tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-191295482024-03-12T19:49:24.581-05:00RED GIRL Reads A StoryStory Reading and Story WritingRed Cloakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105194748538706214noreply@blogger.comBlogger113125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19129548.post-4026013084274432632013-03-13T16:58:00.000-05:002013-03-13T16:58:02.023-05:00Neglected BlogHello Everyone:
It's been some time since we last connected. I've not forgotten about you. The plan is to begin posting again in April 2013.
Until then my friends,
Red CloakRed Cloakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105194748538706214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19129548.post-65319742684544546002012-11-07T09:19:00.002-05:002012-11-07T09:28:17.221-05:00President Barack Obama's Victory Speech with Transcript<div style="text-align: center;">
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<em>President Barack Obama’s speech in Chicago after his re-election Tuesday night, as transcribed by Roll Call:</em><br />
<br />
___<br />
<br />
Thank you so much.<br />
<br />
Tonight, more than 200 years after a former colony won the right to
determine its own destiny, the task of perfecting our union moves
forward.<br />
<br />
It moves forward because of you. It moves forward because you
reaffirmed the spirit that has triumphed over war and depression, the
spirit that has lifted this country from the depths of despair to the
great heights of hope, the belief that while each of us will pursue our
own individual dreams, we are an American family and we rise or fall
together as one nation and as one people.<br />
<br />
Tonight, in this election, you, the American people, reminded us that
while our road has been hard, while our journey has been long, we have
picked ourselves up, we have fought our way back, and we know in our
hearts that for the United States of America the best is yet to come.<br />
<br />
I want to thank every American who participated in this election,
whether you voted for the very first time or waited in line for a very
long time. By the way, we have to fix that. Whether you pounded the
pavement or picked up the phone, whether you held an Obama sign or a
Romney sign, you made your voice heard and you made a difference.<br />
<br />
I just spoke with Gov. Romney and I congratulated him and <a href="http://topics.wsj.com/person/R/paul,-ryan/6420">Paul Ryan</a>
on a hard-fought campaign. We may have battled fiercely, but it’s only
because we love this country deeply and we care so strongly about its
future. From George to Lenore to their son Mitt, the Romney family has
chosen to give back to America through public service and that is the
legacy that we honor and applaud tonight. In the weeks ahead, I also
look forward to sitting down with Gov. Romney to talk about where we can
work together to move this country forward.<br />
<br />
I want to thank my friend and partner of the last four years,
America’s happy warrior, the best vice president anybody could ever hope
for, <a href="http://topics.wsj.com/person/B/joe,-biden/6352">Joe Biden</a>.<br />
<br />
And I wouldn’t be the man I am today without the woman who agreed to
marry me 20 years ago. Let me say this publicly: Michelle, I have never
loved you more. I have never been prouder to watch the rest of America
fall in love with you, too, as our nation’s first lady. Sasha and Malia,
before our very eyes you’re growing up to become two strong, smart
beautiful young women, just like your mom. And I’m so proud of you guys.
But I will say that for now one dog’s probably enough.<br />
<br />
To the best campaign team and volunteers in the history of politics.
The best. The best ever. Some of you were new this time around, and some
of you have been at my side since the very beginning. But all of you
are family. No matter what you do or where you go from here, you will
carry the memory of the history we made together and you will have the
lifelong appreciation of a grateful president. Thank you for believing
all the way, through every hill, through every valley. You lifted me up
the whole way and I will always be grateful for everything that you’ve
done and all the incredible work that you put in.<br />
<br />
I know that political campaigns can sometimes seem small, even silly.
And that provides plenty of fodder for the cynics that tell us that
politics is nothing more than a contest of egos or the domain of special
interests. But if you ever get the chance to talk to folks who turned
out at our rallies and crowded along a rope line in a high school gym,
or saw folks working late in a campaign office in some tiny county far
away from home, you’ll discover something else.<br />
<br />
You’ll hear the determination in the voice of a young field organizer
who’s working his way through college and wants to make sure every
child has that same opportunity. You’ll hear the pride in the voice of a
volunteer who’s going door to door because her brother was finally
hired when the local auto plant added another shift. You’ll hear the
deep patriotism in the voice of a military spouse who’s working the
phones late at night to make sure that no one who fights for this
country ever has to fight for a job or a roof over their head when they
come home.<br />
<br />
That’s why we do this. That’s what politics can be. That’s why
elections matter. It’s not small, it’s big. It’s important. Democracy in
a nation of 300 million can be noisy and messy and complicated. We have
our own opinions. Each of us has deeply held beliefs. And when we go
through tough times, when we make big decisions as a country, it
necessarily stirs passions, stirs up controversy.<br />
<br />
That won’t change after tonight, and it shouldn’t. These arguments we
have are a mark of our liberty. We can never forget that as we speak
people in distant nations are risking their lives right now just for a
chance to argue about the issues that matter, the chance to cast their
ballots like we did today.<br />
<br />
But despite all our differences, most of us share certain hopes for
America’s future. We want our kids to grow up in a country where they
have access to the best schools and the best teachers. A country that
lives up to its legacy as the global leader in technology and discovery
and innovation, with all the good jobs and new businesses that follow.<br />
<br />
We want our children to live in an America that isn’t burdened by
debt, that isn’t weakened by inequality, that isn’t threatened by the
destructive power of a warming planet. We want to pass on a country
that’s safe and respected and admired around the world, a nation that is
defended by the strongest military on earth and the best troops this —
this world has ever known. But also a country that moves with confidence
beyond this time of war, to shape a peace that is built on the promise
of freedom and dignity for every human being.<br />
<br />
We believe in a generous America, in a compassionate America, in a
tolerant America, open to the dreams of an immigrant’s daughter who
studies in our schools and pledges to our flag. To the young boy on the
south side of Chicago who sees a life beyond the nearest street corner.
To the furniture worker’s child in North Carolina who wants to become a
doctor or a scientist, an engineer or an entrepreneur, a diplomat or
even a president — that’s the future we hope for. That’s the vision we
share. That’s where we need to go — forward. That’s where we need to go.<br />
<br />
Now, we will disagree, sometimes fiercely, about how to get there. As
it has for more than two centuries, progress will come in fits and
starts. It’s not always a straight line. It’s not always a smooth path.<br />
<br />
By itself, the recognition that we have common hopes and dreams won’t
end all the gridlock or solve all our problems or substitute for the
painstaking work of building consensus and making the difficult
compromises needed to move this country forward. But that common bond is
where we must begin.<br />
<br />
Our economy is recovering. A decade of war is ending. A long campaign
is now over. And whether I earned your vote or not, I have listened to
you, I have learned from you, and you’ve made me a better president. And
with your stories and your struggles, I return to the White House more
determined and more inspired than ever about the work there is to do and
the future that lies ahead.<br />
<br />
Tonight you voted for action, not politics as usual. You elected us
to focus on your jobs, not ours. And in the coming weeks and months, I
am looking forward to reaching out and working with leaders of both
parties to meet the challenges we can only solve together. Reducing our
deficit. Reforming our tax code. Fixing our immigration system. Freeing
ourselves from foreign oil. We’ve got more work to do.<br />
<br />
But that doesn’t mean your work is done. The role of citizen in our
democracy does not end with your vote. America’s never been about what
can be done for us. It’s about what can be done by us together through
the hard and frustrating, but necessary work of self-government. That’s
the principle we were founded on.<br />
<br />
This country has more wealth than any nation, but that’s not what
makes us rich. We have the most powerful military in history, but that’s
not what makes us strong. Our university, our culture are all the envy
of the world, but that’s not what keeps the world coming to our shores.<br />
<br />
What makes America exceptional are the bonds that hold together the
most diverse nation on earth. The belief that our destiny is shared;
that this country only works when we accept certain obligations to one
another and to future generations. The freedom which so many Americans
have fought for and died for come with responsibilities as well as
rights. And among those are love and charity and duty and patriotism.
That’s what makes America great.<br />
<br />
I am hopeful tonight because I’ve seen the spirit at work in America.
I’ve seen it in the family business whose owners would rather cut their
own pay than lay off their neighbors, and in the workers who would
rather cut back their hours than see a friend lose a job. I’ve seen it
in the soldiers who reenlist after losing a limb and in those SEALs who
charged up the stairs into darkness and danger because they knew there
was a buddy behind them watching their back.<br />
<br />
I’ve seen it on the shores of New Jersey and New York, where leaders
from every party and level of government have swept aside their
differences to help a community rebuild from the wreckage of a terrible
storm. And I saw just the other day, in Mentor, Ohio, where a father
told the story of his 8-year-old daughter, whose long battle with
leukemia nearly cost their family everything had it not been for health
care reform passing just a few months before the insurance company was
about to stop paying for her care.<br />
<br />
I had an opportunity to not just talk to the father, but meet this
incredible daughter of his. And when he spoke to the crowd listening to
that father’s story, every parent in that room had tears in their eyes,
because we knew that little girl could be our own. And I know that every
American wants her future to be just as bright. That’s who we are.
That’s the country I’m so proud to lead as your president.<br />
<br />
And tonight, despite all the hardship we’ve been through, despite all
the frustrations of Washington, I’ve never been more hopeful about our
future. I have never been more hopeful about America. And I ask you to
sustain that hope. I’m not talking about blind optimism, the kind of
hope that just ignores the enormity of the tasks ahead or the roadblocks
that stand in our path. I’m not talking about the wishful idealism that
allows us to just sit on the sidelines or shirk from a fight.<br />
<br />
I have always believed that hope is that stubborn thing inside us
that insists, despite all the evidence to the contrary, that something
better awaits us so long as we have the courage to keep reaching, to
keep working, to keep fighting.<br />
<br />
America, I believe we can build on the progress we’ve made and
continue to fight for new jobs and new opportunity and new security for
the middle class. I believe we can keep the promise of our founders, the
idea that if you’re willing to work hard, it doesn’t matter who you are
or where you come from or what you look like or where you love. It
doesn’t matter whether you’re black or white or Hispanic or Asian or
Native American or young or old or rich or poor, able, disabled, gay or
straight, you can make it here in America if you’re willing to try.<br />
<br />
I believe we can seize this future together because we are not as
divided as our politics suggests. We’re not as cynical as the pundits
believe. We are greater than the sum of our individual ambitions, and we
remain more than a collection of red states and blue states. We are and
forever will be the United States of America.<br />
<br />
And together with your help and God’s grace we will continue our
journey forward and remind the world just why it is that we live in the
greatest nation on Earth.<br />
<br />
Thank you, America. God bless you. God bless these United States.<br />
<br />
Transcript via Wall Street Journal permalink: <a href="http://blogs.wsj.com/washwire/2012/11/07/transcript-obamas-victory-speech/" target="_blank">http://blogs.wsj.com/washwire/2012/11/07/transcript-obamas-victory-speech/</a>Red Cloakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105194748538706214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19129548.post-87176917390663675052012-11-07T09:12:00.004-05:002012-11-07T09:27:45.303-05:00Governor Romney Concession Speech with Transcript<div style="text-align: center;">
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<em>Here is the transcript of Republican presidential candidate <strong>Mitt Romney’</strong>s concession speech in Boston, via the Associated Press as transcribed by Roll Call:_</em><br />
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<strong>Mr. Romney:</strong> Thank you.<br />
<br />
I have just called President Obama to congratulate him on his victory.<br />
<br />
His supporters and his campaign also deserve congratulations. I wish
all of them well, but particularly the president, the first lady and
their daughters.<br />
<br />
This is a time of great challenges for America, and I pray that the president will be successful in guiding our nation.<br />
<br />
I want to thank Paul Ryan for all that he has done for our campaign
and for our country. Besides my wife, Ann, Paul is the best choice I’ve
ever made. And I trust that his intellect and his hard work and his
commitment to principle will continue to contribute to the good of our
nation.<br />
<br />
I also want to thank Ann, the love of my life. She would have been a
wonderful first lady. She’s _ she has been that and more to me and to
our family and to the many people that she has touched with her
compassion and her care.<br />
<br />
I thank my sons for their tireless work on behalf of the campaign,
and thank their wives and children for taking up the slack as their
husbands and dads have spent so many weeks away from home.<br />
I want to thank Matt Rhoades and the dedicated campaign team he led.
