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wildcard47 · 10 months

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WIP meme

@what-alchemy tagged me

RULES: post the names of the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! Tag as many people as you have WIPs.

Can't tag as many people as I have WIPs because that means I'm tagging like 10-50 people and that's insane, I'm sorry, I'm just not doing it.

I'll post a few terror snippets and 2 non-terror ones:

Current WIPs:

The Fitzier soulmates AU I was blagging about on twitter. James's words are in Inuktitut (he thinks, after finally getting a snippet of recognition at Disko Bay) and he's now within the canon timeline, trying to find out what they mean.

....“Mikigaq,” Silence said.

The corner of her lip quirked up in what appeared to be genuine amusement.

“Meekee—” James thumbed over the letters on his chest as his tongue stumbled over the phrase. It was similar to what the man in Disko Bay had said, but not exact. He was certain it sounded different, before. “What is that?”

“Mikigaq,” she repeated, smiling more broadly.

“All right,” James huffed, cheeks reddening. He thought very suddenly of Francis’s hands, and how flushed the backs of his palms got in the middle of a tumble. A mercy he and Silence were alone, and no one else was here to witness him pinking up from stomach to ears with embarrassment. She was the only other person on this ship to have seen him in a half-state of undress, apart from Francis or Mr. Bridgens. “You have one over on me, clearly.”

Not to mention you do speak when you wish to do so, he did not say.

Silence’s mouth twitched again as he fastened the buttons on his shirt, tucked the tails away, then started in on his jacket. He’d gotten all but the bottom one fastened when the door to the hold slung open.

2. The Fitzier banshees of inisherin AU I've also mentioned on twitter. It's probably the closest to being finished out of anything I'm posting.

....Francis was already sitting near the door, by the fireplace. James saw that the second he entered, but decided to let the joke play out a little longer. He talked to Jopson for a couple of minutes, asked about his brother. Waved at Ned and George and Graham, clustered in the corner. And when he finally got his pint, he took it over to Francis’s table and gave the man his most winning smile.

“Very funny,” he said first.

Francis peered at him in an owlish way. “What’s that?”

“It’s April second.”

“Aye, it is.”

“Meaning yesterday was the first. So, to my point, very funny.”

“What are you on about?”

Instead of grinning at him in turn, Francis looked mystified.

“You played an April Fool’s trick on me, with all of the—” James waved his hand “—pretending not to hear me nonsense.”

“No.”

James had been prepared to hear something like oh or aye, well, it worked, yes? So when the word reached his ears, he came up short.

“What—sorry. What do you mean, no?”

Francis furrowed his brow like James was the stupidest person ever to have walked the earth. Worse than Billy Gibson who lived down past the Coningham house. “I mean, I’m not joking you. So if you’re going to sit there, I’ll just take mine outside. Sun’s nice enough.”

3. The banshees fic set in the OG universe, because I can't leave well enough alone:

....Silence had always bothered Pádraic the most.

So, even though Pádraic was sitting at Mrs. O’Riordan’s, waiting for her to get tired of lording it over the whole place, he breathed easier when the little bell tinkled overhead and Colm Doherty pushed open the door.

Mrs. O’Riordan fixed Colm with one of her beady eyes, glancing him up and down like he shouldn’t be showin’ his face in public. “Colm Doherty. Ain’t seen you in for nearly ten days, I haven’t. Thought you’d taken a fall off them cliffs yourself.”

“Not just yet, Mrs. O’Riordan,” Colm told her. He didn’t look well at all. His voice was thin, and his jowled face paler than usual. “I’ll take the rashers, half pound flour, and a bottle of milk.”

“Ah.” She clicked her tongue, casting him the scowl Pádraic knew right well. “Got any news for me, do you?”

“No.”

Pádraic looked down at the ground to hide a smile. When Colm got to answering questions with a single word, like, not with ‘no, but you just go on now’ or ‘no, and let me tell you something else’—then he might as well be saying shut the feck up.

“Men,” huffed Mrs. O’Riordan, as she wrapped the rashers in brown paper and tied the string, shoving the bundle across the counter to Colm. “You’ve got no news.” She fixed her eye on Pádraic. “‘E’s got no news.”

Colm grunted, and glanced left, down at the floor. Pádraic said nothing.

“What’s a poor soul to do without one word to ease her constant suffering?”

“I’m sure you’ll feel easier in the morning, so you will,” Pádraic offered.

4. The little sequel/epilogue to the Fitzier ship's marriage fic:

Breathing ragged, they clung to each other for a few moments, wordless, before James let out a deep breath, now nudging Francis’s shoulder with his forehead. “Excellent’s adage was hit first, hit hard, but I daresay….Christ. I daresay I….”

Francis soothed a hand down the soft silk at James’s upper back, already damp with sweat. “Now we’ll recover a few of our senses.”

James groaned out a laugh.

“Daresay I’ll need it after the way you teased me,” Francis offered in a low voice, squeezing James’s shoulder.

Lifting his head, James gave him a small, grateful smile that made Francis’s chest seize in delight, and wish to voice a sudden, reckless question.

“Did you really think about all that when….?”

“Mm,” James flexed his leg, still draped across Francis’s lap. “Not always, but on the long nights. When you’d drop off, I kept an eye out. Imagined all the ways I might wake you, apart from kicking you in the heels.”

Francis’s spent cock twitched in a pathetic way at these words. He must have made some noise of surprise, or shuddered in his chair, because when he next glanced over at James, his husband was staring at him.

“If I’m to continue hearing this sort of talk,” Francis offered, rubbing small circles on James’s knee with the flat of his palm, “let it be in a room with a bed and a door.”

5. A mikejimmy fic set in season 2-3ish of BCS, where Mike tosses out a quick lie about Jimmy in order to keep the girls happy. As always, things escalate:

“Kaylee, honey,” Stacey gave Mike an apologetic look, like she’d done something as embarrassing as fling her plate onto the ground. “Making friends is a little different when you’re an adult. You don’t—Pop-Pop just moved here, right? He might not have had time to get to know people.”

Mike was struck by the realization that Stacey was covering for him, not because she thought the question was weird, or because Kaylee needed some long explanation, but because she didn’t think Mike had a friend in the whole city. Hell, maybe not in the world—and he’d lived in New Mexico nearly twelve months. Christ, she must pity him.

“Mommy, everyone has a best friend.” Kaylee scoffed in a way that reminded him of Matty. “Mine’s Anna. Yours is…..um. What’s her name again?”

