\
\end{array}$$
point 3)
I think it is distributive because I can't find any sublattice like the following nondistributive twos:

point 4)
based on what I have found, since not every element has a complement, then it isn't a Boolean lattice. Or does exists any isomorphism?
please, can you tell what do you think? Many thanks!

A: You can find here that all such lattices are distributive (that is, lattices of divisors of some integer).
Moreover, that they are Boolean iff the number is square-free.
In this case, $25|150$, and $25=5^2$, so $150$ is not square-free and $D_{150}$ is not Boolean.
Here you see that a complemented distributive lattice is Boolean.
Thus, if $D_{150}$ is distributive and not Boolean, it is not complemented.
Your identification of the complements seems correct.

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaStackExchange


Figure. Western Blot; Sample: Recombinant CASP1, Porcine.
Figure. Western Blot; Sample. Lane1: Porcine Spleen Tissue ; Lane2: Porcine Lung Tissue; Lane3: Human Hela Cells; Lane4: Human Raji Cells.
RPB592Po01 胱天蛋白酶1(CASP1)重组蛋白 Positive Control; Immunogen; SDS-PAGE; WB.
PAB592Po01 胱天蛋白酶1(CASP1)多克隆抗体 WB; IHC; ICC; IP.
LAB592Po71 胱天蛋白酶1(CASP1)多克隆抗体(生物素标记) WB; IHC; ICC.


When the Doc and I were young and spent some time in Africa, the missionary told Doc that he needed to have his haircut in every country he visited. Different cultures just do it differently. He wasn't kidding. We went to the local market and found a group of barbers congregated in the middle. The Doc sat down on a tree stump. The barber gave the cape a flick and it floated down, settling on his shoulders. The the scissors came out. The barber talked and talked. He wove a wild story all while his scissors snipped in the air at amazing speeds. Every once in a while the scissors came dangerously close to Doc's head and a chunk of hair fell down. The barber stopped, looked Doc over and seemed very pleased with himself. He had probably never cut a white head of hair before.
Notice that our friend told the Doc to have his hair cut in every country, but his wife never suggested that to me. I understand why.
They speak English in New Zealand, but terminology can be different. When I was trying to tell the Maori woman not to cut my bangs, she just gave me a blank look. I finally understood that my "fringe" would remain long. All I could think of was the fringe around the formal loveseat in my mom's living room.
Colombia presented another round of problems. My hair is fine and silky, blonde. A Colombian's hair is thick and rougher. Colombians have gorgeous hair, it just doesn't lay the same as mine. The word "thick" is important here. I never could quiet convey strong enough the importance of not thinning my already quiet thin hair.
I couldn't afford to get my hair cut in Moscow. I let it grow and grow. We took at trip to Vilnius, Lithuania and I decided to get my hair cut. The girl did the most amazing job. I loved it and was able to style if later. That's the sign of a good cut—if I can do it again! I figured out that I could buy a round trip plane ticket to Vilnius and get my hair cut for the same price as a simple cut in Moscow. Bonus, I would be happy! I never did it, I mean how hoity-toity would that sound? "I just hop on a plane and jet on over to Lithuania for the day to get my hair done."? Thank goodness the ruble drastically fell and I was able to afford taking care of my hair.
Now I find myself in Asia. I've looking in a few hair salons in my area. They don't cater to the expat crowd. I also don't have any travel plans to go haircutting destinations, so I'm just going to be winging it in a few weeks.
So what have I learned from my haircutting experiences? Have no expectations. Make appointments at my trustworthy hairstylist six months ahead of a planned trip home. Be grateful for those times I do get a good haircut and hang in there for the other times. I know it's not great challenging material for those of you back home. It's just one of those little things thatI am now very aware of.