They have made an extraordinary effort not just for me, but also for the
country that we love.<br />
<br />
And to you here tonight, and to the team across the country _ the
volunteers, the fundraisers, the donors, the surrogates _ I don’t
believe that there’s ever been an effort in our party that can compare
with what you have done over these past years. Thank you so very much.<br />
<br />
Thanks for all the hours of work, for the calls, for the speeches and
appearances, for the resources and for the prayers. You gave deeply
from yourselves and performed magnificently. And you inspired us and you
humbled us. You’ve been the very best we could have imagined.<br />
<br />
The nation, as you know, is at a critical point. At a time like this,
we can’t risk partisan bickering and political posturing. Our leaders
have to reach across the aisle to do the people’s work. And we citizens
also have to rise to the occasion.<br />
<br />
We look to our teachers and professors, we count on you not just to
teach, but to inspire our children with a passion for learning and
discovery. We look to our pastors and priests and rabbis and counselors
of all kinds to testify of the enduring principles upon which our
society is built: honesty, charity, integrity and family. We look to our
parents, for in the final analysis everything depends on the success of
our homes. We look to job creators of all kinds. We’re counting on you
to invest, to hire, to step forward. And we look to Democrats and
Republicans in government at all levels to put the people before the
politics.<br />
<br />
I believe in America. I believe in the people of America. And I ran
for office because I’m concerned about America. This election is over,
but our principles endure. I believe that the principles upon which this
nation was founded are the only sure guide to a resurgent economy and
to renewed greatness.<br />
<br />
Like so many of you, Paul and I have left everything on the field. We have given our all to this campaign.<br />
<br />
I so wish _ I so wish that I had been able to fulfill your hopes to
lead the country in a different direction, but the nation chose another
leader. And so Ann and I join with you to earnestly pray for him and for
this great nation.<br />
<br />
Thank you, and God bless America. You guys are the best. Thank you so much. Thank you. Thanks, guys.<br />
<br />
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Transcript via Wall Street Journal permalink: <a href="http://blogs.wsj.com/washwire/2012/11/07/transcript-of-romneys-concession-speech/" target="_blank">http://blogs.wsj.com/washwire/2012/11/07/transcript-of-romneys-concession-speech/</a><br />
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Red Cloakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105194748538706214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19129548.post-50450273745155045252011-09-17T10:41:00.001-05:002011-09-17T10:49:07.091-05:009/11 Memorial Museum<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aCoL3lehl68/TnS-Iw5vxMI/AAAAAAAAATs/ZwapOAW42aQ/s1600/curators-1.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5653352490032153794" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aCoL3lehl68/TnS-Iw5vxMI/AAAAAAAAATs/ZwapOAW42aQ/s320/curators-1.jpg" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 246px;" /></a>
A "Little Red" doll discovered by Brian Van Flandern on September 12, 2001. <br />
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REUTERS/Lucas Jackson.
By: Jonathan Allen
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NEW YORK, N.Y. (REUTERS).- Curators are making hard choices at the museum memorializing the September 11, 2001 attacks at the site of the World Trade Center's toppled twin towers, aiming to convey the horror of the event without trespassing into ghoulishness. "We're not here to traumatize our visitors," said Alice Greenwald, director of New York's 9/11 Memorial Museum that is due to open in its underground home at the Ground Zero site next year on the 11th anniversary of the attacks. "Monumental artefacts are one thing, but we also have a human story to tell," Greenwald said. Some of the most potentially disturbing exhibits are being set aside from the main exhibition spaces in special alcoves to allow visitors a chance to decide whether or not to view it. It is here that museum curators have placed material such as images of people plummeting from the burning towers after the buildings were struck by airliners hijacked b ... <a href="http://r20.rs6.net/tn.jsp?llr=mad89adab&et=1107524131804&s=11157&e=001fRXQSDHN7DtNMznqQ5tINyzy-rWu_BDkv52WRAcDI4n8A_kAHql6dhjVcl2eY2qburSZ8V3qlUTd5V1UbLxZTAwOHsBHO6v_vuyyDJTvQ_3-0as4mpRq_LVGG6QQDu-Xp4deRDHMQ-qpou7OfiCYNUmLV5SdEXMsoYRv92-njl0=" target="_blank">More</a>
Red Cloakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105194748538706214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19129548.post-60199166612212930062011-08-13T14:23:00.001-05:002011-08-13T14:23:54.893-05:00The Short Story Competition<p>The Short Story was set up in 2011. It is designed to showcase the best short stories from around the world.</p><p>The idea is simple. Submit your story to us and you will automatically enter The Short Story competition.<br> Three cash prizes will be awarded.</p><h2><strong>First prize: £300</strong></h2><h2><strong>Second prize: £150</strong></h2><h2><strong>Third prize: £50</strong></h2><p>The winners will be published on our website.<br>Deadline for submissions is 15th September 2011.</p> <p>Winners will be announced in December 2011.</p><p>Click on <a href="http://www.theshortstory.net/submission-guidelines/" target="_blank">submission guidelines</a> for more details.</p> Red Cloakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105194748538706214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19129548.post-70933167546688841232011-08-11T17:04:00.001-05:002011-08-11T17:04:15.192-05:00GIF: Interspecies Love Bites!Go ahead and laugh---it's funny!<br><br> <div style="margin: 0px 2px; padding-top: 1px; background-color: #c3d9ff; font-size: 1px !important; line-height: 0px !important;"> </div> <div style="margin: 0px 1px; padding-top: 1px; background-color: #c3d9ff; font-size: 1px !important; line-height: 0px !important;"> </div> <div style="padding: 4px; background-color: #c3d9ff;"><h3 style="margin:0px 3px;font-family:sans-serif">Sent to you by Red via Google Reader:</h3></div> <div style="margin: 0px 1px; padding-top: 1px; background-color: #c3d9ff; font-size: 1px !important; line-height: 0px !important;"> </div> <div style="margin: 0px 2px; padding-top: 1px; background-color: #c3d9ff; font-size: 1px !important; line-height: 0px !important;"> </div> <div style="font-family:sans-serif;overflow:auto;width:100%;margin: 0px 10px"><h2 style="margin: 0.25em 0 0 0"><div class=""><a href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/ICanHasCheezburger/~3/bJPAV88E9Rw/">GIF: Interspecies Love Bites!</a></div></h2> <div style="margin-bottom: 0.5em">via <a href="http://icanhascheezburger.com" class="f">Lolcats 'n' Funny Pictures of Cats - I Can Has Cheezburger?</a> by Cheezburger Network on 8/10/11</div><br style="display:none"> <p><a href="http://chzb.gr/e70HhJ"><img title="Funny Pictures - Cat Gifs" src="http://icanhascheezburger.files.wordpress.com/2011/08/b8ed6e43-e4e9-4266-acdc-7f81fbd494a3.gif" alt="Funny Pictures - Cat Gifs" width="360px" height="204px"></a></p> <p><a href="http://chzb.gr/e70HhJ">Moar gifs dis-a-way!</a></p> <br> <a rel="nofollow" href="http://feeds.wordpress.com/1.0/gocomments/icanhascheezburger.wordpress.com/424571/"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://feeds.wordpress.com/1.0/comments/icanhascheezburger.wordpress.com/424571/"></a> <a rel="nofollow" href="http://feeds.wordpress.com/1.0/godelicious/icanhascheezburger.wordpress.com/424571/"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://feeds.wordpress.com/1.0/delicious/icanhascheezburger.wordpress.com/424571/"></a> <a rel="nofollow" href="http://feeds.wordpress.com/1.0/gofacebook/icanhascheezburger.wordpress.com/424571/"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://feeds.wordpress.com/1.0/facebook/icanhascheezburger.wordpress.com/424571/"></a> <a rel="nofollow" href="http://feeds.wordpress.com/1.0/gotwitter/icanhascheezburger.wordpress.com/424571/"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://feeds.wordpress.com/1.0/twitter/icanhascheezburger.wordpress.com/424571/"></a> <a rel="nofollow" href="http://feeds.wordpress.com/1.0/gostumble/icanhascheezburger.wordpress.com/424571/"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://feeds.wordpress.com/1.0/stumble/icanhascheezburger.wordpress.com/424571/"></a> <a rel="nofollow" href="http://feeds.wordpress.com/1.0/godigg/icanhascheezburger.wordpress.com/424571/"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://feeds.wordpress.com/1.0/digg/icanhascheezburger.wordpress.com/424571/"></a> <a rel="nofollow" href="http://feeds.wordpress.com/1.0/goreddit/icanhascheezburger.wordpress.com/424571/"><img alt="" border="0" src="http://feeds.wordpress.com/1.0/reddit/icanhascheezburger.wordpress.com/424571/"></a> <img alt="" border="0" src="http://stats.wordpress.com/b.gif?host=icanhascheezburger.com&blog=994826&post=424571&subd=icanhascheezburger&ref=&feed=1" width="1" height="1"><div></div><div> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/ICanHasCheezburger?a=bJPAV88E9Rw:Q0a3v03rKeQ:qj6IDK7rITs"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/ICanHasCheezburger?d=qj6IDK7rITs" border="0"></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/ICanHasCheezburger?a=bJPAV88E9Rw:Q0a3v03rKeQ:I9og5sOYxJI"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/ICanHasCheezburger?d=I9og5sOYxJI" border="0"></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/ICanHasCheezburger?a=bJPAV88E9Rw:Q0a3v03rKeQ:yIl2AUoC8zA"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/ICanHasCheezburger?d=yIl2AUoC8zA" border="0"></a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/ICanHasCheezburger?a=bJPAV88E9Rw:Q0a3v03rKeQ:gIN9vFwOqvQ"><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~ff/ICanHasCheezburger?i=bJPAV88E9Rw:Q0a3v03rKeQ:gIN9vFwOqvQ" border="0"></a> </div><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/ICanHasCheezburger/~4/bJPAV88E9Rw" height="1" width="1"></div> <br> <div style="margin: 0px 2px; padding-top: 1px; background-color: #c3d9ff; font-size: 1px !important; line-height: 0px !important;"> </div> <div style="margin: 0px 1px; padding-top: 1px; background-color: #c3d9ff; font-size: 1px !important; line-height: 0px !important;"> </div> <div style="padding: 4px; background-color: #c3d9ff;"><h3 style="margin:0px 3px;font-family:sans-serif">Things you can do from here:</h3> <ul style="font-family:sans-serif"><li><a href="http://www.google.com/reader/view/feed%2Fhttp%3A%2F%2Ffeeds.feedburner.com%2FICanHasCheezburger?source=email">Subscribe to Lolcats 'n' Funny Pictures of Cats - I Can Has Cheezburger?</a> using <b>Google Reader</b></li> <li><a href="http://www.google.com/reader/?source=email">Get started using Google Reader</a> to easily keep up with <b>all your favorite sites</b></li></ul></div> <div style="margin: 0px 1px; padding-top: 1px; background-color: #c3d9ff; font-size: 1px !important; line-height: 0px !important;"> </div> <div style="margin: 0px 2px; padding-top: 1px; background-color: #c3d9ff; font-size: 1px !important; line-height: 0px !important;"> </div>Red Cloakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105194748538706214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19129548.post-37543953794917204472011-08-11T17:01:00.001-05:002011-08-11T17:01:17.344-05:00Radical Sharing Works: This Guy Lets the World Use His Starbucks Card for FrNow, this IS a story!!<br><br> <div style="margin: 0px 2px; padding-top: 1px; background-color: #c3d9ff; font-size: 1px !important; line-height: 0px !important;"> </div> <div style="margin: 0px 1px; padding-top: 1px; background-color: #c3d9ff; font-size: 1px !important; line-height: 0px !important;"> </div> <div style="padding: 4px; background-color: #c3d9ff;"><h3 style="margin:0px 3px;font-family:sans-serif">Sent to you by Red via Google Reader:</h3></div> <div style="margin: 0px 1px; padding-top: 1px; background-color: #c3d9ff; font-size: 1px !important; line-height: 0px !important;"> </div> <div style="margin: 0px 2px; padding-top: 1px; background-color: #c3d9ff; font-size: 1px !important; line-height: 0px !important;"> </div> <div style="font-family:sans-serif;overflow:auto;width:100%;margin: 0px 10px"><h2 style="margin: 0.25em 0 0 0"><div class=""><a href="http://feedproxy.google.com/~r/good/lbvp/~3/hjblKD0WC18/">Radical Sharing Works: This Guy Lets the World Use His Starbucks Card for Free (UPDATED)</a></div></h2> <div style="margin-bottom: 0.5em">via <a href="http://www.good.is/" class="f">GOOD</a> by Alex Goldmark on 8/8/11</div><br style="display:none"> <p> <img alt="jonathans starbucks card, " src="http://pre.cloudfront.goodinc.com/posts/full_1312827145sbux-card.png"></p><p> Download this image to your phone, take it to Starbucks and scan it at the cash register: It'll get you a free coffee. It's part of a radical experiment in sharing that's teaching us something about mobile money in the process.</p><p> "It's been extremely uplifting," Jonathan Stark tells GOOD. About one month ago, Stark <a href="http://jonathanstark.com/card/">posted the barcode image</a> for his personal Starbucks card online, for anyone to use. Surprisingly, it still has money on it.</p><p> Stark was researching broadcast mobile currency—how to transfer money or pay for goods with your phone. He wondered if he could share his Starbucks account just by sharing the image. "I thought, 'that's crazy that I can just show this online and everyone can use it.'"</p><p> On July 7th, he loaded $30 onto his card and posted the image for his friends to use. Within hours, the money turned into caffeine and prefab sandwiches. So Stark added another $50 and invited a few more friends to see if they liked paying for things with their phones, creating an informal user experience focus group.</p><p> But this time, the money didn't vanish. People started adding money as well as spending it.</p><p> And since then, it's become an experiment in anonymous collective sharing. Buying a cup of coffee on the card becomes a special act of participation, and giving back so a stranger can do the same just feels good, and certainly better than the average frappuccino. In that way, the technology Stark created is adding value to the coffee people purchase. </p><p> "Overall it's working," he says. Stark created a little program that would check the value on the card and <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/jonathanscard">post it to Twitter</a>, so experimenters could see if there is enough for a cup o' joe before heading out to Starbucks. More and more people joined.