text:
This is a project that has been burning a hole in my heart. We all sing our pure and shaky and earnest songs, to ourselves, our kids, our pasts. We sing because we need to hear our voices out loud, because it gets lonely sometimes, because it hurts, because the joy cannot fit in our bodies. Mothers are always and never alone. I want to focus on the never part. I want to hear the voices together. I want to start a chorus.
{ 12.3.16, 3:10 am}
Childhood is the whole canon.
The original text we refer back to.
The reference for all our allusions.
Every season a decade now.
Thinking about driving across the country with my brother.
Back when there were maps.
Real paper ones.
It takes a miracle to step off the edge.
You could still get lost, be lost,
Make yourself lost.
Falling asleep in Ohio and waking up in Iowa.
I haven't been since.
People had so much between them,
So much rarer to collide;
We were games of pinball before apps on our magic cursed phones.
We got greedy keeping ourselves forever laced to chance meetings.
People who would have been short stories now become Facebook friends.
The scales we used got out of whack.
Know the difference between the ones who brush up against our skin and the ones who silently pierce it and mark us forever.
I've always longed for now, right now.
The bright and fast burn becomes the slow fade out.
I miss fireworks just on the Fourth of July.
I miss songs you had to wait for on the radio,
Armed with a blank cassette tape and patience and good timing as you pushed record.
Mint iced tea and strawberry poptarts I made myself before swim practice, drenched in sugar and sticky mid-Atlantic July, ready to be underwater for miles. Running as a noun and verb and adjective in my blood. I knew tightening and God, the release from it, too. Like wings and joy, the fastest kid in fifth grade, probably all the others if we'd raced. Picking purple hyacinths with clumps of earth and dandelion, thinking they were lovely weeds, never being corrected. We were small curators of all things miniature, found objects tied with invisible floss to memory. Beginning to understand the sand falling away under our feet, the drop in the stomach, the rush and loss of now. Any way to keep what sweet thin air we couldn't hold. Still believing in talisman and cozy superstition and the Anything that lived in ourselves. At four and three, me with my brother, convinced we would get lost in our new house. All 1600 square feet of it. Truly. We could always find each other, we thought.
Working on our imaginations like brain body builders. Thinking that's how it worked. That ninety percent we were told we didn't use, believing we could be the ones to find it in visions and telepathy. Our eyes would transform to make it all literal. The concrete still wet, mixed with young dreams. Give me a big enough stick and I had that horse I knew we could never afford, short of a lottery I still thought we might win. Skateboarding with the boy tribe, lithe and brotherly and wild and kind, the heat and motion still in my blood, salty sweet memory still on my skin. Always boys to me, twenty five years later at my brother's wake. Lily of the valley on the inside of my vein laced wrists, a trace of incense, something deep like fresh soil and fall wind. My newly adopted neighbor from Korea, knocking on my door and asking to my face if I was home. The paradoxes we have always been, clearer then, with more comedy than bitterness. Siamese twins on Halloween with my Annie, an extra large sweatshirt, we held hands underneath. Inverses of each other, preposterous, precious, beautiful best friend blind.
Singing contests at lunch. Who sounded most like Madonna. Or Cyndi Lauper. I always did. Just like I could forge any mother's signature in middle school. Or anyone else's. The stroke of my hand a near always perfect match. My own true handwriting a free and wild scratch. I still don't trust someone who has styled their own. And now those who've styled their lives. A master of wearing uniforms for years before I burned them all.
My sweet brother PJ, taking every joke too far, talking over any plea to break character, and me loving every bone and pore and second of him. Everything too much in my head at all times, and he was the unicorn miracle who just made me happy. Selling pennies for dimes in lieu of lemonade stands. The big hearted shyster storyteller, our laughter better gage than a polygraph. Seeing myself in surprises of him now. My own face, his softer, aging ghost.
I imagine the Eighties taking place in that small cherished neighborhood in North Baltimore. A direct portal to London, via my babysitter Nancy's street. Showing us how to kiss with mouths open, on her hand, talking to me like a real person, the way I wished all the other grown ups could see me. Good behavior doesn't scream: "Notice me. See my old soul. Know I'm worrying like you do. That I will try to save you if someone tries to hurt you. I'm brave. I will fight with everything."
The counting breaths and chattering teeth in rhythm. Tiny neurotic with eyes on every cell of me, looking out and in at once. The winding spiderweb rules. Our own private superstitions. The daydreams at night that kept me up. My beautiful flame haired kindergarten friend dying in a fire in NYC. The imagining every wire sparking and catching as we slept into forever. I needed that dreamy unwind. To imagine all the becoming I had to undertake. To wrestle and bond with demons. To find my body finding itself. To get some fucking release.
The reflective surfaces were magnets. Side of the oven mottled mirror, the sliding glass doors. The check-ins to see proof I wasn't in my head, that it didn't look as complicated as it felt, that I could pass so well it made me braver and forever faraway.
The father who on my first sleepover, gave me a kiss that made my stomach twist and churn. Realizing fast how good I was at deciding on forgetting. Watching hair grow in time lapse, in places we couldn't believe, the way we used to marvel at specks of freckles on virgin skin. Beginning the years of braiding all the coarse and silky threads at once with strong hands that surprised me. Digging my nails into my arm to prove it wasn't a waking dream, all of this feeling somehow living in a concrete world. Drawing blood to prove it. First layers of scars that became me.
Finding a million ways to break and break into my own skin in each day.
To this day.
Finding Amanda's dad's magazines in a closet. Hot pink everywhere. Swallowing something rancid and harsh and dizzying like a bad trip. That first look that made me so worried about what was coming for me. That was never going to be the way I felt inside, even if it was the way I would look on the outside. Flattening a beating heart onto a cold page. I knew it then, and yet still, I slipped on that skin. I swallowed myself in the tiny pieces that someone chipped away and fed to me. "Know the voice that is your gut and give it everything", I need to tell myself gently, years ago. Before there's just no other choice.
Wanting that pat on the head and soul that made me the kind of okay I was frantic to ever feel. Launching into life, starving and exhausted and ready to retire by graduation. And still the wild of me that grips in the best strangle hold, the too sweetness new on my tongue and needing more, the alive almost too much. We are our own beginnings and ends.
Gently shaking tumblers of pop songs and Bob Dylan on my bedroom window seat. The earnestness of bearing witness to your nine year old blooming. Before you knew your body would betray you in a year, that those chemicals of the new you would feel like blood bleeds in your expectation soaked heart.
I always thought you had to fake it until your soul turned. That there was shame in it not being intrinsic. A baby bird who tried to skip the first flight and teach a class on how to do it.
The first day of fifth grade, 'In a station of the Metro', Ezra Pound. "The apparition of these faces in a crowd; petals on a wet black bough." Written in chalk, to me directly. So excited that someone had asked a hard question about something I knew I understood and wanted to tell about. That I could raise my hand and show them I was a tiny grownup, my brain nearly caught up to my racing body and deflecting eyes. To expect something different, not just more. My friends ask my daughter's take on their twisty grownup predicaments, because she was born wise. This was always my secret wish. The too much of me, granted and given some real trust. To turn it into a tool. To do what I was meant to.
The origins of "I'm sorry" were born here, a tic or reverse mantra. How often do we say it, sewn up and angry, because we want to protect ourselves?
When we only need our own permission.
When I only need my own forgiveness.
She does, that girl I buried under years of rock and silt and longing still aglow.
I tell my kids now, "I can't promise that everything will be ok. But I can tell you parts of it will be perfect." Because last drops can be richer than first sips. And light comes in cycles but fades. That hurt and joy are so tangled you are best not trying to find their separate strings. I tell them to inhabit their own lives. To give themselves a break, because one thing I never worry about is them being Good. My kids were literally singing Kumbaya on a recent night. This is who they are.
I have been both ravaged and spoiled in this life.
Time on a loop, a tangled gold chain we take off our necks to smooth out in tiny increments. Our fingernails chipping away, keeping at it, determined as ever to be old and new. To right the knots we made in the beautiful mess of days, deep tissue worked out, wincing, freed. I could spill over forever. All things we ever were and will bloom into. I'm writing this to music that follows me in my sleep.
The wounds of childhood.
Will they ever heal?
Are they supposed to scab and ooze and continue in rawness?
They might.
They might leave a faint scar.
Or an ugly raised mound as a sign of the tear that was once there.
I wear some scars proudly while others are hidden tight.
Every now and then they come out to remind of the struggle, the fight.
It was not all bad.
In fact, it was very good.
But the bad tries its best to overshadow the light.
The countries seen, the memories made.
I remember wistfully wanting those days.
The times they felt good and for nothing would I trade.
I have learned to be grateful for what the imperfections made.
I can choose to accept unconditionally, to love where one is.
It is their space and their demons to live.
Not mine.
But that does not mean the uncomfortable is not there.
The unspoken words that want to surface but are pushed back because they will serve no purpose.
I would rather live in forgiveness and honor the good realizing my own faults could fill the ocean.
This thing… this responsibility for another soul can be overwhelming.
It is easy to judge until in their shoes you are standing.
I choose to take the good and learn from the bad knowing I am too am an open chasm.
It makes the rough edges softer and valleys not seem so steep.
It helps heal the wounds that run so very deep.
A small thing. With no power
Holds vastness
Afternoons for daydreams. Parents for questions. Nights for wishes
So many wishes
Connected to the dirt in the earth
To the blinking lights in the velvet blue night sky
Struck by secrets
Listening for the magic in our bones
Holding space for breath. And breath for screaming
Before I could see the edges of things
Before understanding
I held my place as a seed
Buzzing with the grand scale of it all
You always gave me a safe place to be, but not too safe. I was able to make my mistakes, break windows, stay out late, come home with torn jeans and bloody elbows, sometimes make you laugh and sometimes drive you crazy. You taught me about second chances and then third chances, and that sometimes what your gut is telling you is to sacrifice yourself. And that your gut sometimes isn't looking out for just you.
You didn't want this project, and I was nothing if not a project. From long division to yard work, I was the apple to your orange. Or was I something completely different, not quite right? I found my home in the woods and down the stream, in video games and music, in my art and with my friends – even the ones who called me Arizona Fat Ass. None of that was you, though you liked the nickname, and would make beeping sounds like a reversing truck and laughing at your own joke. It wasn't funny, not even the first time. You wanted me to be the athlete and encouraged blisters from bats and clubs, scratches from cleats and bruises from helmets, but asked for my help when you couldn't turn on the computer.
You showed me how to treat a woman, but not how to treat myself. I could open the door for her, but I couldn't even find a way out for me. The number of times crushes told me that they just saw me as a friend, I crumbled inside or made mix tapes to try to change their mind. Nothing says I could be the one like Vanilla Ice's "I Love You." You taught me that you could rob Peter to pay Paul, as long as it put a smile on my face and some new Jordan's on my feet. You taught me that when you got mad, I'd better clean my room, because it would be one less thing you could yell about.
You taught me about hard work, sometimes demoralizing work. You were the can-man in our town, pulling old peal top rusty steel Schlitz cans on your runs from the woods filled with ice and dead rodents for me to warm up sitting by the frozen creek, melt the ice, bury the mole, pop out the dents with a dowel so the machine could read the barcode and then turn in each one of those time capsules for $0.05, a bike and my first computer. You had to teach me that it wasn't enough for you to clean up the streets, that I had to dig through dumpsters behind the grocery store and wave to my friends as they passed by in their warm cars while I thought of excuses to tell the next day in school. There is that great line from Christmas Vacation: "If they know your dad, they won't think anything of it." But they did know you and they did think something of it.
You taught me that it's about the moments. You encouraged me to do what I love, no matter what it is. If only I had listened sooner. You taught me that life is short, so live it. You taught me that you can fail even when no one is watching, and that can hurt even more. I heard "I brought you into this world and I can take you out" so many times, you could say that you taught me to read a bluff. You showed me that "because" can and often is the answer and that the "why" doesn't always matter. You are my backbone and my heart, both of which I have lost some of and am desperately trying to find again.
You proved to me that intentions while good can, in fact, be bad. You taught me that who we see in the mirror is not always who everyone else sees. You taught me that love makes us do stupid things, like sing "Uptown Girl" when the girl uptown wants nothing to do with you anymore because you can't see the forest for the whatever the hell it was you thought you saw. That you can avoid owning your mistakes, and even push them off on others if you so choose, because it's not convenient or doesn't fit your view of the world. You taught me that I earn your respect and that I should just give you mine. You taught me that the truth is what you make of it and that history can be rewritten, just say it and it's so – but the sky is most definitely not purple. And that alcohol can make the party, but the drunk can threaten to drive off the bridge.
I see your adventurous ways ride up in me, which makes me proud. I also see your quick temper, and I am trying to fix me. I found my voice and I am on my way, and you were right.
I see your smile when I look in the mirror and it's one of the features I dislike most about myself, I've covered it with a beard. I always said I never wanted to be like you and then occasionally out comes your voice, and I cringe. I thought if I kept running that I could get away, and as it turns out I have been running a quarter mile at a time, one left turn followed by another.
At thirty eight, I am finally understanding what these lessons were for, and that my procrastination would be the death and rebirth of me. I used to think that I end where I begin, but that's just my origination story. My track is just starting to evolve. It's now growing lanes of trees that leave long shadows, unforgiving rocks that leave scars we call character, sprawling countrysides that make me miss home and snow covered mountain tops begging to be explored and I will climb them all. It is my design. My house, my rules.
Falling. I remember falling when I was about six or seven. At the time, my mom was the director of a daycare center for the local catholic church. We would often have to stay late; to wait for parents to pick up their kids and so she could lock up the building.
I had a friend there, she was the maintenance man's daughter. She had to stay late too. I don't remember how we used to entertain ourselves, but this night we happened to be on the stairs.
I told her to look up at me b/c I wanted to show her a trick: sliding down the hand rail on my tummy with no hands.
I think I had done it before, but I'm not sure where, because we lived in an apartment. This time (or the first time) I slid down and for a second it was amazing, so exhilarating and fun. But I didn't get to hold onto that feeling for long b/c the next things I knew, I was falling.
I fell down eight flights of stairs. I remember looking up at the stairs above me and seeing my friend's face, she was so scared. I tried to grab hold of the rails to catch my fall, but my fingers just bumped against them and missed and it made a melody in the echo of the hallway. I didn't feel scared, mostly I felt confused and it seemed like it was taking me forever to hit the ground.
I remember thinking, "shit, this wasn't supposed to happen." I finally landed with a huge loud smack against something hard, but it wasn't the ground and I wasn't hurt. I looked around me and saw that I was in a sea of empty trash cans. Trash cans that my friend's dad, the maintenance man had stacked upside down at the end of the day for storage. They broke my fall and probably saved my life.
After that, there was a frenzy. The father at the church ran across the street to the fire station to get help. Next thing I knew, I was inside an ambulance. I still had on my burgundy plaid uniform and thick gray tights. I remember this because the paramedics cut my entire outfit down the middle and I was worried that my mom would be mad at me because she had just bought those tights.
The rest is a blur. I actually went to school the next day and I bragged about my cool ambulance ride. My mom asked me how the accident happened, and I lied. I told her I was looking down because I heard voices and I fell. I didn't want to disappoint her. She still doesn't know the truth, which is a little embarrassing. I wonder why I never told her.
I don't think about that accident much, maybe I'm ashamed I never told the truth about it. I do wonder as I write this, what effect it had on me. At the time, I felt covered by grace. I made a mistake, I fell, but I got up. I do that now. I'm more like seven-year-old me than I realized.
