text:
Not an Ike and Tina Thing
By Eva Holland
He broke the news in the morning, on Labor Day weekend, daylight thinning the walls of our tent at 9am. We were camping in Haines, Alaska – a small port in the panhandle a few hours' drive from our homes in the Yukon. We'd been dating, casually, for a couple of months.
He'd dropped hints, over that time, about an Ex with a capital E, a mysterious catastrophe, the reason he'd left the prairies behind and moved up north. That morning, he began to fill me in. They'd been together since their last year of high school, he said, more than a decade ago: living together, studying together, growing up together. He'd spent his entire adult life with her. He didn't know how to be with anybody else, not yet. Not yet. But he could use a friend.
It was raining, and we had two days left in our trip. I wondered why he'd waited until we were stuck together on the wrong side of an international border to clue me in. It felt like a power play – what else was I going to say, here and now, besides "sure, let's just be friends"? I thought about packing up and going home – thought about demanding that he get in the car and drive me back across the border, over the mountains, through the pass and back down the highway to Whitehorse. But I wasn't sure if I had the energy to make that scene. I could imagine the strained silence on the road, the early return to town, the empty remains of the holiday weekend, my friends all camped out elsewhere. And there was that "not yet," dangling in the tent like an invitation. I decided to stay.
We'd met back in the spring, at a party, both sitting down by chance at the same table peopled with drunken strangers. A game of "Who looks like what celebrity?" had gotten going, and I'd pointed at him and blurted out "Jesse Eisenberg!" He'd rolled his eyes. "Oh, sure, compare me to the geek." I'd leaned forward, cocky and belligerent with a few beers in my belly. "Jesse Eisenberg is a fucking babe," I'd said, enunciating too carefully, alcohol heavy on my tongue. "That was a damn compliment." Then I'd looked away, embarrassed that I'd shown my cards quite so clearly.
He was a music fanatic, with a closet full of indie band t-shirts and a stereo system that dominated a mostly-empty apartment. He had bookshelves lined with Vonnegut and Murakami, his own photographs of Yukon landscapes framed and hanging on the walls. He was also a certifiable math genius, and when he shrugged off his three degrees in physics and engineering as "easy," I figured his brain must be wired so differently from my own that he didn't even know how arrogant he sounded. He had his share of that stereotypical scientist's social awkwardness, too, and at first I put his tendency to fall back on teasing insults down to that.
We shared a sense of humor, an amateur photography habit, and a love of the wilderness that surrounded us. We also shared a lack of experience there: While many of my friends were experts, ex-guides and veteran trekkers and paddlers whose trips into the Yukon backcountry were far beyond my abilities, he was like me, keen but uninitiated. We'd arrived in town a few weeks apart, driving the same cross-country route for many of the same reasons – a fresh start in a new home, a chance to shed our urban skins and become the active outdoors types we'd always imagined ourselves to be, at heart if rarely in practice. After a few weeks of dating, we'd planned our trip to Haines as a hiking weekend spiced up with small-town comforts: a bar, a coffee shop, hot food that hadn't come off a camping stove. But the weather hadn't been cooperative.
The rain kept coming down on the tent roof. Around noon we got up and headed to the bar. All afternoon we fed quarters into the jukebox and quarters into the pool table, alone in the place except for a couple of locals, professional drinkers, sitting at the bar. I'd been angry at first, in the morning, but now we spent the hours laughing, downing pint after pint of Alaskan Amber. Around 5pm one of the drunks teetered up to us and told him how lucky he was to have me there with him. He grinned and nodded and threw an arm around me, and I thought that "not yet" couldn't be too far away.
Back at home a week later, we sat at a hotel bar, done up, vaguely, like an old-timey, Gold Rush-era saloon. There were blues standards on the stage and handfuls of tourists in the audience, the dregs of the summer cruise ship season. He put his hand on my thigh. "You want to get out of here?" I finished off my pint while he paid our tab.
On our way back to his place we cut through the cemetery, past the detox center, through darkening residential streets. The midnight sun was gone for the year, though the days were still long. As we walked, he pointed to a small white house. "I've been in there," he said. "That's where crazy people go."
The next morning I asked him what he'd meant. He froze. He didn't remember much of anything after leaving the bar, he said. I explained about the house, and his comment. He didn't say anything for a minute or two, staring at the wall. Then, finally, without looking at me he whispered, "I don't talk about that."
Over the next few weeks, though, he began to talk about it – his increasing paranoia, his rage, his blackouts, his depression. He'd been attempting to navigate the Yukon's mental health system since he arrived, but he didn't feel like they were listening to him. "As soon as I tell them I broke up with my girlfriend, they think they've got me figured out," he said. "They think 'oh, he's just sad,' and then they try to put me on anti-depressants." He'd tried and failed to convince them that there was something more going on. "They tried to get me to take a questionnaire over the phone," he said once, laughing. "I told them I'm too paranoid to do that, not if they want me to answer honestly."
He was worried that I would leave after he confessed, but I'd seen mental illness before. I knew it could be managed, lived with. I watched him become more comfortable, more confident, as he told me how he'd been feeling. I was happy that he had someone to talk to; I was happy that he'd chosen me.
As the leaves fell and the nights lengthened and deepened, we hiked a different set of trails every weekend, toting our matching Canons. We visited the local U-Brew operation and came back to his place loaded down with home brewing equipment. I adopted his favorite pizza toppings; he lent me a stack of books. We spent another weekend away, in Skagway: Thai food, a pub trivia night, and a cheap motel room.
By the end of October, my spare toothbrush and a set of pajamas had taken up residence at his house. My friends didn't like him – they thought he was stringing me along – but I didn't see it that way. I was becoming the most important person in his life, the person he relied on, the person he called first when he needed to talk. When you stripped away all the labels, wasn't that the essence of a real relationship, anyway?
It was mid November, and he was sitting on my kitchen counter, looking uncomfortable. He told me that he was interested in one of my friends, one of my closest friends. They'd met, briefly, when we bumped into her at a concert, on one of our early dates that past summer.
I tried to stay calm, rational. I told him that he didn't even know her, and besides, she wasn't single. He shrugged. He wasn't actually planning to pursue her, he said – he just wanted to tell me how he felt. He'd been comfortable around her immediately, he said. There weren't many people who made him feel like he could be himself, not right off the bat. He paused, looked at me. "You weren't one," he said, in a tone that made it clear that still meant something to him. And actually, he didn't think he would have kept on seeing me over the summer if she hadn't been there to put him at ease that night. It had always been about her, he explained, almost from the very beginning.
I couldn't believe what he was saying. I wasn't one of those rare people, those few who made him feel like himself? Me, the person he'd shared all his secrets with? He had to be lying, lashing out for some reason I couldn't understand.
I told him to get out. I wasn't entirely surprised by what he'd told me – I'd noticed the way he reacted when her name came up, noticed that night at the show how he'd seemed to open up when she arrived, though I'd tried to write it off as imagination, flickers of insecurity and jealousy. But I was furious that he was saying it, knowing that hurting me would be the only result. I told him that I wasn't sure if we could be friends – "friends" – anymore.
And then he reminded me of my promises. During those long, late-night talks, when he'd raised the curtain on his anger and suspicion and sadness, raged against his ex and his parents and the friends that had let him down over the years, whispered about how alone he was, in a world that seemed designed to hurt and hound him, I had promised that I wasn't, that I would never be, "like everybody else." He had trusted me, and I had reveled in that trust, enjoyed that rush of pride that is the volunteer caretaker's main form of payment. I had been so sure that I could handle whatever his illness might throw at me – and now, feeling sick and hurt, I was trapped by my own confidence. I had promised.
When he left to head back to his place, I went with him – he didn't like to spend the night at my apartment. (Something about the place didn't feel right, he always said.) It was about this time that I started lying to my friends. I lied about how often I was seeing him, about the nights I continued to spend there, about what was really going on. I told myself I lied because they wouldn't understand, because I couldn't explain it all without violating his confidences. They would tell me to stop seeing him, and I couldn't do that. He needed me.
Everybody else had walked away, he'd told me, when things got hard – when he got hard to be with. I wasn't going to be like everybody else.
Throughout that winter, most days, he called when he got home from work, wanting to know how soon I could be over at his place. If I balked, if I said that I had some work to do first, or that I wanted to stay home and cook myself dinner, he'd groan. "Don't be lame," he'd say. "I had a bad day. Just come over." Some nights I was happy for the excuse to ditch my responsibilities – my writing, my increasingly futile efforts to mind my money, eat healthy, get a little exercise now and then. Other nights, I walked the blocks to his house out of obligation, pulled by a sense of guardianship that I didn't entirely understand.
Sometimes we'd go to a bar or a restaurant, but more often we'd just sit on his couch, drinking bottles of homebrew and working our way through the TV series he had hoarded on his computer – Freaks and Geeks, The Wire, Twin Peaks. Most days he reminded me how dull my company was, how boring and predictable our pattern – as though it was my idea to stay inside with the curtains closed. Some days he would explain, again, all the reasons why he'd never really wanted to date me anyway, all the reasons I was unsuitable, all the hidden tests I'd failed in our early conversations.
I tried to swallow the insults, but eventually I would say something that upset him. Maybe I would disagree too strenuously with an opinion of his – we managed to create a teary, screaming conflagration out of a debate over the exact definition of "world music" – or maybe she would come up in conversation again and I would roll my eyes and remind him that he didn't even know her, that she was a fantasy who existed only in his mind, unable to bite my tongue but trying to play it cool and cynical, instead of hurt and flailing to hurt him too.
If we were out in public, he'd go silent, refusing to speak to me or even look at me for the remainder of the meal, or however long it took me to finish my drink. We'd sit in furious silence for the car ride home, and once we were back inside his apartment he'd unload, yelling that I was always contradicting him, tearing him down, thinking I knew better than he did, trying to control him. He'd work himself into a rage, scream that I hated him, everyone hated him, the world was out to get him and I was just like all the rest, everyone who'd ever betrayed him, after all.
Eventually he'd quiet down. He'd stare at the wall, silent again, for minutes on end. He'd mutter that he didn't belong here, that he should have done it years ago, that he should just get it over with and kill himself already. "I don't belong here," he'd whisper. "I don't belong here."
I usually stayed calm through the rages. It was when he went quiet that I'd start to feel panicky and afraid. His misery was palpable – it seemed to gather strength in the empty, quiet house. I had to convince him, somehow, that he was wrong, that he did belong here, with me. I'd start by apologizing, for whatever it was that I'd said or done that time. I'd promise that I wasn't like the others, I really wasn't, I really cared, and I would beg him, beg him not to hurt himself. Eventually, finally, he would relax, and we would curl up together on his mattress on the floor and fall asleep holding hands.
One night I snapped – I can't remember why, specifically – and instead of apologizing I walked out at 3am, drunk and angry, gathering up that toothbrush as I went. I walked home shivering through the snow, the streets empty except for the occasional cab, wood smoke rising from bungalow chimneys. My anger faded and my fear for him rose with each block, and when I got back to my own basement apartment below the cliffs I had to fight the urge to pick up the phone and call him. The next day I broke down and sent a conciliatory email. No reply. I checked the mail anxiously that afternoon. He'd promised that I would be the recipient of his eventual suicide note, and though he'd meant it to be reassuring – he would never leave me wondering, worrying – the mailbox had loomed like a threat ever since. But today it remained empty.
Another pair of emails and a phone call went unreturned, and I began to panic. What had I been doing, walking out on him? My anger was selfish, I reminded myself. I was strong enough to take a few blows to the ego, and he was sick. He needed me. He'd told me as much, plenty of times.
That evening I retraced my steps from the night before, pounded on his door, peered in windows, yelled his name. Finally, finally, the front door opened. He peered out, scowling.
"I'm still alive," he said. "Are you happy now?"
I wasn't.
We were in Alaska again when I first realized that I was afraid of him. It was late January, and the sun had set soon after we passed through Customs that afternoon. We were on our way to Anchorage: I had a beer-themed assignment, and he was along as a taster. We checked into a cheap motel in Tok, an hour or so past the border, and headed a few doors down the highway to a roadside bar.
We were drunk when we got back to our room later that evening. The air steamed when I turned the key and opened the door: it was a cold, cold night, clear and hard. He stretched out on the bed and announced that he planned on getting laid in Anchorage. "This trip's pretty much going to be a failure if I don't," he said, laughing, seeming to expect me to laugh too.
I froze. He couldn't be serious. He'd been insisting for a couple of months already that it was my duty, "as a friend," to listen to his speculations about other women, his assessments of the relative attractiveness of my friends, the various ways in which they were so much more appealing than I was, his recounting of his efforts to pick up waitresses around town. My assertion that maybe it was his duty, as a friend, not to torture me with the details had only led us down into yet another dark argument, ending the way all the others had: with my pleading apologies.
But this was something else. I'd never thought he would try anything while I was actually around – while we were sharing a fucking hotel room. I said, "You're kidding, right?" He wasn't.