</p><p> As of about 11 a.m. PST today, Stark said that about $3,664.24 had passed through the card. "That's all in the last two days," he cautions. But even with the spike in traffic, a few patterns stand out. The most inspiring is the split between donors and diners. At least 179 people have <a href="http://jonathanstark.com/card/#give-a-coffee">put money on the card</a>, shelling out for 326 coffee drinkers. </p><p> "I would have thought the ratio would be more like 10 to 1," a pleasantly surprised Stark says. The card is open to the public with free money on it—restricted to use at one chain, but still no-strings-attached—and 50 percent of the people who use it give back. That doesn't quite mean that giving is half as popular as taking, but that when it's as easy as a few clicks, people will part with their mobile cash. That has philanthropy thinkers <a href="http://philanthropy.blogspot.com/2011/08/broadcasting-money.html">are taking notice</a>.</p><p> "The pattern we're noticing is the balance will keep climbing... and then it drops," Stark says. He doesn't know exactly how or who makes the big buys. But he has noticed there's an equilibrium between generosity and mooching. "I expect it to level out at between $20 and $40," he says. </p><p> That's partly because of a few built in incentives that help this experiment along. The card value changes pretty rapidly, so gluttons who try to swipe $100 worth of Rwanda Gakenke Fair Trade Certified coffee grounds will look a little odd if the card can't cover the binge and they need to ditch some items and try again while holding up the line. And the card can't go below zero value, so nobody can run a deficit at anyone else's expense.</p><p> As Stark points out, it's "kind of silly to give people who can afford an iPhone a free $5 coffee," but this can lead to something better. "I would like to see something like this around a CVS pharmacy to share money ... [something that let's people] donate in an ad hoc way instead of going through large organizations" to help seniors or even fellow pet owners pay for necessities, he suggests. "There's something about it being more direct that feels better."</p><p> So far there's no word from Starbucks on what the company thinks of this little hack of their mobile app. "I haven't heard from them yet... but if they did shut off my card, 100 other people could just start [the project up again.]"</p><p> That concept really excites him. "If I had one goal it would be for more people to think like this and spawn more projects."</p><p> <strong>UPDATE: </strong>As this story spreads on the internet, there have been a few hitches and developments. The @jonathanscard Twitter account has more than tripled its followers to just about 6,000 since yesterday morning. His site has received over 125,000 page views so far. The card balance fluctuates even more wildly now, as some people people put $50 and $100 credits on it and others draw it down to zero. So, we'll see how smoothly this sharing system functions if growth continues apace.</p><p> More people are also tweeting their tales of using the card, like <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/firebirdsfather/status/100718732627804160">Emmanuel P., who said</a> "just bought lunch for my barista!"</p><p> Two app developers have jumped in and made pro bono contributions of their own that may help. One, from <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/n_quinlan/status/100686086447177729">Nick Quinlan</a>, is <a href="http://nicholasquinlan.com/jonathanscard/">a simple web page</a> that tells you the balance and asks you to donate if it is at zero. The other is a mobile app version of the project called "StarksBucks" by <a href="http://twitter.com/#!/jasonkneen/status/100815540460859392">Jason Kneen</a> that he submitted to the Apple App Store for approval. The sharers are planning on making this last. </p><p> <em>Photo via <a href="http://jonathanstark.com/card/">jonathanstark.com</a>.</em></p><br><br><img src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/~r/good/lbvp/~4/hjblKD0WC18" height="1" width="1"></div> <br> <div style="margin: 0px 2px; padding-top: 1px; background-color: #c3d9ff; font-size: 1px !important; line-height: 0px !important;"> </div> <div style="margin: 0px 1px; padding-top: 1px; background-color: #c3d9ff; font-size: 1px !important; line-height: 0px !important;"> </div> <div style="padding: 4px; background-color: #c3d9ff;"><h3 style="margin:0px 3px;font-family:sans-serif">Things you can do from here:</h3> <ul style="font-family:sans-serif"><li><a href="http://www.google.com/reader/view/feed%2Fhttp%3A%2F%2Fwww.good.is%2Frss%2Fmain?source=email">Subscribe to GOOD</a> using <b>Google Reader</b></li> <li><a href="http://www.google.com/reader/?source=email">Get started using Google Reader</a> to easily keep up with <b>all your favorite sites</b></li></ul></div> <div style="margin: 0px 1px; padding-top: 1px; background-color: #c3d9ff; font-size: 1px !important; line-height: 0px !important;"> </div> <div style="margin: 0px 2px; padding-top: 1px; background-color: #c3d9ff; font-size: 1px !important; line-height: 0px !important;"> </div>Red Cloakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105194748538706214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19129548.post-6742524865953420022011-04-10T12:15:00.002-05:002011-04-10T12:18:14.891-05:00How to be AloneMore Spoken Word by Tanya Davis<br /><br /><iframe title="YouTube video player" width="640" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/k7X7sZzSXYs?rel=0" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Red Cloakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105194748538706214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19129548.post-92178027401289247562011-04-10T12:01:00.002-05:002011-04-10T12:18:48.784-05:00SubtletyA bit of spoken word by Tanya Davis<br /><br /><br /><iframe title="YouTube video player" width="640" height="390" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/soleJsaBZD4?rel=0" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen></iframe>Red Cloakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105194748538706214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19129548.post-39747787549869218322010-11-02T00:17:00.004-05:002010-11-02T02:13:21.264-05:00Yes, love, it has been a LONG TIME!It's been ages since my last post. I'd imagine you thought I flew the coop. None doing darling! I've just had an extremely busy year.<br /><br />I'll begin writing regularly soon. In the meantime, here's a little something for you:<br /><br /><strong>Whitework </strong><br />By Ashley McWaters <br />Fairy Tale Review Press <br />80 pages <br /><br /><strong>Shadow Sampler</strong><br /><br />Her salt. Shed skin of her penultimate love.<br />Her best little black dress. White of her hunger,<br />bubble climbing to the top. How it began<br />with red. Her folded napkin, her careful lap.<br />Waxing forth of her fingers, pendulum slosh<br />of water legs. All the teeth. Astrolabe.<br />Trajectory of thread she left behind. Back<br />of a transparent material. Her little feet,<br />little iambs. Holy moment. Tinfoil afternoons<br />at origami. Her second language, French<br />for What if I can't say it? French for It glows.<br />Enough blue in the borders. Stitches to show<br />on the front as shadows. Cloth pelted to look<br />like the print of an exotic animal. Elaborate<br />dessert: tarte tatin. Evacuation plan. Her mothy<br />black beret. Mirror threads. Empty pockets<br />loud as news. How it began with red.<br /><br />Excerpted from Whitework by Ashley McWaters, published by Fairy Tale Review Press.<br />Copyright (c) 2009 by Ashley McWaters. All rights reserved.Red Cloakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105194748538706214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19129548.post-8905281250272365472009-08-06T10:36:00.003-05:002010-11-02T00:28:25.600-05:00The Red Issue_Can't believe I missed this!How on earth did I miss this? Oh, well. I'll just have to wait for the publication to come out in Fall 2010.<br /><br /><em><span style="color:#ff0000;">RC</span></em><br /><br />CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS<br />The Red Issue<br /><br />"Little Red Riding Hood was my first love. I felt that if I could have married Little Red Riding Hood, I should have known perfect bliss."<br />--Charles Dickens<br /><br /><br /><br />Ah, that famous quote by Charles Dickens! So wrong, and yet so right. The Red Issue will be Fairy Tale Review’s sixth annual issue and, as the color suggests, will be as as devoted to Little Red Riding Hood as was dear Mr. Dickens. This is will be the journal’s first truly themed issue and we welcome your newest and brightest writing to it. As usual we do not offer further guidelines for your submissions or word count limits. The best way to get a sense of what is possible is to look at a back issue. We are open to all forms, all styles, all manner of thinking.<br /><br />Reading Period: February 15, 2009 – June 15, 2009<br />Notification by: August 15, 2009<br /><br />The Red Issue will be published in fall of 2010.<br /><br /><a href="http://www.fairytalereview.com" target="_blank">www.fairytalereview.com</a><br /><br />Fairy Tale Review<br />English Department<br />University of Alabama<br />Tuscaloosa, AL 35487Red Cloakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105194748538706214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19129548.post-9760966811034411592009-05-21T08:55:00.004-05:002009-05-21T09:15:06.230-05:00Red Riding Hood Vignette<a href="http://sugarcityjournal.blogspot.com/2009/04/sugar-box-2.html" target="_blank"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338279533336762754" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 244px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_HbIa-UZ7U6c/ShVg88BGmYI/AAAAAAAAATA/rg_nXGhGmE4/s320/littleredblog.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />As you may have guessed, Red Cloak loves this cautionary tale. <a href="http://sugarcityjournal.blogspot.com/2009/04/sugar-box-2.html" target="_blank">Sugar City Journal </a>came up with a great way to tell it...<br /><br /><br /><p><a href="http://sugarcityjournal.blogspot.com/2009/04/sugar-box-2.html" target="_blank"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338278740699679922" style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 320px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 213px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HbIa-UZ7U6c/ShVgOzNsjLI/AAAAAAAAAS4/qDdvjaL7Fr8/s320/sugarboxblog.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Visit the site to learn more: <a href="http://sugarcityjournal.blogspot.com/2009/04/sugar-box-2.html" target="_blank">sugarcityjournal.blogspot.com/sugar-box-2</a> </p>Red Cloakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105194748538706214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19129548.post-84966108592015903932009-01-24T12:37:00.003-05:002009-01-24T12:50:17.784-05:00The Wicker Husband<a href="http://www.eastoftheweb.com/short-stories/UBooks/WickHusb726.shtml" target="_blank"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5294917776997559218" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 150px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 225px" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HbIa-UZ7U6c/SXtTqhzXK7I/AAAAAAAAASw/6CuF-xc1d8U/s320/WickHusb726L.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><strong>The Wicker Husband</strong><br />by Ursula Wills-Jones<br /><br />Once upon a time, there was an ugly girl. She was short and dumpy, had one leg a bit shorter than the other, and her eyebrows met in the middle. The ugly girl gutted fish for a living, so her hands smelt funny and her dress was covered in scales. She had no mother or brother, no father, sister, or any friends. She lived in a ramshackle house on the outskirts of the village, and she never complained.<br /><br />One by one, the village girls married the local lads, and up the path to the church they'd prance, smiling all the way. At the weddings, the ugly girl always stood at the back of the church, smelling slightly of brine. The village women gossiped about the ugly girl. They wondered what she did with the money she earnt. The ugly girl never bought a new frock, never made repairs to the house, and never drank in the village tavern.<br /><br />Now, it so happened that outside the village, in a great damp swamp, lived an old basket-maker who was famed for the quality of his work. One day the old basket-maker heard a knock on his door. When he opened it, the ugly girl stood there. In her hand, she held six gold coins.<br /><br />'I want you to make me a husband,' she said.<br /><br />'Come back in a month,' he replied.<br /><br />Well, the old basket-maker was greatly moved that the ugly girl had entrusted him with such an important task. He resolved to make her the best husband he could. He made the wicker husband broad of shoulder and long of leg, and all the other things women like. He made him strong of arm and elegant of neck, and his brows were wide and well-spaced. His hair was a fine dark brown, his eyes a greenish hazel.<br /><br />When the day came, the ugly girl knocked on the basket-maker's door.<br /><br />'He says today is too soon. He will be in the church tomorrow, at ten,' said the basket-maker. The ugly girl went away, and spent the day scraping scales from her dress.<br /><br /><br /><em>Read the rest of the story by clicking the photo or post title. This and other stories can be found at <a href="http://www.eastoftheweb.com/short-stories/indexframe.html" target="_blank">http://www.eastoftheweb.com/short-stories</a></em>Red Cloakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105194748538706214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19129548.post-89396854358488504862008-11-10T08:06:00.001-05:002020-11-06T17:48:30.826-05:00John McCain: Gracious in Defeat<p><iframe width=512 height=330 src='https://www.c-span.org/video/standalone/?282165-2/john-mccain-concession-speech' allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' frameborder=0></iframe></p>
<p><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/bT7DZZ1iEnk&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/bT7DZZ1iEnk&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>
</p><p><strong>Text of McCain's concession speech</strong>
By The Associated Press –
<a href="http://ap.google.com/article/ALeqM5hmJfimrZW3jBur_BmaFtqj7mfFgQD948JFJG5">http://ap.google.com/article/ALeqM5hmJfimrZW3jBur_BmaFtqj7mfFgQD948JFJG5</a> </p><p>
Text of Republican John McCain's concession speech Tuesday in Phoenix, as transcribed by CQ Transcriptions.
