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wallpaperpainting · 4 years

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You Should Experience Painted Brick Fireplace Ideas At Least Once In Your Lifetime And Here’s Why | Painted Brick Fireplace Ideas

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alicescripts · 7 years

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Part 2, Chapter 2: Mouth of the Water

First the dogs will bark. They’ll know before any of us. Then I will have six to fifteen minutes.

I’ve been taking long walks on this coast, just north of the Oregon border. Bald eagles, actual bald eagles, sitting on a wide sandy beach, and I’m the only one here to see it. I can’t see anyone else in either direction. Waves repeating themselves at the tideline, clouds of birds fluttering up and resetting. 10 to 30 seconds after the dogs start barking, the ground will shake. 6 to 15 minutes later, the tsunami will come.

An earthquake is due here, and afterward the tsunami inevitable. If I began running when the dogs started barking, could I make it to the grassy dunes and up to the hills?

No. I can see the root, can make any plan I want, but I couldn’t outrun the wave. Six to fifteen minutes after the dogs started barking I would die. That’s what would happen.

No one in sight in any direction. Birds at the tideline, actual fucking bald eagles.

I finished my walk still alive. When what’s coming for me finally comes, there will be no warning.

[theme song]

Alice Isn’t Dead by Joseph Fink. Performed by Jasika Nicole, produced by Disparition.

Cape Disappointment. As picturesque piece of land as you’re going to find in this world. Northwest forest overlooking the point where the gray ocean, all froth and wave, and the mouth of the Columbia River, tranquil and turquoise, meet. A dangerous place for boats. Up on the cliffs above, the coast guard keep constant watch from a lighthouse.

I went up there, stood near their lookout. A panorama where so many have floundered, so many have died. But for now, just a beautiful view of the ocean.

The coast guard officer came out of the station, stood next to me in the railing. She closed her eyes, let the wind sweeping in off the river and the wind coming down the coast fight with each other in her hair. She was beautiful, is maybe why I talked to her. Or maybe it had been a long time since I talked to anyone except myself. Monologues broadcast to a wife who is out fighting a fight that I’m still trying to understand.

“Aren’t you supposed to be watching the boats?” I said. I meant it like a joke, but I think it came out like a reprimand. She opened her eyes, glanced at me. “No traffic right now,” she said. “I think it’ll be safe for me to take a second of fresh air, but don’t tell my bosses down the hill. They have different ideas about safety.”

“[chuckles] Always do, I said. I’m Keisha.”

��Laurel.”

“Not Officer something?” I asked.

“[scoffs] Yeah, Officer Something,” she said. “But for you, Laurel.”

A pressure in my chest that could have been pain or could have been laughter. It had been so long since I had flirted, or felt the fleeting pleasure of the five-minute crush. “What about that boat there?” I said. “Seems like you’re derelicting your duties, Laurel.”

There was a boat, medium-sized, tiny in comparison to the mighty cargo ships that come and go through this passage. It was painted black and sitting motionless near the mouth of the river. As soon as I pointed it out, I wished I hadn’t. There was a wrongness to it that didn’t belong to a spring afternoon’s flirtation.

Laurel didn’t look at the boat or at me. Any friendliness that had been in her face, or that I had imagined in her face, was gone.“I’m not supposed to talk while on duty, Ma’am,” she said. “Excuse me.” She went back into the station, slamming the door. [chuckle] I haven’t lost my touch, Alice!

We have a problem as a society. Our goal is efficiency, but the result of efficiency by definition is that it takes less work to get things done. And less work to get things done means there is less work to do. If there is less work, there are less jobs. Progress destroys jobs.

Another result of efficiency is an explosion in population. The easier things get, the less of us die. More and more of us, less and less jobs.

This place was named by a fur trader who stopped here and failed to discover the Columbia River around the corner. And so this little piece of coast line heaven is Cape Disappointment. There’s this one beach on an inlet tucked away from the main trail. I had to go down a path that was more a controlled fall than path. The water was shallow and clear, the sharp blue of a tropical sea in a postcard. There were people living in tents on that semi-hidden beach. I watched them play with their dogs. The dogs swam way out into the inlet. I wanted to swim too but the water, for all its tropical appearance, was freezing.

When I went back to where I had parked, a buck came out of the woods and crossed the road right in front of me. Slow, leisurely, unafraid. Later I went up north a bit, to a place that billed itself as a free museum, but was more of a gift shop with some stuff stuck to its walls. Jackalopes and two-headed calves and the like. Old coin-operated stuff. A coin-operated execution. You put in your quarter and the minute your castle doors opened, a priest read last rites, the prisoner was hung, and a black flag rose over the castle walls. I paid to see it twice.

They had a body they built as an alligator man. I think it’s an actual corpse’s head stuck on the body of an alligator which is… Well, it’s something. They had it in a glass case, next to a T-shirt rack. For a quarter I could get a penny smashed with its image. I didn’t.

I bought a Piña Colada flavored saltwater taffy. While I was buying it, I asked the guy behind the counter about the boat I had seen. I don’t know why, but the reaction of Laurel made me curious. He frowned. “Not many people ask about that boat,” he said. “Tourists don’t stick around long enough to notice it. Locals know enough not to talk about it. That’ll be 3.99.” “Why don’t locals talk about it?” I asked. What, I was gonna be friends with this guy? Either he’d tell me or he wouldn’t. He looked past me to the next customer. [monotonous voice] “It’s been in the same spot for three decades now,” he said. “Don’t seem to be anchored, just unaffected by currents. Holds its position. No one is ever seen onboard. People who ask questions about it learn that they shouldn’t. I need to help the next person in life.” “OK,” I said, wondering why I had bought saltwater taffy. The taste is disappointing, the texture’s garbage. “Thanks!” and I left the free museum with my four-dollar shitty candy.

Down the street was an arcade called Fun Land, but I took to pronouncing it Funland, like Iceland. I spent an afternoon playing skee ball. I’m looking for a vacation from this endless search for answers, and here on a sliver of land on the coast of Washington, I think I’ve found it. Can’t last long though. I can’t live forever in Funland. I can’t live forever period.

Humanity’s drive toward betterment has resulted in two things: more people and less jobs. None of our choices were wrong, exactly. Each was made with good intentions, hell maybe every choice was correct. The problem wasn’t the choices but the values. Survival is no longer a value, because survival has become easy. It used to be old people were revered, because they had outrun death longer than anyone else. Now old people are just the ones who waited around too long. Anyone can become an old person with a little luck. It’s not a collapse of morals that has diminished our respect for the elderly. It’s an inevitable response to the changing meaning of age.

I ate Indian food down in Astoria, a lunch buffet. As I was eating, a woman came in looking for me. I didn’t recognize her at first out of uniform, but it was Laurel. She sat across from me. I felt the faint pang of a passing afternoon’s crush. Without a greeting, she held out her phone to me. A photo of a middle-aged man, bushy silver mustache, arm in arm with a teenage boy. “That’s my brother Bobby,” Laurel said. “And that’s his son, my nephew Evan.” “Ah, OK,” I said. This seemed like a strange conversation, but I lost my ability to judge strangeness somewhere around Texas. “Bobby was obsessed with the black boat,” she said. “Spent hours watching it, said he never saw anything on board, then one day he did.” “What did he see?” I asked. “Wouldn’t tell anyone. Rented a kayak in Navy Heights and went out into the mouth of the river. Said he had no choice and he had to get to that boat. Wouldn’t listen to anyone telling him different, wouldn’t let anyone come with him. We lost sight of his kayak - don’t know how, it was broad daylight. There and then gone. Never found any kind of body.” “I’m sorry,” I said. “This is a country of the vanished, of the missing. We’ve got a lot of space to put them, I guess. Then his kid Evan, he gets obsessed with the idea that the black boat took his father somehow. We tried to get him interested in other things, put him through therapy, stuff like that but it doesn’t take. The answer to his pain is in that boat, and so he goes to the same place as his father, rents the same kind of kayak, takes the same kind of journey.” I knew the ending to the story. “How long has he been missing? “I asked. “It was a year three weeks ago,” she said. “You seem like a nice woman. Hm. Maybe in a different life, you know? Maybe in a kinder world, but I like you enough to tell you this: forget you ever saw the black boat. Never ask about it again, it’s not a mystery to solve. It’s a depth to drown in.” She held my eyes for a moment more and then left me to my lunch, which I had no more appetite for. That all you can eat buffet got a good deal on me.

I knew exactly what that black boat was. A supernatural oddity stealing innocent people? It was a Thistle boat. There were Thistle men onboard. And so tired, lost me, I would have to stop them.

