#sinus roris

[whats-in-a-sentence]

Thus, as well as an ocean of storms and a sea of tranquility, there is a bay of dew (Sinus Roris) and a bay of rainbows (Sinus Iridum), a marsh of decay (Palus Putredinus) and a lake of dreams (Lacus Somniorum).*

* The International Astronomical Union, which takes care of such things, codified the remit of sea naming to characteristics of water and states of mind. When the Soviet Union was adamant that one of the seas its Luna 3 probe discovered on the far side was to be called Mare Moscoviense, diplomatic ingenuity allowed is on the basis that "Moscow is a state of mind".

"The Moon: A History for the Future" - Oliver Morton

[ofcowardiceandkings]

checking emails after sending important ones !!!! hell !!!!!

[bike42]

September 8-10, 2023 Clifden

Friday - transfer day.

We were so relieved that the hotel in Clifden was willing to have the COVID positive tour members, and Peter arranged a van to transport us there separately. We learned that Gary had also tested positive, so he joined the “Dublin Five” in the quarantine van. Our driver was Rory, and he was hell-bent on getting us to Clifden in record time. I had researched some sights along the way, but was only able to get little glimpses of Westport and Killery Fjord as we flew past in the van.

We arrived at the hotel several hours ahead of our bus (with our luggage). It was another unbelievably hot and sunny day. Jeff and I sat in the chairs out front and played a few games of cribbage, until we finally had to go inside. The room was nice, and the best amenity was a fan in the closet! It would be unusual to need AC in Ireland, so we’re doing our best trying to catch a breeze through open windows.

We were both feeling pretty good - I had some sinus congestion, and Jeff still had a bit of a cough. It seems like the meds we got in two trips to the pharmacy will see us through this.

It was a “group dinner at the hotel” night, so Peter texted us the menu and said our meals would be delivered to our rooms. It was a beautiful evening, so the Dublin Five carried our meals to the front patio and ate out there. JT and I polished off our bottle of Jameson Crested. It felt odd to have people from the group come out to say hello (from a distance). We learned that several other members had fallen ill, including Bill.

After dinner, JT and I walked around the town. The hotel is in a great location just a block from the Main Street. We walked a circle and found many shops and restaurants. At least we have a great location to have to be sequestered!

Saturday

I woke about 7a feeling pretty good. By rearranging some furniture, I was able to create enough space to do yoga. We put masks on and went down to the breakfast buffet. It felt very odd to be serving ourselves. We took our plates outside and ate our breakfast on the patio with Steve. The tour today was a hike guided by a local archeologist and it was painful to watch half of our group climb on the bus and drive off without us.

I was reminded of the disappointment I’d felt last Summer when our Yukon trip was cancelled and we had to “make the best of it” by enjoying the trip to Banff that I’d pulled together instead. We’re always good at making the best of it, but having to sit out this tour was really bugging me. I think it was because after all this time, this tour company didn’t have a plan for how to handle this. We bought our own COVID tests and confessed that we’d tested positive. There are others on our tour that are exhibiting symptoms, yet claim they’re testing negative, or haven’t said anything at all. Three couples only one is positive, which is a little unbelievable given they’re sharing hotel rooms. We’ve agreed with Peter that quarantine should be for 5 days after symptoms start, but someone at the company is now declaring it’s 5 days after the positive test, which makes no sense. I shared with Peter that the Backroads Tour policy is that anyone with symptoms or a positive test needs to wear a mask when on the bus and can’t participate in group dinners - nothing about having to quarantine in the hotel. We’re trying to be careful with Peter as he’s in the middle here and I’m sure the company is thinking about liability. However, with over half of us showing symptoms, I think they should act as if we all have it and just institute required masking and allow anyone with mild symptoms to continue. Ethically, Jeff and I felt we had to report our positive results to him. But it was so frustrating to see people getting on the bus that morning that were likely positive too (including 3 people whose spouses were positive and reportedly quite ill).

I’d found several interesting looking hikes, but it was too hard to find a way to the trailhead and back. We made a plan with Steve to take a taxi up to the Sky Road lookout and walk back. Our cab driver was “Daniel Ryan,” who said he was the great-great-grandson of the “Dan Ryan” for which the expressway in Chicago is named after. It was foggy when he dropped us at the lookout, but he said it’d clear up in thirty minutes. We stood around as the fog swirled, taking photos of the fog and the flowering hillsides - heather, yellow gorse and wild fuchsia. A cyclist came along and Jeff enjoyed chatting with him. While we had some glimpses of the Atlantic and some houses down below, it never cleared completely so we started our walk down the hill.

Walking downhill felt so different on my shins after my main focus for the last eight weeks was hiking up hill. I snapped lots of photos as we descended: flowers, cattle, sheep and the Clifden Castle gate and wall (and ruins).