the other day i was sitting around our little apartment with the husband and three sons. we were talking about how much Jack, in 6th grade, loves walking home from school this year and just about what kinds of freedoms come with these new responsibilities. my husband remembered back to days stopping at the corner store after school. loading up on sugar. in this moment i burst out laughing. when i was in 6th grade i was miserable. i mean, absolutely truly miserable. i mean, beyond depressed. we had moved from RI to Brookline MA the year previous. my dad was over an hour away now, the bus rides a huge source of weekly anxiety. none of the kids were nice to me. my mom worked all the time and we had random au pairs or grad students live with us to make being alone in the evenings less shitty for me. i did pretty much anything to keep from going home when i was in 6th grade. so as my husband is recounting all the candy bars i had this really vivid memory of going to the local toy store near our apartment. my husband has always teased me about how many stuffed animals i have and how much i love buying them for the kids. he forced me to throw away my beanie baby collection which I'M SURE WAS OUR TICKET TO MILLIONS (they still had the tags on y'all)! but in this moment, in our living room, i had a total AHA moment. i started laughing, tears streaming down my face, exclaiming "i get it now, oh my god, i get it now. i bought myself stuffed animals because i wanted to feel like a child again. that's why i still love stuffed animals so much! they make me so happy!" but the thing is, back in the day, i was buying those stuffed animals as this sad middle schooler because i wanted a family. kind faces to surround me. i wanted to feel something from them that i didn't feel from my own family. i know, isn't this just pathetic?! the cool thing about this moment though, was that here i was with my own 6th grader. who is, honest to god, a unicorn. we were looking at snow boots online the other day at land's end. the color he picked? shiny bubble gum pink. this dude doesn't give a SHIT what anyone else thinks. because he knows what his family thinks : his family thinks he is all things joy and light in this world. potential and great hopes and dreams. his family builds up his oddities and allows him to feel what it's like to be absolutely and truly himself. childhood is odd and in a way is always chasing us, tapping us on the shoulder, with memories good and bad and familiar feelings that are just out of reach.
I close my eyes and try to get back there.
You still live there.
I grasp frantically at the memories but they are mostly words now.
I want to see them, to feel them.
My memories play back as seconds in time.
Water sloshing on our feet as we run across the sun soaked field with bullfrogs in our buckets.
Wind in our hair as I cling to my horse, trying to keep up as you gallop ahead in the distance.
Belly laughs as we throw jellyfish at the boys in the sluice and they scream and run in terror.
Your breath on my face as you tweeze my eyebrows with a gentle, steady precision.
Our hearts beating faster as we climb onto the roof to smoke cigarettes in the cold of night.
The problem is, I can't live in a second – there isn't time to look around, to see your face.
The part of me that was yours sits alone now.
Our remember whens fading away because I'm the only one left to remember.
I wrap my baby in your tattered baby blanket.
I comb my daughter's hair with the comb we styled each other's hair with.
Your worn flattened teddy is strewn on the floor with my children's toys.
I drag bits of you with me, forever and always, but it will never be enough.
Just her mouth moved. Nothing else. She stood perched atop an unfinished house, brown eyes beating. I wanted nothing more than to throw her in the trash. Like a sky punched with holes, the strangest, sharpest parts shine through…. Mint leaves in a clouded jar. A rosary strapped to the front door. Cigar smoke. Small cups cracked with gold. Sesame seeds, raw and blistered, on the floor. I remember the day she passed, a skeleton in her bed. I was smaller than small and kept shrinking, shrinking, shrinking. Like Alice who ate the cake. I can still smell the walls, feel their sheen, hear the house breathing. The sound of my own fear rising like smoke, making me cry and choke and want to go home. Someone picked me up. Windows pressed purple dusk into my eyes. My feet hung cold and heavy and bare. Street lights thumping their glow over and over as they passed. Until sleep drugged me.
Saltwater in the veins.
My childhood was laughter even in hospital rooms, even when the floor seemed to fall beneath our feet. It lives in the salt water in my blood, the sand at my feet, the sway of palm trees that carry a legacy from an island 90 miles away. My childhood was music, feet shuffling in rhythm, voices loud in melodic Spanish rising and falling at once so that you wondered how anyone understood what was being said. The memories are frayed at the edges but it's a hand in mine, a kiss on the cheek, a word of encouragement, a lesson reluctantly learned. My childhood is in the echoes that follow me, their voices reverberating in the caverns of my heart.
In thinking about my own childhood, I'm thinking about playing dress up with my four younger sisters, endless hours spent coloring at a small plastic table, and macaroni and cheese with hot dogs. But mostly, I'm thinking about my mom. She let us be so free, so creative, wild, and imaginative. She sacrificed more than I'm sure I'll ever know or understand so we could enjoy a peaceful, safe sanctuary of a home- separate from the outside world. I love my mom. And now I'm near tears because I'm realizing that I don't give her enough credit, at times, for all she did and all she continues to do for me and mine. An indescribable amount of what makes me today is because of everything that she was and everything she gave me.
I can still imagine myself small, head resting on my mother and the way her voice sounded through her chest.
I remember how it felt to fall asleep on my father's shoulders, still young and legs short enough that he had to reach up to hold my ankles.
Waking up and drifting off again on the white radiator in my room, stretching my mornings out to feel the heat and rest for just 5 more minutes.
I always felt like I was flying right next to everyone else, their feet firmly planted on the ground and yet I couldn't feel my footing.
I remember being scared, anxious to grow up so that I wouldn't be afraid of the dark, or bad guys, or monsters because I didn't know that those threats don't go away. I remember worrying about things that had never and would never happen.
I remember mourning people who were still sitting right next to me. Saving addressed envelopes thinking that someday it would be all that I had left. Afraid that I'd forget or mis-remember. Every moment was a last time. Worry turned into pain which turned into self-fulfilling prophecies again and again, and instead of growing up I just wanted to be small again. Curled up on the couch next to my mom where I felt like I would always be safe.
I played with toy snakes and dolls. I ate ants on a dare and every year I threw a birthday party for my favorite tree in our yard. We built teepees from sticks and drew pictures on the walls of my closet.
I was the child who moved my mouth instead of really singing, who wanted to blend it but always accidentally stood out.
But still there was so much love. A perfect recipe for a life and now I try to hold onto those real moments and the smiles and the comfort. Running with my sister down hotel hallways. Picking up snails bigger than my hand. Jumping from the couch onto the cushions and flying in every dream I ever had. And always, even in my darkest moments, the sound of my mother's voice through her chest.
She wore a crown my own two hands had crafted. Made of sequins and stars, it trailed behind her, my mother, as she walked, and oh, she walked proudly.
To this day I'm unsure of how I, a child, managed the party, but I did, planned an entire surprise birthday celebration. She was unaware, taken off guard, face wet with joy.
The book, my gift to her, done with my very best intent, but hardly professionally curated, sat waiting. Each page filled with a letter and photo, from friends and family across the globe. Well wishes, hoping for a lifetime of birthdays, wishing to be there, just so much love. So much love.
Her fingers traced each word, tears spilling over, she looked at me and said, "How did you even…" her voice cracked, and trailed off. The book, oh the precious book.
When she died, on an early fall morning, long after the crown had broken, and childhood had passed, the book was the furthest thing on my mind. Soon though, as I began the process of packing, packing up an entire life, her life, I found it. I found the book, and my own fingers traced the pages, those same pages she too traced.
"Wishing you many more birthdays!" the words said, and I cringed. Many more? Hardly. Hardly many more.
She would have been fifty-three today. Snatched from this earth, weeks shy of the big five-o. I've taken a lot of time to reflect on this mother of mine, of lessons taught, in both her life and in her death.
As a mother of three, I often put myself in her shoes, and I know the sequin crowns, the surprise parties, the haphazard books filled with love – these hand crafted celebrations, are the best celebrations.
They're gifts really.
And if we allow them, allow our children to be children and curate their own versions of love, collectively, we'll live in a much better world.
Happy birthday ma, missing you always.
I remember becoming aware that I wasn't little anymore. I'm not sure I can pinpoint when it was or what exactly happened, but I realized adults related to me in subtly different ways. I was more aware of other people's perspectives, more aware of the sad October sun. I used to lie in the floor, watching the silent streaks of light and noticing what books they touched this week they didn't the week before. I became obsessed with the irreversibility of time and yet how we came back to the same places each year around the sun. I began to have years to reflect back on.
At seven, I was unable to describe these profound feelings of discovering not only was I now less tolerable, but less important on a universal scale, which was far more unsettling. I never did find anyone who understood. So I covered it up like I assumed everyone else did, singing and dancing on top of it all. But always, following my own shadow across the dance studio parking lot, in tap shoes at 5 o'clock.
There's a sharp edge that year baby teeth go and the nose narrows and limbs lengthen out and our ability to understand stretches across it all in an awkward umbrella that pops open without our permission.
It shadows all we knew about ourselves up until this point, our past beginning to puddle at our feet. If we're lucky, it reflects us.
I look at you in this picture, and I'm reminded of how simple life was at six years old. Making, taking apart, remaking. Every day a series of offhand experiments.
Back then, everything I did mattered equally. There was no ultimate something that everything was leading up to. One thing led to another which led to the next, and then it was time for bed.
Maybe you already feel a hint of how things are going to change for you someday, how the world is going to tell you that more is required of your life than just playing and growing. But for now, block castles and puzzles and blanket forts are more than enough to make for a good day.
Six years old is good like that. Most everything you play with and work with can be easily torn apart and put back together in a new way. Growing. Learning. Nobody expects more of you than that. Not yet.
I used to be six. Life was vibrant. Every day was possibility. But time passed and, at some point, the fading began. Age thirty saw me beginning to curl in on myself some, saw me feeling the tunnel narrow and the walls close in, little bit by little bit. Surrounded by voices telling me I had to make something of myself, make something special. My life had to mean something. No more making things just because I wanted to.
My energy was fading, year by year. I watched in real time as the window of opportunity fell shut, and I was helpless to stop it.
But then you were here, and you were three years old, and I was thirty-five. My life was turning upside-down, and the rules of childhood all-of-a-sudden seemed ever so much more valid than the so-called rules of adulthood. That mysterious and all important main event I'd been working toward suddenly vanished from my priority list, completely and forever, because I got to watch the short life of your little brother. He only made it six months before he died, and the one thing I knew for sure was that he was no kind of failure. All of us knew that he didn't have to grow up and do grand things in order to matter. His life was enough, whatever it looked like. Just like your life. Just like mine.
There is no one thing you might do that could ever be seen as the culmination of your life. I hope you will always keep making things and doing things just because you want to and not because you think the world expects something of you.
May you live your life like my father does. He's always up to something, always tinkering. When I was your age, he was constantly making gardens in neighbors' yards, tearing out the sod and building up the soil. As I got older, I wondered why he didn't settle down, focus his efforts, buy his own land, and invest in his own garden, really make something of it. He got his own land, eventually, and even so his garden still spreads into the yard of the neighbors next door. My dad is endlessly experimenting. He'll plant a tree, wait years to see what it might bear, and tear the thing out of the ground if the fruit isn't to his liking. I see how you and he are my bookends, reminding me to stay simple and young. Life is good like that. Building castles. Knocking them down. Taking me back to the person I've always been.
My mother's house smells as hers once had. A sweet and musty aroma of earth and flowers; my grandmother.
The back yard was an elaborate jungle of potted plants and vegetable gardens. The pots traced a path to edges of the blue pool. Inflatable orange inner tubes and orca whales drifted in its waters, awaiting playmates. Countless afternoons were spent among its waters, prompting rounds of Marco Polo, fleeing from the sweeper and fishing thoughtless frogs from its depths.
For years I would rewatch favorite movies she had recorded to dozens of VHS tapes, labeling each of them in her delicate scroll. I would often sift through the tapes, organizing, reshuffling, touching them all to be reminded. Memories of when I would lie in her bed viewing them on repeat, curled upon floral printed sheets and peach colored duvet. Rewind, play again, rewind.
Her breakfast specialty was a rice porridge of warm milk and heaping tablespoons of brown sugar, assembled from the previous night's Chinese take out. I would eat breakfast next to my sister at the round aluminum trimmed table, watching her. In her navy blue sweatshirt adorned with two dancing humpback whales, a silk scarf wrapped tightly around her head, I watched her sliding buttons through her fingers; turning them this way and that as she would stare off into their tin, her hands struggling to move how they had done all her previous years.
June. On the floor of her room, among pencils and paper, I assembled a book of drawings, my wishes and prayers for her spirit. She had gone in the middle of the night, the day after my sister's birthday. My mother told us she had waited for her to have her day.
Now I stood there with my book, printer paper bound in masking tape, my contribution to her memorial service. A child's attempt to process the abrupt removal of person and body from the world; standing in a house that smelled of a sweet and musty aroma, yet no longer housed the woman whose presence it promised.
I had a childhood that dreams are made of. Maybe I forget the hard times, I must, but that means the good overshadowed it all. Music, food, cousins, family, God, freedom, love, so much love, these are my memories.
We grew up on 20 acres connected to my cousin's property, 20 minutes out of town, up in the mountains. Summer's are always fresh in my mind, carefree days of exploring the woods, being bored, and coming up with something to do together. I envy my childhood for the generation of my children. I try to replicate play, boredom, using their brilliant minds to solve problems, explore, taste, see, fail, try again, but I feel like so much of it slips through my fingers and tired mind.
I never doubted my parents love for each other. My dad worked away for most of my childhood, but I saw them put each other first, every night on the phone together to stay connected. My mother raised us to think the highest of our father, and my dad taught us that he couldn't do anything without my mom and her unwavering support. They embraced my curiosities in life and love for play, and they truly made me feel like I could fail at nothing (even though I did in math and science). Hard times meant the hymns got louder in our home, the prayers more frequent, and we held each other that much tighter. My parents and siblings are where my heart hangs the sign of "home," where time and distance changes nothing about love. Singing with my siblings brings back years of memories, and back to times where we didn't know what was coming for us in this lifetime. Honest tears, meaningful conversations, and a focus on integrity, honesty, and love. My siblings remain my dearest friends even though I don't get to see them as often as I'd like.
I truly don't know how my parents did it. How they made their place a home that I still escape to nearly every week to clear my head. Maybe they just were intentional in everything they did, and I never saw it until now. Intentionally showing us how to work hard, love hard, how to drop what you were doing to rock a baby and sing to them, how to take two times as long to get something done in order to teach your child something new, how failing isn't falling, it's actually growth. They gave me a childhood where my struggles in the education system meant my mom focused in on where I shone. She saw my creative side before I even knew it was a part of me. They gave me the gift of fearlessness in trying, because I knew someone would be there to catch me, hold me, or push me should I fail. My prayer is that my children will write the same about their childhood one day, one of God's grace, freedom and love, so much love.
You're a daydreamer, come back to earth" (Early on) I made my own version of Earth Finding extraordinary magic in ordinary things, Firmly refusing to root myself.
(Sometimes people feel too much, I'm one of those. Beauty can make my heart hurt as much as ugly truths.)
(Even now) I sit in the cold wet grass, tethered for a moment, (I am 4 and 48) An entire universe opens in a wild green field I am Home