Out to Cape Disappointment with binoculars from the truck. Went up on a ridge above the trail to the lighthouse and I looked out at the Thistle boat. I knew what I would see. Sagging face, yellow teeth, yellow hat, “Thistle”. The boat had no name, no markings. Every surface was painted black. I watched for a long while, but there was no movement on the deck, nothing in the windows. It seemed truly abandoned except that it stayed in position against the current. I put down the binoculars considering my next move.

And that’s when I noticed something on the deck, even with my naked eyes from this distance. Dots of various colors. They hadn’t been there a moment ago. I looked back through the binoculars. The entire deck was covered in people. They were all facing me, looking right back at me through the lenses. I was too far away for anyone to see me against the hillside. They saw me.

They weren’t Thistle men. They were people. Women, men, mouths open, dull eyes. Some of them are dressed in clothes that could only have been worn without irony in the 80’s. others wearing clothes that could have been worn without vintage cool in the 70’s. there was a man with a bushy silver mustache. I could taste the horror on my gum line. Bobby, slack-jawed. Bobby, staring. And a gangly teenager, Evan, across the deck from Bobby. Nowhere near him, same expression. Both staring back at me as I stared at them.

I put the binoculars away. I stepped back down onto the trail and descended toward the parking lot. This was not a Thistle boat. That’s not what Thistle does to people. This is some other horror, unrelated to whatever I’ve been chasing.

I have enough terror in my life. I can’t add more. [scoffs] A boat that eats people. It will have to be a story without me. I am leaving.

Since we no longer value survival and age, we need some other way to rank people. Because we need that, we need some people to be worth more than others. We have many ways to do that, but here’s one: we value wealth. The ones who own more are better. Not for any reason, just because. And since theoretically but rarely actually in practice, the way toward owning more is work, work has become a measure of someone’s value, second only to money. A lazy rich person is better than a poor person with a good job, but a poor person with a job is better than a poor person without a job. Ranked first by wealth, then by worth. And so that is the situation. There are more of us, there are less jobs, and we value people by whether they have a job or not.

What happens when you have a world where it is impossible for people to create value for themselves in the eyes of society? What happens when we judge people for the inevitable outcome of our collective actions? I don’t know. But together we’re finding out.

Driving back over to Astoria. The long bridge across the mouth of the Columbia River. Starting out it’s a causeway right on the water. Seagulls flying overhead, riding the same wind that’s nudging my trailer toward tragedy. Once you drive out under the bridge, you can’t turn around for four miles until you’re back on land. Which is fine, which is normal. But also I feel the anxiety. Being trapped on a course, no alternatives except the disaster of water. The bridge rises steeply, creating a section that the cargo ships can pass under. This is uncomfortable in a truck this size, the engine roaring against the weight behind it. And now break lights. We’re stopping. Construction, traffic going in one way only, we have to wait our turn.

I’m on a slope so steep that I’m looking at clouds in order to see the car in front of me. It’s less that they’re in front of me and more that they’re suspended above me. [sighs] Breathe. Your anxiety does not change your circumstances. You can get as anxious as you want, the world will stay the same. [breathes deeply] It doesn’t help that just the turn of the head puts the black boat in my view. No one on board again, those empty faces gone. Or not gone, but not visible to me. I must always remember that not visible to me and not in existence are not the same thing. That would be a good thing for all of us to remember, I guess.

Here’s a cargo ship coming. Modern, a tiny control center dwarfed by the vast expanse it controls. The kind of ship that crosses oceans. Huh. The ship is gonna pass really close to the black boat. It might even.. that’s gonna be a near one. It’s going to.. oh my god, hold on.

I’m on the highway to Portland now. Logging depots, gas stations with stalls outside selling fresh fruit picked nearby. The great cargo ship collided with the black boat. I gout out of the truck, went to the side of the bridge to watch. A lot of people did. We were stopped anyway. We were standing on this steep slope that swayed with the wind and jittered with the movement of traffic in the other direction. Flimsy, like we were all perched on the thinnest branch at the top of the tallest tree. I covered my mouth, anxiety kindling into horror.

The ship didn’t slow. Didn’t see the other boat maybe? Or-or a miscalculation, an error? God knows there are plenty of those.

The ship cut through the center of the black boat and the black boat turned up on its side and then tore in half. The force must have made a gash in the hull of the larger ship because it sagged forward in the water, like a person falling to her knees, and then listed sideways. This might have taken a while. We all may have stood there a long while. One of the containers on the bigger ship wasn’t secured correctly. It toppled off the deck. The black boat settled under the water, a slow disappearing act. I never saw anyone on board the entire time.

The police got us back into our vehicles, got traffic moving. Coast guard boats rashed to the collision, rescued the crew of the bigger ship, but there was no sign of anyone from the other boat. They reported that initial sweeps found no sign of its wreckage under the water. I don’t suspect they’ll ever find that wreckage. I don’t suspect they’ll look too hard.

There once was a black boat on a wide blue river. The only people onboard were the people who had asked the dangerous question. And one day, it sunk and was never seen again. It’s a simple story, a story with no ending. The kind of story that happens every day in this country.

Vacation over, I guess. Back to asking my own dangerous questions. Back to receiving my own dangerous answers.

-- Knock knock. [left speaker] Who’s there? [right speaker] No one. [left] No one who? [right] No, no one is here. It’s been quiet out here for a long time. Once there were people, I think but they moved on. Why haven’t you moved on? [left] If no one’s here then who is talking? [right] No one is. [left] No one’s talking? [right] Yes. [left] OK. [right] OK. [left] I love you. [right] I know.

#alice isn't dead #alice isn't dead transcripts #part 2 episode 2 #mouth of the water #sorry i'm a bit late with this #i've had a busy day

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mastergaragedoorngates · 4 years

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Basic Methods on Sustaining Your Garage Door by Markham Garage Door Specialists

A garage door can be a sturdy, convenient and secure place to store vehicles and outdoor gear. That's until they break down, and require repairs and maintenance. A Markham garage door repair service can solve any garage door issue but to stop wear and breakdowns, adhere to a simple upkeep program, to prevent unnecessary harm.

Just before pulling out the toolbox, make sure that the issue is not something obvious. Occasionally the answer is more simply solved than then it at first appears. A frequent garage door challenge that Markham garage door service pros encounter is that the door is not opening and closing properly. Usually at times, the issue is only brought on by a rake blocking the door, or anything hanging from the ceiling, stopping the mechanisms from functioning properly.

Garage doors are constructed to become strong and long-lasting. Regular upkeep will not be tricky, and can be performed in less than an afternoon twice a year. The best times to work on a garage door is in the spring and right before the winter.

Easy Garage Door Maintenance Recommendations

1. Cleaning: Wipe the garage door down like its elements. Light oil for instance a 3-in-1 lubricant is usually applied to elements.

2.Give the hinges, rollers, and hangers a spray with WD-40 or even a citrus based solvent.

3.Lubricate the pulleys on extension spring openers and bearings on torsion spring openers.

4.If hinges or rollers are stuck soak them in kerosene. Use an old toothbrush to work it into the cracks.

5.Use steel wool to clear away rust.

6.To preserve a garage door opener, if it is actually operated by a chain or drive screw, apply lubricant to the length of the opener.

7.Make sure that the climate stripping is not jamming against the sides of the doors. Fix and replace as needed.

8.If the garage door is produced from wood it might require re-painting. If it wasn't installed with weather stripping, contemplate adding it during the initial maintenance cycle, and if it does, check to make certain it is sealed adequately.

Regardless of a homeowner's ideal efforts to keep a nicely maintained garage door, they do wear with age, bolts loosen and mechanical components can quit performing at their optimal efficiency. A Markham garage door upkeep crew can provide standard inspections, or be called when the garage store stops working. With the prevalent problem of the garage door not opening effectively, there is a handful of repair recommendations that the weekend, do-it-yourself handyperson can attempt:

Solutions to a Garage Door which will not Open

If the garage door will not open, the very first step would be to tighten the bolts. With age, vibrations and use, the screws and bolts on the garage door do loosen. Ensure to tighten bolts with the garage door in the down position, and replace any missing nuts or bolts.

Verify to determine if the door tracks are secured to the walls and ceiling. Ideally, you need an inch of clearance among the door and the track. If the door is binding on the track, the garage door could require a spring tension adjustment, to get the door opening and closing smoothly once again. Markham garage door repair personnel can fix these prevalent concerns conveniently and affordably. It's normally best to correct minor troubles once they are noticed, as opposed to waiting until the little cause for concern, develops into a huge repair project.

A different tip for a garage door not opening as well as it should, is always to verify for rust. In the case of extremely rusty springs and cables it really is well advised to have them replaced promptly. This could turn into a critical situation if one were to snap. If a homeowner replaces their own springs and cables it is better to replace all of them in place of just the damaged component. Only replacing one will cause binding and imbalance.