We got back to the village square and decided to grab a pint and a snack. Bill texted he was ready to meet up and he came down to the square to join us. At 2:30pm Ireland was playing Romania in the World Cup Rugby match and the atmosphere inside the pub was fun (craic without the music). We watched for a bit, and it seemed it was a blowout! Back to the hotel, I had a solid two hour nap, then got up to shower. We heard from Steve that Peter was ready to meet with the Dublin Five to discuss our plan for rejoining the tour. We met him on the back deck of the restaurant that’s across the parking lot in the old train station. We agreed on five days after start of symptoms, so Jeff and Steve were in the clear. I said day number five for me was tomorrow and could I go on the tour? Peter didn’t say no, so I took this as a yes.

M&M were playing at 8:30p at Mallarkey’s Pub. We headed there after dinner and sat at a table to the side away from the rest of the tour mates (we just waved to them). Fantastic music as always, and Peter joined the for a few songs. We all had a pint of Guinness and Bill bought a round of whiskey to help with our slight coughs. We stayed while the next band got set up and started - a kind of comical overweight Irishman with a keyboardist (younger girl), drummer and electric bass player. He did 3 American songs before we left, not at all the kind of music we expected!

Sunday

Up for breakfast - feeling well enough now to stay in the dining room to eat, but masking up as we travel throughout the hotel. Felt great to board the bus again for the short drive to Cleggan where we caught the ferry for the 40-minute ride to Inishbofen. Only 14 of us plus Peter made the trip - combination of COVID and too much partying last night thinned the crowd.

Inishbofen is the westernmost part of Ireland. In Irish, it means the land of white cows. As we entered the harbor, there were dramatic ruins of a fort that had been built by Oliver Cromwell who had a base here 1649. Peter said it’s not taught in history class in the UK, but he was a psychopath that pulverized Ireland - burning villages and forests and killing thousands of people.

Peter said about 200 people live on the island, and there are many holiday homes. It’s a peaceful, laid back place to visit. There wasn’t much commerce on the island, but shops and cafes have been established with an old airstream trailer, an old double-decker bus, and by adding on to houses. It was possible to rent bicycles which I thought we’d do, but the roads on the island don’t go too far. Peter said it was best to walk around the south side - 40 minutes to get to a dramatically scenic cliff. We took off with Wayne and Sue, knowing it’d be too painful to walk with the rest of that group. They’re the youngest people of this trip (53) and we enjoyed spending the day with them. Other than Bill, we haven’t really clicked with anyone else, or found much common interest other than love for music.

It felt great to walk at a good pace and physically we both felt fantastic. We walked out to the point, and then back to the hotel that had an outdoor cafe. There we found our group - only made it that far and few ventured any further even after we told them how beautiful it was!

We sat at a picnic table overlooking the sea and ordered pints of Guinness and lunch. It started misting and we donned our rain gear, but by the time lunch came it was gorgeous and sunny! We relaxed there for about an hour, watching dogs, people and staring out to sea.

The boat ride back was uneventful and we got a text from Bill suggesting dinner at a French restaurant in town. We cleaned up and met him out front. He’d just heard from Peter that the boss man said all the remaining COVID + people have to stay in Clifden until the last night! We brainstormed different approaches he could take to get Peter to relax that a bit, then enjoyed a nice dinner and bottle of wine without talking of COVID anymore!

Back to the hotel, music tonight was provided by Pauline Scanlon - a renowned Irish singer with two members of her band (The Unquiet) and also her husband on the bodhran (he’s part of a famous Irish band that we hadn’t heard of as well). It was a lot of folk and traditional Irish music - fantastic performers. Pauline sang a ballad that she said she’d had the honor of singing at Sinead O’Conner’s funeral recently (what? Holy cow … Bill had missed that Sinead died). Another great night of music - JT and I headed up to sleep while others steered toward the bar. Tomorrow we’ll move to County Clare.

[leanstooneside]

If you don't know where you're going, then the journey is never ending

- ROGER FEDERER'S ARM (EPIDERMOLYSIS BULLOSA DYSTROPHICA)

- BRODY JENNER'S ARM (SWIMMER'S EAR, LEFT EAR)

- JARED LETO'S ARM (CYST AND MUCOCELE OF NOSE AND NASAL SINUS)

- NOVAK DJOKOVIC'S ARM (CONTUSION OF SMALL INTESTINE)

- VICTORIA BECKHAM'S ARM (HEMORRHAGIC DISEASE OF NEWBORN)

- TIM MCGRAW'S ARM (DRIVER OF SPECIAL ALL-TERRAIN OR OTHER OFF-ROAD MOTOR VEHICLE INJURED IN TRAFFIC ACCIDENT)

- SOFIA VERGARA'S ARM (CYST AND MUCOCELE OF NOSE AND NASAL SINUS)

- JAY Z'S ARM (OTOSCLEROSIS INVOLVING OVAL WINDOW, OBLITERATIVE, BILATERAL)

- LENA DUNHAM'S ARM (CORROSION OF THIRD DEGREE OF MULTIPLE SITES OF LEFT WRIST AND HAND)