text:
Created for: The Sims 3
Minimal and modern
Open kitchen/sitting area, one bedroom and bath, living room, second-story music room and outdoor sitting area, ground level deck, pool.
Creator Notes
Outdoor Living Stuff and High End Loft Stuff installed.
Credits: To all whose wonderful creations were used in this lot!
Short URL: http://www.thesimsresource.com/downloads/1169836
ItemID: 1169836
This Creation requires what's listed below in order to work properly.
Note that those downloads are not required for the Creation to work!
The EA Creations below were used in this Creation.
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subset: commoncrawl


text:
Model Description: Battery replacements for Mobilizer 5 Patient Transport
Compatibility: Mobilizer 5 Patient Transport (12V 26Ah)
Condition: Fresh new stock
Includes: Two new medical batteries for the Mobilizer 5 Patient Transport
Warranty: 1 year full replacement warranty included, additional warranty is available
Life time expectancy: 3-5 years
Manufacturer: UPS Battery Center Ltd.
The replacement battery set for the Mobilizer 5 Patient Transport consist high quality batteries that are designed to provide excellent performance, durability and long life in medical devices. These batteries meet or exceed original manufacturer specifications.
The Mobilizer 5 Patient Transport medical battery pack is covered by our industry leading 1 year replacement warranty. Extended warranty of up to 3 years is available for your convenience. Our warranty is inclusive of shipping costs and is hassle free, the only warranty of this kind in the marketplace.
Physical Dimensions:(Individual Battery)
Nominal Voltage: 12V
Nominal Capacity: 26Ah
Terminal Type: F2
Weight: 17.8lbs
Length: 6.56" (167 mm)
Width: 6.97" (177 mm)
Height: 4.92" (125 mm)
Height Over Terminal: 4.92" (125 mm)
Container Material: ABS (Optional UL94-HB & UL94-V0)
The replacement battery pack for the Mobilizer 5 Patient Transport consist of (2) High Quality 12V 26Ah batteries.