For once, I didn't try to stay calm. "You're a real fucking asshole, you know that?" I dug up my best scornful voice, lashing out, trying to seem tough instead of panicked and stung bone-deep. "Where are you going to bring her, anyway? I'm not going to clear out of the hotel room for you. I'm sure as shit not going to lend you my car keys." That set him off, screaming about how he wouldn't be controlled, not by me, not anymore, not ever again. "You don't own me," he yelled. "Everybody thinks they can pull my strings." That line was my cue to apologize, but this time I kept on going, raising my own voice. "Control you? All I ever do is try to help you, and all you ever do is hurt me." He shook his head, screamed that I was trying to keep him down, keep him sick and sad so that I could have him all to myself, so he'd never go out and meet anyone else. A couple of times he seemed to lose his capacity for language, lose control entirely, and just shrieked wordlessly at me. I realized for the first time that I had no idea what he was capable of, that his mental state might be more than I could safely manage, live with. The fight went out of me, and I sat down at the table, sobbing while he carried on yelling.
Eventually he subsided and passed out on top of his blankets, still fully clothed. I sat in the dark motel room, tears drying on my cheeks and chin and upper lip, listening to the truck engines rumbling in the parking lot – it was cold enough that the truckers would let them idle all night. I'd never seen him so angry before. For a few minutes I thought about getting in my car and leaving him there. But I'd been drinking, and the border post was closed by this time of night. As for the consequences, I didn't know which possibility frightened me more: That he would make his own way safely back home and come looking for me, or that he wouldn't. If he woke up in the night and found me gone, and wandered outside into the dark and snow, anything could happen to him. I decided to stay.
I hid my car keys before I went to sleep, and filled the path to the doorway with our boots and bags, so that if he got up in the night and tried to get out he'd be likely to wake me trying. I didn't want to be the one left behind, either.
By the spring I was drinking every day. Beyond our marathon couch sessions each evening, I also caught myself cracking bottles of our homebrew by lunchtime more often than not, drinking at my computer while I kept up a semblance of a working life. I rarely saw my other friends anymore.
After the showdown in the Tok motel room, I no longer felt confident that I was doing the right thing, staying with him, keeping him at the very center of my life. In imaginary conversations with my friends, I no longer replied "You just don't understand" when they told me to cut all ties. I now answered silently, "You're right." But at the same time, I felt less able than ever to leave. He needed serious help – and given his paranoia, his distrust of the medical system, his alienation from old friends and family, there was nobody but me to give it.
I worried about the consequences for myself if I walked away, too. If I got that letter in the mailbox – and some days its eventual arrival seemed inevitable – I didn't know how I'd survive my own guilty conscience. If I left him alone and he hurt himself, I knew I would embrace the blame. What would happen to me then, with the loss of a life weighing me down?
In April his work contract ended. Once he was unemployed, even my eight-hour window of him-free time – the gap between my walk home from his house in the morning, when he left for work, and the inevitable after-work phone call – was closed. Now I usually got the first call around 11 in the morning, maybe noon. We didn't fight as much anymore. I'd long since figured out how to avoid setting him off.
I'd been counting down to a summer-long contract that would take me away for a few months. By now I'd realized that I needed to change the situation, somehow, and I thought that putting some physical distance between us might gain me some emotional space, too. At the very least, even if I couldn't leave entirely, I knew I needed to untangle myself enough that his constant needling – and especially his fixation on other women – wouldn't continue to tear me up quite so easily. A work trip gave me a reason to leave without accusations of abandonment – his, or my own.
When the gig fell through at the last minute, in late May, he was the first person I called. We retreated to a Tex-Mex patio for pitchers of consolation sangria in the sun. He toasted to the season we would have together after all.
But now my summer was a blank slate: No work contract, no obligations, not even any rent to pay until my subletter handed back the keys to my apartment on September 1. My lack of an apartment, I realized, was the excuse I needed. The vacancy rate in Whitehorse was microscopic, and the rent steep – this was no town for a writer suddenly without an assignment to her name.
I surprised myself by seizing the opportunity. I'm still not sure where I found the energy, after months of lethargy, to close the door on that dim living room with its piles of empties, even if I only planned on a temporary reprieve. One week after the contract fell through, I packed my camping gear and a duffel bag full of clothes and books into the back of my Jeep, ready to head south on the Alaska Highway.
We had lunch at a chain pizza-and-pasta outlet before I left. We ordered our usual – his usual – toppings combo: banana peppers, spinach and pineapple. He seemed upbeat, while I tried not to seem too excited to be gone. "Are you going to be okay while I'm away?" I asked. He paused, thought it over, nodded slowly. "I think so," he said.
I drove for eight hours that day, and pitched my tent in a small provincial campground just over the B.C.-Yukon border. I'd turned off the highway around 10pm, just as the late northern sunset was beginning to light up the lake. By the time I shimmied into my sleeping bag the colors had faded from the sky and the water, and a lengthening twilight had settled in. There would be no true darkness until I got further south.
I lay in the tent for a long time, listening. A handful of mosquitoes batted against the nylon, and beyond them, just a few feet away, the lake water rippled on the shore. Out on the highway, every once in awhile, a transport truck would shudder past. I had never gone camping alone before, and I was surprised by my lack of anxiety. I was calm, calmer and less anxious than I had been in a long while.
I drove south slowly, setting up my tent each night in campgrounds far from the nearest wifi signal, the nearest 3G. I went on short hikes. I read books. I drank mugs of hot chocolate, boiling the water on my camping stove. I slept for ten, eleven, twelve hours every night. In Washington's North Cascades, I used up most of a day just lying in my sleeping bag listening to the rain drumming hard on the fly. On the Oregon coast, I spent two days wandering up and down an empty beach, being scoured by wind-blown sand, letting the stinging of my arms and legs and face clear all the thoughts right out of my head. I felt like a battery that had been burned down almost to zero. Slowly, slowly, I was being charged back up again.
By the time I made it to Southern California, in mid July, my head felt clearer than it had in months. On the drive south I had avoided thinking about him, but now, as I started the long bounce back north, I felt ready to grapple with the reality of the past year.
Even as I'd begun to understand the harm that I was doing to myself, that was being done to me, I'd never used the words "abusive relationship." I had never even thought them. For one thing, of course, as he reminded me so often, we weren't actually in a relationship. And besides, I understood abuse only as Hollywood had presented it to me: an Ike and Tina kind of thing.
He was sick, I'd told myself again and again. Wasn't he the victim, and wasn't I the caretaker?
In Utah, I read Edward Abbey, camped in a different park every night, hiked under the July desert sun until my skin was powdered with a layer of fine, dry salt. I was burning myself clean. Finally, sweating in the shade of Gaudian rock formations, I began to understand that no matter his troubles, no matter his state of mind, his happiness wasn't my responsibility: only my own was. Walking away would be an act of self-preservation, not selfishness.
I understood that, then and there, safely alone in the blistering canyonlands. But I didn't trust myself to keep a grip on that realization once I made it home again. That hopeless couch in that darkened living room was thousands of miles away, but it still felt threateningly close.
I arrived home two months after I'd left, but I never saw him again. He flew out on a trip to Toronto the day before I drove those last few hundred kilometers back to Whitehorse; I left for a work camp in the bush the day before he flew north again. I was still out there, still dreading our eventual reunion, afraid that I would fall back into my old pattern of apologies and acquiescence, when he emailed to say that he was moving back east, across the country. He would be gone before I came home.
Back in Whitehorse in late September, three nights after I got back, I cleaned out the dregs from his apartment – a final favor. Sure, don't worry, I'll take care of it, I'd said in an email. I would have agreed to just about anything to convince him to leave without waiting to see me first.
His new roommate let me in, and I started to pack the flotsam of his life here – our lives together – into my car. Bags of sci-fi paperbacks that he hadn't bothered to take with him; six-packs of empties left over from our brewing efforts last winter; a printer I'd inherited because it wouldn't fit in his car. The blue hoodie – his blue hoodie – that I'd always worn during our marathon TV sessions was hanging on a hook on the wall in the empty bedroom. I couldn't decide if he'd left it for me as a symbol of nostalgia or rejection. Both possibilities hurt.
I drove back to my empty apartment with a car full of his leftovers. I imagined calling one or the other of my friends, imagined showing up on their doorsteps and tearily confessing all, but I couldn't follow through. The back story I would have to offer up was too humiliating.
It had been easier, in some ways, when he'd still been here. I'd been too busy worrying about him to take too close a look at myself. Now I looked back and didn't recognize the person who'd sat through those long afternoons on that couch, who'd compromised herself so entirely, thinking she was needed, wanting to be needed, completely losing track of her own needs. Had I even helped him, after all that? I certainly hadn't helped myself. As the full impact of the year hit me, the liberating realization of the Utah desert faded and the guilt and self-loathing caught up to me. Independence and self-sufficiency were at the core of my sense of self, and with him gone, I was forced to confront the fact that I hadn't been able to take care of myself. I had let myself down. My self-doubt fed on itself and grew.
I knew that the way I was feeling was textbook-predictable. The reassurances I received from friends and family, when I did finally reach out to them, were equally expected: You can't blame yourself. This wasn't your fault. This wasn't your fault. But the knowledge that I was playing out a script from a first-year psych textbook was no comfort. I felt like one paper doll in a long chain of identical cut-outs, acting and reacting on cue. The feeling didn't help any in renewing my sense of capable independence.
I haven't heard from him for months, now, but sometimes when the phone rings I still expect it to be him. Mostly the idea of that phone call makes me afraid, anxious and nauseated all over again, but late at night, sometimes, I lie awake wishing he would call. Sometimes I want to throw my tent in my car and start driving again, to run south until I feel safe and alone and recharged the way I did last summer. I want to hide out in the North Cascades, with nothing but the damp ferns and the tall dark evergreens and the foggy mountains for company. I want to go back to the Utah canyons and let the heat burn everything away.
Instead, I rely on the memories: That hard rain on the fly roof, the sand stinging my calves, the merciless sun on the slickrock. It helps, sometimes, a little.
Originally published March 6, 2012.
[print_link]
Eva Holland is a freelance writer and editor based in Canada's northern Yukon Territory. She is the co-editor of World Hum and a former associate editor at Up Here, Canada's 2010 magazine of the year. Throughout 2015, she's writing a bi-weekly online column about the changing North American Arctic for Pacific Standard, and serving as the Yukon correspondent for Up Here. Her work has also appeared in Smithsonian, AFAR, Maisonneuve, SB Nation Longform, and Outside Online, and has frequently been featured by Longform, Longreads, Nieman Storyboard, Lady Journos, and other curators of journalism and nonfiction writing.
Latest Posts By Eva Holland
The Tiny Mechanisms of the Gender Gap
Previous articleThe Sign for This
Next articleSuperdonor
Failing at Important Things: A Parallel History
Ellesen says:
This is a beautifully written piece. I identify so strongly with your experience, having gone through something similar in my own life, to the point where it was almost physically difficult reading this.
It's amazing how badly someone can hurt you without ever raising a hand, how much damage they can do.
Thank you for sharing your experience.
RonM says:
Nicely done. It is remarkable how the very best parts of ourselves, the will to enact in our lives that which we recognize as strong and good and worthy, is the very thing that can bind us in pain while the worth bleeds away. I think it helps somehow, to remember that abuse is abuse because we are being hurt, not because of some property another person may or may not possess.
However that may be, your article is clear, and rings true; humble and not self-indulgent. For what it is worth, the simple humanity of your voice convinces me that your life is in very good hands.
Pingback: Your homework | Never Too Late
Pingback: Personal Stories | Pearltrees
Pingback: Soulfool » If you read anything this weekend
corkingiron says:
A beautifully written – and painfully honest – story. It is hard sometimes to differentiate between being a part of someone else's happiness – and being responsible for it.
If there is a "one true thing" I've learned, it is that everybody saves their own life. All we can do is help. I hope you are able to reconnect with your friends.
ConnerGo says:
A wonderfully written piece, full of raw emotion and poignant imagery.
I was waiting, however, for the drinking issue to be addressed. As a recovering alcoholic, I recognized much of the destructive behavior, on both parts, as booze-fueled codependency.
Eva Holland says:
Thanks, Conner. I view the drinking in this case as symptom rather than root cause – he was self-medicating for his untreated mental illness, and I was using it as a coping mechanism because I was in an abusive relationship that I didn't know how to get out of. I can't speak for him, but my drinking returned to a normal, healthy level as soon as I left on that road trip.
Pingback: New Story: 'Chasing Alexander Supertramp' | Eva Holland
Lee-Ann Liles says:
Eva, thanks you for putting into words, so eloquently, something that I have been trying to cover in my own writing. Relationships are difficult to write the mess of emotions and you handled this piece well.
Michelle Adam says:
Beautiful work. Thank you for making this available. I look forward to seeing more. You may enjoy my Journey of Spirit and Healing Blog, http://www.michadam.wordpress.com, as well. It's a blog that is the story behind my upcoming novel, Child of Duende. I am also a teacher… in middle school. Blessings to you!
Lilace says:
Wonderful essay. I especially enjoyed your recounting of how camping and exploring outdoors brought you back to your core self. Lovely and lyrical.
The Ism and the Alcohol
A year and a half ago, I published my first essay on addiction. You'd think having gotten sober at age seventeen would have been fodder…