- HUGH JACKMAN'S ARM (ANTERIOR SUBCAPSULAR POLAR INFANTILE AND JUVENILE CATARACT, UNSPECIFIED EYE)

- JUSTIN LONG'S ARM (LESION OF PLANTAR NERVE)

- KIRSTIE ALLEY'S ARM (NONDISPLACED FRACTURE OF ANTERIOR PROCESS OF LEFT CALCANEUS)

- BILL RANCIC'S ARM (PEDAL CYCLE PASSENGER INJURED IN COLLISION WITH FIXED OR STATIONARY OBJECT IN TRAFFIC ACCIDENT)

- DANIEL CRAIG'S ARM (JUVENILE ARTHRITIS, UNSPECIFIED, LEFT HAND)

- BETH OSTROSKY STERN'S ARM (TOXIC EFFECT OF OTHER SEAFOOD, ASSAULT)

- BEN ROETHLISBERGER'S ARM (PSEUDOCOXALGIA, LEFT HIP)

- RAFAEL NADAL'S ARM (ALTERED MENTAL STATUS, UNSPECIFIED)

- RORY MCILROY'S ARM (SWIMMER'S EAR, LEFT EAR)

- COLTON HAYNES'S ARM (PRETERM LABOR WITHOUT DELIVERY, UNSPECIFIED TRIMESTER)

- SHERRI SHEPHERD'S ARM (SPONTANEOUS RUPTURE OF OTHER TENDONS, RIGHT ANKLE AND FOOT)

- KATHERINE HEIGL'S ARM (NICOTINE DEPENDENCE, CIGARETTES, WITH WITHDRAWAL)

- KIRSTEN DUNST'S ARM (CHRONIC SUPERFICIAL GASTRITIS WITHOUT BLEEDING)

- ALEX MCCORD'S ARM (ACUTE EMBOLISM AND THROMBOSIS OF RIGHT FEMORAL VEIN)

- ASHLEY OLSEN'S ARM (FAMILY HISTORY OF MALIGNANT NEOPLASM OF OTHER GENITAL ORGANS)

- CHRISTINA MILIAN'S ARM (RESISTANCE TO UNSPECIFIED BETA LACTAM ANTIBIOTICS)

[thedreadvampy]

this one IS finished (I wrote it in August 2013) and honestly? holds tf up good job 2013 Ruth

(2013 Ruth was evidently very into a) trauma and b) Bertie not being as dead as initially suspected)

TAKE NO PRISONERS GIVE NO QUARTER

The rage hasn't left him since he heard about Bertie. It's amazing what three simple letters can do to a man whose whole self rests on one person. MIA. Theoretically, that's inconclusive, but in reality, that just means there isn't enough left to find, let alone bury. MIA is a pretty common ending to a young man's story, down here in the tunnels. 

The whole tunnel came down on Bertie and the rest of the scouting party, the cracked walls giving up the ghost under the combined pressure of shellling and laser fire. Crushed Lenny and Tommy alike, erasing their differences in one bloody mess, good old boys from Blighty and moonbleached Lenny bastards all rendered down to crushed mess together, There was only one survivor to report back, and was is the operative term. It's hard to get back into active service when you're jam from the waist down, and the poor blighter never even made it far enough to be invalided out to one of the giant Medsats in orbit up above.

So Bertie's gone, and in fairness, Tim never was very stable when left to his own devices, as strings of explosive accidents and charred lab wreckages can attest.

There was shock, at first. The dull numbness of denial,  no no no NO no NO it can't be he isn't he didn't no body no proof he'll be found he'll be invalided out he'll be fine he is was will be fine he isn't gone because he CAN'T be gone. But denial's hard to cling to when you've seen death like the boys in the tunnels have seen, you know a tunnelfall is not something you walk away from. Or even crawl away from. Nowhere to run, with tonnes upon tonnes of lunar rock crashing down from above, tasting your own fate in the smoke and dust that are the forerunners of the boulders...a hellish death, a messy death, above all a certain death. If you aren't crushed you'll suffocate or die of your wounds, out in the deadland where nobody's going to hear your cries. Hells, Tim and Bertie did it often enough, that grim tunnels game you have to play, sitting by the crackling radio, rustling and banging your things around, talking, singing, anything to block out the hopeless, plaintive calls from the nearest collapsed tunnel, where hidden charges and weakened structures and exposure to fire mean you'll most likely die yourself before you can help any one of the poor bastards.

So Bertie's...

Bertie's...

For hours, days, he couldn't even bear to think the end of that sentence, and he understands now as never before why the tunnels are filled with euphemisms, those coy lies that partially cover this unbearable truths lurking behind them.

Gone.

Bought it.

Kicked the bucket.

Pushing up daisies.

MIA.

Bertie's...Bertie's dead.