text:
Robert Cromeans is the greatest showman in the industry, a talented hairdresser and savvy salon owner, and with this edition of Personal Compass he's giving us a glimpse into his personal life.
With the help of Summit Salon Business Center, Nichole Brewer not only survives a walkout in her Signature Salon in Macon, Georgia, she learns to thrive and grows her sales by 296 percent.
Setting aside competition, a group of Atlanta's top salon owners meet each quarter in Atlanta to learn together, share ideas that grow their businesses and lift up one another.
Addressing a void in the market, Ron Love and Scott Griffiths launched 18|8 fine men's salons in 2002--Today, the franchise has 90 locations. See how they've used motivation to grow the chain.
As his salon Juut SalonSpas celebrates its 30th anniversary, David Wagner and some of his team members reflect on the Daymaker movement that has kept their culture so strong.
In the editor's column for March-April 2017, Stacey Soble calculates the value of the Atlanta salon owners on the cover, before announcing two new events for 2017.
As New York's Salon AKS celebrates its 20th anniversary, the salon's founders, Alain Pinon, Kao Hui and Susanna Romano share the strategies of their success.
A trio of quick-draw artists capture they key messages revealed from the stage at Serious Business 2017, offering attendees a helpful visual memory.
When salon owners, manufacturers and distributors put their heads together, new business ventures flourish, and everyone benefits--including the clients.
In an effort to compete with the blowdry bars in his community and attract a new niche market, Adam Broderick teams up with Color Wow to develop his new AB Style Bar at his Southbury, Connecticut location.
Seattle's Gene Juarez Salons and Spas partners with Ouidad, bringing a new level of curly hair cutting expertise to the styling team. At the same time, the salon company's marketing team leverages window signage, email newsletters, shelf talkers, brochures, and social media to communicate the new expertise to guests.
With an ipad located in the retail area, clients and salon staff members can connect with a Skin Authority expert via Skype or Facetime for an at-the-moment consultation at any time. Skin Authority recently partnered with Salon Services to get the system into salons, helping them with skin-care education and retailing.
Salonskipper.com(604) [email protected]: Tara Main, Alberto Cirillo and Meisam MullaAccessible 24/7, Salon Skipper offers affordable coaching and management tools with its online beauty business resource.WHY WE'RE ...
When Elaine Travis, owner of Lux Color Lounge in Conshokocken, Pennsylvania, saw a promotional e-mail about the first Stages workshop in 2012, she signed up."At the time, I was struggling to get started teaching in the beauty ...
Brenton Lee started his career as an educator when he was only 18 years old and fresh out of beauty school."I love to share and be in front of people," says Lee, who owns Brenton Lee Salon in South Pasadena, California. "I love ...