text:
Announcement: All books by Caitlin Press & Dagger Editions are now distributed by University of Toronto Press
Caitlin Press Where urban meets rural.
About Caitlin Press
The Grande Dames of the Cariboo
Discovering Vivien Cowan and Sonia Cornwall and their intriguing friendship with A.Y. Jackson and Joseph Plaskett
Author Julie Fowler began a quest to find out more about an artist from the Cariboo named Sonia Cornwall (1919–2006). Through interviews, letters, original artworks, articles, exhibition catalogues, imaginings of conversations and occurrences, along with her own reflections on the experience, she pieced together a story of pioneering, love and the pursuit of art.
But in searching for Sonia, Fowler found an unanticipated new friend in Sonia's mother, Vivien Cowan (1893–1990). Vivien became a larger part of the story than Fowler could possibly have imagined.
Fowler had discovered a hidden gem. In 1945, Vivien Cowan spearheaded the Cariboo Art Society with noted Canadian Group of Seven painter A.Y. Jackson. She had met A.Y. Jackson earlier that year at the Banff School, as well as another Canadian artist of note, Joseph Plaskett. Both painters, along with many others, would visit Vivien and her daughters, Sonia and Dru, at their property near 150 Mile House, the Onward Ranch. Vivien became the Grande Dame of the Cariboo, hosting some of Canada's greatest talent and at the same time promoting the work of local artists and creators.
In this genre-bending work, Fowler expertly and creatively weaves her search for an understanding of her own passion for art and her love of the Cariboo with a mesmerising story of creative life in one of BC's earliest pioneer communities.
Caitlin books by Julie Fowler
Grande Dames of the Cariboo, The
Other books in this category
When Days Are Long
Dancing in Gumboots
978-1-927575-19-2 / 1-927575-19-2
5.5" x 8", 224 pages, 60 B&W and colour images
Arts, BC History, Biography, Non-fiction, Women's Stories
Purchases only available to Canadian addresses.
For orders to BC, AB, SK:
For orders to MB, ON, QC, NL, NB, NS, PE, NT, NU, YT:
Also distributed by University of Toronto Press as well as Midpoint Trade (US) and Gazelle (UK).
Funded by the Government of Canada. We acknowledge the financial support of the British Columbia Arts Council.
Copyright to excerpts and reviews owned by the author; all other site contents are copyright © Caitlin Press.
Banner illustration by Kevin Easthope.