The trigger for a garage door not opening correctly could possibly be rust, loose nuts and bolts or problems with all the pulley systems. Markham garage door experts can replace worn out elements, and verify for complications just before they take place. As a homeowner a common maintenance schedule ought to be followed to prevent any serious problems that could turn out to be costly or even harmful.

Garage doors are a crucial and a worthy investment that need to be kept looking and functioning like new. They are built to last but it is ultimately up to the owner to ensure its longevity.

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cambridgewritersworkshop · 5 years

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For those writers, editors, and lit fans traveling to the 2020 AWP Conference (March 4-7) in San Antonio, TX this week, come stop by the Cambridge Writers’ Workshop’s AWP Bookfair Table at T2164! Also, check our CWW Creative Director Rita Banerjee’s panel “Dismantling the White Imagination: On Intimacy in Creative Nonfiction” featuring our Summer in Paris Nonfiction Faculty David Shields on Saturday, March 7 from 9-10:15 am in Room 205, Henry B. González Convention Center, Meeting Room Level (San Antonio, TX).

Course registration for our 2020 Spring in New Orleans Writing Retreat (March 19-22) and Summer in Paris Writing Retreat (July 16-21) is now live! Apply by March 10 for our NOLA Retreat and May 30 for our Paris Retreat on cww.submittable.com.

Our 2020 award-winning faculty includes essayist David Shields, playwright Stephen Aubrey, poet Diana Norma Szokolyai, and poet and essayist Rita Banerjee.

Join the Cambridge Writers’ Workshop for our offsite reading at Rosella Coffee House (203 E Jones Ave, Suite 101) in San Antonio, TX! Featured readers include Rita Banerjee, Madeleine Barnes, Alex Carrigan, Kristina Marie Darling, Charlene Elsby, Adilene Hernandez, Tim Horvath, Samuel Kóláwọlé, Rachel Kurasz, and Mari Pack! Come celebrate with a gorgeous night of poetry, fiction, nonfiction, and speculative writing! More info on the reading & featured authors below!

Featured Readers:

Rita Banerjee is the Executive Creative Director of the Cambridge Writers’ Workshop and editor of CREDO: An Anthology of Manifestos and Sourcebook for Creative Writing (C&R Press, May 2018). She is the author of the poetry collection Echo in Four Beats (Finishing Line Press, March 2018), which was nominated for the 2019 Lenore Marshall Poetry Prize at the Academy of American Poets, featured on the Ruth Stone Foundation podcast, and named one of Book Riot’s “Must-Read Poetic Voices of Split This Rock 2018”, and was selected by Finishing Line Press as their 2018 nominee for the National Book Award in Poetry. Banerjee is also the author of the novella “A Night with Kali” in Approaching Footsteps (Spider Road Press, 2016), and the poetry chapbook Cracklers at Night (Finishing Line Press, 2010). She is the co-writer and co-director of Burning Down the Louvre (2020), a documentary film about race, intimacy, and tribalism in the United States and in France. She received her doctorate in Comparative Literature from Harvard and her MFA in Creative Writing from the University of Washington, and she is a recipient of a Vermont Studio Center Artist’s Grant, the Tom and Laurel Nebel Fellowship, and South Asia Initiative and Tata Grants. Her writing appears in the Academy of American Poets, Poets & Writers, PANK, Nat. Brut., The Scofield, The Rumpus, Painted Bride Quarterly, Mass Poetry, Hyphen Magazine, Los Angeles Review of Books, Electric Literature, VIDA: Women in Literary Arts, AWP WC&C Quarterly, Queen Mob’s Tea House, Riot Grrrl Magazine, The Fiction Project, Objet d’Art, KBOO Radio’s APA Compass, and elsewhere. She is the Director of the MFA in Writing & Publishing program at the Vermont College of Fine Arts and an Associate Scholar of Comparative Literature at Harvard. She is currently working on a novel, a book on South Asian literary modernisms, and a collection of lyric essays on race, sex, politics, and everything cool. Her writing is represented by agents Jeff Kleinman and Jamie Chambliss of Folio Literary Management.

Madeleine Barnes is a poet and visual artist from Pittsburgh living in Brooklyn. She is a doctoral fellow at CUNY’s Ph.D. Program in English, and the recipient of a New York State Summer Writers Institute Fellowship, two Academy of American Poets prizes, and the Princeton Poetry Prize. Her second chapbook, Light Experiments, is forthcoming from Porkbelly Press this year, and her protest embroideries were recently featured in Boston Accent Lit. She serves as Poetry Editor at Cordella Magazine.

Alex Carrigan is an associate editor with the American Correctional Association. He has edited and proofed the anthologies CREDO: An Anthology of Manifestos and Sourcebook for Creative Writing (C&R Press, 2018) and Her Plumage: An Anthology of Women’s Writings from Quail Bell Magazine (2019). He has had fiction, poetry, and media reviews published in Quail Bell Magazine, Life in 10 Minutes, Realms YA Fantasy Literary Magazine, Mercurial Stories, Lambda Literary Review, Stories About Penises (Guts Publishing, 2019) and the forthcoming anthologies Closet Cases: Queers on What We Wear (Et Alia Press, 2020) and Whale Road Review (Summer 2020). He currently lives in Alexandria, VA.

Kristina Marie Darling is the author of thirty books, including Look to Your Left: The Poetics of Spectacle (University of Akron Press, 2020); Je Suis L’Autre: Essays & Interrogations (C&R Press, 2017), which was named one of the “Best Books of 2017” by The Brooklyn Rail; and DARK HORSE: Poems (C&R Press, 2018). Her work has been recognized with three residencies at Yaddo, where she has held both the Martha Walsh Pulver Residency for a Poet and the Howard Moss Residency in Poetry; a Fundación Valparaíso fellowship; a Hawthornden Castle Fellowship, funded by the Heinz Foundation; an artist-in-residence position at Cité Internationale des Arts in Paris; three residencies at the American Academy in Rome; two grants from the Whiting Foundation; a Morris Fellowship in the Arts; and the Dan Liberthson Prize from the Academy of American Poets, among many other awards and honors. Her poems appear in The Harvard Review, Poetry International, New American Writing, Nimrod, Passages North, The Mid-American Review, and on the Academy of American Poets’ website, Poets.org. She has published essays in The Kenyon Review, Agni, Ploughshares, The Gettysburg Review, Gulf Coast, The Iowa Review, and numerous other magazines. Kristina currently serves as Editor-in-Chief of Tupelo Press and Tupelo Quarterly, an opinion columnist at The Los Angeles Review of Books, and a contributing writer at Publishers Weekly.

Charlene Elsby, Ph.D., is the Philosophy Program Director at Purdue University Fort Wayne. Her first novel, HEXIS, was published by CLASH Books. Her second novel, AFFECT, is forthcoming with The Porcupine’s Quill.

Adilene Hernández is a queer, Latina writer and educator with roots in Atlanta, GA. She earned her B.A. in Creative Writing from Knox College, and she aspires to continue her studies through an M.F.A. program. She is an alumna of the Winter Tangerine Workshop and Cambridge Writers’ Workshop. She is currently at work on her first two novels, both of which focus on family ties and identity in the Latinx culture.

Samuel Kọ́láwọlé was born and raised in Ibadan, Nigeria. His work has appeared in AGNI, Gulf Coast, Washington Square Review and Consequence amongst other literary journals. Samuel was a finalist for the 2018 Graywolf Prize for Africa and winner of the 2019 Editor-Writer Mentorship Program for Diverse Writers. His fiction has been supported with fellowships, residencies, and scholarships from the Norman Mailer Centre, International Writing Program at the University of Iowa, Columbus State University’s Carson McCullers Center for Writers and Musicians, Clarion West Writers Workshop, Wellstone Centre in the Redwoods California, and Island Institute. Samuel was educated at the University of Ibadan, Nigeria and holds a Master of Arts degree in Creative Writing with distinction from Rhodes University, South Africa and an MFA in Writing and Publishing at Vermont College of Fine Arts, USA. His debut novel The Road to Salt Sea is forthcoming from Amistad/Harper Collins.

Rachel Kurasz is a PhD student at Northern Illinois University where she is studying rhetoric/composition and Graphic Novels/Comic Books. Rachel earned her MFA in Creative Writing from Roosevelt University under the guidance of Christian TeBordo and Kyle Beachy. Rachel also was a Fall 2017 AWP writer to writer under mentor Laura Creedle. Rachel is currently querying and writing her first graphic novel series entitled “weirdos”.

Mari Pack is a poet and writer from the suburbs of Washington, D.C. She has an MA from the University of Toronto, and is a current MFA candidate at Hunter College.

We look forward to seeing you at AWP 2020!