In this review we are taking a look at the packable NanoDry Towels from Matador, which come in two sizes—the smaller Trek and larger Shower.
At the time of review we have tested both sizes for about 3 months, so let's dive in to see how they've performed.
First off, these towels immediately stand out from other towels on the market because of the original design of the carrying case. Rather than a ripstop nylon or traditional mesh bag—which is common with most travel towels—Matador has opted for a silicone case.
The cases have air holes on all sides, except one side which is completely open, allowing you to insert and pull out the towel.
We're always fans of low key branding, so we were happy to see some subtle, minimalistic branding on these things. It's just enough to see that it's Matador without being too 'in your face' about it.
There's a sturdy carabiner clip on the outside of the Shower size case, and the smaller Trek size has a stainless steel key chain. These allow you to hang your towel up in a hotel room or hostel, but also clip it to the outside of your pack (or anything else) while on the move.
The towels themselves also have a fabric snap loop attached in one corner, which snaps open and closed with a plastic clip. It's designed to allow you to hang the towel directly on a hook, or clip on to any kind of rail.
There are two sizes here, and two colors—Moss Yellow and Charcoal Grey—available for each. The cases match the color of the towels, for which the OCD in us is grateful to Matador for keeping things consistent.
The larger size is known as the "Shower" and is 47 x 24 inches, which is pretty much the size of an ordinary bath towel. The towel and case together weigh 5 ounces (142g).
The smaller size, known as the "Trek" is essentially a hand towel. Unpacked it's 15 x 15 inches, and Matador tells us it weighs in at 2 ounces (56g). Although, we weighed it ourselves and found that it actually comes in lighter than Matador claims, at just 1.15 ounces! We don't know exactly why it works out this way, but it's a plus for the NanoDry Trek Towel and another nod towards ultralight travel.
The Matador NanoDry Trek Towel Is Cute!
Several of our Pack Hacker team members have described it as "cute"—especially when it is packed away in it's tiny carrying case.
The towels are both made from a nanofiber material with "Gold-Coat" Antimicrobial Coating. "Nanofiber" is essentially just marketing-speak designed to sell more towels and make these things appear high tech. What we actually have here are towels made from 85% polyester and 15% polyamide, plus the antimicrobial coating.
So why the "Nano"? The polyamide, while common in a lot of synthetic fabrics, technically classifies as a "nanofiber." It's stretchy and strong, and saying "nanofiber" just sounds way better than boring old polyamide.
The antimicrobial coating is something we can't actually see or test very well, but if it's keeping the towels fresh and reducing that funky mildew smell then we are all for it.
Both towels are approximately the same thickness as a glass cleaning cloth you'd use for your glasses or computer screen, and the edge is serrated in a similar style to those cloths too. They feel light and minimal, and fold up small which is great for traveling light.
The texture is rougher than a glass cleaning cloth though, and this presumably helps with the drying process. If you've ever tried to dry yourself with a microfiber glass cleaning cloth, you'll know it doesn't work super well. You need a little roughness to help absorb the water.
Not that we've tried to dry ourselves off with glass cleaning cloths, or anything… Okay, there was that one time. But we don't talk about that. Never again.
One issue we've found with many microfiber packable towels is that they can feel "sticky" and tend to cling to your body while you are drying. We're happy to report the NanoDry towels don't feel quite as sticky, and are actually quite nice to the touch, which is a plus.
Keeping towels dry on the road can be a pain. We all know what's it's like to shower quickly in the morning, then stuff your towel hastily into your bag, only to pull it out several hours later when you arrive at your destination and find that it's still wet and smells like a wet dog.
The folks over at Matador have done a great job to help avoid this with that silicone case we talked about earlier. It's super breathable and hangs on the outside of your pack, which helps dry out your towel when not in use and prevent that moldy smell we all know and dislike.
The large opening along the side of the carrying case is designed to make it easy to stuff the towel into the carrying case. The correct way to insert the towel is to fold and roll, but if you're in a hurry you can quickly shove the towel in there. We did find the towels slightly tricky to put in the cases, however. There seems to be a knack to doing it correctly, which we had to get used to over time.