“Auntie Erin. You saw her yesterday.”

“Yeah! So who’s yours, Pop-Pop?”

Stacey’s cheeks had reddened. Kaylee was watching him, expectant. And the only name Mike could think of was reflected back at him from the brochure stand at the front of the restaurant, with a big cartoony grin on his face and that idiotic Miami Vice suit.

“Well, his name’s Jimmy,” Mike said gruffly, watching Kaylee’s clear-eyed stare dissolve into a pleased smile. “He’s a lawyer.”

Stacey looked relieved, too. Made Mike feel better about lying straight to their faces.

6. And we'll round it out with a romangerri devil wears prada AU i've had in the works forever:

....When he found the elevator, he went to the forty-seventh floor. When he pushed open the glass door to Kellman/Avery, a skyscraper of a woman was waiting for him, blonde curls puffing around her head like a cotton candy halo, wearing a green and gold dress that reminded him of snakeskin.

“Uh, so,” he said, figuring she’d been sent to find him. Maybe she was his assistant or something. “I’m Roman. Guess you’re helping me find the ol’ corporate dog crate, huh?”

She gave him a withering stare. “I wouldn’t lead with that in the interview.”

Then she turned on her heel, motioning him to follow. Roman was too busy trying to stop gears from grinding in his brain that he walked after her without another word.

“Okay. Let me give you a little context here. We are an international firm specializing in high corporate finance, and if you don’t know what that means, tell me now so I don’t have to waste my time any more than I already have.”

She gave him a significant look.

“Ten-four. Uh. Yay, corporate finance.”

“I’m Tabitha, Gerri’s first assistant. And we are hoping to find our second. Gerri has fired the last four girls after only a few weeks, and I cannot deal with any more sobbing co-eds fleeing through the hallways. So, you not only need to be competent at your job, but you also need to be able to survive here.”

“Okay,” Roman answered, glancing into glass-fronted conference rooms and private offices as they whizzed past. Posters. Sculptures. No wood paneling anywhere. “And Gerri is….?”

Tabitha stopped walking, flinging out her arm to stop him from moving. She looked like she wanted to grab his wrist and shake him like a wet dog. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t ask me that. Not only is she our chief executive, and the most senior partner in this office, but she is a legend in the world of trial lawyers. CFOs worship her. Politicians fear her. Work a year as her assistant, and every door in corporate America will open to you.”

I'm tagging @icicaille-fic @adreadfulidea @soft-october-night @titleleaf @terribleoldwhitemen @priestly @itsevidentvery and anyone else who wants to play along!

#fic meme #the terror #romangerri #fitzier

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markseow · 10 months

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Handel Guilio Cesare and Rossini Il Viaggio a Reims 28-29 April 2023

English Touring Opera, conducted by conducted by Sergey Rybin, directed by James Conway. Francis Gush, Susanna Hurrell, Carolyn Dobbin, Margo Arsane, Edward Hawkins, Alexander Chance, Kieron-Connor Valentine, Edward Jowle.

English Touring Opera, conducted by Jonathan Peter Kelly, directed by Valentina Ceschi.

Marlowe Theatre, Canterbury.

#handel #rossini #eto #englishtouringopera #sergeyrybin #jamesconway #francisgush #susannahurrell #carolyndobbin #margoarsane #edwardhawkins #alexchance #kieronconnorvalentine #edwardjowle #jpk #valentinaceschi #canterbury #opera

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libidomechanica · 2 years

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Kind of our

Teaching its Circumference of you would share it, in their phantoms of the second may be much as to enlight, and chin a spare a parrot turns her state. The Musk-Harvest is by no one bearing you as my chest, or a Ha! With a

ray turned in your slaves beside thee girls—sick for miniature for love swear somewhere such or such a race to answerèd: tell my hoard of Youth,—thoughts lay In fairness, with happy happy Hour, enter’d my infinity, which he wild as well: this

one degree that live where Truth was radiant in poverty, somehow echoed to see, throb the chief philosophy they never came marvelous experience which is enough our fists on what can behold that: a please, love, given me

scowl—I wish she drainer too; And this’ he said: twas dusk; she could say, after than she known sorrow? Then a noble nature, for beautifully rude, the my whole soul give up all are Love must. Hand to uphold a loveliness is the park,

huge Ammonites, the warmth of this act of the corn-field, and takes the sight. By like a tent, and the high a Bough, but not yet to me I bore the ravenous hawk? Furious, cruel madness of long walks were, sipping and so that I look—and

her; but satiated at me. Like breath, the liuerie, both go. I cannot last faith yet no Hand ancient rosaries, slight were not an Inch of late do of the merciless Things will be new waitress, then they have you could not, think’st thou goest safe, supreme.—

At last—at last—at last, a lovely beacons always knock my night in laps of a rundown palaces, in tears nor prayed. The less alarm came my business, and I dived in happy. Of good cabinet that move as in his poem left

its end was a torrent of dirt, out of sixteen arms and as a difficult to sneer at hand leaves on the sun, following leaves. Of innocence and shook the lawn running of the window; have had opened Eyes in the Retrograde—

complexion dwellers on fire, of which make the man walk, in gormandize excellence; therefore fictitious settlement lay carved in a league is the events must for this arms. Kate, a Francis call; I will splash the secret core. If in fact, his

jowls fat as at hand, lass, What beautiful, before you, gentle. The Meaning of This heart’s guests were to Chastity? This is this queen, how I will in a lovely that just me, the dog for dust. Kind of our immortal can move a world, how

their fold, that all the prov’d assays, bess, the bones, bones in conspiracies our telephone pole, and amplify: you should be to-morrow and torturing and quiet? Some might be, nor would have lost for a hundred Years not conscience the hands.

#poetry #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Markov chains #Markov chain length: 6 #129 texts #ballad

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acrossthewavesoftime · 3 years

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Francis Grose’s A Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue

In 1785, the lexicographer Francis Grose published a dictionary of slang terms and colloquialisms. Grose collected words and phrases specific to certain regions or groups of people as well as the vogue words of the day.

The result, speaking from the 21st century perspective, is threefold. Of course, this being the 18th century, there are a lot of words and phrases we would not choose to use to day for being offensive in one or the other way (or both), but it is also amazing to see how many expressions are still used today: hush money, cheek-by-jowl, numbskull, to catcall and chubby are words and expressions still in use today, to name but a few.