___
MCCAIN: Thank you. Thank you, my friends. Thank you for coming here on this beautiful Arizona evening.
My friends, we have — we have come to the end of a long journey. The American people have spoken, and they have spoken clearly.
A little while ago, I had the honor of calling Senator Barack Obama to congratulate him.
(BOOING)
Please.
To congratulate him on being elected the next president of the country that we both love.
In a contest as long and difficult as this campaign has been, his success alone commands my respect for his ability and perseverance. But that he managed to do so by inspiring the hopes of so many millions of Americans who had once wrongly believed that they had little at stake or little influence in the election of an American president is something I deeply admire and commend him for achieving.
This is an historic election, and I recognize the special significance it has for African-Americans and for the special pride that must be theirs tonight.
I've always believed that America offers opportunities to all who have the industry and will to seize it. Senator Obama believes that, too.
But we both recognize that, though we have come a long way from the old injustices that once stained our nation's reputation and denied some Americans the full blessings of American citizenship, the memory of them still had the power to wound.
A century ago, President Theodore Roosevelt's invitation of Booker T. Washington to dine at the White House was taken as an outrage in many quarters.
America today is a world away from the cruel and frightful bigotry of that time. There is no better evidence of this than the election of an African-American to the presidency of the United States.
Let there be no reason now ... Let there be no reason now for any American to fail to cherish their citizenship in this, the greatest nation on Earth.
Senator Obama has achieved a great thing for himself and for his country. I applaud him for it, and offer him my sincere sympathy that his beloved grandmother did not live to see this day. Though our faith assures us she is at rest in the presence of her creator and so very proud of the good man she helped raise.
Senator Obama and I have had and argued our differences, and he has prevailed. No doubt many of those differences remain.
These are difficult times for our country. And I pledge to him tonight to do all in my power to help him lead us through the many challenges we face.
I urge all Americans ... I urge all Americans who supported me to join me in not just congratulating him, but offering our next president our good will and earnest effort to find ways to come together to find the necessary compromises to bridge our differences and help restore our prosperity, defend our security in a dangerous world, and leave our children and grandchildren a stronger, better country than we inherited.
Whatever our differences, we are fellow Americans. And please believe me when I say no association has ever meant more to me than that.
It is natural. It's natural, tonight, to feel some disappointment. But tomorrow, we must move beyond it and work together to get our country moving again.
We fought — we fought as hard as we could. And though we feel short, the failure is mine, not yours.
AUDIENCE: No!
MCCAIN: I am so...
AUDIENCE: (CHANTING)
MCCAIN: I am so deeply grateful to all of you for the great honor of your support and for all you have done for me. I wish the outcome had been different, my friends.
AUDIENCE MEMBER: We do, too (OFF-MIKE)
MCCAIN: The road was a difficult one from the outset, but your support and friendship never wavered. I cannot adequately express how deeply indebted I am to you.
I'm especially grateful to my wife, Cindy, my children, my dear mother ... my dear mother and all my family, and to the many old and dear friends who have stood by my side through the many ups and downs of this long campaign.
I have always been a fortunate man, and never more so for the love and encouragement you have given me.
You know, campaigns are often harder on a candidate's family than on the candidate, and that's been true in this campaign.
All I can offer in compensation is my love and gratitude and the promise of more peaceful years ahead.
I am also — I am also, of course, very thankful to Governor Sarah Palin, one of the best campaigners I've ever seen ... one of the best campaigners I have ever seen, and an impressive new voice in our party for reform and the principles that have always been our greatest strength ... her husband Todd and their five beautiful children ... for their tireless dedication to our cause, and the courage and grace they showed in the rough and tumble of a presidential campaign.
We can all look forward with great interest to her future service to Alaska, the Republican Party and our country.
To all my campaign comrades, from Rick Davis and Steve Schmidt and Mark Salter, to every last volunteer who fought so hard and valiantly, month after month, in what at times seemed to be the most challenged campaign in modern times, thank you so much. A lost election will never mean more to me than the privilege of your faith and friendship.
I don't know — I don't know what more we could have done to try to win this election. I'll leave that to others to determine. Every candidate makes mistakes, and I'm sure I made my share of them. But I won't spend a moment of the future regretting what might have been.
This campaign was and will remain the great honor of my life, and my heart is filled with nothing but gratitude for the experience and to the American people for giving me a fair hearing before deciding that Senator Obama and my old friend Senator Joe Biden should have the honor of leading us for the next four years.
(BOOING)
Please. Please.
I would not — I would not be an American worthy of the name should I regret a fate that has allowed me the extraordinary privilege of serving this country for a half a century.
Today, I was a candidate for the highest office in the country I love so much. And tonight, I remain her servant. That is blessing enough for anyone, and I thank the people of Arizona for it.
AUDIENCE: USA. USA. USA. USA.
MCCAIN: Tonight — tonight, more than any night, I hold in my heart nothing but love for this country and for all its citizens, whether they supported me or Senator Obama — whether they supported me or Senator Obama.
I wish Godspeed to the man who was my former opponent and will be my president. And I call on all Americans, as I have often in this campaign, to not despair of our present difficulties, but to believe, always, in the promise and greatness of America, because nothing is inevitable here.
Americans never quit. We never surrender.
We never hide from history. We make history.
Thank you, and God bless you, and God bless America. Thank you all very much.
</p>Red Cloakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105194748538706214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19129548.post-55325051092578517512008-11-05T07:45:00.002-05:002008-11-10T08:31:04.619-05:00America: A New Chapter with President-elect Obama<object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/Jll5baCAaQU&hl=en&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/Jll5baCAaQU&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Red Cloakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105194748538706214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19129548.post-43079961547010652662008-11-01T11:49:00.002-05:002008-11-01T12:05:56.879-05:00A City's Story<span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>Sting tells city's story in art<br /></strong></span><br />By Raymond Buchanan, BBC News<br />Story from BBC NEWS:<br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/go/pr/fr/-/2/hi/uk_news/7701950.stm"><span style="color:#c0c0c0;">http://news.bbc.co.uk/go/pr/fr/-/2/hi/uk_news/7701950.stm</span></a><span style="color:#c0c0c0;"> </span></span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><span style="color:#c0c0c0;">Published: 2008/10/31 15:38:38 GMT</span><br /></span><br /><br /><br />The singer Sting has made a rare return to his home city to tell its story on canvas rather than in music or lyrics.<br /><br />The former frontman of the Police commissioned one of America's most sought-after artists to paint a portrait of Newcastle.<br /><br />The 57 year-old grew up in Wallsend in the east of the city with its landscape dominated by ship building.<br /><br />The painting is the story of Newcastle's regeneration from heavy industry to cultural hotspot.<br /><br />'Northern City Renaissance' is also the singer's story, with memories from his life in the city.<br /><br />There are pictures of him as a young boy clad in the yellow and black jumper which gave him his name - Sting.<br /><br /><strong>City's culture</strong><br /><br />The painting hangs in Newcastle's Laing Gallery. At his first viewing he explained why he had commissioned the American landscape artist and Oscar winner Stephen Hannock to paint the city.<br /><br />"I've known Steve for about 25 years. I had a hunch that if I brought him to Newcastle he would be inspired by my home town, by this landscape," he said.<br /><br />"He surprised me because he really immersed himself in the local culture and the history of the mines and the shipyards, all that information is in the painting.<br /><br />"I think he has captured the spirit of something I still consider my home, I still consider it the landscape of my imagination."<br /><br />The painting is 12 feet by eight. It shows the glowing lights of pit villages in the distance and the more central ship yards which used to block out the sunshine around Sting's childhood home.<br /><br />Among the more personal memories are images of Sting and his family visiting the city. In many ways the work is part diary, part biography.<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://news.bbc.co.uk/nol/shared/spl/hi/pop_ups/08/in_pictures_enl_1225467335/img/1.jpg"><img style="DISPLAY: block; MARGIN: 0px auto 10px; WIDTH: 598px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 438px; TEXT-ALIGN: center" alt="" src="http://news.bbc.co.uk/nol/shared/spl/hi/pop_ups/08/in_pictures_enl_1225467335/img/1.jpg" border="0" /> <p align="center"></a><div align="center"><span style="font-size:85%;">'Northern City Renaissance' by Stephen Hannock<br /></div></span></span><p align="center"></p><div align="left"><br />"He's told our story in this painting," Sting said.<br /><br />"He's really got the history of the place and why Newcastle became a wonderful successful town in the industrial revolution."<br /><br />In amongst the historical references are more contemporary images - such as the Millennium bridge and the Baltic Art gallery which now dominate the city's quayside.<br /><br />Newcastle is a city transformed in recent years, with a strong focus on cultural attractions. It is a change the musician approves of.<br /><br />He recalled his early brushes with art at the Laing Gallery.<br /><br />"I used to come here as a boy for two reasons, because it was free and because it was quiet. Of course the idea that a lad from Wallsend would one day commission a painting on one of these walls would be beyond the bounds of absurdity but my life has been equally fanciful as well as unlikely," he said.<br /><br />The painting will hang at the gallery for the next three months. It will then be displayed in London.<br /><br />Its long term future is not yet clear but it is likely to adorn the wall in one of Sting's homes.<br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;color:#c0c0c0;">Story from BBC NEWS:<br />http://news.bbc.co.uk/go/pr/fr/-/2/hi/uk_news/7701950.stm<br /><br />Published: 2008/10/31 15:38:38 GMT<br /><br />© BBC MMVIII </div></span>Red Cloakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105194748538706214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19129548.post-15565463147681687452008-10-20T06:38:00.010-05:002008-10-20T07:07:01.133-05:00A DOG'S TALE, By Mark Twain<div align="justify">A DOG'S TALE<br />By Mark Twain<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HbIa-UZ7U6c/SPxu4PlcfwI/AAAAAAAAAQw/j0H4u9KJK28/s1600-h/Frontpiece.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259200377397214978" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HbIa-UZ7U6c/SPxu4PlcfwI/AAAAAAAAAQw/j0H4u9KJK28/s320/Frontpiece.jpg" border="0" /></a>CHAPTER I.<br /><br /><br /><br />My father was a St. Bernard, my mother was a collie, but I am a Presbyterian. This is what my mother told me, I do not know these nice distinctions myself. To me they are only fine large words meaning nothing. My mother had a fondness for such; she liked to say them, and see other dogs look surprised and envious, as wondering how she got so much education. But, indeed, it was not real education; it was only show: she got the words by listening in the dining-room and drawing-room when there was company, and by going with the children to Sunday-school and listening there; and whenever she heard a large word she said it over to herself many times, and so was able to keep it until there was a dogmatic gathering in the neighborhood, then she would get it off, and surprise and distress them all, from pocket-pup to mastiff, which rewarded her for all her trouble. If there was a stranger he was nearly sure to be suspicious, and when he got his breath again he would ask her what it meant. And she always told him. He was never expecting this but thought he would catch her; so when she told him, he was the one that looked ashamed, whereas he had thought it was going to be she. The others were always waiting for this, and glad of it and proud of her, for they knew what was going to happen, because they had had experience. When she told the meaning of a big word they were all so taken up with admiration that it never occurred to any dog to doubt if it was the right one; and that was natural, because, for one thing, she answered up so promptly that it seemed like a dictionary speaking, and for another thing, where could they find out whether it was right or not? for she was the only cultivated dog there was. By and by, when I was older, she brought home the word Unintellectual, one time, and worked it pretty hard all the week at different gatherings, making much unhappiness and despondency; and it was at this time that I noticed that during that week she was asked for the meaning at eight different assemblages, and flashed out a fresh definition every time, which showed me that she had more presence of mind than culture, though I said nothing, of course. She had one word which she always kept on hand, and ready, like a life-preserver, a kind of emergency word to strap on when she was likely to get washed overboard in a sudden way—that was the word Synonymous. When she happened to fetch out a long word which had had its day weeks before and its prepared meanings gone to her dump-pile, if there was a stranger there of course it knocked him groggy for a couple of minutes, then he would come to, and by that time she would be away down wind on another tack, and not expecting anything; so when he'd hail and ask her to cash in, I (the only dog on the inside of her game) could see her canvas flicker a moment—but only just a moment—then it would belly out taut and full, and she would say, as calm as a summer's day, "It's synonymous with supererogation," or some godless long reptile of a word like that, and go placidly about and skim away on the next tack, perfectly comfortable, you know, and leave that stranger looking profane and embarrassed, and the initiated slatting the floor with their tails in unison and their faces transfigured with a holy joy.