One downside of the rigid silicone case is that you don't have much control over the size of it when packing your gear. There is a little flexibility to it, but compared to a drawstring stuff sack or mesh case these are quite rigid. If you pack these inside your case, you'll need to pack around them.
To counterbalance the lack of flexibility, we like the convenient clips on the top of the carrying cases (the larger Shower has a carabiner, and the smaller Trek has a stainless steel keychain). They make it super convenient to clip your towel on the outside of your pack, or just hook it up some place around your hotel or hostel.
We even clipped it to our pants and took it out on a hike. Do you think we're setting new fashion trends?
As we already mentioned, the Shower is 47 x 24 inches, which is a convenient size to use as a multi-purpose towel for most kinds of trips. It's slightly smaller than ideal, but that's balanced with the fact that you feel really comfortable traveling light because of the savings on space and weight this thing offers.
If you use it at the beach, you won't get as much cover-up as a normal beach towel will offer. But if you're dedicated to going super minimal—and don't mind showing off your legs in public—you can probably pull it off.
The Trek is smaller at 15 x 15 inches—about the size of your average washcloth—and weighs just 2oz (34g). Matador markets this as being good for workouts, and we think that's about right.
If you really want to go super minimalist, it could be used as a main towel after a shower or when getting out of the pool. We've found that if you do use it like that, it will most likely get saturated mid-dry and you'll need to wring it out a couple of times.
We think this is more suited for a hand towel, but if you're pushing to pack as light as possible and want to take the Trek as your main towel then we say it can just about be done. This isn't the kind of towel you want to take skinny dipping—unless that's your thing?—in which case, more power to you and props for pulling it off!
Note: to compare size and weight with another towel we've reviewed, the PackTowl Personal Towel is 6.9 oz and 25 x 54 inches. It's definitely more bulky than the Matador towels, although Packtowl does offer a more minimalistic towel in their range that we haven't tested yet.
At the time of this review, we've been using the Matador NanoDry Towels for about 3 months. They've been through a few trips from California, Minnesota and Michigan to New York, plus some use at home. We've found the towels hold up well with regular, daily use.
One of the only issues we've found is that the button on the snap loop is pretty weak. When you go to clip it on, you don't even get the feeling that it's clipped on. A light tug on the loop pulls it apart easily, meaning this feature is a bit delicate.
So if you want to hang the towel, you'll need to put it on a hook, over a balcony or rail. You can also pack it up in the carrying case and hang that on a hook, but the towel won't dry as quickly that way.
Time will tell how long the thinner material on these continue to hold up and whether the antimicrobial coating will stay on. It's been a good start for the towels though, as we haven't seen any signs of wear and tear in the first three months.
As for the performance of the "gold-coat antimicrobial coating"… it's hard to say specifically as we can't actually see it! What we can say thought is that both towels definitely smell more fresh than an average cotton towel smells after repeated use.
The silicone carrying cases are super resilient, and with the exception of the weak snap loop clips, the towels feel robust, dry quickly and seem to resist smelling too funky—even with the smaller size and low weight in comparison to other towels.
Good quality, comfortable to use.
Materials hold up well, no issues, smells good compared with average cotton towels.
Unique aesthetic compared to other towels on the market.
Silicone case stays dry when needed, and keeps wet towels contained.
Towels are lightweight, not adding much weight to your luggage.
The snap loop button is quite weak, meaning it pops open easily.
The silicone cases aren't as "compressible" as other towels on the market.
There's a knack to packing the towels up, which you'll need to get used to.
Overall, the Matador NanoDry towels offer a pretty unique travel towel experience—wait, did we really just say "towel experience"…? The silicone case isn't something we've seen with many other towels on the market, and if you can look past it not being as compressible as other towels—and the weak snap loop button—this may be a great ultralight option for your next travel towel!