And lastly, prepare to be amazed by all the amazingly funny expressions no longer in use; some of them are just funny for their creativity, others astonishingly useful and descriptive.

I’ll share a few of my favourites and invite everyone to take a glance of their own by linking the digitised 1788-edition. Warnings for those wanting to take a glimpse at the full work, as hinted at, include NSFW, crass language and period typical attitudes of all kinds.

The list below the cut, in no particular order, will however be more about humourous and at times even useful expressions with the intention of mildly amusing and provoking a laugh in the Gentle Reader.

Everyone knows *that* person...

I have been becalmed the entire last week and didn’t know there was a word for it until today.

Hear ye me, gentlepersons, “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou hast no class” is passé, we now have the Winter’s Day to compare wicked fellows to.

...does the Ungrateful Man drink Kill Devil?

One of these things like petrichor that you never knew you needed a word for, just a lot cuter.

Jingle brains, jingle brains, jingle all the waaay/ o what fun it is to be a drunk Georgian rake yay-hey!

I am quite lost for words, and interested in an explanation.

...Because who doesn’t regularly dance in their birthday suit in the company of other similarly attired persons?

Ok, another accurate one. It sure can feel like that when one’s finally tackling said chore after having ignored it for a while...

With this one you just know a 1780s dad was happy to have been given the opportunity to present his best play on words yet.

And last but not least, a contemporarily relevant one: who would have thought there was a word for super-spreading an illness at a (Christmas) gathering?

I hope you found this a touch amusing. Here’s the reference for the dictionary:

Grose, Francis: A Classical Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, 2nd edition, S. Hooper, London 1788 [accessed 30 June 2021].

#humour #18th century #18th c #dictionary #francis grose #history #british history #historical linguistics #linguist humour #bad puns #vocabulary #words you'll probably never need #useless knowledge

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cullxtheherd · 3 years

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@joannabethharvelle continued from [🆇]

It gives Jacob a great deal of amusement to watch her wriggle and curse- drag his men through the dirt. Admittedly? He did experience at least a rare modicum of joy watching her rail against his troops. “Hmm,” It is barely an admittance of a laugh, lips a stifling barrier against the bars of his teeth. “So you liked playing with my toys, did you?” It is more of a finality- a statement and he drags thumb and pointer against the line of his moustache once, twice before he moves against the seat of the chair, digging in further.

He isn’t sure if she’s heard him, or if she is simply content to sink in as well and, uncharacteristically he mellows; content to let drowsiness settle. The entirety of a song goes by before he hears her pipe up and, by then, his eyes are closed, though he is still awake. “Mm,” Head lopsided at an extreme angle he resumes examining her in the encroaching darkness of sunset. “What about it?”

Her next statement is nearly enough to make him laugh- nearly. A brow raises, head lolling just enough to spy the ceiling but he looks at her still, an eye hitched in the creases of it’s lid, “I’ve been told I am quite the cuddler, honey-” Now he does smile, head righting to look at her and lips lopsided with intrigue, “Did you wanna’ find out?”

Jacob grips the arms of the chair, hauling himself up and, unnoticeably, he leaves his pistol and thigh holster behind. Passing just close enough to the bed to consider him on-the-approach he veers right at the last moment, headed for the balcony. The sound of the auto-changer engaging and the doors rattling open overlap and, with the beat, he is inhaling a much needed, refreshing breath of air. [🆇]

Taking his time he shakes himself off, free from her prying and inquisitive eyes. Palms raise, smick-smacking his cheeks to try and abate the slaggy feeling of exhaustion and his cheeks turn rosy in the steadily chilling night air. Wiping the scant crimson stain from the brief but violent contact from his face onto the backside of his jeans he heads back inside, none-too-pleased with the absolute vision he meets on the inside.

This? Arrangement he seemed to be digging himself further and further into would certainly be a weary, long-lasting, trial for him. She’s talking, trying to root up under his skin and he raises a bushy, skeptical brow at her. The expression he wears is tired- already over whatever game she’s playing at.

“Sure thing, sugar- say: why don’t we up the ante, hmn?” This is the most excited and invested he’s looked all evening, features very nearly alight, “Instead of whatever-the-fuck this is: I release my Judges and I’ll give you the chance to show me how far behind you think I am.” Moving quickly and mercilessly to the bedside he employs a large, encompassing fist, hauling her up by whatever bit of an arm he can grasp, “No?”

Jacob has the decency to look incredulous at this juncture, eyes wild with an off-the-rails plan, “Come on, it’ll be fun!” Elvis, riled by his keeper, yips, dancing on all paws excitedly, “Look, the pup even agrees! Isn’t that right, boy?” Using both hands he gets a good, sturdy hold and really looks down the proverbial sights at her, wolf barking in agreement.

For the time being he remains silent and all six foot three of him vibrates, muscles jittery with forced adrenaline. Gritting his teeth he makes sure to take his time leering at her, fists like a vice and frame unforgiving. Elvis holds up the silence well, nails clacking and jaws snapping until he commands, “Sitz!”

The wolf is silent and the tune ends and the moaning, haunting silence of Saint Francis drags for a beat, mechanical arm working tirelessly. [🆇] Jacob laughs, unhinged at the opening notes; he finds absolute hilarity in the perceived irony of this moment. Her binds jangle loudly, vying against the opening lyrics and he continues on, lungs filling with a clarity he’d wish for on any given day.

Suddenly and without any hint of a warning his grip shifts, fingers pressing roughly into her jowls and cupping her chin- forcing her to look at him. “You know,” He says on the tail end of his laughter, “I’ve half a mind,” The next bit comes out in a breath so small it can almost be considered one word, “To wring your pretty fucking neck and drag your corpse around this room like a God damned garment bag,” A pointer digs into the side of her mouth, pressing down as hard as he can on her lower canine, “But,” His voice pops, nearly lighting the room with it’s drastic change in tone, “Joseph has fucking p l a n s for you, 𝕾𝖎𝖓𝖓𝖊𝖗.”

Barely able to reel himself in, he drags her up by the crushing grip he’s maintaining around her neck and skull. Without care for her comfort or safety he presses his lips to the crown of her forehead before letting go. “Blieb, Elvis,” Jacob is barely a rush of color on his way to the door, “Sit tight, sweetheart.”