text:
The Recovery Squeezes the Middle Class
In an election that's supposed to be all about reviving the economy and creating opportunities for the still-lagging middle class, the leading presidential candidates have been short on specifics. Barack Obama still points to the mess he inherited from his predecessor and speaks broadly about retraining and shoring up U.S. manufacturing. Mitt Romney offers a familiar Republican recipe of tax cuts for "job creators." Missing from the conversation is a possibility neither side will address head on: What if the economy comes back but leaves millions of middle-class Americans behind?
Ninety-five percent of the net job losses during the recession were in middle-skill occupations such as office workers, bank tellers, and machine operators, according to research by economists Nir Jaimovich of Duke University and Henry Siu of the University of British Columbia. That's what we all assume happens in recessions: The middle class is hit hardest, then eventually climbs back. Only, that comeback isn't happening. Job growth since the end of the recession has been clustered in high-skill fields inaccessible to workers without advanced degrees or in low-paying industries, the economists found.
In March the U.S. had 2 million more managers and professionals working than five years earlier. Lower-paying service-sector jobs were up 1.5 million. It's the middle-income jobs that have been slow to return. Over the same period, there were 3.2 million fewer Americans working in sales and office jobs and 1.2 million fewer employed in transportation and production—a broad category that includes factory and assembly-line workers, printers, welders, tailors, and poultry and meat plant workers. Another worrisome measurement: Median annual household income in March was $2,900 lower after inflation than at the start of the recovery in June 2009, according to Sentier Research, an economic consulting firm.
The Great Recession accelerated a decades-long shift in the economy away from the kind of moderate-skill jobs that have long supported a broad U.S. middle class. Less obvious in the past, this downward movement is now plainly visible in the lopsided recovery. The same middle-skill jobs were decimated in the recessions of 1990-91 and 2001. Both times, middle-class prospects continued to decline well into the recovery. Not since the 1981-82 recession have middle-income jobs snapped back quickly from the bottom of a downturn. In the last two recoveries moderate-skilled jobs never made it back to their pre-recession levels, say Jaimovich and Siu.
As the latest recession took hold and businesses laid off employees, corporations were forced to become more efficient—and had the technology to do it. Every worker's least favorite phrase, "doing more with less," became the mantra of the American workplace. Although the crisis has passed and revenues are picking up, says Erik Brynjolfsson, director of the MIT Center for Digital Business, employers aren't about to go back to their larger, less-efficient workforces. Even with 5.2 million fewer Americans employed than in January 2008, the U.S. is turning out more goods and services than before the recession, one reason corporate profits have hit record levels. These results will create demand for even greater efficiency, putting more pressure on mid-skill jobs. "This is early days," says Brynjolfsson. "We see the next 10 years as being more disruptive than the last 10."
The country has weathered wrenching transformations before and come out the richer for it. In 1900, 41 percent of the U.S. workforce was employed on farms, a portion that plummeted to 16 percent by 1945 and fewer than 2 percent by 2000, as workers adapted to the industrial, and then post-industrial, age. It will take time, foresight, and no small measure of political will to once again transform the American workforce—a commitment far more ambitious than the proposals Obama and Romney have offered. "There's no better time to be a talented entrepreneur," Brynjolfsson says. "There's no worse time to be a middle-class person without special skills." The effort to narrow this gulf over the next generation is what the "economy election" is all about. The candidates who would lead the way have some catching up to do.
The bottom line: Though corporate profits are on the rise, median annual household income in March was $2,900 lower than at the start of the recovery.


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Missouri River Project
Open to the Public
Things To Do
Before 1944, when a series of federally authorized projects spurred its restructuring, the Missouri River represented one of North America's most diverse and dynamic ecosystems. Pulses of rainwater and snowmelt, carrying tons of sediment, created an ever-changing landscape of meandering channels, chutes, sloughs, islands, sandbars, and backwater wetlands and woodlands.
Today, six main-stem dams on the upper reaches of the Missouri have transformed one-third of the river into lake environments, and all of the 735 miles of river between Sioux City, Iowa, and St. Louis, Missouri, have been stabilized and channelized.
The Conservancy is working to protect what remains and to restore some of what has been lost.
Why the Conservancy Selected This Site
The Missouri River has been greatly altered in the last 200 years - today, most of the river would not be recognized by Lewis and Clark. The Nature Conservancy is building partnerships among groups who are united in the goal to protect and restore portions of the landscape. Our goal is to catalyze a community-based conservation presence on the Missouri River, focusing on the highly-altered reach from Yankton, South Dakota to St. Louis, Missouri, where the river joins the Mississippi.
What the Conservancy Has Done/Is Doing
The Conservancy is working with conservation partners to restore riverine habitats lost within this system.
Lower Missouri River Comprehensive Action Planning (CAP) Process
Find out more about the Conservancy's multi-partner plan to restore the health of the Lower Missouri River in Nebraska. (PDF, 2.5 MB)
What to See: Flora
- Bur oak
- White oak
Red oak
Paw paw
Showy orchid
Western prairie fringed orchid
Big bluestem
Little bluestem
What to See: Fauna
- Paddlefish
- Pallid sturgeon
- Lake sturgeon
- Sicklefin chub
- Sturgeon chub
- Five-lined skink
- Timber rattlesnake
- Interior least tern
- Piping plover
- White-tailed deer
- Red fox
- Eastern chipmunk
Have you been to this preserve? Are you thinking of visiting? See what others are saying about their experiences and add your comments below.
Add Your Comments
Time for you to join the discussion. Tell us about your experience at this preserve. What plants and animals did you see? When did you go? You can help others plan their visit when you share your thoughts. And thank you for visiting one of our nature preserves!comments powered by Disqus
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text:
Id like you delete my account. How do I?
Most Helpful Guy
Click on your name on the top right corner, click settings and go all the way down you will see 'cancel your account' click that.
Most Helpful Girl
If you go to your settings, then you can see an option there to delete, the url for you should be:
There should be options for login settings, options to connect facebook or gmail, privacy, notifications and there should be a large link under email settings that says 'Cancel your account'.00|00|0


text:
The companywas founded in 1971in Hanover, as amergerof two local Laboratory outfitters. Core of our business is always the customer. We feelcommitted to the tradition, offering quality forreasonable prices.The intense dialoguewithyou, especiallyfor custom-made products, is aprerequisite for a successfulproblem solving.
As a result of continuous expansion, the company has movedto Garbsen in 1992 (RegionHannover). The new head office isa hall ofapproximately 1000 square meters, includes workshop for maintenance and repair and an enlarged stock for the steadily growing product range.


text:
Norteño Pipeline Company
First Revised Volume No. 1
Contents / Previous / Next / Main Tariff Index
Effective Date: 10/01/1997, Docket: TM98-1-138-000, Status: Effective
Second Revised Sheet No. 11 Second Revised Sheet No. 11 : Superseded
Superseding: First Revised Sheet No. 11
IT-DN - Commodity:
Maximum Rate $0.0260 $0.0022 $0.0282
Minimum Rate $0.0005 $0.0022 $0.0027
Retention Quantity 0.00%
(1) The minimum base rate for the Reservation Charge
is $0.0000
(2) The surcharges may include GRI, Take-or-pay, and
Transition Cost recovery. Transition Cost
recovery included in these proforma tariffs does
not include $2,669,000 for potential system
reinforcement costs necessary to eliminate the
merchant function which may be collected at a
later date. These costs are amortized over a six
year period and allocated to the divisions based
on plant investment.
(3) The surcharges may include GRI, ACA, Take-or-pay,
and Transition Cost recovery.