BlackBerry has launched its first smartphone with a 5 inch display, and it also has a rather zippy processor and larger processor to with the large touchscreen. The BlackBerry Z30 features a 5 inch, 1280 x 720 pixel display, a 1.7 GHz Qualcomm Snapdragon S4 Pro processor, Adreno 320 graphics, 2GB of RAM, and a 2880mAh battery.
The BlackBerry Z30 is set to launch in the UK and the Middle East next week, and it's coming to additional markets in time for the holiday season.
As for the Z30 itself, BlackBerry says it has the biggest battery ever offered with a BlackBerry smartphone, offering up to 25 hours of "mixed use." It has stereo speakers, 16GB of stroage, an 8MP rear camera, a 720p front-facing camera, WiFi, Bluetooth, NFC, and support for 4G LTE.
All told, it sounds like a pretty great handset… for folks who want a BlackBerry phone with a bigger screen.
At the start of the video it was the Zee 30 but at the end it is the Zed 30.


COWBOYS AND SKINNERS. The names "cowboys" and "skinners" were applied to marauders operating in the Neutral Ground around New York City from 1776 until the end of the war. Although the names were loosely applied to all lawless bands and individuals, including those of no political affiliation, the cowboys were generally considered to be Loyalists and the skinners rebels. The cowboys' main occupation was stealing cattle and selling them to the British garrison in New York City. The skinners tried to stop the cowboys. Both groups also provided intelligence information about the activities of the other side.
SEE ALSO Neutral Ground of New York.
Crary, Catherine S. "Guerrilla Activities of James De Lancey's Cowboys in Westchester County: Conventional Warfare or Self-Interested Freebooting?" In The Loyalist Americans: A Focus on Greater New York. Edited by Robert A. East and Jacob Judd. Tarrytown, N.Y.: Sleepy Hollow Restorations, 1975.
Lossing, Benson J. The Pictorial Field Book of the Revolution. 2 vols. 1851. Reprint, Rutland, Vt.: C. E. Tuttle Co., 1972.
Ward, Harry M. Between the Lines: Banditti of the American Revolution. Westport, Conn.: Praeger, 2002.
"Cowboys and Skinners." Encyclopedia of the American Revolution: Library of Military History. . Encyclopedia.com. 8 Apr. 2019 <https://www.encyclopedia.com>.


Motocoin (MOTO) is a cryptocurrency. Users are able to generate MOTO through the process of mining. Motocoin has a current supply of 32,173,303 MOTO with 19,642,673 MOTO in circulation. The last known price of Motocoin is 0.033289 USD and is down 0.71% over the last 24 hours. It is currently trading on 1 active market(s). More information can be found at http://motocoin.org/.


Use the form below to search for alumni from St Therese School.
St Therese School enrolls 267 elementary school students from grades KG-8. It is located in Alhambra, CA, which is a highly populated city with a median household income of $39,213.
love this school!- my children attended and recieved an excellent education. The teachers and staff are dedicated. There have been many changes in the past year and I can only seee it get better and better. It is a warm community and it is obvious the school and parish are trying to work hard together.
THIS IS AN EXCEPTIONAL SCHOOL. THE ONLY PROBLEM I MAY SAY ABOUT THIS SCHOOL IS THAT THE PRINCIPAL,STAFF AND PARENTS.. NEED TO IMPLEMENT THEIR SCHOOL UNIFORM RULES, THESE CHILDREN NEED TO BE TUCK IN AT ALL TIMES AND THE BOYS NEED TO WEAR DRESS SHOES. THE GIRLS FROM KINDER TO 5TH GRADE SHOULD WEAR BABY DOLL SHOES WITH KNEE HIGHS, AND THE GIRLS FROM 6 TO 8TH GRADES SHOULD WEAR LOAFER SHOES WITH KNEE HIGHS .. BOYS AND GIRLS SHOULD WEAR WHITE SPORT SHOES FOR P.E THIS SCHOOL LOOKS MORE LIKE A PUBLIC SCHOOL... I BEEN TO OTHER SCHOOLS IN ALHAMBRA AND HAVE CHECK THE SCHOOL REVIEWS AND THE ARE NOT VERY GOOD. BUT THE ONLY THING THEY DO IMPLEMENT, IS THEIR SCHOOL UNIFORM RULE, OUR CHILDREN AT SAINT THERESE SHOULD WEAR THEIR UNIFORMS WITH GREAT PRIDE..IM GIVING THE SCHOOL AN A+ BASED ON EDUCATION BUT I GIVE THE SCHOOL A D- ON OVERALL PRESENTATION=( SORRY ST. THERESE BUT YOU NEED IMPROVEMENT ON PHYSICAL PRESENTATION.
The faculty and parents of Saint Therese School work to provide an excellent Catholic education for our students. The family connection strengthens the school program.
Join a discussion about St Therese School and talk to others in the community including students, parents, teachers, and administrators.