German / English “Sitz” / “Sit” “Blieb, Elvis” / “Stay, Elvis”

#jdhnfksdsjfsdslkfj this is fiiine

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a-royal-obsession · 4 years

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An Impressive Portrait Bust of King George IV, c.1822, Attributed to Sir Francis Chantrey

This striking bust of King George IV is closely related to an official portrait of the King by Sir Francis Chantrey from the early 1820’s, when the sculptor’s reputation was at its zenith.

Like the official (and more ubiquitous) fully draped version, the prime version of which resides in the Devonshire Collection (Chatsworth, UK), the present bust portrays the King in an heroic manner, his head turned to sinister, a partly bared chest, long manly neck and hair carved intricately in luxurious curls. Both versions are reminiscent of Sir Thomas Lawrence’s painted portrait of King George IV from the same period, where the King is styled as a confident patrician ruler, with a haughtily turned gaze and flowing curls of hair.

The present composition, of which no other copies are known, is a more informal portrayal of the King than the official version, with the classical drapery reduced to a small garment on the left shoulder. This rendering of the drapery is a common feature in several other busts by Chantrey, such as his portrait of Samuel Shore. Furthermore, the facial features of the King in the present bust are modelled in a more realistic manner compared to the rather more idealised official portrait. These details are visible in Chantrey’s original studies of the King from 1821, where the nose, jowls and shadows under the eyes are more pronounced, as in the present composition.

#George IV #Sir Francis Chantrey #Royalty #Art #Sculpture #Queue

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lutocityrp · 4 years

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LUTO CITY EVENT: 000 — KICKSTARTER

Something cold has been following you all week. You noticed it first on Monday, when you’d looked up on the subway. Your gaze trained on an old man’s pruned face, bitter and scrunched, particularly around his mouth, bulldog-like jowls hanging off of either side of his jaw. You thought you’d seen something in his eyes. You’re not sure what, exactly, but it’s something that had set ice in your veins. In that instant, you’d been sure you saw something sinister. Impossible, you know now that you’ve considered the distance that had been between the two of you. Besides, the light had been glinting off of his glasses. You couldn’t see his eyes at all.

That had sent a shiver down your spine, one you thought a hot shower would remedy when you retired into your home for the evening. Maybe it would have, if you hadn’t stepped out to find handprints in the steam the condensation left on your window. How could they form there? This is Luto, after all. You live too high above the ground for anyone to reach. Or so you had thought.

It’s Wednesday. You’re simply trying to get over the hump of the week, body tired from the too-long hours you’ve worked diligently and relentlessly in a sleepless city. You settle into a red vinyl booth in the Bee’s Knees Diner, one you’ve always considered to be a little tacky or cliché. Maybe they’re the same thing, really.

Connie Francis is crooning out a haunting tune about “Where The Boys Are” as steam rises from your coffee. You pick up a menu and consider ordering something to eat. Eggs, maybe. Nothing exciting. You’re not going to find adventure in this little diner that never seems to change.

The waitress with long, ruby red nails keeps clicking them on the counter as coffee drips into a pot. One of the cooks laughs a little too loudly from behind the kitchen door as it barely swings open. You open your wallet to a few flimsy bills, a ten and a couple of twenties. You could’ve sworn there was a five in there somewhere. In the end, you set a ten on the table and decide they can keep the change. You don’t order any food.

On Friday, the snow sets in. Snow in May is something you didn’t think you’d have to pray about to avoid, not even as you passed a church on your walk home. Now that it’s settled over the city, you think maybe you should have. But this is where that gelid chill must have come from, you convince yourself. This is what had made the air drop and left cold spots in apartment lobbies, in living rooms, in the subway station. This is why that man on the train had looked so scrutinizing; he’d only been bracing against the cold. You should really forget about him. It’s Luto, chances you’ll run into him again are slim. But when you close your eyes at night you can still see those jowls tremble as he swallows and smacks his lips, as if trying to fight off something in his throat.

You can relax. It’s a polar vortex, a cold front that has made you feel a bit off about the week. Nothing unheard of. These are the things you tell yourself as you trudge through the snow suffocating the city streets below your feet. These are things that would calm you if you hadn’t been wholly convinced that what you’re hearing is not the echo of your own footsteps, that there’s a second set of footsteps crunching the snow. But every time you stop, they stop too. You’re hearing things. You’re being ridiculous. You rush home, footsteps crushing ice the entire way.

#lutoevent #lutokickstart #event 000

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oldgooddaysoldgooddays · 2 years

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I never see art anymore but I go to see a Francis Bacon show and am suddenly 15 again, enthralled and naive and mildly titillated. I think of the hot painting being made this year and there isn’t a single canvas that doesn’t owe something to FB. It almost makes me angry. To us he’s Jesus, if Jesus were gay and an angry drunk. I love Bacon’s face, it has a bulimic thickness to it. “They’re called jowls, idiot”, he’d say, “don’t project your women’s problems onto me”

I am in need of a reality check this evening in a way that a paltry gratitude list won’t provide. So I dig deeper, get more specific. I read prison commissary lists to imagine what it’s like to eat packet noodles around women only of my own race, many of whom likely don’t chew quietly. I’m grateful I’m not in prison, nor in a cycle of poverty that makes prison an inevitability rather than an aberration

I read a guardian article about the perils of “finding flatmates in a post-covid world”, just to feel a flood of relief I don’t have to live with others. I remember what it was like to boil with rage when my cohabitants didn’t do their dishes and that was before people had to negotiate the recklessness of super spreading. Thank GOD

Similarly, I read a thing about hens being locked in barns for months now to avoid avian flu outbreaks. Now no eggs can legally be deemed free range. I am not a hen in a barn and I can’t believe I got so lucky

I read tales of back pain, congenital blindness, pervasive meth addiction, obesity. I think of those who run a B&B, or who work at petrol stations or Aesop or the Royal Academy ticket office. Gay conversion camps, wrongful convictions, being a trucker who contracts VD from a sex worker, being a sex worker. The spider I accidentally drowned yesterday washing my cafetière, the earwig I purposefully stomped that night because I fucking can’t STAND earwigs. None of this is my life, and what a beautiful thing that is

My life is walking through soho with my mother, smoking, eating a risotto and a fritto misto and talking about the sacrilege that is private medicine. I tell her about my life and give her a self portrait from a series of self portraits she isn’t comfortable with me selling. I fully intend, in this respect, to do as I’m told

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pamphletstoinspire · 6 years

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Commentary On The Parables of Jesus: The Rich Fool

This column is being written by a man who is grateful for having just offered the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass, and who is also trying to suppress his customary chagrin at the foul translation he was obliged to use. Today, the opening collect turned the Latin meaning practically upside down, and then a rubric provided the option of a shortened form of the Gospel (Matthew 22:1-11) for those who did not have time to listen to three concluding verses in Matthew’s account of the parable of the wedding feast. If only read and not chanted, it would have imposed an extra 30 seconds. Luke does not include those lines, but he follows the parable with other lines equally severe. A paranoia nurtured by experience of liturgists prompts the suspicion that there is an aversion to talk of obedience and punishment to outer darkness, and a tendency to reduce all the parables to Morality-Lite and salvation to sentimental universalism. There may come a time, if inscrutable providence permits these meddlers to live, when a rubric will drop the word “not” from several of the Ten Commandments “to save time.”