<br /><br />And it was the same with phrases. She would drag home a whole phrase, if it had a grand sound, and play it six nights and two matinees, and explain it a new way every time—which she had to, for all she cared for was the phrase; she wasn't interested in what it meant, and knew those dogs hadn't wit enough to catch her, anyway. Yes, she was a daisy! She got so she wasn't afraid of anything, she had such confidence in the ignorance of those creatures. She even brought anecdotes that she had heard the family and the dinner-guests laugh and shout over; and as a rule she got the nub of one chestnut hitched onto another chestnut, where, of course, it didn't fit and hadn't any point; and when she delivered the nub she fell over and rolled on the floor and laughed and barked in the most insane way, while I could see that she was wondering to herself why it didn't seem as funny as it did when she first heard it. But no harm was done; the others rolled and barked too, privately ashamed of themselves for not seeing the point, and never suspecting that the fault was not with them and there wasn't any to see.<br /><br />You can see by these things that she was of a rather vain and frivolous character; still, she had virtues, and enough to make up, I think. She had a kind heart and gentle ways, and never harbored resentments for injuries done her, but put them easily out of her mind and forgot them; and she taught her children her kindly way, and from her we learned also to be brave and prompt in time of danger, and not to run away, but face the peril that threatened friend or stranger, and help him the best we could without stopping to think what the cost might be to us. And she taught us not by words only, but by example, and that is the best way and the surest and the most lasting. Why, the brave things she did, the splendid things! she was just a soldier; and so modest about it—well, you couldn't help admiring her, and you couldn't help imitating her; not even a King Charles spaniel could remain entirely despicable in her society. So, as you see, there was more to her than her education.<br /><br /><br />CHAPTER II.<br /><br /><br />When I was well grown, at last, I was sold and taken away, and I never saw her again. She was broken-hearted, and so was I, and we cried; but she comforted me as well as she could, and said we were sent into this world for a wise and good purpose, and must do our duties without repining, take our life as we might find it, live it for the best good of others, and never mind about the results; they were not our affair. She said men who did like this would have a noble and beautiful reward by and by in another world, and although we animals would not go there, to do well and right without reward would give to our brief lives a worthiness and dignity which in itself would be a reward. She had gathered these things from time to time when she had gone to the Sunday-school with the children, and had laid them up in her memory more carefully than she had done with those other words and phrases; and she had studied them deeply, for her good and ours. One may see by this that she had a wise and thoughtful head, for all there was so much lightness and vanity in it.<br /><br />So we said our farewells, and looked our last upon each other through our tears; and the last thing she said—keeping it for the last to make me remember it the better, I think—was, "In memory of me, when there is a time of danger to another do not think of yourself, think of your mother, and do as she would do."<br /><br />Do you think I could forget that? No.<br /><br /><br /><br />CHAPTER III.<br /><br /><br />It was such a charming home!—my new one; a fine great house, with pictures, and delicate decorations, and rich furniture, and no gloom anywhere, but all the wilderness of dainty colors lit up with flooding sunshine; and the spacious grounds around it, and the great garden—oh, greensward, and noble trees, and flowers, no end! And I was the same as a member of the family; and they loved me, and petted me, and did not give me a new name, but called me by my old one that was dear to me because my mother had given it me—Aileen Mavourneen. She got it out of a song; and the Grays knew that song, and said it was a beautiful name.<br /><br />Mrs. Gray was thirty, and so sweet and so lovely, you cannot imagine it; and Sadie was ten, and just like her mother, just a darling slender little copy of her, with auburn tails down her back, and short frocks; and the baby was a year old, and plump and dimpled, and fond of me, and never could get enough of hauling on my tail, and hugging me, and laughing out its innocent happiness; and Mr. Gray was thirty-eight, and tall and slender and handsome, a little bald in front, alert, quick in his movements, business-like, prompt, decided, unsentimental, and with that kind of trim-chiseled face that just seems to glint and sparkle with frosty intellectuality! He was a renowned scientist. I do not know what the word means, but my mother would know how to use it and get effects. She would know how to depress a rat-terrier with it and make a lap-dog look sorry he came. But that is not the best one; the best one was Laboratory. My mother could organize a Trust on that one that would skin the tax-collars off the whole herd. The laboratory was not a book, or a picture, or a place to wash your hands in, as the college president's dog said—no, that is the lavatory; the laboratory is quite different, and is filled with jars, and bottles, and electrics, and wires, and strange machines; and every week other scientists came there and sat in the place, and used the machines, and discussed, and made what they called experiments and discoveries; and often I came, too, and stood around and listened, and tried to learn, for the sake of my mother, and in loving memory of her, although it was a pain to me, as realizing what she was losing out of her life and I gaining nothing at all; for try as I might, I was never able to make anything out of it at all.<br /><br />Other times I lay on the floor in the mistress's work-room and slept, she gently using me for a foot-stool, knowing it pleased me, for it was a caress; other times I spent an hour in the nursery, and got well tousled and made happy; other times I watched by the crib there, when the baby was asleep and the nurse out for a few minutes on the baby's affairs; other times I romped and raced through the grounds and the garden with Sadie till we were tired out, then slumbered on the grass in the shade of a tree while she read her book; other times I went visiting among the neighbor dogs—for there were some most pleasant ones not far away, and one very handsome and courteous and graceful one, a curly-haired Irish setter by the name of Robin Adair, who was a Presbyterian like me, and belonged to the Scotch minister.<br /><br />The servants in our house were all kind to me and were fond of me, and so, as you see, mine was a pleasant life. There could not be a happier dog that I was, nor a gratefuller one. I will say this for myself, for it is only the truth: I tried in all ways to do well and right, and honor my mother's memory and her teachings, and earn the happiness that had come to me, as best I could.<br /><br />By and by came my little puppy, and then my cup was full, my happiness was perfect. It was the dearest little waddling thing, and so smooth and soft and velvety, and had such cunning little awkward paws, and such affectionate eyes, and such a sweet and innocent face; and it made me so proud to see how the children and their mother adored it, and fondled it, and exclaimed over every little wonderful thing it did. It did seem to me that life was just too lovely to—<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HbIa-UZ7U6c/SPxvhQAIO9I/AAAAAAAAAQ4/23_J1AyqOfI/s1600-h/p18.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259201081883769810" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HbIa-UZ7U6c/SPxvhQAIO9I/AAAAAAAAAQ4/23_J1AyqOfI/s320/p18.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Then came the winter. One day I was standing a watch in the nursery. That is to say, I was asleep on the bed. The baby was asleep in the crib, which was alongside the bed, on the side next the fireplace. It was the kind of crib that has a lofty tent over it made of gauzy stuff that you can see through. The nurse was out, and we two sleepers were alone. A spark from the wood-fire was shot out, and it lit on the slope of the tent. I suppose a quiet interval followed, then a scream from the baby awoke me, and there was that tent flaming up toward the ceiling! Before I could think, I sprang to the floor in my fright, and in a second was half-way to the door; but in the next half-second my mother's farewell was sounding in my ears, and I was back on the bed again. I reached my head through the flames and dragged the baby out by the waist-band, and tugged it along, and we fell to the floor together in a cloud of smoke; I snatched a new hold, and dragged the screaming little creature along and out at the door and around the bend of the hall, and was still tugging away, all excited and happy and proud, when the master's voice shouted:<br /><br />"Begone you cursed beast!" and I jumped to save myself; but he was furiously quick, and chased me up, striking furiously at me with his cane, I dodging this way and that, in terror, and at last a strong blow fell upon my left foreleg, which made me shriek and fall, for the moment, helpless; the cane went up for another blow, but never descended, for the nurse's voice rang wildly out, "The nursery's on fire!" and the master rushed away in that direction, and my other bones were saved.<br /><br />The pain was cruel, but, no matter, I must not lose any time; he might come back at any moment; so I limped on three legs to the other end of the hall, where there was a dark little stairway leading up into a garret where old boxes and such things were kept, as I had heard say, and where people seldom went. I managed to climb up there, then I searched my way through the dark among the piles of things, and hid in the secretest place I could find. It was foolish to be afraid there, yet still I was; so afraid that I held in and hardly even whimpered, though it would have been such a comfort to whimper, because that eases the pain, you know. But I could lick my leg, and that did some good.<br /><br />For half an hour there was a commotion downstairs, and shoutings, and rushing footsteps, and then there was quiet again. Quiet for some minutes, and that was grateful to my spirit, for then my fears began to go down; and fears are worse than pains—oh, much worse. Then came a sound that froze me. They were calling me—calling me by name—hunting for me!<br /><br />It was muffled by distance, but that could not take the terror out of it, and it was the most dreadful sound to me that I had ever heard. It went all about, everywhere, down there: along the halls, through all the rooms, in both stories, and in the basement and the cellar; then outside, and farther and farther away—then back, and all about the house again, and I thought it would never, never stop. But at last it did, hours and hours after the vague twilight of the garret had long ago been blotted out by black darkness.<br /><br />Then in that blessed stillness my terrors fell little by little away, and I was at peace and slept. It was a good rest I had, but I woke before the twilight had come again. I was feeling fairly comfortable, and I could think out a plan now. I made a very good one; which was, to creep down, all the way down the back stairs, and hide behind the cellar door, and slip out and escape when the iceman came at dawn, while he was inside filling the refrigerator; then I would hide all day, and start on my journey when night came; my journey to—well, anywhere where they would not know me and betray me to the master. I was feeling almost cheerful now; then suddenly I thought: Why, what would life be without my puppy!<br /><br />That was despair. There was no plan for me; I saw that; I must stay where I was; stay, and wait, and take what might come—it was not my affair; that was what life is—my mother had said it. Then—well, then the calling began again! All my sorrows came back. I said to myself, the master will never forgive. I did not know what I had done to make him so bitter and so unforgiving, yet I judged it was something a dog could not understand, but which was clear to a man and dreadful.<br /><br />They called and called—days and nights, it seemed to me. So long that the hunger and thirst near drove me mad, and I recognized that I was getting very weak. When you are this way you sleep a great deal, and I did. Once I woke in an awful fright—it seemed to me that the calling was right there in the garret! And so it was: it was Sadie's voice, and she was crying; my name was falling from her lips all broken, poor thing, and I could not believe my ears for the joy of it when I heard her say:<br /><br />"Come back to us—oh, come back to us, and forgive—it is all so sad without our—"<br /><br />I broke in with SUCH a grateful little yelp, and the next moment Sadie was plunging and stumbling through the darkness and the lumber and shouting for the family to hear, "She's found, she's found!"<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HbIa-UZ7U6c/SPxv2lWekFI/AAAAAAAAARA/Fl8wLSDnU9o/s1600-h/p28.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259201448391905362" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_HbIa-UZ7U6c/SPxv2lWekFI/AAAAAAAAARA/Fl8wLSDnU9o/s320/p28.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The days that followed—well, they were wonderful. The mother and Sadie and the servants—why, they just seemed to worship me. They couldn't seem to make me a bed that was fine enough; and as for food, they couldn't be satisfied with anything but game and delicacies that were out of season; and every day the friends and neighbors flocked in to hear about my heroism—that was the name they called it by, and it means agriculture. I remember my mother pulling it on a kennel once, and explaining it in that way, but didn't say what agriculture was, except that it was synonymous with intramural incandescence; and a dozen times a day Mrs. Gray and Sadie would tell the tale to new-comers, and say I risked my life to save the baby's, and both of us had burns to prove it, and then the company would pass me around and pet me and exclaim about me, and you could see the pride in the eyes of Sadie and her mother; and when the people wanted to know what made me limp, they looked ashamed and changed the subject, and sometimes when people hunted them this way and that way with questions about it, it looked to me as if they were going to cry.