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaCommonCrawl


The Scandinavian Consortium for Organizational Research facilitates inquiry in organizational social science among a transnational network of scholars. Its member institutions in Scandinavia and greater Europe support working visits and residencies at Stanford and Harvard Universities. SCANCOR also sponsors conferences, workshops, and mentoring opportunities worldwide.
At the 17th SCANCOR PhD workshop on Institutional Analysis international faculty will present current research, review recent papers, and discuss new methodological tools that deepen the institutional agenda. Special attention is given to institutional emergence, persistence, and transformation and the contribution of institutional analysis to understand current social, ecological, and economic challenges. We also emphasize methods of comparative, archival, network and visual analysis. Finally, we tackle issues involving contestation and strife around institutions and organizations.
Abstracts for the morning public lectures at the 2019 PhD Workshop on Institutional Analysis have been announced. The workshop will be held at the University of Mannheim from August 25 - Friday, August 30, 2019. In the morning public lectures international faculty will present and discuss research within the field of institutional theory. The lectures in the morning are open to the public and guests are highly welcome. Interested guests are kindly asked to register at this link.


text:
NBAOddsPicksU.S. Sports BettingBest Books
NBA |
2018-19 NBA ROY Model: Deandre Ayton, Luka Doncic in Tier of Their Own
Photos from USAToday Sports. Pictured: Luka Doncic, Deandre Ayton, and Trae Young.
Bryan Mears
Nov 15, 2018, 09:50 PM EST
I built an NBA Rookie of the Year model to predict the upcoming race. I'll be updating its results throughout the year.
As of today, Mavs forward Luka Doncic and Suns center Deandre Ayton stand in a tier of their own.
A couple weeks ago, I built a Rookie of the Year model to predict this year's race. Take a look at that first post for the metrics behind it, but in general ROY is not difficult to nail down: Voters largely don't care about team success — it's all about raw stats.
In fact, if you sum up a player's points per game, rebounds per game and assists per game — the leader in that category has won the ROY award in 15 of the last 18 races. It's incredibly predictive, and thus we can use that knowledge to our advantage and see if there's any betting value in the futures market.
In the first iteration, Mavs forward Luka Doncic led the field in ROY Rating (rated 0 to 10), with Suns center Deandre Ayton the only guy close to him. Has that changed at all or does it still look like it will be a two-man race?
2018-19 ROY Ratings
It is indeed a two-man race right now, with only Doncic and Ayton having a rating above 9.0. Interestingly, Ayton has taken the (slight) lead over the Mavs wunderkind, mostly due to his impressive advanced numbers. They're just about even in minutes played, and they're incredibly close in combined points, rebounds and assists per game. Doncic is at 30.5; Ayton is at 29.4.
The best value on the board, if you want a longshot, is probably Bulls center Wendell Carter Jr., who currently ranks third in the model, but sits in the futures market at just 28-1.
Credit: Mike DiNovo-USA TODAY Sports. Pictured: Dallas Mavericks forward Luka Doncic (77), Chicago Bulls forward Wendell Carter Jr. (34).
He's unlikely to win, but he's slightly ahead of Hawks point guard Trae Young at the moment, who has pretty terrible advanced metrics early on in the season.
Given the current numbers, I'd take Ayton at +240, as I doubt that number will still be there in a couple months. I'll be very interested to see whether Young can jump up into that tier with Ayton and Doncic.
He's right there in the raw stats — averaging a combined 29.1 points, rebounds and assists per game — and if his advanced marks go up, he'll jump up the model.
Lastly, just to really nail this point down, this race is rarely ever awarded to the best player or prospect: Michael Carter-Williams is a former winner, and Malcolm Brogdon famously won it over Joel Embiid, who is a legit MVP candidate just a few years later.
I believe guys like Jaren Jackson Jr. or Shai Gilgeous-Alexander will be studs, but this award is all about those raw stats. This isn't predicting the best future prospects; it's solely predicting this year's ROY award.
And that means Deandre Ayton and Luka Doncic are way ahead of the pack.
Follow Bryan Mears
Verified Action Expert


text:
Apps/
HQ rewards you for still playing the game with extra lives for participating daily
You can stop inviting me to play now, ok?
By Makena Kelly / @kellymakena
Jul 5, 2018, 2:07 PM UTC |
Image: HQ
This week HQ Trivia rolled out a new feature that rewards players for playing multiple games in a row. It's called "Streaks," and it'll be pretty familiar to anyone who has played a mobile game in recent years.
Streaks is pretty simple. You play multiple games in a row, you get extra lives. Similar to opening up Animal Crossing: Pocket Camp and getting a few bells or furniture items just for continuing to play the game. It's a clear strategy for player retention as it incentivizes players to open up the app and partake at least once a day.
To see if the update's rolled out to your device, click on the "Get More" button in the app. If you're eligible for a free life streak, you'll see how many days in a row you need to keep playing for the reward. It's unclear how often you have to play HQ to receive a streak reward — 9to5Mac's screenshot appears to show a reward for a three-day streak, while my app says I need to play for five days in a row to receive an extra life.
Streaks is a welcome addition to the trivia game especially when you could use that extra life once you've finally made it to the elusive Question 12. HQ has been out for nearly a year now, and you've probably already exhausted all of your friends to invite to the game for extra lives. Plus, Streaks is a lot less annoying than stroking your phone screen repeatedly for eight seconds for one measly life. Ugh.
More from Apps
The tech industry's moment of reckoning: layoffs and hiring freezes
Uber's 'View as Delivery Person' shows how much of your info couriers get


text:
Browse: Home / 2018 / April / 11 / News Release: Elaine J. Wold Makes Transformational Gift in Support of Boca Raton Regional Hospital Initiative
News Release: Elaine J. Wold Makes Transformational Gift in Support of Boca Raton Regional Hospital Initiative
Boca Raton Regional Hospital plans a $260 million expansion, including a new seven-story patient tower. (Rendering courtesy of Boca Raton Regional Hospital)
BOCA RATON, FL – April 11, 2018 – Boca Raton Regional Hospital (BRRH) has received a transformative $25 million gift from Elaine J. Wold and the Bay Branch Foundation, directed to the Hospital's expansion and renovation initiative.
This commitment will name a new seven-story facility the Gloria Drummond Patient Tower to be built in addition to the existing inpatient structure. The tower will honor the memory of Gloria Drummond, founder of Boca Regional and a life-long friend of Mrs. Wold.
The new tower is part of a planned 278,000 square foot, $260 million transformation of BRRH that also includes an expanded and renovated Surgical Suite, an enhanced and expanded Surgical Intensive Care Unit and Medical Intensive Care Unit, a new Cardiovascular Intensive Care and Stepdown Unit, as well as increased private patient rooms and a parking garage.
Mrs. Wold is one of the nation's leading philanthropists and a long-time BRRH supporter and donor. She most recently donated $10 million to construct the Hospital's 37,500 square foot, state-of-the-art Gloria Drummond Physical Rehabilitation Institute, also named in memory of her friend. Previously, Mrs. Wold donated the funds to expand and modernize the Hospital's Emergency Department, creating the Wold Family Center for Emergency Medicine, which treats more than 50,000 patients annually. She has supported various patient care initiatives at Boca Regional, and has donated to a number of community and national organizations.
Mrs. Wold's friendship with Gloria Drummond spanned more than 40 years until Mrs. Drummond's death in 2011. The 1962 deaths of Gloria's children, Debbie and Randall, galvanized Mrs. Drummond and the community to raise funds to build a local hospital; Boca Raton Community Hospital opened in 1967. Mrs. Wold actively supports the Debbie-Rand Memorial Service League, which founded the Hospital, was its first philanthropic organization and coordinates its robust volunteer services.
"Elaine and Gloria were two determined and compassionate friends. Their shared desire to make a difference has had a profound impact on our community," said Mark Larkin, President, BRRH Foundation. "Elaine's generosity, and the generous support of so many others, has made Boca Regional all that it has become today…something I'm sure that Gloria never imagined but would make her so very proud and grateful."
Mrs. Wold's gift comes on the heels of $35 million in donations for the Hospital's master facility plan from Stanley and Marilyn Barry, Christine E. Lynn, and Richard and Barbara Schmidt and the Schmidt Family Foundation. All three made their announcements on January 8, 2018 in one of the most profound displays of philanthropy in one day in the 50-year history of the Hospital. The Barrys are gifting $10 million, Mrs. Lynn's gift totals $15 million, and the Schmidts are making a $10 million gift.
"These donors are setting the pace for others in our community in order to ensure outstanding, best-in-class healthcare in Boca Raton. We are tremendously grateful of their support," said Jerry Fedele, Boca Raton Regional Hospital's President and CEO.
About Boca Raton Regional Hospital – Advancing the boundaries of medicine.
Boca Raton Regional Hospital is an advanced, tertiary medical center (BRRH.com) with 400 beds and more than 800 primary and specialty physicians on staff. The Hospital is a recognized leader in Cardiovascular Care, Oncology, Women's Health, Orthopedics, Emergency Medicine and the Neurosciences, all of which offer state-of-the-art diagnostic and imaging capabilities. The Hospital is a designated Comprehensive Stroke Center by the Florida Agency for Health Care Administration (AHCA).
Thomas Chakurda, 561.955.3586
tchakurda@brrh.com
Posted in Breaking News, Companies & People, Inpatient Projects


text:
THE MELODRAMATIC ELEPHANT IN THE HAUNTED CASTLE
The Melodramatic Elephant in the Haunted Castle has brought together a diverse group of local creative talent to produce a spectacular show and final piece of theatre for the Coronet. The show layers music, dance, inventive costume, handcrafted sets, art and short film, and blends acting styles such as classic melodrama and Brechtian technique. This page welcomes you to meet the team behind the production and the actors you'll see onstage and onscreen during the performance.
The play was performed on the 8 November 2017 with a follow up art exhibition at the Art Academy Gallery from 9-20 December.
CREW AND COLLABORATIVE ARTISTS
John Whelan
People's Company founder John, the play's director and co-writer, has enjoyed developing this project in partnership with his local community, and fusing art and theatre. The process has increased his knowledge of local history and pushed the boundaries of his professional practice.
Constantine Gras
Multimedia artist Constantine researched this project to connect with lost cinema and theatre spaces. His art practice has been detoxed and enriched by close collaboration with John and the fantastically, fun-charged People's Company members.
Rachele Fregonese
Stage manager and assistant director Rachele is an actress, writer, and theatre maker. She has trained in Italy, the US and the UK and, after joining People's Company at the very beginning, she now facilitates their workshops, provides acting advice and assists with their productions.
Ruth Pearson
Ruth recently completed her BA in Drama. She is delighted to assist in directing for The Melodramatic Elephant. She describes working with the production as a perfect opportunity to become part of her local history and enjoys exploring the changing face of Elephant and Castle.
Aubrey Ayoade
After receiving his MA in Creative Writing (Plays and Scripts), Aubrey collaborated with 'Guerrilla Filmmakers' and wrote a play for Barons Court Theatre. Script editing for The Melodramatic Elephant has reinvigorated his passion for writing and visual storytelling.
Alongside the main crew, the play would not exist without the exceptional contributions from the following talent:
Laurence (Lysergide), music
Laurence, proud co-owner of Frenchkickz Records and Hardcore music producer, has created contemporary pieces of music for the play. Some of his first DJ sets were at the Coronet and he feels a strong connection to the venue.
Samina Sattar, costume design
Samina has recently moved into theatre work, her love of stitch pushes her creativity with making products to sell at Greenwich Market, to undertaking private commissions for clients in bringing her vision and creative eye regarding colour and cloth.
Sandra Crisp, digital sequences
One short film within the play is the creation of digital artist, Sandra Crisp. Sandra's piece combines digital imagery, Constantine's artwork and 3D rendering to create a dynamic, textured collage celebrating the Coronet.
Ishola Akanni
After studying Film and Television Screenwriting at UAL, Ishola has taken acting workshops at RADA and Pineapple Performing Arts School. Since then, he has forged his career as an actor with various film and TV credits.
Nina Atesh
Nina started acting at a young age. Her stage work includes productions of The Tempest and Andrew Lloyd Webber's Whistle Down the Wind. She currently studies at Identity Drama School of Acting.
Eloy Barba
Eloy studied acting at Morley College before joining People's Company in 2016. He enjoys the experiences the company offers and the people that make it special.
Tiberius Chis
Tiberiu is studying for a PHD in Computer Science but still finds time to act in numerous plays and at the Edinburgh Fringe. He has made several short films, three of which screened at the London Short Film Festival.
Miranda Clarke
Miranda attended drama classes with Theatre Peckham before joining People's Company in the summer of 2017. She enjoys acting as it allows her to change her character as much as her hair colour!
Carolyn Cronin
Despite having no prior acting experience, Carolyn felt accepted into the People's Company family immediately. She enjoys the friendly atmosphere and performing with the team boosts her confidence.
Sonja Doubleday
Sonja has a BA and HND in Community Dance and Acting respectively. Her diverse performance background includes singing, plays, short films, and writing. She is currently on tour performing as clown stand up, 'Cheekykita'.
Rawlene Evelyn
Rawlene is the newest member of People's Company! In her youth, she was a member of the National Youth Theatre. She also studied Drama at Morley College. The Melodramatic Elephant will be her first performance with People's Company.
Shelagh Farren
Shelagh has been with People's Company since its inception. The company has driven her into things she'd never have contemplated and loves working with the team on fun projects. She describes their weekly meeting as "Happy Tuesday".
Erina Jamil Nordin
Erina has been a member of People's Company since the beginning, describing it as her "theatrical home". Following drama training, she has already amassed credits in feature films, adverts and theatre.
Jackie Kearns
Jackie loves being part of People's Company and appreciates its passionate responses to current issues. She also enjoys singing as a hobby. The Melodramatic Elephant will be her first performance as a member of the company.
Kimberly Marie Freeman
Kimberly is a professional actress, producer, and animal behaviour expert. She has produced award-winning work on both sides of the Atlantic. Her theatre credits include A Brief History of Scotland and The Marionettes.
Charlotte Nicod
Charlotte has been a People's Company member since Jan 2017 and her first performance with them was Scratch at Theatre Delicatessen. She has enjoyed learning about the history of melodrama and its famous figures.
Adriana Solari
Adriana's passions lie in the past and present, with a particular interest in historical dances. She is also a keen costumier and offered her assistance with the play's costumes. This is her first performance with People's Company.
Harvey Steven Meneses
Harvey is a trained method actor and studied at Central de Cine Acting School. His credits include theatre and film. Previously working with the Young Company, this is his first People's Company production.
Elly Stewart
Elly is an actress and writer. She studied at The London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art before proving her skills on the Glasgow circuit. Her work has also been produced at the Edinburgh Fringe. This is her first performance with People's Company.
Michelle Strutt
Michelle's background lies in acting and the performing arts. She joined People's Company in April 2017 and appreciates the opportunity it provides the community to get involved with their vibrant, talented team.
Mina Temple
Mina has been with People's Company since 2015 and describes it as a warm, friendly, and supportive family. She enjoys the challenges of The Melodramatic Elephant, a play which increased her local history knowledge.
Michael Tuffnell
Michael describes himself as 'an actor, friend, cat lover, and life enthusiast'. He joined People's Company in 2015 and loves its vibrant community. He is enjoying working on a play celebrating his local history.
Euan Vincent
Euan is a writer, actor, and member of the marketing team at People's Company. He writes a blog focusing on the South London theatre scene and will study his Masters at RADA in 2018.