The parable of the rich fool (Luke 12:13-21) might be subject to the same butchery by cutting out the last sentence: “Thus it is with the man who lays up treasure for himself, and has no credit with God.” For this parable, inseparable from the psychology of prudence and greed, is incomplete unless understood as a hymn of saving grace. An ethical-culturist would keep it on the placid level of the natural virtues; Christ illuminates those virtues so that keys to proper conduct become keys to heaven.

A pedant, capable of listening to St. Francis’s canticle of the animals and responding with Mr. Gradgrind’s definition of a donkey, hears Our Lord preach on the angels and the Holy Spirit, and raises his hand to ask a question about the settlement of an estate. He reminds one of the man who asked Maisie Ward at the end of a brilliant speech, “Mrs. Ward, do you have the time?” At least the man in Jerusalem was impressed enough by Jesus, whom he must have thought a clever chap, that he hoped an opinion might persuade his brother to hand over half an acre. Jesus does not respond with the righteous wrath that tossed the money changers out of the temple (update that to ripping out electric votive lights). With the bemusement of a speaker in Hyde Park heckled by a particularly silly remark, He addresses him with studied iciness: “Why, man, who has appointed me a judge to make awards between you?” Christ’s measure of the covetous man is evident when He showers him with an over plus of moral glory in the form of a parable about a “fool.” He uses the word in just two other parables: the two builders and the ten virgins. As this man counts his success by what he has and not what he is, he probably was too obtuse to feel indicted.

The rich fool envisioned life with very limited bounds. That, and not his wealth, made him foolish. To gain wealth usually involves industry, intelligence, patience, and frugality, and as a sum, they can make a very good man out of a man. The foolishness lies in equating one’s good with goods, just as Adam and Eve fell by pluralizing “god.” The rich fool built bigger barns to store his wealth, oblivious to the counsel of St. Augustine: “You have barns—the bosoms of the needy, the houses of widows, the mouths of orphans and widows.” So the poor rich man in the parable finds that mortal goods do not confer immortal goodness, and he is like Citizen Kane, whose silent death is followed by the banging of the auctioneer’s hammer: “Going once, going twice, sold.” The Chippendale chairs are carted away, his Mercedes glides off with an unsympathetic driver behind the wheel, and rough hands crate the expensive mirror in which he used to contemplate his prosperous jowls.

Greed is the desire for more than another has. Covetousness is the desire for what another has, just for the sake of having it. The two moral coagulants are a recipe for misery, for if a man’s definition of one’s good is that limited, his capacity for self-deception is limitless. A man so deceived can never be happy, as his happiness is posited on the unhappiness of others. It is the opposite of why we were made: to give God delight. Ultimately, the rich fool denies himself the happiness that comes from giving happiness to God. As God is God, He does not need more happiness, but He gives us multiples of what we give Him. The fool who locks up what he has, finds that he is locking himself out of all that God has to offer.

Written by: FR. GEORGE W. RUTLER

#parables of jesus

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bbcbreakingnews · 4 years

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Woman, 57, who underwent the first face transplant in the U.S. dies from an infection

Connie Culp, who became the first person in the US to receive a partial face transplant after surviving a gunshot blast to the face, has died from an infection.

Culp died 12 years after the groundbreaking operation, aged 57.

The Cleveland Clinic, where her surgery was performed in 2008, said that Culp died on Wednesday at the clinic of complications from an infection that was unrelated to her transplant.

A transplant can help recipients to resume basic tasks such as breathing, eating and speaking, and it can restore important non-verbal communication through smiles and frowns.

The operation, which has been performed around the world only a few dozen times, can mean a life-long struggle to stop the body rejecting the implanted organ.

Immunosuppressant drugs, which help stop such a rejection, can leave the person vulnerable to infections and cancers.

Connie Culp, 57, the first US recipient of a partial face transplant, died from an unrelated infection on Wednesday. She is pictured here in 2010, two years after the surgery

Culp was grievously wounded in 2004 when her husband shot her and then turned the gun on himself. She is pictured here before she was shot, left, and right after the transplant

Doctors at the Cleveland Clinic — (L-R) Dr. Risal Djohan, Dr. Daniel Alam, Dr. Francis Papay and Dr. Maria Siemionow — completed the operation on Connie Culp in December 2008

Dr. Frank Papay, who is the chair of Cleveland Clinic’s dermatology and plastic surgery institute and was part of Culp’s surgical team, called her ‘an incredibly brave, vibrant woman and an inspiration to many.’

‘Her strength was evident in the fact that she had been the longest-living face transplant patient to date,’ Papay said in a statement. ‘She was a great pioneer and her decision to undergo a sometimes-daunting procedure is an enduring gift for all of humanity.’

Culp was left severely disfigured in September 2004 after she was shot in the face by her husband, Tom Culp, in a botched murder-suicide attempt.

He shot her from eight feet way, blasting off her nose, cheeks, the roof of her mouth and an eye.

Only her forehead, chin, parts of her eyelids and her lower lip were left intact.

Tom Culp was convicted of attempted aggravated murder and was sentenced to only seven years in prison for the shooting.

Her husband Tom Culp (pictured with Connie) blasted a gun at her shattering her nose, cheeks, roof of her mouth and her right eye. Her husband was jailed for seven years over the attack

Culp had 30 surgeries before undergoing transplant surgery in 2008 in an intensely complex procedure that took 22 hours over two days

CT scan photo, supplied by Cleveland Clinic, of Connie Culp, after an injury to her face led her to become the first face transplant patient in the United States, left, and after the surgery, right

Culp’s features were so gnarled that children ran away from her and called her a monster.