His mind revolted, twisted and writhed away from considering the existence of a world with a Bertie-shaped lack, the world he now existed in where days and nights were cold and alone and silent and only filled by his cold hands and his cold eyes and his cold heart and his raging fire thoughts with nobody to guide them. There were, at that point, others around him, comrades, others in his dugout, but they no longer existed to him They meant nothing. They weren't Bertie. They weren't his. They were man-shaped shadows, who drifted in and out of his awareness to offer orders or platitudes. They weren't part of his silent cotton-wool world. Tim was...is...an ice cold, glass-sharp shard in the centre of soft, soundless, excruciating nothing.

He has yet to be aware of crying over Bertie, though sometimes he finds the salt wetness on his face to be tears, not blood, sometimes he realises with a shock that the hopeless sob he hears is his own. But thus far he has never sat down to cry, never let himself mourn. For days after the news came, it wasn't real, nothing was real, he just shut off. He stared, blank-eyed, into the middle distance, and performed his duties with silent, mechanical efficiency. His comrades muttered, as the days spread into weeks, talked about "mental", "headcase", "shell-shock," and though he heard them, they no more penetrated Tim's dead-eyed daze than anything else happening around him. But there was one, a soft-spoken Welshman by the name Griffiths (bought it at Sinus Roris a few days later), who hit the nail on the head. Looking at the detached, unreacting figure of Tim as he sat slowly dissassembling his lasgun, Griffiths said quietly, "I reckon that's what it looks like when a man gets his heart broke beyond repair".

That, Tim heard, and almost, almost cried. Almost let it fall loose, all of it, weeks of pent-up tears, crippling fear, total bereavement. Almost shed every tear he had, for the times that were and the comfort that used to be, for his Bertie and for his own heart, that he'd barely known was there until it shattered, and for the snuffing of the one and only true light in these dank, dismal tunnels. He almost cried, but he didn't. If he let the feelings in, he was sure they would destroy him; comprehension of his loss loomed poised, a tsunami waiting to break over him.

He didn't cry. The emotions stayed safely dammed back. His face stayed empty. His heart stayed closed.

And he could have stayed that way forever, floating through life in the dazed, unfocused stupefaction of unbearable grief, but for one thing. Bertie had...had died pushing the lines forward, and the Moonies were working day and night, it seemed, to push back. And they pushed hard. 

They came in the dead of night, trampling across the fallen rock under which was buried the dead of both sides. Tim was on watch that night, he saw the tiny will-o-the-wisp reflection of lights in their eyes, the firelight gleaming off polished buttons. He saw the soldiers who'd mowed down his Bertie (he wasn't there, didn't see how Bertie died, but in the fevered darkness behind his lids, he sees Bertie dying in that godforsaken tunnel night after night in infinite ways, sees him shot down or crushed or lying moaning in the dark, slowly ebbing away a few pathetic tunnels away from Tim's unknowing form), saw them in the flesh now, saw them coming from the wreckage which still buried the only person who'd been real to him, imagined their boots pounding the rubble above Bertie's ruined body. The tension which had been holding him together for every unimaginably long day since the tunnelfall snapped, and the pain crashed thunderous into his head in a flood of images and memory and raw uncurtailed loss, in curly hair and a dimpled smile and pale grey eyes clouded over lying alone dying alone in a stew of viscera and agony and bone and blood and smoke, mingling contamination, blood mixed with his enemies, crushed into moonwhite corpses, a world apart, a world alone, a world where Tim has no control, where Bertie isn't, where Tim...

And without knowing anything, unexpectedly, Tim found the wave didn't swamp him. Didn't crush him, didn't smash him, didn't destroy him. He rode it. His agony and his loss gave him strength, made him unstoppable. Grief surged in his veins, and he surged with it, eyes alive and merciless. He laid red flowers on Bertie's grave. By the time the rest of the platoon scrambled out of the dugout, sleep-fogged and panicking, the battle was all but over, and Tim was gone in a trail of broken corpses.

He is legend. He is death. The monster of the war. His shadow stalks the tunnels, makes Lenny wake up cold and sweating and reaching for his laser in the dark.

Sometimes he surfaces to find himself slick with gore, panting. Sometimes, the flash and scream of his homemade grenades blast him into a moment's lucidity. Sometimes, surrounded by the dead, he awakes to find himself laughing and crying all at once.  Always, he surveys his work with grim satisfaction, but his work is not done, will never be done. The fury which drives him will not be sated, because no matter how many he kills, how many of Bertie's murderers fall before him, there will still be more of the moonbleached fuckers out there, and there will still be no Bertie. No amount of blood is blood enough to repay the loss of Bertie. The tunnels can drown in blood for all he cares, as long as there's a Lenny left on the moon he cannot rest, will not rest.

Lips drawn back, baring bloody teeth in a deathshead grin, skin afire with reflected explosions, hair in bloody ratstails whipping the air, eyes wide and redrimmed and merciless, face soot-streaked and bloody, he runs and he destroys. You can only ride the wave as long as you keep moving. Stop, and the pain grabs you, breaks you, drowns and dashes you, you'll never catch it again.