text:
Ian Woods (* 7. Juni 1966 in Dalbeattie) ist ein ehemaliger britischer Biathlet.

Karriere
Bereits 1984 nahm Ian Woods an den Olympischen Winterspielen in Sarajevo teil, ohne vorher je ein internationales Rennen bestritten zu haben. Das Einzelrennen beendete er auf einem starken 14. Rang von 44 Teilnehmern. Seine erste Weltmeisterschaft bestritt der Brite allerdings erst 1989 in Feistritz an der Drau, wo er 76. des Sprints wurde und das Einzel nicht beendete. Ein Jahr später wurde Woods 61. des Sprints und 69. des Einzels, 1991 in Lahti 54. des Einzels, 60. des Sprints und mit Kenneth Rudd, Malcolm Hamilton und Mike Dixon 14. im Staffelrennen. 1992 nahm Woods in Albertville zum zweiten Mal an Olympischen Winterspielen teil und belegte Rang 72 im Sprint und wurde mit Dixon, Paul Ryan und Rudd Staffel-18. Bei den zwischenolympischen Weltmeisterschaften in Borowez kam Woods auf die Plätze 81 im Sprint, 62 im Einzel und wurde als Startläufer der Staffel mit Dixon, Rudd und Ryan 21. Der Karriereabschluss wurden die Olympischen Winterspiele 1994 in Lillehammer, wo er in allen drei Rennen eingesetzt wurde. Im Sprint wurde er 49., im Einzel 54. sowie mit Dixon, Mark Gee und Rudd 17. im Staffelwettbewerb. Nach dieser Saison beendete Ian Woods mit 27 Jahren seine Karriere.

Statistiken

Biathlon-Weltcup-Platzierungen

Olympische Winterspiele
Ergebnisse bei Olympischen Winterspielen:

Biathlon-Weltmeisterschaften
1992 und 1994 wurden reine Teamweltmeisterschaften ausgetragen.

Weblinks

 Resultate bei the-sports.org

Biathlet (Vereinigtes Königreich)
Olympiateilnehmer (Vereinigtes Königreich)
Brite
Geboren 1966
Mann
Teilnehmer der Olympischen Winterspiele 1992
Teilnehmer der Olympischen Winterspiele 1994

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaWikipedia


For those of us who joke that "Twitter killed my blog," I have a new meme for you! Every Tuesday, I'll host a Linky for you post your best Twitter status screen capture of the week.
Post your Twitter Capture Tuesday screenshots, or links to the individual tweets, here! Make sure to tweet it and use the #TwitterCaptureTuesday hashtag.


text:
Putting the blame on Imperialism – by Ianina Harari
Publicado el 23/10/2015 23/10/2015 en English-industry
On the development of the automotive industries in Argentina and Brazil and foreign companies.
By Ianina Harari – (Translated by Leonardo Kosloff)
The theory of imperialism can sometimes be a good excuse to justify ignorance. There have been attempts at explaining the economic problems in countries of late development by imperialist oppression, but which lack the knowledge of how capitalism historically evolved in them. In this way, foreign companies are the agents of this oppression, and their actions would explain all the local shortcomings.
The problem of these conceptions is that foreign companies do not always act in the same form in all countries; hence, the outcome is not always the same. One example is the automotive industry in Argentina and Brazil. In both countries this branch has developed at the mercy of the establishment of foreign capitals. But, while in the first case this industry remained attached to the domestic market, in the second case exports shot up. Let us see how, with the exact opposite arguments, the pseudo-Marxist intellectuals have defended the idea that imperialism hinders national development.
Argentine nationalism
The Argentine automotive industry exists due to the establishment of foreign terminals in the '60's. A widely spread interpretation of this phenomenon is that the quasi-speculative behavior of these companies caused the meager development of the branch. The author who synthesized this position was Jorge Schvarzer [1]. According to him, transnational companies brought in the least necessary amount of capital to the country and did not adapt machinery to the smaller local scale. Schvarzer does not maintain this line of interpretation coherently: in one page, inefficient industries were generated in this form with high excess capacity. But, contradictorily, in another page, he sets out the argument that great efforts were invested in the adaptation of plants to the domestic market. In turn, he points out that the size of the local plants was smaller than that of their headquarters and that production plans were narrow. In his assessment, the latter would demonstrate that they had short-term mentality and a lack of productive attitude. So…, which one is it then?
For Schvarzer, the problem of the plants' reduced size derived from the denial of foreign companies to embark on exporting ventures, in spite of state policies, to which the terminals were opposed given that the contracts with their headquarters banned them from selling in external markets. Luckily, he saved us the work of refuting this argument, for he does so himself: in the 'camporist' epoch exports to Cuba were made, including by terminals such as Ford, which supposedly had it forbidden due to the US blockade on the island. In effect, this possibility was instigated both by terminals as by auto parts makers. The idea that sister companies were opposed to exports is false, since transnational companies like Ford had implemented, beginning in the '70s, the policy of promoting exports from their affiliates [2]. Schvarzer reads the process starting from its ulterior results and assumes, even against part of the information he presents, that if exports were not made from Argentina it was because there was no will to do so. In his national-developmentalist dream, the possibility that Argentina was not apt to function as a platform for an exporting automotive industry is absent. As a result, he can only conceive the turn to the domestic market of the affiliate companies as a by-product of speculation and policy of imperialist companies, whose sole desire is to keep underdeveloped countries subjugated.
Brazilian pseudo-Marxism
The development of the neighbor country has been analyzed by a famous dependentist, Ruy Mauro Marini [3], who puts forward that, due to the increase in productivity which is generated with the establishment of foreign companies, there ensues a trend to unemployment which forestalls the creation of a market in line with industrial development. Evidence of this would be afforded by the high levels of excess capacity. Concomitantly, industrialization in Brazil would thereby be centered upon sumptuary goods, beyond the reach of popular consumption. For that reason, these goods would not be part of the value of a super-exploited labor force, since workers would then cease to be part of the market which capitalists are aiming to capture.
The author points out that, in the central countries, the tendency to market contraction through the reduction of workers' consumption is countered by the adaptation of technology to the domestic market, something which he does not demonstrate, and by the expansion to foreign markets [4]. Marini overestimates the capacity of technological adaptation in the central countries without presenting any evidence. On the other hand, he does not formulate the problem in historical terms. Even if, to some degree, this adaptation to smaller scales were possible over a certain period, this situation would not be feasible for an indefinite amount of time. Because, even without excess capacity, the technology adapted to smaller scales implies, in economic terms, larger total productive costs. Therefore, those capitals which fit this description would be the ones which, once the moment of crisis sets in, would perish against large scale capitals. In addition, his hypotheses do not correspond with what effectively happened in Latin American countries, at least in regards to the automotive industry, one of the main recipients of foreign direct investment. It is not true that the technology utilized in countries of the periphery was not, to a certain extent, adapted to the scale of domestic markets.
Marini considers that Brazil cannot avoid the impact of the increase in productivity over the domestic market because technology would not be controlled by the local bourgeoisie and because the external markets would be dominated by the imperialist countries. Thus, the Brazilian bourgeoisie was obliged to associate itself with imperialist capital offering it the possibility of extraordinary profits, wholly dependent on cheap labor. On this basis, industry would aim at the external markets. This alternative, contrary to the arguments of Argentine nationalists, does take into account the origins of Brazilian adversities.
The neighbor's always looks better
Both in Argentina and in Brazil, capital was not capable of creating an industry at the level of American industry. But while the Argentine nationalists complain about having been prevented from developing like Brazil, it looks as though Brazilians would have preferred being like Argentina and limit themselves to the internal market. In both visions, imperialist capital seems to guide itself on the premise of maintaining underdevelopment, expressed in the smaller scale plants and productivity, although it is not clear why imperialism chooses different paths in each case.
However, the explanation is actually simpler once the logic of capital is understood. The factories which were created were, in both cases, smaller in size and had backward machinery compared to that of its countries of origin due to size of the market in which they operated. Even if production had been centralized in the hands of a single capital, that is, a monopoly, the average world-scale productivity could not have been achieved. On the other hand, the fact that companies had excess capacity shows that bringing equipment with higher productive capacity to Argentina or Brazil would have been uneconomical.
The search for external markets was an explicit policy of foreign terminals, both in Brazil and Argentina [5]. The countries where this possibility did not prosper were those whose domestic markets were small, as in the Argentinean case, and did not have the necessary productivity to compete even in the Latin American market. Brazil, the then major competitor of Argentina, had a higher productivity given the scale of its factories, which operated in a larger internal market and, therefore, had less costs.
The emptiness left by the lack of analysis of concrete data is supplanted with a mystical and religious appeal to imperialism. In these nationalist perspectives of economics, foreign capitals are "evil" and, by mere opposition, national capitals are "good." As anyone who can add two and two knows, between capitalists there are no good and evil ones, but simply entrepreneurs who seek to maximize profit on the back of workers. Be they national or foreign, in Argentina, Brazil or the USA, the problem is not solved by removing the foreign bourgeoisie, but the whole bourgeoisie. In this point, lies the difference between the nationalist dreamers and the socialist revolutionaries.
[1] Schvarzer, Jorge: La industria que supimos conseguir, Ediciones Cooperativas, Bs. As., 2000. Schvarzer, also known as Victor Testa, was a disciple of Milcíades Peña. Peña's position can be found in 'Industrialización y clases sociales en la Argentina', Hyspamerica, Bs.As., 1986.
[2] Jenkins, Rhys: "Internationalization of Capital and the Semi-Industrialized Countries: The Case of the Motor Industry", in Review of Radical Political Economics, Vol. 17, nº 1-2, 1985.
[3] Marini, Ruy Mauro: La dialéctica del desarrollo capitalista en Brasil. Subdesarrollo y revolución, Siglo XXI, 1985 y Dialéctica de la dependencia, Ediciones Era, México, 1973.
[4] Strictly speaking, this argument is erroneous: the increase in productivity does not necessarily displace workers, as long as total production can increase at a faster rate, as a result of the expansion toward foreign markets or by the expansion of the domestic market. Indeed, the domestic market, in a context of increasing total investment, will expand so that, on one hand, this will generate more demand for the product in question, and on the other, the cheapening of the commodity produced in better technical conditions will make it accessible to new tiers of consumers.
[5] This can be seen in the report of the Asociación de Fábricas de Automotores: Los factores que distorsionan la formación de los costos en la industria automotriz, 1969.
Anterior historia Previous post: Where did Braverman go wrong? A Marxist response to the politicist critiques – by Eduardo Sartelli and Marina Kabat
Siguiente historia Next post: If it is not true it is not interesting
Últimas novedades de English-industry
Where did Braverman go wrong? A Marxist response to the politicist critiques – by Eduardo Sartelli and Marina Kabat
by Eduardo Sartelli1 and Marina Kabat2. Cadernos EBAPE. BR 12.4 (2014): 829-850.
Fantasies of the Past. What the «imports subsitution industrialization»; was, and what it wasn´t – By Damian Bil
Damián Bil OME – CEICS (Marxist Economics Observatory – Center for Study