Join the Cambridge Writers’ Workshop at AWP 2020!! For those writers, editors, and lit fans traveling to the 2020 AWP Conference (March 4-7) in San Antonio, TX this week, come stop by the…

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wendyimmiller · 5 years

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Fear, Loathing, Capitulation, Relapses, A Cry for Help, and Another Empty Promise to Do Better; In a world of unfairness and charlatans, these are the real things!

Déjà vu all over again. In what is apparently becoming an abusive relationship, I again find myself the victim of Marianne Willburn’s poison pen, which, I now believe she nightly wields in her dreams, inflicting dagger-sized wounds on a field of retreating lesser writers in Play Station-like battles. For again, right here on Garden Rant, my home turf, another rebuttal. Actually, a rebuttal to my rebuttal of her rebuttal to my happy, harmless, and humorous little column, “Time for A Grexit,” which appeared in the July/August 2019 Horticulture Magazine. Just a 500-word bit of sophomoric snark I dashed off last summer when I was still sweet and hopeful. It was cute. It was funny. And, despite itself, it did manage to make a surprisingly cohesive case for American gardeners taking all their English gardening books and dumping them into Boston Harbor. I was innocent back then, and my life was so much simpler. Appallingly, it turns out that having a stalker is nowhere near as much fun as you might imagine.

The end of life as I knew it.

The most recent blog site equivalent to being repeatedly chased down the street by your neighbor’s dog.

This most recent rebuttal wasn’t unexpected. Red flags were up after her first rebuttal, and my family and I worried that Marianne could possibly be a serial-rebuttaler. I could see her in her classy, tastefully appointed, mountain retreat, seething from my jovial retort to her first rebuttal, and working. Working! I cowered, knowing she would soon, on a day of her own choosing, emerge with another 15,000 word tirade. All of it letter perfect and grammatically correct, and crafted to turn all my loved ones against me and laying waste to all I am, all I ever was, all I’ll ever be, and everything I’ve ever loved. Including all my dead pets. And all my dead Stewartia. And, I’ve got to admit, I’ve been a nervous wreck. Pretty much, this has been the worst period of my life, which includes the bout with cancer I mentioned in a previous missive and, in fact, bring up in almost all my conversations.

The rebuttal that came out of the blue.

This is my jovial retort to her first rebuttal. Jovial, yet at the same time devastating.

Here’s the deal. After my last rebuttal, I was out of ammo. I’d used up everything I had. No quotes left in the stockpile. No more references back in the magazine. No last cache of jabs, nudges, innuendo, and implications. Not even a dull, rusty bayonet on the end of my empty rifle/poison pen with which to inflict dagger-sized wounds. So I hunkered down in my ramshackle, mismatched, patched together, horticulturist-class, Midwestern hovel, tried not to notice the leaks in the ceiling and the paint peeling from the walls, and prayed for a miracle.

And, whatya know, I actually got one. Apparently Marianne was out of ammo too. So when the inevitable time came and I looked over and saw the grenade roll into my bunker and blow up, I was pleasantly surprised that it did so with only a soft doink. No blast. No shrapnel. No carnage. What happened was more akin to an uncomfortably loud airing of the “We Are the World” video interrupting your conversation in a bar. Or maybe it’s better described as something like hearing the “I’d Like to Buy the World a Coke” commercial playing on a scratchy transistor radio on a hot day by some kid in line ahead of you at the snack bar at the community pool who walks off with the last French Chew. Or maybe it was more like an overly-affectionate, dripping wet kiss from an older aunt with a weird accent right on the face of your much younger self. Whatever metaphor best describes my response to Marianne’s newest rebuttal–and you get to choose–the fact is that while indeed unpleasant and unwanted, I survived it.

But that doink? Came to find out it was pretty passive-aggressive. One that snuck back up on me after another day and a second look. “Garden Regionally, Get Inspired Globally” was Marianne’s banner, her battle cry and l’appel aux armes. Well, who the hell can argue with that?

Brian at work.

Marianne, you pulled a good one on me. Left me dangling and looking like a real jerk. Reminds me totally of a time when I introduced another friend/nemesis and co-worker named Brian to the audience at one of our symposiums at the Cincinnati Zoo & Botanical Garden. Our ongoing “feud” was pretty well-known to most of the audience, although not all of it, and I decided to deliver the most personally insulting introduction I could imagine, laying it on thick for an awkwardly long time, bringing up typically off-limits things like divorces, and, in my mind, generously setting him up for one of his patented hilarious ripostes. But he said nothing. Just went into his talk. With big sad eyes. Made me look like a complete asshole! A master stroke!

Yep, Marianne, you got me. You got to the reasonable position first and now here I am a rubber ball dangling from a string on your paddle. Well done.

As I’ve made plain, I am but a simple gardener from the heartland forever drawn by the magnetic pull of my next Big Gulp, teetering constantly on the cusp of diabetes, and free of an opioid addiction by reasons no one understands. As such, I too am not without need of nor appreciation for inspiration. So, for you Marianne, yes, if you get that from English writers who for some reason hope to cross how-to manuals with great literature, go for it. It’s kind of weird, but whatever. Just don’t be tricked into trying Meconopsis. It’ll break your heart.

I, on the other hand, I turn to the bottle for inspiration. And, believe it or not, I only discovered that about myself while pondering this. Ironically, it also occurred to me that my method might be even more cosmopolitan than Marianne’s! While plenty of good Kentucky bourbons are close at hand, I sometimes find my inspiration from a single malt Scotch. Or a spicy Caribbean rum. Or a sexy French vodka. Or a hot-tempered Greek Ouzo. Sometimes a warm Japanese sake is just the ticket, but there are times when a smooth Canadian whisky will do just fine. Or a Mexican tequila. Or wines from almost every continent. Even, and I’m gritting my teeth a little as I admit it, an English gin. Fact is, turns out pretty much the whole planet is lousy with spirits ready to light up the masses with inspiration. This whole revelation humbles me. It fills me with wonder. Heck, I’m but a tiny speck in this big Universe. All of us are. And maybe, deep down inside, somehow, we’re all pretty much the same.

I took that idea to bed with me last night. I laid there thinking about people. And Marianne. I pictured her in her home, sitting by the fire with a cat on her lap and a Christopher Lloyd book in hand, sighing at the better passages and finding inspiration. At least between those times when she’s not shrieking abuse towards Ohio and pounding out another manifesto of a rebuttal on her keyboard. Nope. I suppose that when she settles in and watches Monty Don on Netflix that she really isn’t that much different from me when I find my inspiration by stumbling around in the garden at night, a half empty fifth of Jameson in hand, condemning myself to damnation for all the neighbors to hear by way of whatever blaspheme I bellow when I discover brittle, dead branches where my daphne used to be.

A daphne.

Daphnes. My God, how many have I loved? How many I have lost. I feel my mood changing. You know, it just isn’t fair. I just can’t get over the disparity. The disproportionate distribution of the wealth. I’m thinking here in terms of gardening. Those lucky bastards. Those haughty English, PNW, and Japanese gardeners who ply their passion where the soil is rich, the weather is benevolent, and every person who scratches a mountain laurel into the ground gets drunk on their overnight and over-sized success. And they say to themselves, “I’m bloody great. I can grow everything.” And they take a creative writing class on Tuesday nights at the community college and peck out some frilly, freakin’ best seller! Books that we here in the nether regions see in the windows of the five and dime, which draw us inside just to get out of the cold for a minute. But we slobber all over the pictures and the manager comes and makes us buy it, accepting a chicken and a few eggs as partial payment. Figuring that since we now own it, we might as well read it, we do. And then get all “inspired.” Then on the one half of that one spring day that’s sort of nice, we go out, religiously follow all the advice, and then invariably, inevitably, unsurprisingly experience the kind of catastrophic disaster that can only come when you live here and are daft enough to follow gardening advice from those who live over there. In God’s green Eden. In freakin’ Eden!

Wait. Whoa. What happened? It seems I’ve gone back down that rabbit hole. I apologize.

But, you know, there’s another thing that isn’t fair. Here in the continental part of the country, hard-working, decent, good gardening folk who can write and who really need a break never get brought in from the bullpen. Good writers, people who have willed lush, magnificent oases out of hardpan in weather that kills the people whose central air breaks on all but three or four days a year, never get that call from Timber or any other publisher. Why? Because all of their editors are tied up ushering dozens and dozens of spoiled English and PNW writers through their “masterpieces.” So-called gardeners for whom a daphne could fall off a truck and roll into their ditch and still grow like a Callery pear.

Another daphne.

Dammit. Angry again. Wait. I’ve got an idea.

I’d like to buy the world a home, And furnish it with love, Grow apple trees and honey bees, And…

Well, that got annoying really quick. Screw it. I’ve got issues. I’m off to the liquor store.