You know this part. Tim in the tunnels, dancing to the sonorous song of gunfire and grenades, hauling on the lasgun's trigger, a wild onlaught of blood and fire, laughing a chillingly humourless laugh, shout-singing the words that make the Kaiser's men piss themselves and run, take no prisoners, give no quarter. The lucky shot, the sudden blackness that damps the fire in his burning mind. Tim wakes before the Moon Kaiser, unarmed, pained, held by guards.

He isn't like other men, that's what the Kaiser failed to take into account. He's a machine fuelled by love and blood, he runs on the pain-fire that consumes him, he won't stop, can't stop. He doesn't see the world like men do, not any more. Many men would tremble, many men would abase themselves in fear, but Tim is not many men. Many men would be surprised to see the decapitated head of a comrade come alive and wink at them, but Tim's not lived in the real world since the tunnel fell, why would it surprise him? He can't stop, and what the Kaiser forgets, looking upon the animalistic form of the monster of the tunnels, is that Tim is not stupid. He never was, was always smarter than his peers, but now he runs with the liquid fire of revenge, the fire which burnt away fear and hesitation, the fire which burnt down to its white-hot razor-sharp bones one of the Academy's greatest intellects.

The laser fires.

The moon blows up.

White hot victory sears his eyes to black holes.

Not one Lenny is left on the Moon.

For the first time since the tunnelfall, perhaps the last, Tim wears a true, unmitigated smile. His face bloody and bruised, cheekbone fractured, teeth loose in his salt-tasting mouth, lips and beard streaked with blood, burned-out holes where once he had eyes, body a mass of melting pain, Tim spreads wide hands blistered and nailless and torn, and smiles beautifically, his sacred fiery charge at last fulfilled.

Later, there is more pain, and more blood, and metal screaming and grinding bone and screeching glass and merciless, half-familiar voices around him.

Later still, head screaming from the searing, unwelcome clarity of his new brass-rivet vision, he throws away the tenth cup of tea thrust into his hands by the genially smiling wooden man, and goes walking among the wreckage of the Moon. His unfamiliar optics pick out the scorched shell of a British Medsat, palely lit by Earthlight. It's near death, battered, burned, uprooted from its umbilical attachments to the lunar surface. The airlock judders open to let Tim in, red cross shattered and blackened on the pitted and charred surface of the outer door, inside door's glass spiderwebbed with cracks but still gamely holding out against the vacuum of space.

Tim's footfalls are loud in the echoingly abandoned corridors. He passes the dead, nurses and doctors lying where they fell as the satellite buckled and split, some crushed under their equipment, some lying where they bled out, some left bloody marks as they dragged themselves into wards. Behind the airlocked ward doors, surely the dying still moan, soundproofed out of Tim's life. Emergency lights flicker on and off, alternately bright, antiseptic whiteness and total darkness, casting failing, dancing shadows on the crazed, cracked, bloodied floor. The light hurts Tim's head, and he covers his optics with a bandage to spare his tortured brain, navigating the corridors with cracked fingertips and echoing footsteps. Chooses a door at random, steps into the ward. The room is silent, but for a few gasping, cracked, airless breaths. Tim is reminded of the moanings in the tunnels all those eternal weeks ago, the dead men in tunnelfalls who just won't die. He takes another shuffling step, shuffles around when he encounters an unmoving body with his foot, explores the ward in dazed blindness, smelling sickness and death and blood, hearing hopelessness, seeing nothing.

There's a dry cough to his left, and to his right a rattling, juddering last breath, and Tim stops, drawn up short, because that breath sounds his name in impossible, familiar tones, and then is gone.

His heart stops. He rips the bandage from his eyes, flooding his vision with white flickering emergency lights, with blood and the dying, and with the nightmare.

Tim lets out a howl, wordless and meaningless and bottomless, like a wounded animal, like a dying man, like Lucifer falling. Knees and strength give out all at once. Strings cut, he lands on his knees, sprawled across the bed, rocking and shuddering, fists clenched, the unearthly despair sound still tearing out of him from the bottom of his irreparably stained soul.

Under his desperately shaking body, the fresh corpse cools slowly, bereft of the machines that were holding him together, orphaned of their care by the blast which must have blown out both main and auxiliary life support. The dead man has bandaged stumps where once he had long, strong legs, his broad chest has been crushed and crumpled on one side, his smiling, dimpled face now gaunt and etched with unimaginable pain (and now, oh god, waxy and cold and white and bloody-lipped), there's a gaping absence where once there was a laughing grey eye, blonde curls have been shaved away to allow for the livid line of stitches across his scalp, but there is no mistake, could never be a mistake. And broken as he was, he was alive, was awake, was even speaking, and then Tim took his revenge, and now...

And now the wave has broken over Tim a second time, and this time there's no riding it, no using the anger and hatred which fills his every fibre. Because there's no using that white hot fire of revenge when Bertie's killer still lives, will always live, now cannot die.