text:
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Grand Theft Auto: Chinatown Wars
Game Profile
Rockstar Games
Rockstar Leeds
March 17, 2009
Grand Theft Auto V
Grand Theft Auto: Episodes From Liberty City
Grand Theft Auto: Episodes From Liberty City
Grand Theft Auto: Chinatown Wars
Grand Theft Auto IV: The Ballad of Gay Tony
More in this Series
Written by
Troy Matsumiya
April 10, 2009
My early vote for DS Game of the Year ? heck, Best DS Game Ever.
The gaming world was stunned last year when Nintendo announced a new Grand Theft Auto game exclusive to the DS. Stunned because everyone was wondering how the heck Rockstar could squish a GTA game into the underpowered DS (with bad memories of GTA Advance rearing its ugly head) and if the game would be a watered-down PG-rated compromise to fit the platform's family-friendly image. Even with developer Rockstar Leeds at the helm ? the same group that created the acclaimed GTA: Liberty City Stories and Vice City Stories for the PSP ? fans had their doubts.
Well, doubt no more because Rockstar Leeds has pulled off what many thought impossible: a true GTA experience on the market's technologically weakest platform. Grand Theft Auto: Chinatown Wars is a fantastic addition to the famed franchise and in many respects exceeds not only the PSP titles, but also the mighty GTA IV. In fact, it has raised the bar for all DS games as consumers can now rightfully demand of developers, ?Hey, if Chinatown Wars can do that, why can't you??
Take the graphics, which not surprisingly, look nothing like the console versions but look incredible for the DS. Rather than go for a realistic look, GTA:CW uses a cel-shaded art style that emulates the franchise's distinctive box cover artwork. This not only looks great but saves on precious processing power.
Although screenshots make it look like the 2D top-down GTA's of yore, this is only because the camera is set at a high bird's eye view to avoid drawing objects in the distance. In actuality, Liberty City is entirely 3D ? every building, bridge, lamp post, hot dog stand, tree, mailbox, car, boat, everything. The only compromise compared to GTA IV is that elevated freeways have either been eliminated or moved down to ground level to better accommodate the high camera angle, and all streets are strictly north-south, east-west to make navigating on the cramped screen easier. In comparing the map with GTA IV, I would guess that they recreated at least 90% of the full-sized version; basically, if a location or landmark is in GTA IV, you'll find it in Chinatown Wars. The one big omission is the island of Alderney, but since it wasn't used that much in the console version, it's really not missed here. Other than that, the entire city is yours to explore right from the start, from Algonquin to Bohan, Dukes, Broker, Colony Island, Charge Island and yes, even Happiness Island. It's very impressive to say the least.
The only things that are 2D are the characters and pedestrians, but this doesn't distract from the overall feeling that you are truly in Liberty City. Like its console big brothers, the world in GTA:CW is alive and vibrant with lots of traffic and pedestrians, hot dog vendors hawking their wares, police chasing criminals, ambulances responding to accidents, and people saying random things at you. The amount of detail Rockstar Leeds put into the city is amazing: cars use turn signals; paper flies into the air when you smash into mailboxes; pedestrians open umbrellas when it rains; take a boat out into the water and you'll see shipwrecks and rocks beneath the surface; there is a true day/night cycle with dynamic shadows; and there are some very cool lightning effects during thunderstorms. Every car handles with unique physics and can flip, roll and send body parts flying if you're a bit too reckless at the wheel. I've even seen drivers ejected through their windshields. We expect all this on the consoles but on the tiny DS? Amazing.
What's even more impressive is it all runs at a silky smooth 30 frames per second, even when you are barreling down the street at insane speeds in heavy traffic with the cops hot on your tail. There is no pop-up or slow-down, something that couldn't be said for the PSP titles.
Of course, all of this wonderful technology would be wasted if the gameplay didn't meet fans' high expectations ? which it does, and more. Granted, the mission structure isn't revolutionary as it sticks to the classic GTA drive-to-a-location-and-kill-the-bad-guys or pick-up-and-deliver-a-package. Even the story itself is average: you play as Huang Lee, the rich spoiled son of a recently murdered Liberty City Triad boss, who flies into town to deliver an ancient family sword to his uncle. The moment he arrives he is shot, stuffed into the trunk of a car and shoved into the water to die as his attackers escape with the sword. Once he escapes the car (by smashing out the window using the touch screen) he spends the rest of the game trying to recover the stolen sword and discover who killed his father.
What really makes the gameplay so engaging are the uniquely immersive touch screen mini-games that pull you deeper into the experience. The term ?mini-game? is a bit of a misnomer since most of them are simple tasks like smashing locks, hooking up car bombs, digging through dumpsters, assembling a sniper rifle, filling bottles with gasoline to make Molotov cocktails, cutting through car door panels to look for contraband, scratching lottery tickets, tattooing fellow gang members, and so on. They're simple little extras that should feel gimmicky but they don't; instead, they add a level of interactivity that far exceeds anything you could experience on a full-sized console. For example, in GTA IV you simply flick the triggers on your controller to ?hot wire? a car; in GTA:CW, you use your stylus to jam and jiggle a screwdriver into the ignition, or unscrew a panel and twist wires together. Now which sounds more fun to you?
The touch screen is only used for the mini-games and accessing your PDA; movement and actions are through the D-pad and buttons so it controls just like any other GTA game. The one exception is when you use the touch screen to aim and throw grenades and Molotovs.
Missions are fairly short and straightforward, perfect for quick bite-sized handheld entertainment. Combat is simple, thanks to a target-lock system that is smart enough to lock onto enemies instead of nearby innocent bystanders. However, the lock-on mechanism only works in the direction you're facing rather than on the closest enemy, so there are times when you'll be locked onto someone at the far edge of the screen while an enemy is standing right behind you untouched. This can get frustrating when you are being swamped by six or more enemies at a time. Of course, you can turn the auto lock off but the twitchy nature of the D-pad makes free-aiming more of an exercise in luck.
Missions have great variety, from sniping a snitch to manning a chaingun on the back of a speedboat to tossing Molotovs from a helicopter (unfortunately this is the only time you'll be in a helicopter as you cannot fly one yourself). They're all ridiculously fun with loads of action and just the right amount of difficulty.
If you fail a mission, you can restart from the point where the action starts, rather than having to start all over from the beginning and drive to the location ? a very welcome feature that gamers have been wanting for years. You can also replay any story mission by selecting it from the whiteboard in any safehouse, another great addition that will hopefully make its way to the console versions. Overall, completing the story missions will take about 12 hours or so but this only scratches the surface of what the game has to offer.
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text:
A journalistic era ended in London yesterday with the final issue of the best-selling Sunday tabloid The News of the World.
The closing of the 168-year-old newspaper, which was the world's largest weekly with 7.5 million readers, came in response to allegations the paper's journalists paid police for information and hacked into the voicemails of a young murder victim and the grieving families of dead soldiers.
"Quite simply, we lost our way," the paper said in a full-page editorial yesterday, apologizing to readers.
The News of the World, like The Post, is owned by News Corp.
Having chronicled celebrities, sex scandals and murders since the Victorian era, News of the World had also been a champion of populist causes.


text:
Press Release: Bolivia to Receive US$760 Million in Debt Relief
October 4, 1998
The International Development Association (IDA) and the International Monetary Fund (IMF) agreed (with the support of the Inter-American Development Bank (IDB)—Bolivia's largest external creditor) that Bolivia has met the requirements for receiving close to US$760 million in nominal debt service relief from its official external creditors under the Heavily Indebted Poor Countries (HIPC) Initiative. In net present value terms, total relief from all of Bolivia's creditors is worth about US$450 million, equivalent to over 13 percent of total debt outstanding at the end of 1997. Bolivia has established a strong track record of macroeconomic performance and policy reform, and is the first country in Latin America to receive debt relief under the Initiative (the second country overall).
In view of Bolivia's heavy debt service burden in the coming years, the exceptional assistance from the IDB, the IDA, the IMF, and other major multilateral creditors will be significantly frontloaded, allowing the debt service ratio to fall below 20 percent of exports starting in 1999. The planned debt reduction will enable a sustained increase in social sector spending of almost 1 percent of GDP over the next four years, free up resources for investment, and allow Bolivia to consolidate its adjustment efforts.
The IDB's assistance to Bolivia will amount to about US$250 million (US$155 million in net present value terms) and will be provided through a combination of: (i) a write-off of selected concessional loans from its Fund for Special Operations, and (ii) the payment of part of interest obligations on selected loans from its ordinary capital using its Intermediate Financing Facility. The IDB's assistance will be significantly frontloaded, with over 60 percent of the relief (in net present value terms) delivered by 2003.
The IDA will frontload its assistance of about US$65 million (US$54 million in net present value terms) by covering the entire debt service due to the IDA through the use of resources from the HIPC Trust Fund until these funds, including interest earned, are exhausted. The IDA's assistance under the Initiative will average about US$18 million a year during 1999–2001.
IMF assistance of US$30 million (US$29 million in net present value terms) will take the form of a grant deposited in an interest-earning escrow account and will be used to meet Bolivia's debt service to the Fund under an agreed schedule. The assistance will be delivered over the period 1998–2002, with over 85 percent of the relief delivered by end-2000. The assistance willcover over 30 percent of Bolivia's debt service to the Fund through the year 2000.
Bolivia has experienced a dramatic improvement in its macroeconomic performance over the past decade. Inflation fell from hyperinflationary rates in 1985 to less than 7 percent in end-1997; international reserves and foreign direct investment have increased significantly; and the external debt burden—while still high—has eased significantly. Although growth has increased from virtual stagnation in the previous decade to an average of about 4 percent in real terms, it remains below potential, and poverty is still pervasive.
The Bolivian government has therefore developed a program that seeks to achieve a significant reduction in poverty through faster economic growth and stronger social programs. The cornerstone of the program is structural reform, with an emphasis on improvements in education, health, fiscal decentralization, and governance. Other reforms include completing the process of privatization, deepening domestic capital markets, and making labor markets more flexible. The authorities expect these policies to boost economic growth to 5½ to 6 percent a year over the medium term.
Since the HIPC Initiative was approved in September 1996 as a means of dealing comprehensively with the debt burdens of the world's poorest countries, seven countries have qualified for exceptional assistance. Total nominal debt service savings projected for these countries is about US$6 billion. Assistance to Uganda and Bolivia, the only two countries that have so far obtained debt relief under the Initiative, amounts to about US$1.5 billion in nominal terms.
|Public Affairs
|Media Relations


text:
Maria is 14 years old. Her family is part of a fundamentalist Catholic community. Maria lives her everyday life in the modern world, yet her heart belongs to Jesus. She wants to follow him, to become a saint and go to heaven – just like all those holy children she's always been told about. So Maria goes through 14 stations, just like Jesus did on his path to Golgatha, and reaches her goal in the end. Not even Christian, a boy she meets at school, can stop her, even if in another world, they might have become friends, or even lovers. Left behind is a broken family that finds comfort in faith, and the question if all these events were really so inevitable.
Certificate: 15 Drama | World
Dir. Dietrich Bruggemann, Germany, 2014, 107 mins, subtitles
Cast: Lucie Aron, Anna Brüggemann, Michael Kamp


text:
Just when you are looking forward to summer, someone has to go and ruin it all with talk about winter. The Thorocraft 2010 Winter Preview features some pretty sweet samplings, even though they did drop the 'W' bomb.
The New York-based line creates rad styles out of premium leather and does not just stick with shoes, but also wallets. My personal favorite out of the Thorocraft 2010 Winter Preview are the black leather boots. So badass.
Red Rattan Kicks
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The Thorocraft 2010 Winter Preview Focuses On Bold Designs
- By: Robyn CurrieMar 30, 2010
References: thorocraftshop & hypebeast
References: thorocraftshop & hypebeast


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Browns GM Mike Holmgren believes Trent Richardson will be a better all-around running back than Shaun Alexander, who played under Holmgren with the Seattle Seahawks. "I love Shaun, if I could adopt Shaun I would, but he wouldn't block anybody, nobody and I still love him," Holmgren said "The difference is Trent is an excellent pass receiver, not just a willing blocker but a very, very good blocker so when Pat's calling the game and we're running our offense you don't have to be thinking, 'Okay now how do we protect him in the passing game?' You don't have to do that so that's different."
It appears that Richardson will be the workhorse in the Browns backfield and that's going to lead to a lot of touches. Since bell cow RBs are hard to come by, his ADP will likely settle in the 3rd round, though he will go as early as the 2nd and as late as the 4th. Some fantasy owners may avoid him since he plays for the Browns, but Peyton Hillis finished in the top 5 in 2010 playing for the same team in the same division, and Richardson is probably better.