Though it features a mid-range price (currently $109 on Amazon), it comes with an intuitive app and a one-year warranty.
I asked Matthew Fleischl, a public relations representative for Mercku, what the difference is between the two mesh system options. He said multiple standalones are better for large, open spaces. But, the Hive System is ideal for homes or offices with many walls. I live in an eight-bedroom, three-story house, which would suggest the Hive would work better. But alas, I used the standalone routers, and they worked fine.
The Mercku M2 seems fairly low-tech compared to the newer, fancier — and more expensive — routers coming out. It's only dual-band instead of tri-band, and it doesn't feature MU-MIMO (multi-user, multiple input, multiple output). Both of these features help with handling multiple users on the network at the same time. However, even without these features, we did not experience any issues when several devices were gaming and streaming videos.


text:
The Beac governor has a negative view of cryptocurrencies
- Wednesday, 23 November 2022 14:10
(Business in Cameroon) - The governor of the Bank of Central African States (Beac) still has a negative view of cryptocurrencies despite their popularity in the community. During a press conference following the first extraordinary session of the Beac Monetary Policy Committee of 2022, held on November 18, 2022, in Ndjamena, the Chadian capital, the governor strongly advised people against investing in cryptocurrencies.
"Beac's way is to advise citizens against investing in these speculative assets because they are very risky. The Bitcoin, for example, has lost more than 70% of its value since the beginning of 2022," said Abbas Mahamat Tolli (pictured). He recalled that cryptocurrencies are not officially recognized in the Cemac and thus reiterated Beac's opposition to the adoption of cryptos in the Central African Republic. "I want to make clear that for all countries in the Cemac zone, the only currency is the CFA franc," he said.
The Governor made these comments a few weeks after the new regulation governing the common Cemac financial market was issued. The document uses the terms "digital assets" and "digital tokens" and defines a token as "any intangible (i.e. immaterial, ed) asset representing, in digital form, one or more rights issued, registered, retained or transferred through a shared electronic recording device allowing the owner of the said asset to be identified, directly or indirectly". This definition is in Article 76 of the regulation, which was adopted on July 21, 2022, by the Ministerial Committee of the Central African Monetary Union (Umac) and made public on September 14. According to financial market players associated with the drafting of this text, this concept includes cryptocurrencies, but also video games, photographs, and software.
In addition, "the provision of services on digital assets" is now admitted on the Cemac financial market. This means, according to Article 160, "offering one or more of the following services or operations: preservation of digital activities on behalf of a third party; purchase of digital assets with legal tender or other digital assets; operation of a digital asset trading platform; other services on digital assets such as the reception and transmission of orders on behalf of third parties, portfolio management on behalf of third parties, advice, and investment. The use of the term crypto assets in the regulatory document does not give cryptocurrencies the legal status of currency in the Cemac zone.
Brice R. Mbodiam, in Ndjamena


"Good cholesterol" may not be so good  in postmenopausal women.
The path to a man's heart is through his gut bacteria .
60% of babies  born worldwide fail to breastfeed within the first hour, missing a crucial window of nutrition.
Giving doctors a little "nudge" triples statin prescription rates .
Using ultrasound to open the blood brain barrier in Alzheimer's patients could enable delivery of helpful drugs .
We're doomed. Robots can guilt us out of turning them off .
Episode 267: CJ Hunt : Host Elle Russ chats with CJ Hunt, producer and host of the first ever Paleo documentary, The Perfect Human Diet.
Does butter give you  fatty liver?
Which states exercise the most  (and least)?
Guess I'll have to shelve  the undenatured centipede protein powder Primal Kitchen® was about to unveil.
I dig this Hollywood nutritionist's smoothie template .
10-point plan I agree with: Laird Hamilton's , for defying your age and supercharging your body.
Quick Q&A I enjoyed: The one I did with Vibram .
Concept I've pondered: Why are people willing spend hundreds of dollars  on painful, objectively unpleasant obstacle course races?
Miscellaneous news I enjoyed: Crickets are good for your gut .
Fried green plantains with mango avocado salsa .
Instant Pot baingan bharta —vegetarian (unless you dip meat in it) and keto-friendly.
The Definitive Guide to Bone Broth Benefits  – The lowdown on the liquid gold.
CrossFit Training: How to Add Mass and Build Strength with Primal  – Gain lean, functional mass without resorting to junk food.