from Howcast Sewing Machine Repair For the Home Sewer from: Annie's Combo Pack Needles – 9/pkg. – $9.99 at Annies Machine needles in several styles and sizes. Package includes: Universal (1-10, 2-12, 1-14), Stretch (1-11, 1-14), Denim (1-14,1-16), Twin (1-2.0). 9/pkg.


The System.Net.Mime namespace holds types that are used to represent Multipurpose Internet Mail Exchange (MIME) headers. These types are used with the types in the System.Net.Mail namespace to specify Content-Type, Content-Disposition and Content-transfer-Encoding headers when using the System.Net.Mail.SmtpClient class to send e-mail.
MIME data is represented by the System.Net.Mail.Attachment class.
Represents a MIME protocol Content-Disposition header.
Represents a MIME protocol Content-Type header.
Supplies the strings used to specify the disposition type for an e-mail attachment.
Specifies the media type information for an e-mail message attachment.
MediaTypeNames+Application Documentation for this section has not yet been entered.
MediaTypeNames+Image Documentation for this section has not yet been entered.
MediaTypeNames+Text Documentation for this section has not yet been entered.
Specifies the Content-Transfer-Encoding header information for an e-mail message attachment.


Where To Drink High Quality Coffee In Madrid - Spanish Tapas Madrid - Probably the best Tapas Tour in Madrid!
Madrid is quickly establishing itself as a reputable destination for coffee-lovers. Consumed more and more in Madrid,you will discover chic and rustic coffeeshops spread around Madrid. In this article, we'll be examining some amazing places in Madrid to enjoy exceptional coffee.
Cafelito offers a wide range of excellent coffee blends at highly competitive prices. The Cafelito café has been designed to aid relaxation and comfort, and it is a great place to unwind with a cup of tasty coffee after a long day. Apart from the excellent coffee choices available, Cafelito also offers amazing cakes that would leave your taste buds tingling. Just like their coffee, Cafelito's cakes are baked using only the finest quality ingredients, by the most trusted professionals, and with the best of techniques to give exquisite cakes. Cafelito also offers interesting and stimulating book collections ranging from classic literature to contemporary masterpieces. The amazingly fun things to do at Cafelito are numerous, but the coffee remains the most fabulous part of Cafelito's irresistible appeal.
This quirky, yet exceptional coffee shop is in Calle de Palma. The service in this lovely shop is impressive, and the warm, friendly staff would be first highlight of your visit to the café. The ambience of the café is also quite extraordinary, helping to showcase the beauty of local Spanish architecture. Finally, Toma Café offers a wide range of coffee choices, each unique blend has an outstanding taste and has been carefully prepared to not only delight your taste buds but to meet up with the industry's strict health standards. The Toma Caféalso offers amazing side dishes to go with your coffee and make your simple coffee drinking experiences memorable. The Toma Café is well located, meaning while you relax with your cup of coffee, you can use the opportunity to meet new people and learn more about the local culture as you view life in Spain from a different, refreshing perspective.
Pum Pum Café offers excellent coffee options that are sure to be a delight to adventurous taste buds. The Café opens to the world at 9:00AM every day and offers its warm services till nightfall. The café's staff are polite and amazing, and apart from buying a refreshing cup of coffee, you can use the opportunity of sitting in this café to interact with the locals and learn a thing or two about the unbelievable city of Madrid. Pum Pum Café is in Calle del Tribulete, Madrid.
This lovely coffee shop is a true marvel, run by a Chinese barista who was bred in Spain. HanSo Café is in Calle de Pez and offers a wide range of coffee choices, including blends with an infusion of Asian culture. The whole café exudes a vivid Spanish vibe with a subtle Asian touch, and the amazing view from the coffee shop would make your experience at HanSo's even more fascinating. This café offers awesome quality coffee. HanSo Café's proximity to the city center makes it easier to access for the average tourist, and the Asian pastries that are offered alongside the coffee are truly delicious. Simply put, HanSo's café serves its coffee with a remarkable difference.
In all, Madrid offers some of the best coffee selections in the world. Take your time to explore the amazing cafés and immerse yourself in the rich Spanish culture as you enjoy some of the world's finest coffee blends.


TIM KRUL could be the best goalkeeper in the Premier League right now, but while his performances in the penalty box have been eye-catching his musical tastes are still ear-bashing.
Krul, who has been linked with a move to Spurs, likes Garage.
Newcastle visit Norwich today whose boss Paul Lambert has called on his side to put their 5-1 drubbing at Manchester City behind them.
Lambert wants his squad to use the experience as inspiration when they look to avoid what would be a fourth defeat in five games.
He said: "Manchester City took five off Tottenham away from home and six at Manchester United, but you don't want to think 'well, it is only City we have played against'.
"You want the feeling of having a real disappointment of losing. We should be sore.


An open space with natural light and modern accents, this stunning venue is the perfect back drop for events, pop-ups, photo and video shoots.
Full AV Services are available. Easy Equipment Load In. Full Catering Kitchen on site with multiple menu options for guests and crew (additional charge).
Smoking is not allowed on the property. This space can hold up to 500 guests.
Our service staff will be available to ensure all goes smoothly.


text:
Palmarès

 2009 (Una vittoria)
Critérium de Douchy-les-Mines

 2010 (Jong Vlaanderen-Bauknecht, una vittoria)
Grote Prijs van de Stad Geel

 2011 (Jong Vlaanderen-Bauknecht, due vittorie)
Erelijst Grote Prijs - Affligem
Grote Prijs Marcel Seynaeve - Bredene

 2012 (Jong Vlaanderen Cycling Team e Bofrost-Steria, sette vittorie)
Torhout
Grote Prijs Deschuytter - Oudenburg
1ª tappa Tour de Liège (Welkenraedt > Welkenraedt)
Grote Prijs Maurice Raes - Heusden
Campionati belgi, prova in linea Under-23
Blankenberge
Lichtervelde

 2013 (Ventilair-Steria Cycling Team, tredici vittorie)
Meulebeke
Grote Prijs van Seniorie Huize Westerhuize - Bredene
2ª tappa Tweedaagse van de Gaverstreek
Classifica generale Tweedaagse van de Gaverstreek
Middelkerke
3ª tappa Tour de Bretagne (La Turballe > Le Rheu)
5ª tappa Tour de Bretagne (Saint-Thélo > Le Quillio)
Temse
Ereprijs Brandstoffen Deschuytter - Oudenburg
Grote Prijs Oscar Naert - Oostende
Grote Prijs Patrik Bruyneel - Oostkamp
Blankenberge
Hooglede

 2015 (Roubaix-Lille Métropole, due vittorie)
2ª tappa Tour Alsace (Dannemarie > Huningue)
4ª tappa Tour Alsace (Colmar > Sélestat)

 2016 (Veranda's Willems Cycling Team, quindici vittorie)
2ª tappa Driedaagse van West-Vlaanderen (Nieuwpoort > Ichtegem)
Nokere Koerse
1ª tappa Tour de Normandie (Mondeville > Forges-les-Eaux)
3ª tappa Tour de Normandie (Bourg-Achard > Argentan)
6ª tappa Tour de Normandie (Coutances > Caen)
Dwars door de Vlaamse Ardennen
Grand Prix Criquielion
Memorial Philippe Van Coningsloo
Grand Prix de la ville de Pérenchies
1ª tappa Tour Alsace (Velleminfroy > Dannemarie)
2ª tappa Tour Alsace (Altkirch > Huningue)
4ª tappa Tour Alsace (Colmar > Sélestat)
Antwerpse Havenpijl
De Kustpijl
Kampioenschap van Vlaanderen