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By Michael Bower
The stakes were about as high as they can get for a 10-year-old girl. Succeed and you get your ears pierced. Fail and you have to go two more dreadful years without those beautiful earrings you have been eyeing in the storefront window.
Well, that just wasn't an option for Maddelyn Zack.
"My dad said I couldn't get my ears pierced until I was 12 unless I beat him in golf, hit a hole-in-one or qualified for the Junior World Championships," recalled Zack, who is now a junior at Poway High. "I did all three in the same week and we went right away and got my ears pierced."
While having the opportunity to put on those first set of earrings was pretty motivating, Zack, who will turn 16 in early October, has just as much inspiration to qualify for her first CIF SoCal Regional and state tournaments this season.
The left-hander came up just short of reaching the SoCal Regional last year, finishing with a two-round total of 156 — just three shots short of being included in a playoff for the final two individual spots into the regional.
"Making the regional and maybe even state is definitely what I am hoping for," Zack said. "Last year, I played well during CIF, but the overall season I didn't think was that great. This year I have been more consistent."
The reason for that could be the work she put in over the summer. Aside from playing several tournaments locally, Zack went to Michigan for a few weeks and ended up playing 12 rounds of golf in the first 14 days.
She played in the Michigan Women's Open in June, which consisted of a mixture of professional and amateur golfers. Zack, who was the second youngest golfer in the field, finished in an impressive 69th place.
"That is pretty good because there were something like 45 professionals out there playing," she said. "The whole Michigan State team played so it was nice to see how I stacked up with the college golfers."
Zack helped lead the Titans to two victories at Stoneridge Country Club last week. She carded a 41 in Poway's 209-245 victory over Carlsbad and a 39 in a 209-234 win over La Costa Canyon at the par-37 course.
For her efforts, Zack is the Toyota of Poway Athlete of the Week.
"She is a very good ball striker and she hits a lot of fairways and greens," Poway coach Jim Bennet said. "She has been working hard on her putting because she knows when she doesn't three putt she will shoot under 40 every time."
Improving the short game, in particular putting, has been the focus for Zack. She will never show it out on the golf course, but it kills her inside every time she three putts.
"I am not upset with the way I am playing, but I am just not really impressed," Zack said. "I feel like I can be doing a lot better. I think I am thinking too much. I am thinking that I need to make this putt instead of thinking it is just one shot."
If anyone can master the mental side of golf, it is Zack. She is very even-keeled on the golf course and always seems to have a smile on her face no matter how things are going.
"She has been like that ever since she was a freshman," Bennet said. "Her freshman year there was a round she started four over after two holes. She ended up just two over. You can't teach that. A lot of kids just go in the tank, but she never goes in the tank.
"We talk about having fun and being positive and finishing strong," added Bennet. "She is the epitome of that."
Zack hopes to carry the fun into college in a few years. She has been constantly emailing coaches and scheduling non-official visits to schools. Her father, Eric, went to Eastern Michigan University. That is one reason why Zack is somewhat interested in attending school in that area.
"I would love to stay here in California, but there are so many amazing golfers here," she said. "I have lived here my whole life and I know it would be tough to play in the cold and it would be hard to adjust to such a drastic change. But I want to go to a Division I college with a great golf team."
If she wants that half as bad as she wanted those pierced ears, don't bet against her making it happen.


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For this Fall, Mishka has teamed up with Outlier to produce three colorways of the Pivot Plaid Button Down Shirt.
"A few years back Outlier re imagined the button down shirt. They took it apart and rebuilt it in a way that was conducive to riding your bike, while remaining fashionable. With its innovative seam construction, the pivot offers free range movement without the restrictions usually associated with trying to ride in a men's dress shirt. You could now reach forward on your bike without the sleeves riding up on you or the back untucking from your pants."
Fusing the quality and functionality that we are used to see from Outlier, with the design of Mishka, results in a great range of shirts, which are now available in their online store for 84 USD.


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My Nonprofit Reviews
Review for The Art of Elysium, Los Angeles, CA, USA
It will be 19 years of The Art of Elysium on August 15, 2016 and it has been an amazing journey. I stand in absolute awe of our artists, people that we are able to bring the joy of arts to and the incredible staff that literally bridges the gap between these communities. We started out serving hospitalized children and have expanded to also serve elders and the homeless community. We look forward to taking the healing power of arts into prisons and veterans hospitals and to any other place where people can heal their lives through artistic expression.
Review for The Art of Elysium, Los Angeles, CA, USA
I have been blessed to have so many various roles with The Art of Elysium and have seen the organization from all sides. This year the artists have expanded to work with hospitalized youth, elder care facilities, the homeless community and will be expanding into prisons and veterans hospitals. The greatest gift is to be of service through our personal creative process. The AofE bridges the gap between artists and those in need and that is a true blessing.
Review for The Art of Elysium, Los Angeles, CA, USA
I am blown away on a daily basis by the children that we work with, the artists that both inspire and are inspired, the staff that brings me so much joy and the gift of being of service that The Art of Elysium provides.
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If I had to make changes to this organization, I would...
I would take it to every city in the world where this a child facing medical challenges and an artist in that community who can serve through their creativity.
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Review for The Art of Elysium, Los Angeles, CA, USA
I am the founding board member for The Art of Elysium and over the past 13 years I have seen every side of this organization's mission. I have witnessed the impact that the creative workshops have had on the hospitalized children we serve and I have seen the miracles the exchange has given to the artists that volunteer their time. It is a full circle exchange of creative miracles that do not just impact the participants during the workshops but forever change both the patients and volunteers. The Art of Elysium is a community of artists that truly believe in the power of creativity and the healing power of art. We are blessed that we are able to serve as a bridge between the artistic community in both Los Angeles and New York and to children facing hospitalization and medical various medical conditions. We are sincerely grateful for every staff member, volunteer, artist, parent and child that we are fortunate enough to work with. The organization is growing and will continue to grow by the goodwill and support of all involved and yet to come into the charity. The best way to understand the mission of The Art of Elysium is to spend time as a volunteer. Get involved!
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I have personally experienced the results of this organization in all areas of my life. Every time I step into a hospital to dedicate my time to one of the various art workshops, my spirit is moved and expanded by the act of being of service and sharing my creativity. It is the most humbling and rewarding experience and I try my very best to be volunteering at the hospital at least once a week. My soul craves it.
If I had to make changes to this organization, I would...
If I had to make changes to this organization, I would make sure that it had the infrastructure and support to be in every city where there was a child facing the isolation of hospitalization and an artist in the community willing to share their creative process.


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ELYRIA — A mailman was taken to the hospital yesterday after he was knocked over by a dog on his route in Elyria.
According to a police report, Mark Schiller, 59, of Amherst was delivering mail on Furnace Street about 1:10 p.m. when he was injured.
The resident of a home in the 300 block of Furnace Street told police he was taking garbage out his back door and didn't realize Schiller was delivery mail in the area when his Labrador-Great Dane mix dog burst out the door toward Schiller.
Schiller told police the dog jumped against his chest, knocking him to the ground, adding that he heard his wrist break from the fall. Officers noted that Schiller's wrist was swollen and deformed.
Schiller refused to be transported by LifeCare but was placed into the back of a police car to stay warm because he was wet from his fall. Schiller's mail bag and keys were turned over to a Postal Service supervisor, and Schiller was taken to EMH Elyria Medical Center by a police officer.
The report noted that Schiller was not bitten by the dog, only knocked down.
Lt. Chris Costantino wasn't sure today whether the owner of the dog would be charged.
Schiller was treated and released, according to a hospital spokeswoman.