And now, now he cries, an explosion of tears and pain and keening, hopeless, echoing up from the bottom of the world, thin body wracked, shaking like every world ending at once as he pulls sobs up through every part of him, breathing raw and short and ragged, nothing left but despair and endless, futile pain and rage. Hands tear at his hair and face as if by sheer effort of will he could tear himself apart, kill himself with as much violence and brutality as he killed the Kaiser and his army, but it's hopeless, he can't be killed, he can't forget, he can't escape, it will never be over, he will live forever and he will live with this forever.

Later, Gunpowder Tim leaves the Medsat in its death throes, mechanical eyes unreadable, walks away from the hospital satellite he crippled, returns to the Aurora and the cold, mechanical distraction of her guns, the crew of once-people as hateful as himself. Leaves what was left of his humanity behind in its charnelhouse corridors with the body of his friend/love/victim. Leaves Tim-That-Was to die next to Bertie's body.

Behind him, the Medsat shudders and flares suddenly white in a soundless, soon-snuffed explosion, a funeral pyre for Tim and Bertie. Gunpowder Tim doesn't look back.

[tart-pastry]

No one could have told, merely by looking at it, whether the Sea was liquid or solid. It was completely flat and featureless, quite free from the myriad cracks and fissures that scarred all the rest of this barren world. Not a single hillock, boulder or pebble broke its monotonous uniformity. No sea on Earth—no mill-pond, even—was ever as calm as this. It was a sea of dust, not of water. A heavy object dropped into it would disappear instantly, without a splash, leaving no scar to mark its passage.

— A passage describing the “Sea of Thirst, a (fictional) dust-bowl in (non-fictional) Sinus Roris,” in “A Fall of Moondust,” by Arthur C. Clarke. A riveting space drama gets going when a lunar transport, known as the “dust cruiser” sinks 50 feet into it. 

[reflexletterpress]

Good viewing, good phase. First thing I thought: there's Aristarchus again. And Plato and Copernicus and Tycho and all the usual suspects. But look at the crunchy stuff to the north, where Mare Frigoris segues into Sinus Roris and you get the edges of craters like Babbage, South, and Herschel. Or similarly to the south, with the edges of Schickard, Phocyclides and Nasmyth catching the light, along with what I guess is Rimae Sirsalis more toward center. There's always good stuff to be seen where the dark meets the light. But Tycho does look splendid, the darker image gives more contrast to highlight the brighter and rayed craters. However, this is definitely one of those nights where the digital version is pretty darn lame. #iphoneastrophotography #lunarphotography #20xbinoculars #aristarchus #copernicus #tycho #plato #marefrigoris #sinusroris #babbagecrater #southcrater #herschelcrater #rimaesirsalis #schickardcrater #phocyclidescrater #nasmythcrater https://www.instagram.com/p/CPPJmtMBuYK/?utm_medium=tumblr

[vjkstar-blog]

*#Lunar Surface*... Captured on Tuesday, 2020.10.07.... *Description*: Wed, 07-Oct-2020 Waning gibbous, 19 days, 78% illuminated, 3,99,659.80 km away from Planet Earth... Features seen in this pic: *Craters*: HARPALUS FOUCAULT SHARP BIANCHINI BOUGUER MAUPERTUIS LA CONDAMINE HELICON MAIRAN A *Mountain range*: MONTES JURA *Cape*: PROMONTORIUM HERACLIDES PROMONTORIUM LAPLACE *Bay*: SINUS IRIDUM SINUS RORIS *Equipment*: __#ExploreScientific ED 127mm Carbon Fiber f/7.5 AirSpaced Triplet APO Refractor... __#TeleVue 2.5x PowerMate... __TS Optics UV/IR Cut 2" Filter __#SoftwareBisque #Paramount MX Mount... __#ZWO ASI185MC #Camera.... *Processing*: __4058 frames captured in #SharpCap __Stacked in #Autostakkert3 __Wavelets in #Registax __Enhanced in #Lightroom & #Snapseed *Sky Conditions*: Minor Hazy Sky... 8/10 *Location*: #Whitefield, #Bangalore, #Karnataka, #India #astronomy #planetary #planetphotography #astrophotography #astrophotographyindia #moonphotography #bangaloreastronomyclub #delhiastronomyclub #karnataka #india (at Bangalore, India) https://www.instagram.com/p/CIQCKPKJOL_/?igshid=8h10cf1qx5nd

[collinmun]