 2017 (Veranda's Willems-Crelan, una vittoria)
Grote Prijs Jef Scherens

 2018 (Wanty-Groupe Gobert, una vittoria)
Schaal Sels

 2019 (Wanty-Groupe Gobert, una vittoria)
1ª tappa Tour de Wallonie (Le Rœulx > Dottignies)

 2021 (Bingoal WB, una vittoria)
2ª tappa Étoile de Bessèges (Saint-Geniès > La Calmette)

2022 (Bingoal Pauwels Sauces WB, una vittoria)
4ª tappa Ster Toer (Sint Willebrord > Mierlo)

Altri successi

 2009 (Jong Vlaanderen-Bauknecht)
Merelbeke

 2010 (Jong Vlaanderen-Bauknecht)
Dudzele

 2013 (Ventilair-Steria Cycling Team)
Campionati belgi, prova a squadre
Classifica a punti Tour du Loir-et-Cher
Classifica a punti Tour de Bretagne
Derny's te Bornem

 2015 (Roubaix-Lille Métropole)
Classifica a punti Tour Alsace

 2016 (Veranda's Willems)
Classifica a punti Driedaagse van West-Vlaanderen
Classifica a punti Tour de Normandie
Classifica a punti Tour Alsace

Piazzamenti

Grandi Giri
Tour de France
2018: 131º

Classiche monumento

Giro delle Fiandre
2022: ritirato

Parigi-Roubaix
2019: 52º
2021: 91º
2022: fuori tempo massimo

Altri progetti

Collegamenti esterni


As near as I can google, the main difference between a Maibock and a Helles Bock is a Maibock is on the higher end of the hop and gravity spectrum (within the parameters presented above from the BJCP) and a Helles is on the lower end. That and a Maibock is brewed to be had in May.
This Corvus Hella Goat will be on the lower end and will be consumed well before May.
We'll lager a Maibock in January for the Spring Equinox.
Our first attempt at a lager was brewed back in January and stored in deep lager for 7 months.
Today we bottled it. 4 - 1000 ml bottles, 1 - 660 ml bottle, 1 - 500 ml bottle (seen here) 9 - 330 ml bottles and 18 - 12 oz bottles (not shown). A small yield in big bottles from an early production.
The Double Goat, weighing in at just over 7%, will be ready for Octoberfest!!
And it frees up the lager vessel.
Soon we will brew a Helles Bock to lager till January.
Our winter rains have finally arrived and so have our hops. The vines are strong and happy.
California state statute § 23356.2 allows the manufacture of beer for personal or family use, and not for sale by a person over the age of 21. The aggregate amount of beer with respect to any household shall not exceed 200 gallons or 100 gallons if only one adult resides in such household.
The brewery has been a busy place and it's going to have to keep up the late nights if we're going to exceed the legal limit of brewing in 2012.
There's been the bottling of the very anticipated and much talked about Imperialis (Duplices Oculus Pallidus Cervisie).
Two Pallidus were brewed last week. A Double Brewday Week with a Golfday in between.
CTZ (hop) is an acronym for Columbus, Tomahawk, and Zeus, three trade names owned by various private corporations for the same variety of hop, a superalpha cultivar that is capable of delivering about 14% to 18% alpha acids. In addition to being a powerful bittering hop, CTZ also has some solid, slightly pungent aromas derived from about 1.5 to 2 ml of hop oil per 100 g. CTZ ranks among the most widely grown hop in the United States and is planted in all major American growing regions.
Over time, certain varieties of hops are grouped together. Noble hops are a group of hops that have been used in beer for a very long time and they are all grown in continental Europe. Another hop group, which is much newer, is the Three Cs. These are American hops that all have names that start with the letter "C" and have come to define ales brewed in this country. Cascade, Centennial, and Columbus (some sources now extend the group to more than just 3).
Origin: USA. It was bred in 1974 (known as CFJ90) and released to the public in 1990. It is a cross between many different varieties including: Brewers Gold, Fuggle, East Kent Golding & Bavarian.
Aroma: Pungent. Citrus-Like. Floral but not as floral as Cascade. More bitter than Cascade though.
Typical Usage: Some sources stated bitterness; other sources stated aroma/finishing hop. I think Centennial is one of those great dual purpose hops.
Beer Styles: It is a defining hop variety in American pale ales and IPA styles. Some sources stated that they would work well in darker ales too.
Both Brewdays went very well. Target gravities were hit, efficiency was excellent, challenges were presented and met. It went very smoothly, twice. Part of the thrill came from our exciting new North Carolina Walnut mash paddle.
AND we've got the Corvusator into Deep Lagering.
That will be bottled in May. Then we shall brew an Octoberfest and slam that in the box for the rest of the summer. Sadly this lageration ties up a valuable carboy and slows down production.
Beer Week is in full swing and last night's event was big fun. There was a great turn out of enthusiasts and Garage Brewers including local celebrities OBC.
We poured four different Single Hop Pallidus, put out hop samples, and had a great time.
Super Thanks to Todd and Toast!!


text:
Outgoing Virginia AG rules state can't revoke Equal Rights Amendment ratification
In this Sept. 1, 2021, file photo, Virginia Attorney General Mark Herring addresses the Virginia FREE Leadership Luncheon in McLean, Va. (AP Photo/Cliff Owen, File) more >
By Stephen Dinan - The Washington Times - Friday, January 7, 2022
Virginia's legislature cannot rescind its ratification of the Equal Rights Amendment to the Constitution, Democratic Attorney General Mark Herring said in an opinion this week, acting just days before he leaves office.
Mr. Herring said the Constitution sets out procedures for ratification but is silent on revoking ratification, so it was not part of the founders' design. He said Virginia law also only talks about ratification, not revocation.
"For the foregoing reasons, it is my opinion that Virginia cannot rescind its ratification of the ERA," wrote Mr. Herring.
He will be replaced by Republican Jason Miyares, who has told The Washington Times he will review the state's legal stance on the ERA.
Democrats in Virginia rushed to ratify the ERA in January 2020 after winning control of both chambers of the state's General Assembly in elections in 2019. The state became the 38th to vote to ratify — putting the ERA over the two-thirds threshold the Constitution requires for a new amendment to be added to the founding document.
But that vote, as well as votes by Illinois and Nevada, came decades after the deadline Congress set, sparking a major constitutional conundrum that still confounds policymakers.
In addition to the deadline issue, five other states that previously ratified the ERA voted to revoke that vote — including several that acted before the original deadline for ratification. Without them, the amendment would stand at just 33 ratifications, well below the threshold.
Those issues are being fought in federal courts now, with Virginia — acting through Mr. Herring — as the lead plaintiff in the critical case. Mr. Miyares, who will soon take over, has indicated he expects that lawsuit to be dismissed.
The Equal Rights Amendment's key text reads: "Equality of rights under the law shall not be denied or abridged by the United States or by any State on account of sex."
Congress submitted the amendment to the states in 1972, with a ratification deadline of 1979. Only 35 states had ratified at that point — including the several that also voted later to revoke.
Congress then passed a law to extend the deadline to 1982.
It's unclear whether the extension is legal, much less any ratifications after that deadline. Add to that the question of revoked ratifications and the push for recognition as the 28th Amendment is fraught with complications.
The National Archives has been blocked from recognizing Virginia's ratification vote by a federal Justice Department opinion issued during the Trump era.
The long delay between the 1972 submission and Virginia's 2020 ratification vote also highlights other problems with the amendment, such as what the intention was. Gay rights were not part of the 1972 debate in Congress or the early ratifying states, but were front-and-center in the General Assembly when Virginia voted nearly five decades later.
Mr. Herring's opinion came in response to a request from state Sen. Mamie E. Locke, a Democrat from Hampton.
Democrats lost control of the state House in November's elections, but still hold the Senate, 21-19. That lessens the likelihood of a revocation, at least until after the next General Assembly elections in 2023.
• Stephen Dinan can be reached at sdinan@washingtontimes.com.


The Pavlova Project is a unique undertaking, and I get asked a lot of questions. Here are some of the most common regarding the dolls that I use.
Q: Where do you get the dolls?
A: I almost always buy my dolls, used and unclothed, on Ebay. They have all been made by The Tonner Doll Company, headed by the very talented doll designer Robert Tonner. These vinyl dolls, designed in the USA and manufactured in China, are considered Adult Collector Fashion Dolls, and are generally 16″ tall (adult female) or 17″ tall (adult male). Some of the adult female dolls come with ballet (en pointe) feet, others have interchangeable feet that can accommodate pointe shoes, high heels, or flats. The child dolls in my collection are also by Tonner and stand at 12″ high.
Robert has, unfortunately, discontinued most of these lines, but there is a huge secondary market on Ebay as well as on various online doll forums available only to collectors. Ebay is where I almost always buy my dolls, sometimes for a fraction of what a brand new, clothed doll would have cost. Rare dolls, however, can go for considerably more money. The price for one doll can range from $40 to over $200.
Q: Do you paint the faces and make the wigs?
A: No to both questions. The Tonner dolls already have beautiful faces originally designed by Robert and his team and hand-screened when the dolls are manufactured. Tonner has created dozens of different"sculpts", each of which has its own name. His "Stella" sculpt and "Kit" sculpt are my favorites but there are many other lovely faces as well. Some dolls come with rooted hair, others with removable wigs. I buy all my replacement wigs from the wonderful Marcia Friend at Facets Boutique. Her selection is so vast that I can always find what I need. By dressing the doll in a costume or fashion, and making minor tweaks to the face and hair, I can usually come up with a convincing quarter-scale Anna Pavlova, whichever sculpt I use. The male dolls also come in many sculpts and hair styles, and I have lots of fun choosing my Najiinskys, my Mordkins, my Fokines, or whoever else partners my Pavlovas.
Q: Do you make the pointe shoes and tights?
A: No to both questions. All of my stockings and tights are made to order for me by the very talented Wendy Bierwirth, of the online shop Doll Secrets without whose help my dancers would have to go bare-legged, something that would have been frowned upon during Pavlova's era! Wendy also has an Ebay store of the same name. The pointe shoes my dancers wear were initially bought through the Tonner Doll Company, but are now available on Ebay directly from the distributer in China. They have become increasingly rare, so I do snap them up when I can find them. For other kinds of shoes, I am once again indebted to the aforementioned Facets Boutique.