Fear, Loathing, Capitulation, Relapses, A Cry for Help, and Another Empty Promise to Do Better; In a world of unfairness and charlatans, these are the real things! originally appeared on GardenRant on November 20, 2019.

from Gardening https://www.gardenrant.com/2019/11/fear-loathing-capitulation-relapses-a-cry-for-help-and-another-empty-promise-to-do-better-in-a-world-of-unfairness-and-charlatans-these-are-the-real-things.html via http://www.rssmix.com/

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turfandlawncare · 5 years

Text

Fear, Loathing, Capitulation, Relapses, A Cry for Help, and Another Empty Promise to Do Better; In a world of unfairness and charlatans, these are the real things!

The end of life as I knew it.

The most recent blog site equivalent to being repeatedly chased down the street by your neighbor’s dog.

The rebuttal that came out of the blue.

This is my jovial retort to her first rebuttal. Jovial, yet at the same time devastating.

Brian at work.

Yep, Marianne, you got me. You got to the reasonable position first and now here I am a rubber ball dangling from a string on your paddle. Well done.

A daphne.

Wait. Whoa. What happened? It seems I’ve gone back down that rabbit hole. I apologize.

Another daphne.

Dammit. Angry again. Wait. I’ve got an idea.

I’d like to buy the world a home, And furnish it with love, Grow apple trees and honey bees, And…

Well, that got annoying really quick. Screw it. I’ve got issues. I’m off to the liquor store.

from GardenRant https://ift.tt/37s0CpZ

#GardenRant

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homepictures · 6 years

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Attending Home Interior Idea Can Be A Disaster If You Forget These Seven Rules | home interior idea

Who knows what 2019 will bring?

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Pinterest has an idea: Think ancillary hustles, self-care, mini-moments and corrective attic tiles.

“So abounding places do recaps and best-ofs, but we’re all about attractive ahead,” said Larkin Brown, researcher and centralized stylist at Pinterest.

Every year, the aggregation crunches its user chase abstracts to forecast the trends for the year ahead.

And why attending to Pinterest for a glimpse into the future?

Well, over 250 actor people use the amusing networking belvedere to ascertain arresting anniversary recipes, rustic home décor afflatus to tips on how to abrasion admirer jeans.

It’s prime absolute acreage for DIY bells ideas, the one-stop-shop for Instagrammable quotes about life, and the go-to website for accessible action hacks application assurance pins, elastic bands and arced ties.

Since adults from assorted walks of life use the belvedere as a beheld bookmarking apparatus and arcade guide, Pinterest has its feel on the beating of customer behavior beyond abundant industries including travel, beauty, bloom and food.

“This year, two big things stood out. We are seeing an accent of bodies analytic for acceptable and eco-friendly account beyond parenting, biking and beauty,” Brown said. “The added is about style. Bodies are acceptable bolder in their appearance choices, all-embracing all-around influences.”

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How does Pinterest work?

Users save account or photos accepted as “Pins” on a lath that they can revisit later. Pinners use the website to chase for account such as agnostic (paleo and vegan) recipes. Users additionally allotment how able-bodied the acquaintance went and add accessible tips for anyone who ability appetite to accord the abstraction a try.

How does a Pin become a trend?

More: Pinterest nears $1 billion in ad sales, appraisal rises as it looks to go accessible mid-2019

More: The 20 top trending U.S. bank destinations on Pinterest

If an abstraction like side-hustles or anatomy painting gradually receives more searches each month, and that advancement aisle holds abiding for over 6 months, again it becomes an official Pinterest trend.

The company’s insights team selected the top 100 trends that they action will accept constancy able-bodied into 2019 by demography into application search increases from the aboriginal nine months of 2017 to the aboriginal nine months of 2018.

“In a time back so abundant seems to bisect us, these account represent what we allotment in accepted – from accustomed afflatus to dreams-for-someday stuff,” Pinterest said in a statement.

How authentic are these projections?

Sometimes they’re spot-on, according to Brown. She said the aggregation looks advanced to award out which trends take-off, acceptable their own “product class of sorts.”

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“Cauliflower rice was article we talked about four or bristles years ago, and now Trader Joe’s is affairs it arctic for bodies to booty home. We not alone predicted it, we animated it,” Brown said.

Here are some key takeaways from Pinterest’s top 100 trends for 2019:

For 2019, bodies are accepted to abide to use the amusing networking armpit to dream up new means to travel, from aberant destinations to unusual, earth-friendly modes of transportation. Pinterest users are breach to less-traveled islands for rare experiences. Searches for beneath catholic islands added 179 percent. Pinners are additionally projected to search for abruptness destinations, which added 192 percent in the year-over-year period.

The different Scandinave Spa is a ample circuitous of alfresco hot and algid pools, saunas, beef apartment and a beating centermost that is a actual accepted destination action in its own right, account from Whistler Village.

Tourism Whistler

Travelers are swapping sea cruises for hot springs (up 32 percent) and absence the continued access curve at Versailles in favor of battered castles. Searches for alone castles added 142 percent, according to Pinterest.

Unlike added accepted amusing networking websites, Pinterest isn’t all about Likes. “Pinterest is area bodies appear to reconnect with themselves and try article new, after annoying about who Likes it,” the aggregation said in a statement. So, naturally, self-care is accepted to abide to trend on the platform, with a 140 percent access in searches.

Bakuchiol, a accustomed another to retinol, was trending amid adorableness enthusiasts. And amber oil, a artefact acclimated for baths and massages, saw a massive 659 percent chase increase.

Elderberry

GET-Creative

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In today’s gig economy, abounding adults are axis to freelance opportunities and ancillary hustles to accomplish ends accommodated and kick-start new careers. That trend is reflected beyond Pinterest searches as well. Bodies approved out side hustles at home 690 percent added generally in 2018, which the trend experts at Pinterest accept will abide to increase. Searches for added ancillary projects assorted added modestly.

How to abound an avocado tree sprung up 101 percent while activities like baiter building and anatomy painting were additionally trending.

From last-minute picnics to ad-lib staycations, bodies acclimated Pinterest over the accomplished year to chase for beheld inspiration. Searches for mini-moment celebrations, godparent proposals and backyard weddings were trending forth with smoke bomb photography.

Number-shaped cakes additionally saw an uptick in searches that are predicted to abide able-bodied into 2019.

A helpmate with six bridesmaids in blush dresses, with added than 25 blush balloons.

Getty Images

Adults this accomplished year took to Pinterest in droves for tips on how to acrylic their parquet floors with adventurous colors and circuitous patterns. Chase after-effects for corrective attic tiles attempt up over 1,000 percent, according to Pinterest.

What abroad are bodies accomplishing to their homes? Installing vertical area (up 287 percent), putting up adventurous book wallpaper (up 401 percent) and award means to use alacrity chicken (up 45 percent).

“It’s the alliance of big adventurous interiors and accustomed bulb elements,” Brown said. “Geometric paintings on walls and tin interiors are brought calm with article accustomed and amoebic in the home like accustomed pond pools.”

Follow Dalvin Brown on Twitter:@Dalvin_Brown

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klean4u · 1 year

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Ultimate Car Detailing Store

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tebbyclinic11 · 6 years

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17 New Spring Cookbooks We Can’t Wait to Stain

New Post has been published on http://kitchengadgetsreviews.com/17-new-spring-cookbooks-we-cant-wait-to-stain/

17 New Spring Cookbooks We Can’t Wait to Stain

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It’s no coincidence that spring is one of the greatest times of the year to cook—and one of the greatest seasons for cookbook releases. These are the 17 new cookbooks we can’t wait to stain.

When Rogers Gray Italian Country Cook Book was published in 1995, it launched a food moment, the ripples of which are being felt to this day. The seductively elemental Italian recipes from Ruth Rogers and Rose Gray—untrained chefs who had started London’s River Cafe as a commissary for the architects in Richard Rogers’s practice on Thames Wharf—sent me and countless others scrambling for ingredients like lacinato kale and salt-packed anchovies. Many a dinner party was built around their pumpkin risotto, and many was foiled by a failed Chocolate Nemesis cake. While the dishes at the fabled restaurant—home to such young cooks as April Bloomfield, Jamie Oliver, and Clare Deboer and Jess Shadbolt of NYC’s King—were flawless, the published recipes were rather loosey-goosey. The stunningly designed 30th-anniversary edition of the beloved blue book corrects that, as the recipes have been tested and updated. Like the restaurant, the dishes in River Cafe 30 feel as vital and vibrant as ever.

Cake by Maira Kalman and Barbara Scott-Goodman

Sweets have always figured in Maira Kalman’s jaunty paintings. Now she has created Cake, a cookbook that delights the palate and stirs the heart, with narrative, nostalgic illustrations followed by recipes, created by her friend Barbara Scott-Goodman, for favorites like coconut layer cake, plum torte, and the honey cake that her cousin Tali always puts into her suitcase before she returns home to NYC. Especially poignant is the image of the pink “philosophical cake” that her family made while living in Rome in the ‘80s, iced with the words, “A day without dancing is a wasted day.” It’s Love, Loss, and What I Baked.