Before we highlight our three former Model UN students regarding their gap year journey, I (Professor S. Iwanek) wanted to take the time to share something personal that Rory, Nisa and Jareck did for me. In April of 2017 I underwent major reconstructive jaw surgery, sinus lift and bone grafting (resulting in a 6 hour surgery). The day before my surgery the hospital called me to inform me that I had to pay $5,000 upfront in order to have the surgery. At no point was I told about this...to say I was upset is an understatement! I did manage to negotiate with the hospital to put down $500 but, the rest had to be paid within 3 weeks. What happened next, was (and still is) hands down one of the most profound moments of my life. Rory, Nisa and Jareck decided to create a GoFundMe account to help me out. I actually didn’t know anything about this until after my surgery and it still chokes me up thinking about it. The reached out to all of my former MUN students, friends, faculty and because of their initiative, compassion and commitment I was able to pay the hospital and the additional/surprise medical bills. When friends, fellow faculty and others ask me why I do Model UN, the list of my “Why’s” grows longer and longer each year and Rory, Nisa and Jareck have absolutely contributed to some of my most profound “whys” Since all three of them have graduated from Collin College they have continued to ask for my guidance, asked me to read essays and letter of recommendations and for advice regarding their next steps. I couldn’t be more proud for who they each are and who they are growing into. Ubuntu Rory, Nisa and Jareck - your former Professor , your always mentor and now, your forever friend. Prof Iwanek @marc_muheya3 you are also loved and appreciated and I’m certain your support was in there too... we all know the strong silent and kind human you are! https://www.instagram.com/p/B783dmygNA8/?igshid=ri90inq4ygd4

[ofcowardiceandkings]

sent email about helf updates to work HR, hopefully shit goes alright

[bothkindsofbeans]

3/07/17

It's been a really weird couple of days. Now listen to me rant a little bit, because there wasn't a whole lot to say about the poor excuse for a burrito I ate today.

I had Monday off (as I often do), and I accidentally fell asleep for a couple hours in the late afternoon. I got up and tried to get some things done, but I never really recovered. This morning I got some things done around the house before work, and since I missed out on grocery shopping yesterday (because I fell asleep), I dug around my pantry for something to eat. I found a box of Annie's brand organic, vegan shells & cheese bullshit. You know, the kind of stuff that's not really good, but it's something non-perishable that you can keep around. I knew I had some vegan butter and some almond milk, so I thought I was golden. The almond milk brand has recently changed their label design, and I didn't notice that this was actually vanilla flavored almond milk. I had already started cooking the noodles. I wouldn't have if I had noticed this just a minute sooner. I got by making the sauce with water, but I grumbled and said lots of swear words out loud to no one while I cooked and ate that shit.

The wind was bonkers today. In fact, I was woken up before my alarm by weird wind noises. I thought maybe my house was going to fall down. I biked downtown with Rory's synthesizer on my front rack, fighting crazy winds, and discovered I had forgotten my keys. I didn't have enough time to get home and still be on time. Not having keys would be problematic, because today was a Riverside show day, and I'd need to move a bunch of seats and go in and out of the theater a lot. I also planned on having a burrito after moving all those seats. I was surprised once again (to an even greater degree than the almond milk surprise) to find that Joe Bonamassa is fighting a wicked bad sinus infection and cannot perform tonight. It was supposed to be the "Guitar Event of the Year".  Suddenly, leaving my keys at home was no longer such a big deal. I wouldn't be moving seats. I wouldn't be working up a big hunger as a result. I wouldn't really need a burrito. Well, I also didn't bring a lunch. I was pretty torn for a while. I could have lasted the day without lunch, probably without any problem, but I caved, knowing I had points to burn to get a free burrito.

When checking my rewards balance via web browser, it said I had like, a ton of points. I forgot to hit the redeem thing before I left to get lunch, but I figured I'd try it with the mobile app. The app told me I had like half as many points as what I had just seen minutes earlier on the computer. I guess I'd be paying for my burrito today. I can't tell if I'm more mad that I paid damn near $8.50 for the tiny piece of bullshit I got from Qdoba today, or glad that I didn't waste my free burrito on the tiny piece of bullshit I got from Qdoba today.

It was made by some person I've never seen before. I had one couple ahead of me in line, and dude was a pretty frustrating human. He wore some kind of racecar jacket and had a pretty ratty mullet. He got all the way through the process with his partner's order, and then made the Qdoba worker go all the way back to start the thing that he wanted. It took quite a while because he had to ask a bunch of questions, I guess, in order to achieve the most basic ass quesadilla. The Matriarch came out at one point to ring up the racecar man, but I wish she had made my burrito instead. The Adept was also sitting at a nearby table, apparently on break or something. I got like no beans. I got a little bit of some shitty-looking vegetables, and she covered the thing in the habanero salsa. This was totally a punishment burrito. Maybe this is penance for my sin of sloth from yesterday.

It's not too often that I feel crankier after eating, but this is one of those exceptions. I feel the rage in me now. I'm about to ginger snap. At least the wind should be at my back on the ride home from my unexpectedly-shortened work day. Weight: 489 grams (17.25 oz)

[roadsidemonuments]

Chesley Bonestell (1888-1986) was an American pioneer of space art who helped popularize manned space travel. All art copyright by and reproduced courtesy of Bonestell LLC

[calliejjordan]

Activate Your Power Through Vinyasa Yoga with Rory Rogina

Vinyasa: A Sanskrit word meaning to place in a special way or to connect through the breath.

In current terms, Vinyasa is a flow yoga class, creating fluid transitions from posture to posture, synchronized by the breath.