Culp underwent 30 operations to try to fix her face. Doctors took parts of her ribs to make cheekbones and fashioned an upper jaw from one of her leg bones.

She had countless skin grafts from her thighs. Still, she was left unable to eat solid food, breathe on her own, or smell.

In December 2008, Dr. Maria Siemionow led a team of doctors in a 22-hour operation to replace 80% of Culp’s face with bone, muscles, nerves, skin and blood vessels from a donor, Anna Kasper. It was the fourth face transplant in the world, though the others were not as extensive.

After the operation, her expressions were a bit wooden and her speech was at times difficult to understand, but she could talk, smile, smell and taste her food again.

Connie Culp at the Cleveland Clinic in 2009. She was the longest-living face transplant recipient in the world, a hospital official said

Culp underwent the delicate operation nearly 12 years ago. Doctors used 77 square inches of transplanted tissue

In 2011, Siemionow said Culp had ‘a normal face’ after doctors refined the droopy jowls and extra skin they purposely left to make checkup biopsies easier.

‘She’s smiling, she’s perfect. When she jokes, she kind of flickers her eyes. Her face is vivid. You can see emotions,’ Siemionow said.

Culp made several television appearances and become an advocate for organ donation.

Two years after her operation, Culp met with the family of Kasper, the donor, who had died of a heart attack. Culp told The Cleveland Plain Dealer: ‘They’re just really nice people.’

Kasper’s 23-year-old daughter, Becky Kasper, said she could see part of her mother in Culp, though their bone structures were different.

‘I can definitely see the resemblance in the nose,’ she said. ‘I know she’s smiling down on this, that she’s very happy.’

The post Woman, 57, who underwent the first face transplant in the U.S. dies from an infection appeared first on BBC BREAKING NEWS.

source https://bbcbreakingnews.com/woman-57-who-underwent-the-first-face-transplant-in-the-u-s-dies-from-an-infection/

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seeker372011 · 4 years

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Western Australia’s Coral Coast

Road Trip Day 3

Geraldton- [Hamelin Pool]-Carnarvon

A long drive today, so we set out before 9:00 am. But before we did, we had another look at the St Francis Xavier Church and reconfirmed our view - nice enough but I wouldn’t walk a mile in tight shoes just to see this.

This is Western Australia and populated places are few and far between. Northampton is a reasonable sized community just 60 Ks or so from Geraldton; and after that there are only three roadhouses, the last of which is so unremarkable that you could whizz by at 110 km without even noticing it.

We stopped to fuel at one of these, the Billabong Road house- there are not one but two roadhouses- two competitors, cheek by jowl; one opened in 1962, the other in 1964; both sell petrol, very expensive food and offer accommodation; and of course touristy stuff like tshirts and baseball caps and fridge magnets.

We were saddened, by the way, to see the side of the road- all the way to the Overlander Roadhouse and maybe beyond - littered with beer bottles. It’s not as bad as I remember the Walgett to Lightning Ridge Road in NSW where the entire stretch on both sides of the road is covered with broken beer bottles. Here at least the bottles were whole- and the thought crossed my mind that maybe a bright entrepreneurial spirit like Kramer from Seinfeld could find a way to collect all these and ship them to NSW or SA to get 5c each as a refund. Anyway it was slightly depressing-why must we soil our planet so?

The road soon moved away from the big farms and wheat fields just out of Geraldton ( just screaming out invitations for aliens to carve out crop circles), and into serious outback territory.

The soil was as red as anything we have seen in the Red Centre; the trees soon shrank to bushes; and the landscape was featureless and forbidding. From time to time dirt roads led to outback stations but these are not visible from the road.

Feral goats seemed to be in profusion; though we did also see some giant raptors picking on dead kangaroos by the side of the road. A lone- presumably feral- black cat stood in the middle of the road as we bore down at 110 km an hour, before deigning to step dignifiedly away before he was pancaked.

We decided we need to be diverted from the boredom of the drive and turned off the main road to take a 75 km side trip to Hamelin Pools

It was, we felt,well worth the extra hour and a half it added to the journey, despite the ferocious flies that ignored our Aerogard to pester us.

Hamelin Pool is one of the reasons why Shark Bay is World Heritage listed. It hosts a humongous population of stromatolites- many many more than we saw at Lake Thetis. It’s also a very beautiful place. Now if you check out Trip Advisor there are are many comments along the line of, “Meh it’s a bunch of rocks and it’s not worth going all the way to see it”- echoing the vibe of my earlier sentiment about the St Xaviers Cathedral in Geraldton.

But still we went and gawked at the stromatolites and took endless photos- as I understand it, these organisms - may have been responsible for the oxygen that allowed life as we know it to redevelop on the planet after the dinosaur extinction

These are also amongst the oldest living things even if they look like rocks- and ‘living fossils’, representatives of life over 3500 million years ago when there was no other complex life on Earth. 3500 million years. And you think your grandpa was old.

Anyway after a suitable reverential gawking and a squillion photos we headed back to the main road and Carnarvon

Now it was really really hot. Mirages covered the road- you could see a car or a truck in the distance as they cane down a hill and it looked for all the world as if the vehicle was going to plunge into a pool of water covering the surface; but of course it was but a mirage.

Not just mirages- the desert produced dust devils that spiralled on both sides of the road as we barrelled through

Travelling at 110 kms per hour you’d see a car on the horizon; occasionally it would disappear from view as it went down a hill - and then some 30 to 45 seconds later the two vehicles would pass each other.

We encountered Road trains as well - which is quite frightening. The slip stream of these monsters 36 metres and more in length travelling at 110 kms makes the camper van tremor like a leaf in the wind; and you need to hold on to the steering wheel with both hands and fight to stay in control. Luckily we encountered only 4 or 5 of these all day

At first glance Carnarvon was most uninspiring- it looks to be frank, a bit of a hole.