“Elbow deep in dough, I surrendered.” North Carolina baker Tara Jensen achieved Instagram fame first for her artful, post-latticed pie crusts and masterful bread, then for her raw breakup posts and Deep Observations from the remote countryside. Her fearlessly honest—some might say way oversharing—book, A Baker’s Year, is part diary, part artisanal baking manual, with recipes for New Moon Cake, Broken Down Berry Pie, and Bloody Butcher Pancakes. In short, millennial gold. The instructions lean toward the minimalist and intuitive, meaning you might need to watch a YouTube video to master that crust or know if your starter—excuse me, (A) Culture (of Resistance)—is really kicking. While you’re online, check out Julia Kramer’s excellent profile of Jensen for BA.

Variations on the Full Moon Cake from A Baker’s Year.

British blogger Meera Sodha’s debut cookbook, Made in India, was an instant classic, creating authentic Indian flavors by using what most people have in the fridge. (In fact, I have some of her cilantro-coconut chutney in the freezer right now, waiting to be added to chicken.) Her vegetarian sequel, Fresh India, is just as dog-earrable, with recipes like Sri Lankan dal with coconut and lime kale and the addictive shredded Brussels sprout thoran, or stir fry, which prompts you to shred them in the food processor. (Light bulb/forehead-slapping moment.) Like Sodha, with her bangs and red lipstick, these recipes feel both relaxed and spontaneous, taking much of the intimidation out of Indian cooking.

(Right) Photo by Jennifer May

Japan: The Cookbook is an essential, authoritative, approachable guide to the country’s cooking by expat Nancy Singleton-Hachisu, author of the cult favorite Japanese Farm Food. The condensed history of Japanese food alone is both humbling and endearing. (We Americans can surely learn something from a cuisine that began around 12,000 B.C., when the creation of earthenware pots and the use of ash to remove toxins or bitterness from mountain vegetables first began—both still used today.) The recipes are brief and simple, with big payoff once you’ve stocked your pantry. Get ready to make fried chicken meatballs with nori; flowering greens with sake-soy; and crispy greens with sesame part of your repertoire.

Anissa Helou’s Feast: Food of the Islamic World provides an insightful, lushly depicted journey into millennia-old cuisines many of us know relatively bupkus about. Helou’s chapter on bread alone is a travelogue, seducing with recipes for flat and filled breads from Yemen, Somalia, India, Morroco, Iran, Turkey, and more. (The Zanzibari savory doughnuts and Arabian date bread are particularly appealing). This being a celebratory book, recipes for whole beasts—or just their humps, legs, and breasts—elaborate rice dishes, and spice mixes combine with more makeable pleasures like meatballs in sour cherry sauce, baked rice cakes with lamb, and Ramadan date cookies. Helou is both scholar and hedonist, which makes for the best kind of guide in the kitchen.

BA contributor Brooks Headley not only runs Superiority Burger, the best vegan-leaning burger joint in NYC, his punk ethos and deadpan humor make for some of the best cookbook reading ever. Now he brings his “modest, non-fancy” ethos, as well as recipes for hippy wraps, tofu-fried tofu, burnt broccoli salad and, dear lord, that gelato, home with Superiority Burger: The Vegetarian Hamburger Is Now Delicious. Even if you don’t make his signature burger, you’ll enjoy reading the recipe, in which he proclaims, “The un-likeness to the real thing is uncanny… They are absolutely recognizable as food, and are meant to be a Luddite response to the modern gaggle of vegetable patties that bleed and squirt and ape.” Vegans—no, humans—rejoice.

Sam Hodgson

The oh-so-famous veggie burger at Superiority, coming to a kitchen near you.

Food writing—that is, good writing about food—ain’t what it used to be. Posts and feeds can’t compare to the confident, informed words of M.F.K. Fisher, Elizabeth David, or Patience Gray. They were actively cooking and researching (and living), then weighing each phrase, producing lasting works that no emoji can summarize. Editor and Chez Panisse cook turned author Tamar Adler has set herself in their footsteps, producing books with cooking in them rather than straight-up cookbooks. Her debut, An Everlasting Meal, made leftovers seem quite lovely, a dinner of toast and beans a quiet moral victory. With Something Old, Something New: Classic Recipes Reinvented, she strives to revitalize fusty classics and long-forgotten dishes, bringing them into this century with verve and ease. And so this spring might find you serving—without air quotes—Waldorf salad and Charlotte Russe; A Respectful Omelet and braised lettuce on toast. To get to the recipes, you will clamber past tightly crafted sentences like “This [shrimp] bisque is for fishermen and boat builders, for falconers, toll collectors, bricklayers, cooks, floor cleaners, window washers, bakers, bookbinders, gas pump attendants, metalworkers, and teachers, a most noble if not royal collection of humanity indeed.” It’s bookery meets cookery.

Other books of note:

Aska by Fredrik BerseliusThis season’s prettiest entry in the “collectible, not cookable” category is from the excellent Brooklyn restaurant Aska.

Jam Session: A Fruit-Preserving Handbook by Joyce GoldsteinThe former Chez Panisse chef has just the right touch.

Repertoire: All the Recipes You Need by Jessica BattaglianaThe title says it all: The perfect one-stop cookbook that builds kitchen confidence to boot.

Food52 Any Night Grilling by Paula DisbroweFinally, a grilling book that’s not bro-y. Pass the grilled cauliflower with green harissa!

How to Eat a Peach by Diana HenryThe unstoppable Ms. Henry does it again.

The Flavor Matrix: The Art and Science of Pairing Common Ingredients to Create Extraordinary Dishes by James BriscioneRemember that IBM Watson computer? Well, it helped form the basis of this book, which scientifically determines foods with complementary flavor compounds. Strawberries with mushrooms? You betcha.

Sweet Laurel: Recipes for Whole Food, Grain-Free Desserts by Laurel Gallucci and Claire ThomasThe women behind the popular L.A. bakery have mastered delicious GF treats that require fewer than 10 ingredients—none hard to find.

Session Cocktails: Low Alcohol Drinks for Any Occasion by Drew Lazor and the editors of PUNCHGreat recipes for when you need to ease into your evening (or day).

Eat a Little Better: Great Flavor, Good Health, Better World by Sam KassFormer food policy advisor and, hey, Obama chef Sam Kass brings you simple, doable ways to eat (and feel) healthier and shop more sustainably without driving yourself nuts.