This inspiring and sometimes challenging practice builds heat, activates the cardiovascular system, unifies mind, body and spirit (as all yoga seeks to do,) builds strength and balance, and brings calm to the central nervous system through an hour or more of mindful breathing.

Yoga teacher and therapist Rory Rogina, co-founder of Perfect Balance Yoga and Massage, has practiced yoga since 1988 and has taught six to ten classes weekly since 1992 and currently teaching three flow classes weekly in that mix.

Born with a sinus condition that kept him impacted, in pain, and barely able to smell, let alone breathe, Rory found a book about yoga at a garage sale and quickly began to heal by following the breathing techniques and postures. So inspired by his recovery, he set out to train and help others. No question he has helped a great number of people through the years.

Yoga has also improved his life in a myriad of other ways: clarity of mind, flexibility, issues with blood pressure and arthritis, broadening his world view, gratitude, joy, reducing moderate anxiety and agoraphobia and pubic speaking- all things that keep him inspired to teach, helping students to have a better experience in their bodies, minds, and lives through awareness and alignment.

His dedicated pursuit of knowledge has and continues to richly benefit the many, many students who attend his classes. He completed advanced yoga teacher training in India in 2007 and has invested in thousands of hours of training in many different styles of yoga including the alignment-specific style of Anusara.

Introducing his world-renowned teachers Desiree Rumbaugh and Andrew Riven at a Billings workshop spring of 2016.

Receiving instruction from his teacher Desiree. photo by Jodie Bierbach

It is accurate to say he knows his stuff. But what exactly is his “stuff?”

The very flexible Rory- photo by Jodie Bierbach

Rory understands well that a flow class is a playground, a place to creatively mix postures (with his extensive training, the combinations are endless), and encourage the students to creatively and mindfully test their edges. It is a place to explore the serious and humorous sides of life and to not only connect the breath to posture, but also teacher to student and each person to themselves.

His serious attention to alignment helps keep his students from becoming injured. He may offer personal verbal adjustments if he sees someone veering into dangerous territory.

While a flow class can have a higher level of difficulty, Rogina feels students should not be exhausted by the time they finish, but find their energy is recharged and not depleted by breathing correctly, following alignment cues and the awareness of what muscles you need to engage and not engage during this practice. It is always about seeking the balance between effort and ease.

He practices with the class (co-participation) because it helps him to correctly link the breath with the movement- giving a greater ability to know how long to stay in the pose. He knows if he is starting to lose his breath, his students most certainly are and he can adjust the flow to a better pace. Rory also never teaches anything he himself does not practice, ensuring greater safety for the students.

Rogina loves to infuse playfulness into his classes through playlists, humor, and sometimes his outfits… photo by Jodie Bierbach

“For my students it is the three A’s, attitude, action, and alignment. Attitude, specifically a positive attitude causes a chain reaction of positive thoughts, events and outcomes. Action is how you are engaging in the pose, what muscles are active and what muscles are passive. Alignment is where your bones and muscles are and are lined up harmoniously and working together instead of against one another.”

Training his students to cultivate awareness, on and off the mat, is the higher purpose in all of his teaching.

If you feel you have a decent level of fitness and body awareness and are ready to attend one of his three flow classes, you will get a good aerobic workout and learn how to do advanced postures with greater ease. Flow classes enhance balance, build strength, create flexibility in areas such as hamstrings and the back (among other areas,) empower people emotionally and mentally and often set students on the path to better self care.

If you have not practiced yoga before, begin with a slow and gentle class and/or a private session. You will get to know better where you are in your body and have a better understanding of how to move with the class- ensuring more success and joy.

Perfect Balance Yoga and Massage, co-owned with Pam Havig, is entering its 14th year of business as Billings’ oldest yoga studio. His current flow yoga schedule:

Sundays: Vinyasa Groove 1-2:30pm

Mondays: Flow 7-8:15pm

Wednesdays: Flow 7-8:15pm

Rory Rogina finds it an honor to teach. The fact that people trust their health, bodies, and wellbeing to his teaching and knowledge is very serious business to him. He welcomes you to his studio and looks forward to helping you create better living through yoga.

Pricing: 

Single class/ drop in: $12, $10 for seniors over 65 and students

Seven class pass: (expires after one year) $77

Monthly unlimited: $125

Yoga mat rental: $2

Private yoga session: $40

Perfect Balance Yoga and Massage

712 Carbon Street Suite D

Billings, MT 59012

(Located off of 20th and King next door to Perkins- drive through Perkins’ parking lot to get to Perfect Balance)

406 294 9642

The post Activate Your Power Through Vinyasa Yoga with Rory Rogina appeared first on Billings365.

from Sports & Recreation – Billings365 http://www.billings365.com/blog/2017/01/09/activate-your-power-through-vinyasa-yoga-with-rory-rogina/

[ofcowardiceandkings]

i feel like a d&d ooze got up my nose and is just chilling in my sinuses doing mischief