One thing I share with Ludwig Wittgenstein is a hostility towards metaphysics.
Henry Le Roy Finch argues* that the origin of metaphysics lies in the idea of identity, which he traces to Plato's conception of original or self-existing things, and to Aristotle's (and the Aristotelian tradition's) more systematically logical approach to the notion of self-identity.
That a thing is identical with itself (traditionally referred to as Aristotle's first law of thought) is often seen as the foundation for all logic.
Certainly, both this claim and the previously-cited one are anti-metaphysical. And, significantly, Wittgenstein saw metaphysics and religion (or at least the sort of religion he embraced) as being in opposition to one another rather than as allies.
Finch rightly points out that "identitylessness" is at the heart of some important religious traditions, notably Buddhism, certain forms of Christianity** and Islam in its Sufi aspect.
Wittgenstein said that his goal was to "show the fly the way out of the fly-bottle", which can be interpreted as referring to the freeing of the human being from his or her false self-perception as a thinking self in its own private world. And this view of freedom is quite consistent with the religious traditions listed above.
"The Stoic (and some would say also Judaic) idea of freedom is essentially that of Kant, which is that of the ethical self or free will, in which the self still retains its identity through its capacity to decide."
I remain uncomfortable with religious language and concepts, but I don't think someone like Wittgenstein can be understood (and I think he is worth trying to understand) if one ignores the implicit religious dimensions of his thought.
Also, having grown up (and so having invested a lot) in a religious tradition which I subsequently rejected, it's satisfying to see elements of that tradition coming into play here in a positive way.
* See his Wittgenstein, published by Element Books as part of the series Masters of Philosophy.
** I would single out the tradition known as fideism, and also the various mystical traditions. Pauline themes are important here; and it is worth noting in this connection that Wittgenstein liked the writings of the twentieth-century theologian Karl Barth.
So what do you mean by metaphysical?
When Wittgenstein says, "There is no such thing as the subject that thinks or entertains ideas", I read that as a perfect example of a metaphysical claim. It's about "what there is", except that is says what there isn't.
Strange how it can seem so different to you!
You can see the statement as metaphysical (in the broad, contemporary sense of the word) and also as anti-metaphysical in the sense that it is part of Wittgenstein's attempt to discourage certain ways of thinking which (in accord with Platonic metaphysics or a Cartesian perspective) see the self as a separate, private, 'spiritual' entity.
Wittgenstein himself recognized that the Tractatus was metaphysical, but it was part of the process of his freeing himself from metaphysical thinking.
You will know this quote but others may not: "My propositions are elucidatory in this way: he who understands me finally recognizes them as senseless, when he has climbed out through them, on them, over them. (He must, so to speak throw away the ladder, after he has climbed up on it.)"
So is it possible to not have a metaphysics? Is being anti-metaphysical merely a way of pretending one doesn't have a metaphysics?
You could certainly argue that we all have a metaphysics (generally implicit), and that any natural language reflects a rudimentary metaphysics. But metaphysics as a discipline can be understood in many different ways. My focus here was on Wittgenstein and the early 20th century when it was generally understood in a more traditional way.
I certainly reject the old idea that we can somehow determine - just by thinking - what is really real, and I don't see much value in all those old metaphysical systems that philosophers have been producing (on and off) for hundreds of years. I know post-WW2 metaphysics takes a more modest view of itself, but do we really need it? I have not read much Peter Strawson, for example, and it is possible I might get something out of it. But I just have the sense (from what I have read in the philosophy of language and related areas) that there is nothing there for me. It's difficult and rigorous but is it necessary or important?
My anti-metaphysical bias is just one of those tendencies one feels. It's like a hunch about where the truth lies (or doesn't lie). One sees metaphysical and anti-metaphysical currents of thought in the Middle Ages and in the 20th century, say. The context may be different but I try to 'place' myself in respect of the thinkers of times past.
Of course, hunches or intuitions are a just a starting point. One follows where they lead and if they turn out to be dead ends, then it's back to base.
But for now I am inclined to think that any study of 'what there is' which is not scientifically informed and driven is unlikely to be of much value.
My favourite metaphysician is Berkeley, who constructed the most outrageous transcendental metaphysical system, while vigorously insisting he was talking the merest common sense. For him it was the physicalist Newtonians who had gone off into cloud cuckoo land -- with their fictional discovery of stuff they called gravity and their pretended account of natural causation!
If Berkeley had lived in the early 20th century, he would have been a logical positivist, I think.
Not sure how the Vienna Circle would have felt about an Irish Anglican bishop (and mathematician) sitting down with them for coffee.
I too have a soft spot for Berkeley (and Spinoza and Bradley). But in the end I look to science.
Firstly, there is a distinction between those who see an at base morally neutral natural world as all there is - those with a non-religious orientation - and those with a tendency to see things in religious terms.
So the possibilities are:metaphysical religious (like Aquinas); anti-metaphysical religious (like Wittgenstein); metaphysical non-religious (like Bradley?); and anti-metaphysical non-religious (like me and a lot of other people).
I am speaking of general tendencies of thought here. Obviously the categories are not clearcut.
You also need a distinction between metaphysics as what-there-is (M1) and metaphysics as supernaturalist or anti-naturalist (M2). It quickly gets confusing.
So your four types would be: M1 and M2; not M1 or M2; M1 but not M2; and not M1 but M2.
I realize I have used 'metaphysical' in different senses: in particular, relating to the (traditional) discipline, and relating to particular views. But I suggested that these senses were linked insofar as those with Platonistic or Cartesian views tend to have a high regard for what pure reason can achieve and so tend to respect metaphysics as a discipline.
And, if even profoundly religious thinkers have doubts about the value of (traditional) metaphysics, it gives me more confidence in my (non-religious) anti-metaphysical orientation.


text:
Global Competitiveness
Voting & Demographics
Hispanics bring entrepreneurial spirit to U.S.
Twelve years ago, Claudia Mirza walked into the Greater Dallas Hispanic Chamber of Commerce as a job applicant.
She walked out as her own boss — or, at least, with the idea of how she could create a business. But her company has far exceeded her original vision.
Akorbi started out doing translations. However, Mirza's firm has evolved into more than just translating documents.
The Plano-based company regularly works with global corporations looking for ways to perform international transactions.
"We just went to Hong Kong, where a manager in Asia was unable to communicate with a client in India," Mirza said.
Her company is worth about $25 million, and this month, it was named one of the 50 fastest-growing women-owned/led companies worldwide by the Women Presidents' Organization.
Three other Dallas-area companies, two of them Latina-owned, also made the list: Nina Vaca, CEO of the Pinnacle Group; Beatriz Manetta, CEO of Argent Associates; and Kay Ivie of Ivie and Associates.


Arianna Walker is a speaker, an author and the Executive Director of Mercy Ministries UK- a Christian charity that works in partnership with churches across the UK to provide residential care for young women who are dealing with life controlling issues. Arianna is married with two children and lives in Bradford, West Yorkshire.
Clearly the most obvious answer is Jesus, but I would also say any person who looks full into the face of their pain, their adversity and chooses to rise up and take hold of the freedom Christ died to give them, just the normal every day people we may never get to hear about but whose lives and victories we will celebrate in eternity-they are my heroes!
To get to an old age, lose my marbles and cease being able to make a difference to the world.
Pinching my husband's bum at a party, only to realise it wasn't my husband when he turned round…!
I can do somersaults on the trampoline, does that count?
Freedom, hope, transformation, future, destiny, purpose, passion- i am inspired by seeing people triumph over trauma, and have victory over death!
To live full and die empty; to bring up my children to love God and serve His purposes and to see this generation turn to Christ…oh and an all expenses paid trip to Bora Bora!
Contact Arianna for more information about Mercy Ministries or to invite her to speak at your church or event.


Calhoun stops by to pick week 13 NFL games.
Episode #167 - Wk 12 PIcks N Kicks - Can Falcons Finish?
Double R joins is for an action packed podcast where we give out mid season awards, check the temperature of the NFL and debate wheter the Cowboys should give Romo some reps.


Established in 1959, the Bernard von Linburger-designed course at Golf & Country Club Blumisberg lies less than half an hour's drive from Bern, with a mix of open meadow and woodland holes routed around a pleasantly undulating property.
From 2006 to 2012, the layout was comprehensively upgraded and partially redesigned in several stages. A step-by-step approach to the renovations was decided upon to minimise the disruption to play and to spread the cost over several years.
Peter Harradine of Harradine Golf designed and supervised the alterations to a layout that sits close to his place of birth in Bern and, truth be told, Peter and his father Donald have probably built or renovated most of the courses in the Alpine region.
A water storage facility and new green complex was built on the 13th and a complete new 5th hole constructed. Natural water features were added to the 6th and 7th, encouraging the proliferation of local flora and fauna.
A new irrigation system was installed to manage water resources more efficiently, numerous tees were reconstructed and all the bunkers were renovated, with fescue turf laid on bunker faces and quartz sand used instead of the previous lake sand.


text:
import create from 'utils/create';
import defineProperties from 'utils/defineProperties';
import getGuid from 'utils/getGuid';
import config from 'config/config';
import initialise from 'Ractive/initialise';
import Viewmodel from 'viewmodel/Viewmodel';
import unwrap from 'extend/unwrapExtended';

export default function extend ( options = {} ) {
	var Parent = this, Child, proto, staticProperties;

	// if we're extending with another Ractive instance, inherit its
	// prototype methods and default options as well
	options = unwrap( options );

	// create Child constructor
	Child = function ( options, _options ) {
		initialise( this, options, _options );
	};

	proto = create( Parent.prototype );
	proto.constructor = Child;

	staticProperties = {
		// each component needs a guid, for managing CSS etc
		_guid: { value: getGuid() },

		// alias prototype as defaults
		defaults: { value: proto },

		// extendable
		extend: { value: extend, writable: true, configurable: true },

		// Parent - for IE8, can't use Object.getPrototypeOf
		_Parent: { value: Parent }
	};

	defineProperties( Child, staticProperties );

	// extend configuration
	config.extend( Parent, proto, options );

	Viewmodel.extend( Parent, proto );

	Child.prototype = proto;

	return Child;
}

redpajama_set_name: RedPajamaGithub