But the evening was salvaged with a sunset brew at the old jetty- now cordoned off as there are fears for its safety. The jetty BTW is- or rather was- Carnarvon’s pride and joy. It was called the one mile jetty and certainly looks at least that long and was one of Western Australia’s if not Australia’s longest wooden jetty. But sadly it is now too unsafe and closed - the town is trying to find funding for restoration work but it appears a forlorn hope

Anyway it reminded us of other times we have sat at a restaurant or bar to watch a glorious sunset- at Matala in Crete and at Santorini

And so to our caravan park for the night with a brief stopover at Carnarvons waterfront Fascine and the town of Carnarvon looked quite nice after all

Another long drive tomorrow

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markseow · 1 year

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Handel Giulio Cesare 25 February 2023

Handel Giulio Cesare English Touring Opera, conducted by Sergey Rybin, directed by James Conway. Francis Gush, Susanna Hurrell, Carolyn Dobbin, Margo Arsane, Edward Hawkins, Alexander Chance, Kieron-Connor Valentine, Edward Jowle. Hackney Empire, London

#opera #handel #sergeyrybin #jamesconway #francisgush #susannahurrell #carolyndobbin #margoarsane #edwardhawkins #alexanderchance #kieronconnorvalentine #edwardjowle #hackneyempire

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mebwalker · 5 years

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Magdaleine Pinceloup de la Grange by Jean-Baptiste Perronneau, 1747 (J. Paul Getty Museum)

Dear friends,

I have not been able to write due to various house chores. I haven’t quite finished settling down. In the past, I settled into a home in a matter of days. This time, I have to hire professionals. How humbling.

You may remember that I lost my voice on 11 December. It has now returned, but it is different. X-rays revealed advanced emphysema. I could not believe my doctor. Three thirds of my lungs have turned into a dry sponge. I’ve never smoked.

I can breathe normally, so no treatment is necessary.

However, I am losing my driver’s license: myalgic encephalomyelitis, not emphysema, although the two could be linked. I had a long career as a driver.

I bought an apartment located close to a little market. It has everything I need. I have been told I qualify for a service dog, but Belaud said no.

—ooo—

My cat Belaud was delighted when I discovered a painting featuring a chartreux sitting one a lady’s lap. French poet Joachim du Bellay had a chartreux named Belaud. When his Belaud died, he wrote an extroardinary epitaph entitled Sur la mort de Belaud. As you know, I share my home and life with a cat named Belaud is a pure-bred French chartreux. I named my chartreux after Joachim du Bellay‘s Belaud. Du Bellay wrote an epitaph on the death of his cat Belaud. It is entitled Sur la mort de Belaud, a long poem I would attempt to translate.

Belaud Portrayed & Enhanced

literary roots

artistic roots

Belaud has literary roots, but the J. Paul Getty Museum has a painting featuring a dignified lady, nose up, holding her precious chartreux. Artist Jean-Baptiste Perronneau (French, 1715 – 1783) is not as famous a figure as Joachim du Bellay, but we owe him an the portrait of a chartreux, and images are immediate. Upon analysis, we may find that a picture is complex, but in the case of Perronneau’s portrait, we know we are seeing a lady, Magdaleine Pinceloup de la Grange, holding her beloved cat, a chartreux.

Because of this portrait, chartreux have acquiredgreater stature. A cat protrayed is a thousand cats. Moreover, Jean-Baptiste Perronneau depicted a chartreux sitting on the lap of the distinguished madame de Pinceloup de la Grange. I told Belaud that a portrait of a chartreux had surface. Well, mother said Belaud, I knew. We cats research our ancestry. Mme de Pinceloup de la Grange’s chartreux could indeed be Belaud’ ancestor. However, my Belaud does not wear a collar because he is not a threat to birds. He would love to be hired to chase away various rats, “gros rats.” In fact, one gentleman offered him a lucrative contract: “toxicity” said the gentleman, “toxicity!” It will be the Black Death all over again. The gentleman died a few weeks later.

Given their profession, chasing rats, chartreux are large and very robust cats. Fearing the cold, they wear two coats of fur. I should also mention they they enjoy sitting with their legs extended forward and that they sometimes cross their legs, as though they were dogs, or human beings. They may be referred to as blue cats, but they are grey cats. The light, however, may make their fur appear blue and even mauve.

The chartreux and their British Blue relatives have a round face, large cheeks, a permanent smile and yellow to copper eyes. I should also tell you that Chartreux are very quiet. Legend has it that their silent owners, Carthusian monks, taught them silence. Belaud purrs, but he is otherwise absolutely silent. A long time ago, I read they were brought to France by crusaders. Were Carthusians crusaders?

Joachim du Bellay by Jean Cousin (Google)

The Literary Belaud

La Pléiade

the carpe diem

the Vernacular

Du Bellay’s epitaph on Belaud is very long, but very rich. Besides, Du Bellay is a better-known figure than monsieur Perronneau. He was a member of La Pléiade, a group of stellar poets who are the fountainhead of poetry in French. Poet Pierre de Ronsard (11 September 1524 – 27 December 1585) was a prince of poets, un prince des poètes, which is not insignificant, but he is famous for carpe diem poem. In his Sonnets pour Hélène, he enjoins Hélène to love him dès aujourd’hui, as of today, life being so short. There was an Hélène whose gentleman friend had died in a war. She was not in the least interested in Ronsard, but Ronsard’s poem is unforgettable.

Vivez, si m’en croyez, n’attendez à demain : Cueillez dès aujourd’hui les roses de la vie.

Sonnets pour Hélène, 1578

Robert Herrick wrote in a similar vein:

Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, Old Time is still a-flying; And this same flower that smiles today To-morrow will be dying.

As for Du Bellay’s poetry, it is eminently quotable. Heureux qui, comme Ulysse, a fait un beau voyage is perfection, but Du Bellay’s place and fame in literature rests mainly on his Défense et illustration de la langue française, considered the Pléiade’s manifesto. The Renaissance was a moment of effervescence. Greek scholars and artists had fled the Byzantine Empire when Constantinople fell to the Ottoman Empire under Mehmed the Conqueror, on 30 May 1453. Hence, Du Bellay’s reference to Ulysses /Odysseus.

Italy was the first refuge of Greek scholars. As for painters, Christians, they fled to Russia, carrying icons. Constantinople had been a Holy See for Eastern Christianity. We know about the Great East/West Schism, 1054. The Vatican is Western Christianity’s Holy See. The Eastern Church would have several Holy sees, called synods.

The arrival in Italy of Greek scholars may have led scholars to look to Antiquity, and learn Greek. The Renaissance, however, saw the emergence of the vernacular, the mother tongue.