In the interview below (conducted on the occasion of the 2000th membership in our LinkedIn group), Dennis Bolles talks about his experience as a global project manager, and how global projects can benefit from clear processes and methods.
What cross-cultural and multi-language considerations are the most important when building Project Management Centers of Excellence?
Awareness and understanding of the cultural differences and business practices for each country and knowing that differences in time zones can shorten the window for direct communications between countries.
How can the enterprise-wide project management theories and principles benefit global companies?
Managing limited resources to ensure they are distributed to the right projects at the right time are a challenge for organizations with a single location. Managing resource allocations on a global basis is nearly impossible without an enterprise-wide governance structure in place.
What was the most complex situation you lived on a global project, and how did you survive?
Time and distance provided challenges when assembling multiple organization sites for weekly management meetings. Using video conferencing was a way to help improve these communications. However, technical problems with connections did cause occasional problems and having regular attendance due to time zone differences was difficult. Establishing these meetings as a priority, and keeping the meeting agenda focused and held to one hour, were key factors to encourage regular attendance.
What do you enjoy about working on global projects?
Having the opportunity to work with people from different cultures and travel to their locations. Learning how project management is growing as a discipline in other parts of the world and how the PMBOK® Guide is being applied in those organizations.
What are the main challenges you face on your day-to-day project management, particular to Global Projects?
I have found that dealing with communications across time zones is the main challenge. Limited face-to-face meetings, because of the time and cost requirements, is a big downside of working in a virtual project environment.
How do you believe the Global Project Management Framework can help global project managers? What would you recommend to improve the framework in its next version?
I have not had the opportunity to study this framework in any detail; however the brief scan of the website documents look like a good approach. I would more than likely use parts of the framework that would work for a particular consulting engagement. The project management maturity of an organization will affect the timing and acceptance of implementing various aspects of the framework. I can not provide any recommendations at this time as I have not studied the content in depth, but I am looking forward to seeing or talking to people who have implemented it before offering any recommendations for improvement.
What word of advice would you give to other global project managers?
Take time to carefully plan and implement project management practices. Identify the values and benefits for the organization's management and implement the processes one step at a time. Build on successes and gather key performance measurements that suppor the value and benefits to the organizations in terms of ROI.
Dennis Bolles - the 2000th member of our LinkedIn group - has more than 30 years experience with business and project management in multiple industries. His primary focus over the past 15 years has been advising organizations on methodology development, governance and corporate strategy. He led a virtual project team of 300 volunteers world-wide to a successful completion and on-time delivery of the PMI ANSI Standard PMBOK® Guide Third Edition in 2004. He is a published author of many project management articles, seminars, and two books entitled "Building Project Management Centers of Excellence" and "The Power of Enterprise-Wide Project Management". See his full profile on LinkedIn.
Many global project managers and team members have had poor experiences of meetings held via audio and video conferencing. Misunderstandings, conflicts, background noises and excessive idle time until all participants are connected are all examples of situations that create frustration for the meeting participants. Some people even abandon the use of video conferencing, and concentrate on using only audio conferencing, sometimes combined with web conferencing tools.
The chapter 22 of the Global Project Management book describes how the implementation of basic rules and practices can improve the efficiency of communication by audio and video conferencing.
The first step is to understand how effective meetings via audio and video conferencing are, and identify the areas for improvement. You can develop a structured interview to understand the current caveats and start collecting recommendations. You can then combine the outcome of the interviews with other recommendations in the book, and write the first set of good practices for audio and video conferences.
Download a mindmap that can help you to improve the efficiency of meetings via audio and video conferencing tools.