<br /><br />And this was not all the glory; no, the master's friends came, a whole twenty of the most distinguished people, and had me in the laboratory, and discussed me as if I was a kind of discovery; and some of them said it was wonderful in a dumb beast, the finest exhibition of instinct they could call to mind; but the master said, with vehemence, "It's far above instinct; it's REASON, and many a man, privileged to be saved and go with you and me to a better world by right of its possession, has less of it that this poor silly quadruped that's foreordained to perish;" and then he laughed, and said: "Why, look at me—I'm a sarcasm! bless you, with all my grand intelligence, the only thing I inferred was that the dog had gone mad and was destroying the child, whereas but for the beast's intelligence—it's REASON, I tell you!—the child would have perished!"<br /><br />They disputed and disputed, and I was the very center of subject of it all, and I wished my mother could know that this grand honor had come to me; it would have made her proud.<br /><br />Then they discussed optics, as they called it, and whether a certain injury to the brain would produce blindness or not, but they could not agree about it, and said they must test it by experiment by and by; and next they discussed plants, and that interested me, because in the summer Sadie and I had planted seeds—I helped her dig the holes, you know—and after days and days a little shrub or a flower came up there, and it was a wonder how that could happen; but it did, and I wished I could talk—I would have told those people about it and shown then how much I knew, and been all alive with the subject; but I didn't care for the optics; it was dull, and when they came back to it again it bored me, and I went to sleep.<br /><br />Pretty soon it was spring, and sunny and pleasant and lovely, and the sweet mother and the children patted me and the puppy good-by, and went away on a journey and a visit to their kin, and the master wasn't any company for us, but we played together and had good times, and the servants were kind and friendly, so we got along quite happily and counted the days and waited for the family.<br /><br />And one day those men came again, and said, now for the test, and they took the puppy to the laboratory, and I limped three-leggedly along, too, feeling proud, for any attention shown to the puppy was a pleasure to me, of course. They discussed and experimented, and then suddenly the puppy shrieked, and they set him on the floor, and he went staggering around, with his head all bloody, and the master clapped his hands and shouted:<br /><br />"There, I've won—confess it! He's as blind as a bat!"<br /><br />And they all said:<br /><br />"It's so—you've proved your theory, and suffering humanity owes you a great debt from henceforth," and they crowded around him, and wrung his hand cordially and thankfully, and praised him.<br /><br />But I hardly saw or heard these things, for I ran at once to my little darling, and snuggled close to it where it lay, and licked the blood, and it put its head against mine, whimpering softly, and I knew in my heart it was a comfort to it in its pain and trouble to feel its mother's touch, though it could not see me. Then it dropped down, presently, and its little velvet nose rested upon the floor, and it was still, and did not move any more.<br /><br />Soon the master stopped discussing a moment, and rang in the footman, and said, "Bury it in the far corner of the garden," and then went on with the discussion, and I trotted after the footman, very happy and grateful, for I knew the puppy was out of its pain now, because it was asleep. We went far down the garden to the farthest end, where the children and the nurse and the puppy and I used to play in the summer in the shade of a great elm, and there the footman dug a hole, and I saw he was going to plant the puppy, and I was glad, because it would grow and come up a fine handsome dog, like Robin Adair, and be a beautiful surprise for the family when they came home; so I tried to help him dig, but my lame leg was no good, being stiff, you know, and you have to have two, or it is no use. When the footman had finished and covered little Robin up, he patted my head, and there were tears in his eyes, and he said: "Poor little doggie, you saved HIS child!"<br /><br /><br /><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HbIa-UZ7U6c/SPxwNQTwvKI/AAAAAAAAARI/8bBH1Zm7WhM/s1600-h/p34.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5259201837880360098" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_HbIa-UZ7U6c/SPxwNQTwvKI/AAAAAAAAARI/8bBH1Zm7WhM/s320/p34.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />I have watched two whole weeks, and he doesn't come up! This last week a fright has been stealing upon me. I think there is something terrible about this. I do not know what it is, but the fear makes me sick, and I cannot eat, though the servants bring me the best of food; and they pet me so, and even come in the night, and cry, and say, "Poor doggie—do give it up and come home; don't break our hearts!" and all this terrifies me the more, and makes me sure something has happened. And I am so weak; since yesterday I cannot stand on my feet anymore. And within this hour the servants, looking toward the sun where it was sinking out of sight and the night chill coming on, said things I could not understand, but they carried something cold to my heart.<br /><br />"Those poor creatures! They do not suspect. They will come home in the morning, and eagerly ask for the little doggie that did the brave deed, and who of us will be strong enough to say the truth to them: 'The humble little friend is gone where go the beasts that perish.'"<br /><br /><br /></div><br /><span style="font-size:78%;color:#c0c0c0;">End of Project Gutenberg's A Dog's Tale, by Mark Twain (Samuel Clemens)<br /><br />*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A DOG'S TALE ***<br /><br />***** This file should be named 3174-h.htm or 3174-h.zip *****<br />This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:<br /><a href="http://www.gutenberg.net/3/1/7/3174/" target="_blank">http://www.gutenberg.net/3/1/7/3174/</a> </span><br /><span style="font-size:78%;color:#c0c0c0;"><br /><br />Produced by David Widger </span>Red Cloakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105194748538706214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19129548.post-42565840714417230522008-09-07T16:53:00.005-05:002008-11-10T08:00:33.312-05:00Her Story through the lens of C-Span<object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/UCDxXJSucF4&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/UCDxXJSucF4&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Red Cloakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105194748538706214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19129548.post-60988674592367597682008-08-30T13:11:00.002-05:002008-08-30T13:15:36.724-05:00His Story in the Making<object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/yZCrIeRkMhA&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/yZCrIeRkMhA&hl=en&fs=1&rel=0" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object>Red Cloakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105194748538706214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19129548.post-915729089739244302008-08-11T08:00:00.002-05:002008-08-11T08:05:23.335-05:00Thar She BlowsWow! It has been ages since my last post. I've neglected this site far too long. If you'll bear with me, I'll get it all cleaned up and working in the manner originally intended.<br /><br />I'm using a new template. Of course, modifications are needed to suit this site but bottom line...LOVE IT! <br /><br />I'll be back soon.<br /><br />RCRed Cloakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105194748538706214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19129548.post-41932549020034665492008-04-02T10:06:00.005-05:002008-04-02T10:41:09.291-05:00What the Butler SaidWhat the Butler Said<br />by Javier Marías<br /> <br />Read by Angel David and Nick Toren<br /> <br />Performed June 12, 2000 at Café Niebaum-Coppola in San Francisco.<br /> <br /><embed src="live_stories/7.mp3" TYPE="audio/x-mp3" controller="true" TARGET="myself" WIDTH="365" HEIGHT="45" console="WebCast" CACHE="true" pluginspage="http://www.apple.com/quicktime" autostart="true"></embed><br /> <br /> <br />Note: Listening to this story requires a media plug-in such as the Windows Media Player. If this software is correctly installed on your computer the story will load and begin playing automatically. If the story does not start playing then you may have to reinstall this software.Red Cloakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105194748538706214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19129548.post-87544942026561609192007-11-06T23:33:00.000-05:002007-11-07T00:31:32.577-05:00Short Story: SUN DRIED<strong>SUN DRIED<br /></strong><span style="font-size:85%;">by Edna Ferber (1885-1968)<br /></span><br />The following story is reprinted from Buttered Side Down. Edna Ferber. New York: Frederick A. Stokes Company, 1912.<br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>There come those times in the life of every woman when she feels that she must wash her hair at once.</strong></span> And then she does it. The feeling may come upon her suddenly, without warning, at any hour of the day or night; or its approach may be slow and insidious, so that the victim does not at first realize what it is that fills her with that sensation of unrest. But once in the clutches of the idea she knows no happiness, no peace, until she has donned a kimono, gathered up two bath towels, a spray, and the green soap, and she breathes again only when, head dripping, she makes for the back yard, the sitting-room radiator, or the side porch (depending on her place of residence, and the time of year).<br /><br />Mary Louise was seized with the feeling at ten o'clock on a joyous June morning. She tried to fight it off because she had got to that stage in the construction of her story where her hero was beginning to talk and act a little more like a real live man, and a little less like a clothing store dummy. (By the way, they don't seem to be using those pink-and-white, black-mustachioed figures any more. Another good simile gone.)<br /><br />Mary Louise had been battling with that hero for a week. He wouldn't make love to the heroine. In vain had Mary Louise striven to instill red blood into his watery veins. He and the beauteous heroine were as far apart as they had been on Page One of the typewritten manuscript. Mary Louise was developing nerves over him. She had bitten her finger nails, and twisted her hair into corkscrews over him. She had risen every morning at the chaste hour of seven, breakfasted hurriedly, tidied the tiny two-room apartment, and sat down in the unromantic morning light to wrestle with her stick of a hero. She had made her heroine a creature of grace, wit, and loveliness, but thus far the hero had not once clasped her to him fiercely, or pressed his lips to her hair, her eyes, her cheeks. Nay (as the story-writers would put it), he hadn't even devoured her with his gaze.<br /><br />This morning, however, he had begun to show some signs of life. He was developing possibilities. Whereupon, at this critical stage in the story-writing game, the hair-washing mania seized Mary Louise. She tried to dismiss the idea. She pushed it out of her mind, and slammed the door. It only popped in again. Her fingers wandered to her hair. Her eyes wandered to the June sunshine outside. The hero was left poised, arms outstretched, and unquenchable love-light burning in his eyes, while Mary Louise mused, thus:<br /><br />"It certainly feels sticky. It's been six weeks, at least. And I could sit here-by the window--in the sun--and dry it----"<br /><br />With a jerk she brought her straying fingers away from her hair, and her wandering eyes away from the sunshine, and her runaway thoughts back to the typewritten page. For three minutes the snap of the little disks crackled through the stillness of the tiny apartment. Then, suddenly, as though succumbing to an irresistible force, Mary Louise rose, walked across the room (a matter of six steps), removing hairpins as she went, and shoved aside the screen which hid the stationary wash-bowl by day.<br /><br />Mary Louise turned on a faucet and held her finger under it, while an agonized expression of doubt and suspense overspread her features. Slowly the look of suspense gave way to a smile of beatific content. A sigh--deep, soul-filling, satisfied--welled up from Mary Louise's breast. The water was hot.<br /><br />Half an hour later, head swathed turban fashion in a towel, Mary Louise strolled over to the window. Then she stopped, aghast. In that half hour the sun had slipped just around the corner, and was now beating brightly and uselessly against the brick wall a few inches away. Slowly Mary Louise unwound the towel, bent double in the contortionistic attitude that women assume on such occasions, and watched with melancholy eyes while the drops trickled down to the ends of her hair, and fell, unsunned, to the floor.<br /><br />"If only," thought Mary Louise, bitterly, "there was such a thing as a back yard in this city--a back yard where I could squat on the grass, in the sunshine and the breeze-- Maybe there is. I'll ask the janitor."<br /><br />She bound her hair in the turban again, and opened the door. At the far end of the long, dim hallway Charlie, the janitor, was doing something to the floor with a mop and a great deal of sloppy water, whistling the while with a shrill abandon that had announced his presence to Mary Louise.<br /><br />"Oh, Charlie!" called Mary Louise. "Charlee! Can you come here just a minute?"<br /><br />"You bet!" answered Charlie, with the accent on the you; and came.<br /><br />"Charlie, is there a back yard, or something, where the sun is, you know--some nice, grassy place where I can sit, and dry my hair, and let the breezes blow it?"<br /><br />"Back yard!" grinned Charlie. "I guess you're new to N' York, all right, with ground costin' a million or so a foot. Not much they ain't no back yard, unless you'd give that name to an ash-barrel, and a dump heap or so, and a crop of tin cans. I wouldn't invite a goat to set in it."<br /><br />Disappointment curved Mary Louise's mouth. It was a lovely enough mouth at any time, but when it curved in disappointment--well, janitors are but human, after all.<br /><br />"Tell you what, though," said Charlie. "I'll let you up on the roof. It ain't long on grassy spots up there, but say, breeze! Like a summer resort. On a clear day you can see way over 's far 's Eight' Avenoo. Only for the love of Mike don't blab it to the other women folks in the buildin', or I'll have the whole works of 'em usin' the roof for a general sun, massage, an' beauty parlor. Come on."<br /><br />"I'll never breathe it to a soul," promised Mary Louise, solemnly. "Oh, wait a minute."<br /><br />She turned back into her room, appearing again in a moment with something green in her hand.<br /><br />"What's that?" asked Charlie, suspiciously.