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6mm Improved X ends for Prusa with clamped rods
by beekeeper, published
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Jonas Kuehling Improved X-Ends for RepRap Printers for a 6mm Threaded rod to eliminate Z-wobble. Combine this with switching to flexible Vinyl (or Vulcanized rubber) Z-Axis Motor Couplers and your part quality immediately jumps higher.
Print directly the the STL FIles, that are cleaned and ready to go, or Edit the Scad File, Like I did to make even more changes. I took Jonas Kuehling's original Scad File and changed the variables to make it for 6mm threaded rods for the Z-Axis Lead Screws. You could use 1/4" - 28 rods as a close replacement, or 6mm x 1mm Rods like we do, or 1/4" x 20 Threaded rods for a more course Z step (but cheapest threaded rod in the US).
At the same time, throw out your old motor couplers, and switch over to a flexible vinyl tubing for your Z motor Couplers (from the 5mm Nema 17 motor shaft to the new 6mm Z axis threaded rod), and your print quality will be considerably higher. Do make sure that the new 6mm rods are totally straight. Test them by rolling them on a flat table prior to installation, they should roll freely without assistance other than maybe an initial push. If they hesitate, you have a bent threaded rod, get another one, don't try to unbend it - unbending rarely goes well.
Everyone talks about upgrading to 6mm threaded rods, but no one uploaded the X-Ends to do this... Until now.
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cool. I've been noticing some z-wobble on my prusa i2. might give this a shot. Do you have a good source for 6mm threaded rod? I was thinking stainless steel would be best since I noticed the steel on my original 8mm rods has been wearing down. After many prints I get a residue left on the rods...
In the US, Mcmaster-Carr has a good zinc coated 6mm rod (and nuts) The rod is 99067A245 for about US$6.00 and 100 - 6mm nuts is 90591A151 is about US$2.50 - both would be a total of about $15 shipped to you. Stainless steel is definitely harder, but it is also rougher and will grind against itself and will give you more problems down the road. Use a a high grade 3 in 1 oil (I like Liquid Wrench Super Oil) or Permatex Super Lube Teflon grease. Before you install the X axis and before you put any grease on the rods, put the 6mm rod in a drill and cycle several times with the nuts installed. Afterward, blow off the slight amount of filings that come from the rod / nuts. Then grease / oil the rods and nuts, your rods will last MUCH longer. These threaded rods aren't precision machined, and cycling them dry serveral times will clean and deburr them nicely.
You will have to drill out the bearing hole (that mounts the skate idler pulley bearing) if you use 8mm ID skate bearings. For 6mm, ID bearings, the ends are good to go.
Thanks for the advice! I'll get around to this eventually and let you know how I make out.
Also, fun fact, this is almost the first asymmetrical thing i've printed, and it came out mirrored. Cursed when i saw it, but then i thought that it would actually look better, and because of the stepper now mounting the other way around, the axis got inverted and prints are not mirrored anymore.
I just did my first test print using my new parts, and it's a big improvement, despite the fact that i obviously have gotten one of the couplers crooked, the motor wobbles quite alot when running z up and down. I imagine it will be even better once i fix that, great work beekeeper! I definitely think 6mm rods are the way to go.
I did end up using a 7.5 drill, starting from 6.5, being very careful since it looks so thin.. but it feels strong and rigid.
I usally don't see any curling on larger prints just like you say, and I am using the cool function, but i think the heat radiating from the nozzle takes away much of the benefit of going slower. Also there will always be big objects with a small top, and it's like a challenge to be able to do small fast prints without issues.. I'm gonna try insulating my hotend some more and then try some more fan ideas.
As i understand netfabb is windows only?
Good going. The 6mm hole is very easy to drill out and the crosbar structurally extremely stong, so it works well. Funny thing, probably more than half of reprap machines are mirror initially because they followed the old documentation and videos that led you down the funny path. I didn't discover my first machine was mirrored for at least 2 weeks after I was getting good prints. For a couple weeks, I used Blender to mirror the STL files when it became an issue. Use Netfabb's website cloud service, it isn't Windows only, and it cleans up stl files very well. Try lowering your nozzle temp when printing small cross sectional areas, 5 to 10° makes a BIG difference on some parts.
I mostly followed the wiki, and I'm pretty sure where i got it wrong. When I was placing the x-motor-end the instructions said something like, place the motor to the right when facing the front of the machine. Which is actually front and back? So at that point I got fed up with the differences between my hardware and the guide, so I did it my way instead. And that later led to me placing the x-endstop on the wrong side, despite that i was almost certain it was meant to be on the other side, but I wanted to have it next to the x-motor and ramps. Luckily, after setting marlin to home at x-max and moving the x-endstop connector to x-max it now works beautifully. Gotta love marlin and ramps!
I'm only printing at 220 deg C, but my thermistor is probably a bit off?
The motormount stl seems broken, would it be possible for you to fix it? I tried, using meshlab and blender but to no use. Using slic3r, and idler printed just fine.
Yes, I just added 2 STL files that end with "fixed", where I ran them each through Netfabb Cloud and fixed the files and made them both Manifold. The normal output from OpenScad produced a non-manifold Stl on the motor mount file. Funny thing, the version of Skeinforge I use, sliced it correctly, but Slic3r balked until I sent the "fixed" files through. All is well, just used the "fixed" stl files.
Great! Thank you, I feared that I was going to be stuck with only the idler end for some time. Im accually quite impressed and proud over my printer and myself that the idler printed so well, looks like it should be quite a difficult print? The only issue i had was some overhang curling on the brace for the x-belt bearing, which is opposite to my fan. (A fan with abs? Apparently!) I think I only need a small airflow, very small, so Im thinking about printing a small duct that connects to two tubes, place the duct and fan on top of the printer and lead the two tubes down to the hotend, one on each side. sounds like a good idea?
Could you point to the discussion or reference about benefits of using 6mm rods ?
Here's one on http://RepRap.orgRepRap.org : http://forums.reprap.org/read.php?1,130622,130648http://forums.reprap.org/read....
another discussion where the author takes more extreme steps (but doesn't show the end peices produced, just the problem pieces starting him on the long journey to fix the problem) is at: http://3dprinterusers.blogspot.com/2012/03/what-is-reprap-rapman-z-axis-wobble.htmlhttp://3dprinterusers.blogspot...
Check Google if you need more info.
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After a 126-pitch outing in Chicago, Josh Beckett felt stiffness and soreness in his shoulder and lat muscle and the Red Sox said that they'd skip him in the rotation.
A few days before his scheduled skip day Beckett was seen golfing with Clay Buchholz. This doesn't sit well with Sox fans as this team just continues to blow leads and lose games.
Do the Sox try and get Beckett to waive the no trade, straight up release him and eat the money or hope he just gets with the program?
D.A. tackles this story, plus what can the Sox do to stop this downward spiral of the club?


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Think Easter Bunny, Santa Clause and the like???
My DS and I witnessed this today at a local mall while having a pretzel and lemonade.
My DS looked at me and asked WHY?? He then promised he'd never do that to his children.
The people you do your life with shape the life you live
Why oh why did I do this heinous thing? Well, I was a new mom. I loved pics of me with Santa. I didn't know she'd cry. When she did, it wasn't the end of the world.
The entire "horror" lasted all of maybe 12 seconds before she was photographed and removed from the lap of a disinterested old man and back in my arms.
She is 25 now and loves the picture. And me, despite my terrible parenting.
Not everything is all that tsk-tsk worthy, really. :::shrug::::
I have asked her every year if she wants to go see Santa or the Easter Bunny and every year she says no. If we were to take her she would be another child crying in the pictures. I see no point in taking her and getting her upset for no reason.
When I was little I used to dread going to see Santa and would stress out about it all day, and then feel relieved when it was over.
I have no problem when people do take their kids to see these characters, but for us it's just not something we want to do.
We have pictures of her and I with every character you could imagine; from Santa to the East bunny to Woodsy the Owl and Smokey the Bear. In all of them she is screaming bloody murder and I am grinning for the camera.
I LOVE the pictures.
Madhatters. More Ddays than birthdays, at this point.


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Sit! Stay! Give! Senator Carlucci and Hi Tor Animal Care Center Announce First Annual Pet Food and Toy Supply Drive
NANUET, NY – Senator David Carlucci (D-Rockland/Westchester), in partnership with the Hi Tor Animal Care Center, today announced his office will be hosting a Rockland Pet Food and Toy Supply Drive to provide animal lovers the chance to spoil their K-9 and feline companions with irresistible treats and other usable items. The supply drive will throughout the month of May with all receivable items provided to the animal shelter.
"Every animal deserves a loving and caring home, and by offering the chance for strangers to provide an additional fun item or food for those in need, we can rest assured that our animals have the proper resources," said Senator Carlucci. "I would like to thank Hi Tor Animal Shelter for providing a haven for animals in need and their commitment to animal lovers everywhere."
"Hi Tor is thrilled to be partnering once again with Senator Carlucci and we support any initiative that gives back to our beloved animals," said Brian Bradshaw, Operations Manager at Hi Tor Animal Care Center.
Residents are encouraged to donate any of the following items:
Pet Supply List
- Pet Food (Note: Canned or bagged items must be unopened due to Health Department regulations and protocol.
- Towels, blankets or any type of bedding
- Collars and leashes
- Baby bottles
- Paper towels
- Cleaning supplies such as brooms, cleaners, garbage bags
- Can openers
- Toys
Founded in 1973, Hi Tor Animal Care Center is the only animal care and control shelter in Rockland County that takes in approximately 2,500 animals each year. The mission of Hi Tor Animal Care Center is to preserve and improve animal life, to promote responsible pet adoption and ownership, and to provide humane treatment for all animals in our care. For more information about Hi-Tor Animal Shelter or do make a monetary donation, please visit www.hitor.org.
Residents can stop by Senator Carlucci's District Office, located at 95 South Middletown Road in Nanuet to make a donation at a designated drop-off box will be located in the front reception area.
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