Du Bellay promoted the vernacular, French in his case. He was inspired by Italian author Sperone Speroni’s Dialogo delle lingue, 1542. Speroni was a friend and supporter of Venetian-language playwright Angelo Beolco (el Ruzante [the rustic?]). However, the greater supporter of the vernacular was Pietro Bembo (20 May 1470 – either 11 January or 18 January). Bembo championed the use of Italian by poet Petrarch (20 July 1304 – 18/19 July 1374). Predecessors were Dante Alighieri (c. 1265 – 1321), the author of the Divine Comedy, written in the vernacular, and Giovanni Boccaccio (16 June 1313 – 21 December 1375) the author of the Decameron, written in the Florentine language.

A British Blue (Tumbler)

La Querelle du chartreux et du “bleu” britannique

le chartreux

le Bleu britannique

le chat de France

Charles de Gaulle

Yvonne de Gaulle in a London kitchen (Getty Images)

Chartreux are often compared to British blue cats. There is a resemblance, but the two breeds differ. The snout of British Blues does not point forward as much as the snout of chartreux. Consequently, British Blues have rounder faces and larger jowls. Belaud’s face is round, but his jowls are not as prominent as the jowls of his British cousins.

I was able to gather precious information about Chartreux and British Blues. My very bilingual Scottish friend Francis, was hired to go between English-speaking Winston Churchill and Charles De Gaulle, who spoke French, as D-Day was planned. How did Francis survive being a go-between to such men? De Gaulle would not always agree with Churchill and he communicated with the Free French Forces, Forces françaises libres which he led beginning on 28 June 1940. L’appel du 18 juin (1940), a radio, the BBC, broadcast, gave hope to the French. France had defenders: the United States and the British Empire. Churchill was at times livid, said Francis discreetly. We have learned since that De Gaulle told the Forces françaises libres that Paul Verlaine’s Chanson d’automne would be used in the planning of D-Day. It was a code. Verlaine is un prince des poètes.

Obviously, sharing the code was dangerous, but I wonder whether Francis had a role to play in the Querelle des Chartreux et des Bleus britanniques. He would not have told me. But truth me told, a querelle de chats took place in the thick of a devastating war. The British wanted to mix the Chartreux with the British Blue and De Gaulle would not allow the national cat of France simply to vanish. Later, Yvonne, De Gaulle’s wife, gave her husband a chartreux which le général called Gris [grey]-Gris. Gris-Gris probably had an aristocratic name, but le général called him Gris-Gris. Gris-Gris followed De Gaulle from room to room.

Writers Sidonie-Gabrielle Colette, and Charles Baudelaire also adopted a chartreux. Belaud’s mother was a Sidonie de… I cannot remember the rest of her name, but his father was Tennessee. The cat she called la dernière chatte (the last cat), was no doubt a chartreux.

This post is a shameful coq-à-l’âne (jumping from one subject to another). The coq-à-l’âne had a terrible reputation, but that marginalia is the latest in-thing, I’m saved. However, I will close proudly as Belaud is all over this post, un fil conducteur, a link, carrying weight.

Pietro Bembo by Titian and the Vernacular (27 January 2016)

The Hundred Year’s War: its Literary Legacy (24 January 2016)

Belaud the Cat writes a post (22 October 2013)

The Art of Dionisius (9 September 2012)

Belaud the Cat’s Suite (28 February 2012)

La Pléiade: Du Bellay (30 December 2011; disappeared)

The Petrarchan Movement (6 December 2011)

Belaud (31 July 2011)

A Happy Valentine’s Day ❤

(See Posts on Love Celebrated)

Je ne pourrai pas vivre sans toi – Maurane et Michel Legrand

youtube

A Belaud, identical (Google)

A Chartreux Portrayed Dear friends, I have not been able to write due to various house chores. I haven't quite finished settling down.

#Belaud #Charles de Gaulle #Chartreux #Du Bellay #Sur la mort de Belaud #the British Blue #the Vernacular #une Querelle des chats

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sebastian5902-blog · 6 years

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Dog Collars Best For Poodles.

SAN FRANCISCO (Reuters) - Facebook Inc (FB.) currently understands who your close friends are as well as the kind of things that grab your attention. I am actually happy for my splendid wife, my two terrific children, the roof over my head, having the capacity to share my composing with you, the roof over my scalp, that I do certainly not awaken famished in the morning, that I live in a quiet country, that I being employed to visit where I can assist folks, that the skies is actually blue outside, just to name a few. Butterfly gauze as the name proposes, only think about butterfly shape, wider parts part on side edges and also thin section at facility, to which wings are connected. There certainly, you could figure out if your selected label is actually already signed up as a make-believe title along with one more provider. Label tattoo design is the absolute best alternative if you prefer to pay out homage to somebody which has actually passed method. That is actually, of course, exactly how a flower shop can create its own name as lots of folks will talk to where that wonderful arrangement of flower petals arised from. The blooms themselves, though, were a lot easier to photograph so our experts waited on the illumination to be at its own finest before investing some time receiving some great gos of the rhododendrons as well as orchids that grow on the plants. This is a beautiful pathway lined along with shrubs cheek by jowl as well as attractive fall trees beyond. Utilizing the dental practitioner workplace instance, welcoming titles include Kim's Pleased Household Dental, Beautiful Smile Dental, Pleased Smile Dental, and so on But simultaneously, Lila through this spelling stands merely at Amount 155, so that's much from being a Leading 10 label. The final area to consider with regards to the size of your label is the Recommended Online site handle. I would certainly contact that Faybe Gulf, and also put that on an Island where no one would certainly must vote, since I will be therefore nice they would certainly just intend to stay. Properly, that does seem to be that Nice not simply uses relaxation for your overworked body system and also for your diminished mood; Nice additionally uses your tummy a well-deserved holiday, out of fat-filled diet regimens, convenience food as well as various other food dangers to which you reveal on your own all year long. Among those remaining parishes are the Norman Cathedral, the most extensive chapel in Calabria includes the Eleventh Century Jail of the 5 Martyrs of Gerace, the Thirteenth Century Parish from St. Francis with a lovely Baroque altar, and the Tenth Century San Giovannello (Minimal St. John). Firstly, don't aim to get a domain name along with a huge brand in this. For example, or even, which has Google.com in the domain. Madhubala- Some of the absolute most beautiful woman, Indian movie house ever observed and also as excellent an actor. Besides because these blooms increase back annually, they are very attractive to individuals because their tough, outstanding scent and also they meet their title by bring in butterflies as well as hummingbirds.

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