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fiverreed-blog · 7 years

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In the room the walls were white and simple and the windows were open and a soft wind stuck the lace curtains to the sash stops. There was no television or screen of any kind, but there was a bible, facedown on the wheeled table, black and pink-worded and mute in the tensionless atmosphere. To the right, jutting into the door, one nautically-colored chair was empty. Everything seemed to somehow speak a little, saying you must really suffer now. He sat cross-legged and hunched with his knees gowned in the bedsheets. Through the window, gleaming persons quivered across the morning parking lot. Just off it was a small weird courtyard where Julien paced in agitation around a gazebo. She sighed shakily for a space of several seconds, stooped agaisnt the pearl paint, and inspected her wrists and the backs of her hands, trying to be present. She started sobbing and gazed up. Initially in her life all this would have made no sense. How was she supposed to handle all of it? She wanted to see her mom and her dad. A robin trotted through the heat, issuing now and then a note of hateless song. She lifted her chin from her forearm and gazed at it. When it fluttered, she blinked. It hopped out of sight. She let her eyes fall away. She walked through the corridors and stood in Fiver’s doorway, and went and sat at the edge of the bed to be with him. She backed up her elbows into the mattress and looked around. He said, I want to die. I don't yet. Man! He hollered, and they watched one another’s faces. Aah! He pulled at his ducked brow confusedly and slapped the mattress. Man! An entering nurse said looking for you, and sat next to Julien. I told myself she’s not in her room, she’s probably down the hall. They didn't admit me, so I don't have a room. Well, that explains it. My arm? She meant, were they replacing the vein now? Yes, that’s what we’re doing. I don’t want aenesthetics. Okay. How long will it take? She stood up. I’ll be back, she told Fiver. We can do it right here, if you like. She sighed. Okay. She sat back down, looked down, and looked at the wall behind the nurse’s head. The nurse displayed the foldy white tube she was going to secure inside her arm. She pronounced its uses, her face sprinkled by windowlight and fan air. ...So it won’t be black anymore, it will lose that charred bruise, hopefully, usually it goes that way. And you’ll be happy to know that the new ones don’t pop out. Is that humor? Julien held it between pinched fingers to her one open eye trying to look through it. You can’t sight along it, she told everybody. Well, its not a telescope. In front of her parents’ home, kids dropped from bay laurel boughs to the sidewalks. Ouch! Aaghh! Her wide mouth kept springing open under her clenched eyes. She kept flickering her head up sideways, trying to cling her mind to this moment, this moment, this moment. The nurse, who was named Jennifer Thomas, said, think of it like, this strange lady is giving me a haircut. When it was over she slumped in the chair dead-faced, curling her arm away so as not to undo the gauze. Fiver was asleep. He wasn’t. When does it ever end? Ever? I think it just did. I hope. No, don’t do that, at least not yet. She began to be in rivalry with the pain starting up in her mind. That night she was up and thought about walking home but she didn’t feel like it and was too sick, and anyway, the time was now. The press of darkness on her head was a delicate thing; if she moved too quickly, or at all, her mind was set spinning painfully, like she’d been made into the shore, and the tide was in. Too much of this inrush from the outside and she’d succomb, she’d be flipped apart and halved over and over until there was nothing left to make it back to. She prayed spirally Christian prayers frantically. She made it out to the nurses station. The night technician had a face that shattered into millions of tremulous flowers. This wouldn't be on my chart, she said, because I don't have one, but I'm withdrawing from benzodiazepines. Honey! You have to tell us these things! The nurse’s face was a golden argonaut’s now, with steel barnacles for the fastening in of cables by pliar. The light sprinted away from her face and into the splintering, draining air. I should have told you, she said. In her head she asked these words as a question. She thought the nurse said you can’t break the ties that bye yai yind. Oh my goodness! She called, rotating into the flourescent air. To lie on the floor was to damage the surface of the planet. She knew this, but she couldnt remember that she knew it, because her memory had broken. She could feel it trying to return, but even if it could, she wasn’t supposed to let it, because that was wrong. Next to her face someone’s scrubs made noise against their socks. The feel of her cheeks on the tile was excruciating. She flashed on a statue of a satyr in the feeding waters of a fountain. Think I’ll stop hanging out with Sean for a while, Jamie said to Alison in Blackwells one afternoon. His fake gruffness is getting on my nerves. Yup, said Alison. Its annoying. She glanced past Jamie’s face to see who was coming through the door. Brock, she said. Its Brock. You waiting for someone? Nah. Its just some feeling I’m having. Feeling. Why else would we be down here drankin’ but to rid ourselves of those? Drankin’... Alison admired the screen above the bar, blinking placidly, inquiring after the source of her current peaceful feelings. She sat her chin on the flipped rim of her wrist and watched Jamie with gentleness. I’m waiting on art to arrive, Jamie said, cause I feel it coming. Yeah...nobody around here cares... She couldnt ever predict what she herself would say or do, so that when the time came, she could explode in the face of things properly. A baptist walked by, got caught in her gaze, dodged out of it, frowned out of the wish to correct, and glanced on by, in some stream she didn’t care to understand. Jamie? Yes. Uhh... fuck believers. So sorry to hear that. I’m sure. Hey guy! Fuck your community! Jamie reeled her back by going at her sleeve like she was jiggering charcoal lines. Listen up: need ya to accompany me whilst I buy some drugs. Oh please. Please? Don’t fucking beg me. Well then I’m saying I’m telling you youre coming. What’s in it for me? Such piss, she said to her beer. Such a lot of piss. The company. I’m in your company right now. It would be a learning experience as well. You should grow up. Okay then, do it to spite local Christians. Uh close, but...scale it up. My friend, it wouod be a global action. ..and be like whose repurcussions are inevitably percussive. Thank you, she said with actual primness. Obliged. Oh, Jamie flicked her shot glass. That makes me so happy. She hugged Alison tightly around the shoulders. I don't wanna let go. Jamie said, you drive cause you've had less. Where’m I taking us? First to the projects, then to the country. In this way we can avoid the rich places entirely. Not buying pills from my parents’ neighbors’ kids, sweet. I heard about cha, Jamie laughed. Taking your mom’s oxys and passing out. Yeah. I was in actual pain, though. She said: look at how I’m driving. This is the definition of creeping. Jamie laughed. Less creep, more roll! You gotta roll through like you have a destination, a purpose. Have you hung out with Fiver lately? Not of late cause he dissapears. Wonder how he is. My feeling is he and Julien are disappearing into one another’s arms and lives. Good for them. She freaks me out, but then again so’s Fiver. She’s cool. Yeah, but she doesn’t hang out. She’s busy. Cause she does shit. She’s too good to creep through and buy shit in duplicate, crack for her dad and lortabs for herself, even though she wants to find a way to the other side of this shit and be at rest as a big bad good person. Yeah, said Alison. Here we are. Jamie asked her to park and stepped out and bought pills in the blink of an eye. Don’t ask me to do this shit again. Alright, I won’t. It freaks me out. I didn’t want to be alone. Yeah, said Alison. Nobody does. You can be a jerk sometimes. Sorry, Jamie. Want to come over! Sure. Take pills and make stuff with paint. Jamie was dropping her hands in a water basin to get the high sandy flecks off her fingers. Its hard to think about staying in this town. To really consider it. She flicked drops in Alison’s face gently. Flincher. I guess the problem is I don’t know what it looks like. I can’t envision it. Staying. I dunno, said Alison. Like ten years? What’s that look like? Let’s go to the prairielands. Find the prairielands. Do those even still exist? I don’t know. Want me to google it and find out? ...I’m discovering that yes, the grasslands do, in fact, to some extent, yeah, still exist, but we’d have to go to like Omaha, which is probably just a collection of toilet houses, so...fuck that... ...but then I can’t see leaving yet, either. Likewise. Omaha seems like a giant hospital. Oh, its so sad, the feeling that there’s nothing at all in the world. There’s nothing, said Alison. I don’t know though. Yeah there probably is. How does one deal with it? You deal with it. Jamie trapped a print in clothespins and said, Too firm a perspective. You could stay. Open a bar. Make money, she sighed. Lack love. Although I don’t really feel that way. Wait, what are you talking about? Friend, I’m saying anyway you can die, I can die better. Huh? Alison! She laughed. Stop paying attention to me as if I’m saying anything truly important. You perplex me. Good. No, you worry me. I want to get a dalmation so I can strip the spots off thus I’d have mats for the patio. God. Pat ee yo. This one’s called gazebos for zebras, but its not about that, its about the permanent midnight of space. I don’t care for it. Its true meaning is I can side with sociopaths as well as anyone else. Think I’m gonna get out of here. Nooo! Its fine by me. We’ll hang out when you’re the slightest but sober. O K. At home out of tiredness she failed to say hi to her father, failed to feel close with her mother, went up the stairs. In her upstairs room with the window open the the breezy silence made the hour seem sad. There wasn’t hollowness though, and she felt lucky to not be Jamie, to not have all sorts of useless miseries echo past her heart like zipping birds, and laugh, and misunderstand. The wind stirred the alder boughs and brought them close enough to graze the sill. Ali! She didn’t hear the call until it came again: Ali come down! She groaned. No I refuse. She rolled her chair over to the sill. Shhh. You’ll wake the people. Oh man the people She lay her forehead against the dig-in of her palm. Its late and I’m lazy. Yeah, except time doesn’t really exist. Cept it does. A black dog came lapping along his heels. He recoiled but it still got tangled in his legs. She laughed good-naturedly. He fell down onto his palms and bounced back up to step around wobbily. Do you have any composure up there? Tons. Toss some down. Nope. I’m wide awake. Come on. Lets go play in the streets. You’re a doofus. Pretty please? Pretty please? Yeah definitely. I stand by it. She laughed. Tiredly she knocked her temple