<br /><br />Mary Louise, speeding down the narrow hallway after Charlie, blushed a little. "It--it's parsley," she faltered.<br /><br />"Parsley!" exploded Charlie. "Well, what the----"<br /><br />"Well, you see. I'm from the country," explained Mary Louise, "and in the country, at this time of year, when you dry your hair in the back yard, you get the most wonderful scent of green and growing things--not only of flowers, you know, but of the new things just coming up in the vegetable garden, and--and--well, this parsley happens to be the only really gardeny thing I have, so I thought I'd bring it along and sniff it once in a while, and make believe it's the country, up there on the roof."<br /><br />Half-way up the perilous little flight of stairs that led to the roof, Charlie, the janitor, turned to gaze down at Mary Louise, who was just behind, and keeping fearfully out of the way of Charlie's heels.<br /><br />"Wimmin," observed Charlie, the janitor, "is nothin' but little girls in long skirts, and their hair done up."<br /><br />"I know it," giggled Mary Louise, and sprang up on the roof, looking, with her towel-swathed head, like a lady Aladdin leaping from her underground grotto.<br /><br />The two stood there a moment, looking up at the blue sky, and all about at the June sunshine.<br /><br />"If you go up high enough," observed Mary Louise, "the sunshine is almost the same as it is in the country, isn't it?"<br /><br />"I shouldn't wonder," said Charlie, "though Calvary cemetery is about as near's I'll ever get to the country. Say, you can set here on this soap box and let your feet hang down. The last janitor's wife used to hang her washin' up here, I guess. I'll leave this door open, see?"<br /><br />"You're so kind," smiled Mary Louise.<br /><br />"Kin you blame me?" retorted the gallant Charles. And vanished.<br /><br />Mary Louise, perched on the soap box, unwound her turban, draped the damp towel over her shoulders, and shook out the wet masses of her hair. Now the average girl shaking out the wet masses of her hair looks like a drowned rat. But Nature had been kind to Mary Louise. She had given her hair that curled in little ringlets when wet, and that waved in all the right places when dry.<br /><br />Just now it hung in damp, shining strands on either side of her face, so that she looked most remarkably like one of those oval-faced, great-eyed, red-lipped women that the old Italian artists were so fond of painting.<br /><br />Below her, blazing in the sun, lay the great stone and iron city. Mary Louise shook out her hair idly, with one hand, sniffed her parsley, shut her eyes, threw back her head, and began to sing, beating time with her heel against the soap box, and forgetting all about the letter that had come that morning, stating that it was not from any lack of merit, etc. She sang, and sniffed her parsley, and waggled her hair in the breeze, and beat time, idly, with the heel of her little boot, when----<br /><br />"Holy Cats!" exclaimed a man's voice. "What is this, anyway? A Coney Island concession gone wrong?"<br /><br />Mary Louise's eyes unclosed in a flash, and Mary Louise gazed upon an irate-looking, youngish man, who wore shabby slippers, and no collar with a full dress air.<br /><br />"I presume that you are the janitor's beautiful daughter," growled the collarless man.<br /><br />"Well, not precisely," answered Mary Louise, sweetly. "Are you the scrub-lady's stalwart son?"<br /><br />"Ha!" exploded the man. "But then, all women look alike with their hair down. I ask your pardon, though."<br /><br />"Not at all," replied Mary Louise. "For that matter, all men look like picked chickens with their collars off."<br /><br />At that the collarless man, who until now had been standing on the top step that led up to the roof, came slowly forward, stepped languidly over a skylight or two, draped his handkerchief over a convenient chimney and sat down, hugging his long, lean legs to him.<br /><br />"Nice up here, isn't it?" he remarked.<br /><br />"It was," said Mary Louise.<br /><br />"Ha!" exploded he, again. Then, "Where's your mirror?" he demanded.<br /><br />"Mirror?" echoed Mary Louise.<br /><br />"Certainly. You have the hair, the comb, the attitude, and the general Lorelei effect. Also your singing lured me to your shores."<br /><br />"You didn't look lured," retorted Mary Louise. "You looked lurid."<br /><br />"What's that stuff in your hand?" next demanded he. He really was a most astonishingly rude young man.<br /><br />"Parsley."<br /><br />"Parsley!" shouted he, much as Charlie had done. "Well, what the----"<br /><br />"Back home," elucidated Mary Louise once more, patiently, "after you've washed your hair you dry it in the back yard, sitting on the grass, in the sunshine and the breeze. And the garden smells come to you--the nasturtiums, and the pansies, and the geraniums, you know, and even that clean grass smell, and the pungent vegetable odor, and there are ants, and bees, and butterflies----"<br /><br />"Go on," urged the young man, eagerly.<br /><br />"And Mrs. Next Door comes out to hang up a few stockings, and a jabot or so, and a couple of baby dresses that she has just rubbed through, and she calls out to you:<br /><br />"`Washed your hair?'<br /><br />"`Yes,' you say. `It was something awful, and I wanted it nice for Tuesday night. But I suppose I won't be able to do a thing with it.'<br /><br />"And then Mrs. Next Door stands there a minute on the clothes-reel platform, with the wind whipping her skirts about her, and the fresh smell of the growing things coming to her. And suddenly she says: `I guess I'll wash mine too, while the baby's asleep.'"<br /><br />The collarless young man rose from his chimney, picked up his handkerchief, and moved to the chimney just next to Mary Louise's soap box.<br /><br />"Live here?" he asked, in his impolite way.<br /><br />"If I did not, do you think that I would choose this as the one spot in all New York in which to dry my hair?"<br /><br />"When I said, `Live here,' I didn't mean just that. I meant who are you, and why are you here, and where do you come from, and do you sign your real name to your stuff, or use a nom de plume?"<br /><br />"Why--how did you know?" gasped Mary Louise.<br /><br />"Give me five minutes more," grinned the keen-eyed young man, "and I'll tell you what make your typewriter is, and where the last rejection slip came from."<br /><br />"Oh!" said Mary Louise again. "Then you are the scrub-lady's stalwart son, and you've been ransacking my waste-basket."<br /><br />Quite unheeding, the collarless man went on, "And so you thought you could write, and you came on to New York (you know one doesn't just travel to New York, or ride to it, or come to it; one `comes on' to New York), and now you're not so sure about the writing, h'm? And back home what did you do?"<br /><br />"Back home I taught school--and hated it. But I kept on teaching until I'd saved five hundred dollars. Every other school ma'am in the world teaches until she has saved five hundred dollars, and then she packs two suit-cases, and goes to Europe from June until September. But I saved my five hundred for New York. I've been here six months now, and the five hundred has shrunk to almost nothing, and if I don't break into the magazines pretty soon----"<br /><br />"Then?"<br /><br />"Then," said Mary Louise, with a quaver in her voice, "I'll have to go back and teach thirty-seven young devils that six times five is thirty, put down the naught and carry six, and that the French are a gay people, fond of dancing and light wines. But I'll scrimp on everything from hairpins to shoes, and back again, including pretty collars, and gloves, and hats, until I've saved up another five hundred, and then I'll try it all over again, because I--can--write."<br /><br />From the depths of one capacious pocket the inquiring man took a small black pipe, from another a bag of tobacco, from another a match. The long, deft fingers made a brief task of it.<br /><br />"I didn't ask you," he said, after the first puff, "because I could see that you weren't the fool kind that objects." Then, with amazing suddenness, "Know any of the editors?"<br /><br />"Know them!" cried Mary Louise. "Know them! If camping on their doorsteps, and haunting the office buildings, and cajoling, and fighting with secretaries and office boys, and assistants and things constitutes knowing them, then we're chums."<br /><br />"What makes you think you can write?" sneered the thin man.<br /><br />Mary Louise gathered up her brush, and comb, and towel, and parsley, and jumped off the soap box. She pointed belligerently at her tormentor with the hand that held the brush.<br /><br />"Being the scrub-lady's stalwart son, you wouldn't understand. But I can write. I sha'n't go under. I'm going to make this town count me in as the four million and oneth. Sometimes I get so tired of being nobody at all, with not even enough cleverness in me to wrest a living from this big city, that I long to stand out at the edge of the curbing, and take off my hat, and wave it, and shout, `Say, you four million uncaring people, I'm Mary Louise Moss, from Escanaba, Michigan, and I like your town, and I want to stay here. Won't you please pay some slight attention to me. No one knows I'm here except myself, and the rent collector.'"<br /><br />"And I," put in the rude young man.<br /><br />"O, you," sneered Mary Louise, equally rude, "you don't count."<br /><br />The collarless young man in the shabby slippers smiled a curious little twisted smile. "You never can tell," he grinned, "I might." Then, quite suddenly, he stood up, knocked the ash out of his pipe, and came over to Mary Louise, who was preparing to descend the steep little flight of stairs.<br /><br />"Look here, Mary Louise Moss, from Escanaba, Michigan, you stop trying to write the slop you're writing now. Stop it. Drop the love tales that are like the stuff that everybody else writes. Stop trying to write about New York. You don't know anything about it. Listen. You get back to work, and write about Mrs. Next Door, and the hair-washing, and the vegetable garden, and bees, and the back yard, understand? You write the way you talked to me, and then you send your stuff in to Cecil Reeves."<br /><br />"Reeves!" mocked Mary Louise. "Cecil Reeves, of The Earth? He wouldn't dream of looking at my stuff. And anyway, it really isn't your affair." And began to descend the stairs.<br /><br />"Well, you know you brought me up here, kicking with your heels, and singing at the top of your voice. I couldn't work. So it's really your fault." Then, just as Mary Louise had almost disappeared down the stairway he put his last astonishing question.<br /><br />"How often do you wash your hair?" he demanded.<br /><br />"Well, back home," confessed Mary Louise, "every six weeks or so was enough, but----"<br /><br />"Not here," put in the rude young man, briskly. "Never. That's all very well for the country, but it won't do in the city. Once a week, at least, and on the roof. Cleanliness demands it."<br /><br />"But if I'm going back to the country," replied Mary Louise, "it won't be necessary."<br /><br />"But you're not," calmly said the collarless young man, just as Mary Louise vanished from sight.<br /><br />Down at the other end of the hallway on Mary Louise's floor Charlie, the janitor, was doing something to the windows now, with a rag, and a pail of water.<br /><br />"Get it dry?" he called out, sociably.<br /><br />"Yes, thank you," answered Mary Louise, and turned to enter her own little apartment. Then, hesitatingly, she came back to Charlie's window.<br /><br />"There--there was a man up there--a very tall, very thin, very rude, very--that is, rather nice youngish oldish man, in slippers, and no collar. I wonder----"<br /><br />"Oh, him!" snorted Charlie. "He don't show himself onct in a blue moon. None of the other tenants knows he's up there. Has the whole top floor to himself, and shuts himself up there for weeks at a time, writin' books, or some such truck. That guy, he owns the building."<br /><br />"Owns the building!" said Mary Louise, faintly. "Why he looked--he looked----"<br /><br />"Sure," grinned Charlie. "That's him. Name's Reeves--Cecil Reeves. Say, ain't that a divil of a name?"<br /><br />For more work by Edna Ferber, please check the <a href="http://www.shortstoryarchive.com/f/edna_ferber.html" target="_blank">Edna Ferber Short Story Index </a>.<br /><br />For more short stories: <a href="http://www.shortstoryarchive.com/stories_index.html" target="_blank">shortstoryarchive.com</a>Red Cloakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105194748538706214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19129548.post-73323717408048084902007-11-05T23:48:00.000-05:002007-11-05T23:50:10.781-05:00Slideshow of Draw Mo' Entries<embed type="application/x-shockwave-flash" src="http://picasaweb.google.com/s/c/bin/slideshow.swf" width="400" height="267" flashvars="host=picasaweb.google.com&captions=1&RGB=0x000000&feed=http%3A%2F%2Fpicasaweb.google.com%2Fdata%2Ffeed%2Fapi%2Fuser%2Fredreads%2Falbumid%2F5128445154701696625%3Fkind%3Dphoto%26alt%3Drss" pluginspage="http://www.macromedia.com/go/getflashplayer"></embed>Red Cloakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105194748538706214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19129548.post-59657407579127749922007-11-04T20:01:00.000-05:002008-11-13T04:49:20.448-05:00The Machine Stops<em>The Machine Stops is a short science fiction story. It describes a world in which almost all humans have lost the ability to live on the surface of the Earth. Each individual lives in isolation in a 'cell', with all bodily and spiritual needs met by the omnipotent, global Machine. Most humans welcome this development, as they are skeptical and fearful of first-hand experience. People forget that humans created the Machine, and treat it as a mystical entity whose needs supersede their own. Those who do not accept the deity of the Machine are viewed as 'unmechanical' and are threatened with "Homelessness". Eventually, the Machine apocalyptically collapses, and the civilization of the Machine comes to an end.</em> (<a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Machine_Stops" target="_blank">Wikipedia</a>)<br /><br /><br /><br /><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HbIa-UZ7U6c/Ry52iFARXyI/AAAAAAAAAIo/8QIosQZVdUI/s1600-h/forstereother07machine_stops.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5129167353452519202" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_HbIa-UZ7U6c/Ry52iFARXyI/AAAAAAAAAIo/8QIosQZVdUI/s200/forstereother07machine_stops.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong>The Machine Stops</strong></span><br /><span style="font-size:85%;">from </span><a title="About this site" href="http://manybooks.net/about/" target="_blank"><span style="font-size:85%;">manybooks.net</span></a><br /><br />Author <a title="See the entire list of eBooks by E.M. Forster" accesskey="d" href="http://manybooks.net/authors/forstere.html" target="_blank">E.M. Forster</a><br />Published 1909<br />Word count 12,173<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><strong>I</strong><br /><br /><strong>THE AIR-SHIP</strong><br /><br />Imagine, if you can, a small room, hexagonal in shape, like the cell of a bee. It is lighted neither by window nor by lamp, yet it is filled with a soft radiance. There are no apertures for ventilation, yet the air is fresh. There are no musical instruments, and yet, at the moment that my meditation opens, this room is throbbing with melodious sounds. An armchair is in the centre, by its side a reading-desk--that is all the furniture. And in the armchair there sits a swaddled lump of flesh--a woman, about five feet high, with a face as white as a fungus. It is to her that the little room belongs.<br /><br />An electric bell rang.<br /><br />The woman touched a switch and the music was silent.<br /><br />"I suppose I must see who it is", she thought, and set her chair in motion. The chair, like the music, was worked by machinery and it rolled her to the other side of the room where the bell still rang importunately.<br /><br />"Who is it?" she called. Her voice was irritable, for she had been interrupted often since the music began. She knew several thousand people, in certain directions human intercourse had advanced enormously.<br /><br />But when she listened into the receiver, her white face wrinkled into smiles, and she said:<br /><br />"Very well. Let us talk, I will isolate myself. I do not expect anything important will happen for the next five minutes--for I can give you fully five minutes, Kuno. Then I must deliver my lecture on 'Music during the Australian Period'."<br /><br />She touched the isolation knob, so that no one else could speak to her. Then she touched the lighting apparatus, and the little room was plunged into darkness.<br /><br />"Be quick!" She called, her irritation returning. "Be quick, Kuno; here I am in the dark wasting my time."<br /><br />But it was fully fifteen seconds before the round plate that she held in her hands began to glow. A faint blue light shot across it, darkening to purple, and presently she could see the image of her son, who lived on the other side of the earth, and he could see her.<br /><br />"Kuno, how slow you are."<br /><br />He smiled gravely.<br /><br />"I really believe you enjoy dawdling."<br /><br />"I have called you before, mother, but you were always busy or isolated. I have something particular to say."<br /><br />"What is it, dearest boy? Be quick. Why could you not send it by pneumatic post?"<br /><br />"Because I prefer saying such a thing. I want--"<br /><br />"Well?"<br /><br />"I want you to come and see me."<br /><br />Vashti watched his face in the blue plate.<br /><br />"But I can see you!" she exclaimed. "What more do you want?"<br /><br />"I want to see you not through the Machine," said Kuno. "I want to speak to you not through the wearisome Machine."<br /><br />"Oh, hush!" said his mother, vaguely shocked. "You mustn't say anything against the Machine."<br /><br />"Why not?"<br /><br />"One mustn't."<br /><br />"You talk as if a god had made the Machine," cried the other. "I believe that you pray to it when you are unhappy. Men made it, do not forget that. Great men, but men. The Machine is much, but it is not everything. I see something like you in this plate, but I do not see you. I hear something like you through this telephone, but I do not hear you. That is why I want you to come. Pay me a visit, so that we can meet face to face, and talk about the hopes that are in my mind."<br /><br />She replied that she could scarcely spare the time for a visit.<br /><br />"The air-ship barely takes two days to fly between me and you."<br /><br />"I dislike air-ships."<br /><br />"Why?"<br /><br />"I dislike seeing the horrible brown earth, and the sea, and the stars when it is dark. I get no ideas in an air-ship."<br /><br />"I do not get them anywhere else."<br /><br />"What kind of ideas can the air give you?"<br /><br />He paused for an instant.<br /><br />"Do you not know four big stars that form an oblong, and three stars close together in the middle of the oblong, and hanging from these stars, three other stars?"<br /><br />"No, I do not. I dislike the stars. But did they give you an idea? How interesting; tell me."<br /><br />"I had an idea that they were like a man."<br /><br />"I do not understand."<br /><br />"The four big stars are the man's shoulders and his knees.<br /><br />The three stars in the middle are like the belts that men wore once, and the three stars hanging are like a sword."<br /><br />"A sword?;"<br /><br />"Men carried swords about with them, to kill animals and other men."<br /><br />"It does not strike me as a very good idea, but it is certainly original. When did it come to you first?"<br /><br />"In the air-ship---" He broke off, and she fancied that he looked sad. She could not be sure, for the Machine did not transmit nuances of expression. It only gave a general idea of people--an idea that was good enough for all practical purposes, Vashti thought. The imponderable bloom, declared by a discredited philosophy to be the actual essence of intercourse, was rightly ignored by the Machine, just as the imponderable bloom of the grape was ignored by the manufacturers of artificial fruit. Something "good enough" had long since been accepted by our race.<br /><br />"The truth is," he continued, "that I want to see these stars again. They are curious stars. I want to see them not from the air-ship, but from the surface of the earth, as our ancestors did, thousands of years ago. I want to visit the surface of the earth."<br /><br />She was shocked again.<br /><br />"Mother, you must come, if only to explain to me what is the harm of visiting the surface of the earth."<br /><br /><strong>READ THE REST...</strong><br /><br /><a title="The entire text of this book is available online" href="http://manybooks.net/pages/forstereother07machine_stops/0.html">Read online</a> (35 pages)<br /><br /><em>Cellphone users</em>:<br /><a title="free cellphone ebooks for WAP-enabled cellphones" href="http://mnybks.net/show/17173">mnybks.net</a> ID: 17173<br /><a title="The entire text of this book is available online" href="http://manybooks.net/pages/forstereother07machine_stops/0.html">Read online</a> (35 pages)<br /><br />Get the book (several formats available):<a href="http://manybooks.net/titles/forstereother07machine_stops.html" target="_blank">FREE Download</a><br /><br />Also available as an <a href="http://www.archive.org/details/machine_stops_librivox" target="_blank">Audiobook</a>Red Cloakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105194748538706214noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-19129548.post-55591575538581120922007-11-03T23:51:00.000-05:002007-11-04T00:21:40.486-05:00She Wants To Be SmallLast year, the little one was completely enraptured by the story <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Thumbelina</span>. I was asked to read it over and over again. If I had a huge ego, I'd say it was my storytelling skills that kept the request coming. The reality is that it wasn't my delivery...it was the illustrations that kept the little one coming back for more.<br /><br />One day I unwittingly convinced the wee one that shrinking down to the size of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">Thumbelina</span> was possible. It was all done in jest but the wee one believed me. Needless to say, feelings were hurt and a whole lot of internal growth happened to each of us.<br /><br />Still, we both wish it was possible to shrink down so small. Alice did it with the aid of medication but we choose to stay drug free so we'll have to find another way.<br /><br />Ah, well, without further ado...<br /><br /><br /><strong>THE STORY OF <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">THUMBELINA</span></strong><br />by Grimm<br /><br /><br /><br />Once upon a time . . . there lived a woman who had no children. She dreamed of having a little girl, but time went by, and her dream never came true.<br /><br />She then went to visit a witch, who gave her a magic grain of barley. She planted it in a flowerpot. And the very next day, the grain had turned into a lovely flower, rather like a tulip. The woman softly kissed its half-shut petals. And as though by magic, the flower opened in full blossom. Inside sat a tiny girl, no bigger than a thumb. The woman called her <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Thumbelina</span>. For a bed she had a walnut shell, violet petals for her mattress and a rose petal blanket. In the daytime, she played in a tulip petal boat, floating on a plate of water. Using two <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">horsehairs</span> as oars, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">Thumbelina</span> sailed around her little lake, singing and singing in a gentle sweet voice.<br /><br />Then one night, as she lay fast asleep in her walnut shell, a large frog hopped through a hole in the windowpane. As she gazed down at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Thumbelina</span>, she said to herself: "How pretty she is! She'd make the perfect bride for my own dear son!"<br /><br />She picked up <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Thumbelina</span>, walnut shell and all, and hopped into the garden. Nobody saw her go. Back at the pond, her fat ugly son, who always did as mother told him, was pleased with her choice. But mother frog was afraid that her pretty prisoner might run away. So she carried <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">Thumbelina</span> out to a water lily leaf in the middle of the pond.<br /><br />"She can never escape us now," said the frog to her son.<br /><br />"And we have plenty of time to prepare a new home for you and your bride." <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">Thumbelina</span> was left all alone. She felt so desperate. She knew she would never be able to escape the fate that awaited her with the two horrid fat frogs. All she could do was cry her eyes out. However, one or two minnows who had been enjoying the shade below the water lily leaf, had overheard the two frogs talking, and the little girl's bitter sobs. They decided to do something about it. So they nibbled away at the lily stem till it broke and drifted away in the weak current. A dancing butterfly had an idea: "Throw me the end of your belt! I'll help you to move a little faster!" <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Thumbelina</span> gratefully did so, and the leaf soon floated away from the frog pond.<br /><br />But other dangers lay ahead. A large beetle snatched <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">Thumbelina</span> with his strong feet and took her away to his home at the top of a leafy tree.<br /><br />"Isn't she pretty?" he said to his friends. But they pointed out that she was far too different. So the beetle took her down the tree and set her free.<br /><br />It was summertime, and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">Thumbelina</span> wandered all by herself amongst the flowers and through the long grass. She had pollen for her meals and drank the dew. Then the rainy season came, bringing nasty weather. The poor child found it hard to find food and shelter. When winter set in, she suffered from the cold and felt terrible pangs of hunger.<br /><br />One day, as <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_14">Thumbelina</span> roamed helplessly over the bare meadows, she met a large spider that promised to help her. He took her to a hollow tree and guarded the door with a stout web. Then he brought her some dried chestnuts and called his friends to come and admire her beauty. But just like the beetles, all the other spiders persuaded <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_15">Thumbelina's</span> rescuer to let her go. Crying her heart out, and quite certain that nobody wanted her because she was ugly, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_16">Thumbelina</span> left the spider's house.<br /><br />As she wandered, shivering with the cold, suddenly she came across a solid little cottage, made of twigs and dead leaves. Hopefully, she knocked on the door. It was opened by a field mouse.<br /><br />"What are you doing outside in this weather?" he asked. "Come in and warm yourself." Comfortable and cozy, the field mouse's home was stocked with food. For her keep, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_17">Thumbelina</span> did the housework and told the mouse stories. One day, the field mouse said a friend was coming to visit them.<br /><br />"He's a very rich mole, and has a lovely house. He wears a splendid black fur coat, but he's dreadfully shortsighted. He needs company and he'd like to marry you!" <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_18">Thumbelina</span> did not relish the idea. However, when the mole came, she sang sweetly to him and he fell head over heels in love. The mole invited <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_19">Thumbelina</span> and the field mouse to visit him, but . . . to their surprise and horror, they came upon a swallow in the tunnel. It looked dead. Mole nudged it with his foot, saying: "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_20">That'll</span> teach her! She should have come underground instead of darting about the sky all summer!" <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_21">Thumbelina</span> was so shocked by such cruel words that later, she crept back unseen to the tunnel.<br /><br />And every day, the little girl went to nurse the swallow and tenderly give it food.<br /><br />In the meantime, the swallow told <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_22">Thumbelina</span> its tale. Jagged by a thorn, it had been unable to follow its companions to a warmer climate.<br /><br />"It's kind of you to nurse me," it told <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_23">Thumbelina</span>. But, in spring, the swallow flew away, after offering to take the little girl with it. All summer, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_24">Thumbelina</span> did her best to avoid marrying the mole. The little girl thought fearfully of how she'd have to live underground forever. On the eve of her wedding, she asked to spend a day in the open air. As she gently fingered a flower, she heard a familiar song: "Winter is on its way and I'll be off to warmer lands. Come with me!" <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_25">Thumbelina</span> quickly clung to her swallow friend, and the bird soared into the sky. They flew over plains and hills till they reached a country of flowers. The swallow gently laid <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_26">Thumbelina</span> in a blossom. There she met a tiny, white-winged fairy: the King of the Flower Fairies. Instantly, he asked her to marry him. <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_27">Thumbelina</span> eagerly said "yes", and sprouting tiny white wings, she became the Flower Queen!<br /><br /><br />Printable version is here: <a href="http://docs.google.com/Doc?id=ddnpsnq9_4f233m9">http://docs.google.com/Doc?id=ddnpsnq9_4f233m9</a>Red Cloakhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18105194748538706214noreply@blogger.com0