around along her wristline. Beneath blue dye her red hair was down and stray along the hairline. I don’t know. I’m really tired. Her phone dinged and lit softly. Text from Jamie. It said Every five or six months we select five or six of them and rip half their faces off. Man! She rubbed her eyes. What’s going on with Jamie? What do you mean? Acting crazy. Like how? Like crazy. Like saying shit that’s weird and not knowing she’s say ng it sometimes and then other times embracing the heck out of it. Is she on drugs? Uh yeah. I don't know. Am I waking your parents? No, your voice is soft, but I may be. How’d you get over here if your car’s all wrecked? I walked. Then I’m walking -- he flipped his arms into a railroad crossing configuration -- right back the other way, so I’ll probably get to Julien’s when she’s ready to wake up. How’s that going? Really well, I think. We’re past those zags where we stop knowing one another. Those. She’s life-guarding this summer. Life-guarding?!? But she’s such a tiny one. You’re dumb. That just means she can save people by surprise. I’m not dumb. Good on her. I’m proud. Quit drinking! You did? I think. Making me proud now. It was still. She squinted at the crisp ring spaced broadly round the moon. In not too long a time cloudsbank would move across and the competing eerie pales would tease one another apart. Its a hushy kind of peace, she said. With the boughs grazing me. Anyway well, if you’re not coming down, I’m gonna walk off across town. See ya! See ya Ali! He tossed a few crumpled fingers in the air. That doesn’t make a wave, you spaz. Its also a fist, he said. So its a whole mix. He walked confidently until he started to slip into lifelessness. He sped up, recoiling from the look of streetlamps. Spiders scattered up the drive and under pails and the faces of gargoyles were unblemished forever. Not going over there. Aw. Come on. Nuh-uh. Alison, if you go over there with me-- You’ll WHAT, and there was no answer. She woke from this dream exhausted, put on her dizzy shit, went and sat on the stoop and drank a bunch of coffee. A robin curlicued up the land. Okay clearly she had not been cut out for this shit where they head into project housing and come out with a gun, amd last night only served to prove that. James Orange's dream--What had it been, what had it been--oh yeah where the guy with a round sun for a held held up two more suns at arms length. He'd been equidistant between Venus and some other thing, and the suns had been the pearls. The fog blew off the front of her brain. Her coffee cup was empty. She rose and stretched her arms and spotted where someone had left trash on the walks and pursed her face and frowned and blinked and blinked again and said oh well, went through the screen door to the lobby without being careful for its closing, her arms sapped of energy, her hips postureless, her steps inattentive to the smooth physical shape of the corridor. She got in her apartment and told her fish, so tired, you’re in your fish-tank and I’m TIRED. She sat in the chair with her arms on the armrests and lay back her head and dropped her mouth open ostentatiously. Some dude texted her at like ten in the morning. She called him back and said NO. Do not fucking TEXT ME. Hung up the phone and said Jesus!, startling the parrot. Whole lotta bullshit, mynah bird. She felt shame. She called Fiver. Stop communicating with my dreams. He was slow and groggy. What? He asked. Where were you wanting to go? What! What are you talking about! He rolled off the couch and peeked past the sill at the weather. What are you doing today? Ohhh....gon skate. Well shit. You should have just said so at the foremost. There’s nothing left to do but skate after the holocaust. She said, You’re dumb. He hung up the phone and hissed joyfully at the cats and went and perched in the window with a book. In the elementary school parking lot six of them bounded out from all four doors of the corrolla and skated around, preparing to rip creation asunder. Alison sat observantly on a stair, a crumpled cap tilted on her head. Jamie washed out of the alley and leaned on her board, watching the fray from in front of the sunlight. Alison cried, What’s up Jamie! Come over here! Lady hiya, I cannot! I must show them how its done. Ali winced at the grounded-out noise. Noon’s gay, Jamie! Its big and gay! A big, gay bird! And, I’m partly gay meself, so...no offense! I know! Thank you for reaffirming this knowledge! She bared her teeth at Fiver. Fiver, lemme take you in my jaw like a pup I’m gonna eat. We’ll whip one another around like crazy spaceships, even if it doesn’t work like that physically. What the FUCK are you talking about, careening Nathan inquired. Nathan, you’re such a complainer! cried Jamie. Nathan’s a short bitch! Ali hollered. But look at that hair! How it waves! Ali, you’re the goddamn golden child! I knew it! She bowed her face and threw her fists up. What the FUCK, Nathan said. STOP. JESUS. Just bein’ thankful, said jamie. We’re asleep until we love. In Blackwells Fiver said to Jamie, Jamie, will you help me work a spell on these river southerners? What sort of spell? I don’t know, I can’t think well enough to strategize. Ah yeah, that. Such a problem! Such a problem, Sean. Ahh? Its that you don’t listen to me when I speak. Fuck you sometimes. Fiver’s turned away. Let’s be ever so dextrous and steal a water vessel. Fiver, you can’t come if you hate us, but if you love us you may come. Y’all are the only ones of your kind I like, Sean said. I don’t understand. You’re on drugs. You’re drug people. And stupid, it occurs to me. Don’t you understand, Sean? We’re going to steal us a boat. Stupid without being stuoid. I knooow. I Know so very much, Dear Sean. You...keep people away...by assigning them names, to blank them out. He slouched his neck back and popped the top button of his collar open. Well, I’ll come, even if I don’t care or give a fuck. Fiver, save some of that cash, like don’t tip, so’s you can fling it fearfully at the homeless you’re too scared to save. Wanna ding dong ditch my drunk dad and in quick succession fuck all my friends AND enemies and I wish you’d turn your heart around before its too late. You know it sucks when the option has become, friend, I used to love being in your presence, like that was love and truth and home, but now I have to settle for seeing you in the afterlife. Leave behind the labor of performing fictional experiments on yourself, come, we’ll set up a hearth forever and you can rest your bones in my bones before we’re even old. I’m saying, wash my feet, caress the exhaustion from them, polish my old toes new by handing the bathed tiredness out of them, give it all up like innards to the held hands of the marvelous cosmos. I think I’m the rain. A seated cat glimmered blackly like an ancient jar. A pinch crazy, a mite ooooh, a bit alien, and quite drunk and high. Be happy for your job, pal. To the best of your ability be worshipful of Sophia in the lobby of the ol backwoods. To the northwest a ways, across the mississip, the people are normal, and sane, and ya could have gone there, but noo noo you gotta exhibit the disease of alcoholism as the second half of the opera of masking yourself to your own avoidance, shitperson. Light little aspirer. My beloved. I’m just saying, you shouldn’t have marched into the sea without me. Here have this fucking pen. To do this shit is somehow who you are so whether you like it or not, you’ve just got to. Channel me. I bridge France and England, or perhaps shall. Charlie, come home. Oh, he will one day, singing fucking angrily, calling out the world’s evil. Siphon, finish that shit up and let’s go take a tumble through the streets. And flame out? No, galoot. You mean flame out. You’d have to imprison me before I’d claim that. Alison said, my solidly alternative spirit means I haven’t withered in despair over y’all yet, and Fiver, Jamie meant excursion. Not even once? Not even one fucking time. That’s cool. A spirit of solid health. I’m transcribed like that. What, I really am. Dude, don’t have faith or look now but I really believe your life could re-bloom at any instant. They’re carving my name into trees all across the county, Ali. Country men. We’d best find the culprits. Sounds like a lame-ass quest. A baby skull, our names mysteriously carved into the heart of stuff like beribboned mustachios, to steal the means of transport after severing the ferryman’s hands, and at last mayhaps to need to murder some people although we desire it not. Yet what nobody can tell me is if that makes for a just evening and a well-spent youth. No, put your money away, we came here to play not pay. Shut up. Not doing ANY of that. Why the hell would one of us have a baby skull? What happened to the old plan of getting old and dying? Ah man its just a bunch of Christ and taxation. She looked around the bar. This is bullshit with fucking darkness in it. She felt the bartop. Structurally sound, though, for a gel of swirling particles. ACK. The deathly preparation. Take me out hard, Voldemort Radagast Marshall. Charlie Jewell’s fucking ghost-angel appeared, bent and attired in rags with holes up the back showing knots of spine, fully blonde, smiling, proudly embarrassed, waiting for someone to make him laugh or offer somethung awful to agree about. Jamie freaked out and chortled and danced her hands involuntarily in front of her until the world was dizzy; Alison made an O mouth as a joke and said What’s up Charles. Jamie was able to still her hands. She yelped. Alison said Quit yer burbling. Not Much. You’re all part of one thing, though. But yeah, just thought I’d drop by. Its certainly fucked up to see you. Yeah. Can you drink liquor? Fuck yeah, I’m a funnel into heaven. A funnel into heaven, dontcha know. He pointed a finger at Fiver. Its your fault I’m dead, but you can’t really tell if I mean that or if its in your own head. He cast his head back on his neck and laughed gahgahgah, his adam’s apple like a pedal. Ah yeah.

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He's manhandled Anthony Davis, albeit while posting a losing record in 15 matchups on behalf of the Sacramento Kings. Boogie vs. Brow 1 Basketball Reference Cousins did it again to KAT on Friday, this time during a 109-105 Kings win in Minneapolis. He sliced and diced the Minnesota Timberwolves defense for team highs in points (32), rebounds (seven), assists (seven), steals (four) and blocks (two). Towns wasn't too shabby himself. He tallied 20 points, 13 boards and five dimes while watching Zach LaVine score a career-high 40 points. But all that firepower wasn't enough to preserve what had been a seven-point Timberwolves lead to start the fourth quarter. Nor were the 'Wolves able to stop Cousins, who put up 12 of Sacramento's 31 points in the final frame. Thanks to Boogie's big finish and the Portland Trail Blazers' loss to San Antonio, the Kings now find themselves hanging on to the eighth seed out West by the skin of their teeth. New Feat for Greek Freak Giannis Antetokounmpo is more than a human highlight reel, though he was certainly that during the Milwaukee Bucks 123-96 win over the Washington Wizards on Friday.

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