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- neue75_bold0
When it was over, all I could think about was how this entire notion of oneself, what we are, is just this logical structure, a place to momentarily house all the abstractions. It was a time to become conscious, to give form and coherence to the mystery, and I had been a part of that. It was a gift. Life was raging all around me and every moment was magical. I loved all the people, dealing with all the contradictory impulses - that's what I loved the most, connecting with the people. Looking back, that's all that really mattered.
- kingjulien0
I think I just saw Gorbie selling number 2 pencils at the Greyhound Station downtown. At first it seemed like he had just shaved his head, but upon further inspection I'm certain it was one of those synthetic bald wigs, because at the top of his neck there was a small patch of hair. It was lumpy. After sitting in the lotus position for 15 minutes , he joined a game of hackeysack in front of the terminal. There was Mo, a 300 pound Guamanian (who claims to have once been a bananna picker), Sherod Thaxton the Black Muslin street preacher who talks to you militantly with his fist positioned on his chin (and often murmurs ' that white boy hella cool' whenever I meander in his periphery, this being that I've known him since high school), Freedom Rosenthal - the Yippie poet from LaJolla who videotapes instances of police abuse against the homeless from the inside window of the station, and Gorbie, who had on a tye died skirt with some brown striped wool socks and a real thin Hitler mustache. They had a nice little session going, back and forth, back and forth, complete with the accompanying Boys To Men choir, who were circled around a fire burning from the one garbage can in sight, despite the intense 85 degree heat (and who didn't listen to my request for the New Jack City theme song 'Living Just Enough for the City Now', despite how perfect the moment would have been). I sat in the corner in blue Vaurnets with a book on the 1967 Six Day Israeli/Palestinian War, the one I'm reading to correct anyone who oversimplifies the current Middle East tension as a series of wars simply about oil. I saw all this without Gorbie noticing me. I think he was happy, like he had found an inner peace away from the computer, away from his former life, and I don't think he saw me, despite our close proximity. I didn't want to interrupt that smile he had, the look of total abandomnet, the look that said, I've just gone all the way, and there's no turning back now.
At least that's what I'd like to believe.
- ********0
believe it--I saw it, too
- ********0
I've been having periods of acute depression, recently.
Apparently, it's becoming noticeable. A number of people have remarked about it.
John Sundstrom thought it might be a good idea if I spoke to you about it.
-Do you want to sit down? - No. I'm not good at confessional.
What can I tell you?
The last year, two, three... It goes way back, I suppose.
I remember entertaining suicidal thoughts as a college student.
At any rate...
I've always found life demanding.
I'm an only child of a lower-middle-class people.
I was the glory of my parents. "My son, the doctor"." You know.
I was always top of my class. Scholarship to Harvard. The boy genius.
The brilliant eccentric.
Terrified of women, clumsy at sports.
God, how do I go about this?
I understand you just separated from your wife.
I left her a dozen times.
She left me a dozen times.
We stayed through a process of attrition. Obviously, sadomasochistic dependency.
My home is hell.
We've got a 22-year-old boy. I threw him out of the house last year.
A shaggy-haired Maoist.
I don't know where he is.
Presumably, building bombs in basements as an expression of universal brotherhood.
I've got a 18 -year-old daughter who's had two abortions in two years...
got arrested last week at a rock festival, for pushing drugs.
They let her go.
The typical affluent American family.
I don't mean to be facile about this.
I blame myself for those two useless young people.
I never exercised parental authority. I'm no good at that.
Oh, God, I'm no good at this, either.
- ********0
Last night my dream started out with what seemed like a high school reunion - except that it wasn't just people from my high school, but also the assholes from elementry school and junior high. And instead of being at a school, it was some kind of house party in a nice white Victorian.
The assholes, the "in crowd", the bullies from my younger days were fully grown and utterly boring. I half expected them to resume their taunts from when we were all 9 years old, but I don't think they recognized me. They wanted to chat about investments and make small talk about some television series, I don't remember which.
I shifted away from them and noticed some of my old high school friends in a different section of the house. There was Dan, a great drummer who I used to jam with during my free periods, Kevin the timpanist, a few others. There was also Ascander, who I wanted to talk to but who refused to speak with me, and who was wearing a bright orange military uniform of some sort. He was speaking with Shane, a fellow who used to make charts of the high school's various social cliques and had binders full of this kind of information. I remember thinking "we will need this man's brain, we want this fellow on our side, I should talk to him". But Ascander was draped over him, covering his ears, so I decided to come back later.
Then Ruwan showed up, with his Three British Friends. Ruwan is the brother of my girlfriend, and the Three British Friends are people that don't exist in real life, they were creations of my subconscious. One of them looked like the singer from Gravenhurst. The second wasn't actually British, but French, and looked like the guitarist from Blur. The third was a large Indian fellow, who I will refer to as Gabriel, because this guy was basically my mental image of the character Gibreel Farista, from Salman Rushdie's The Satanic Verses. In the dream world, Ruwan's Three British Friends were his business associates, but I don't know what business they were in. Something to do with computers it seemed.
Somehow I ended up leaving the party/reunion with Ruwan's Three British Friends, and without Ruwan himself. We were going off to get into some trouble, it seemed, and Gabriel had appointed himself the leader of this outing. Suddenly we were in front of a huge, very fancy hotel. "Come on" Gabriel was saying "I want to show you guys something". We walked through the busy lobby unnoticed and entered a large elevator with nice wood-panelling on the walls. Gabriel started messing with the buttons and the elevator took off. Something about it's motion seemed rather wrong, but I couldn't place it. It was a long trip, I assumed we were going to the top of the building.
We got out on a floor with no windows, but other than that it all looked very typical for the part of a large hotel that a corporation would reserve for conferences and such. We were in an empty hallway, and there were many sets of double doors, made out of some nice light-colored wood. The carpet was burgundy, with sort of a swirly gold pattern overlayed on it. The colors were dull with age, but the carpet wasn't ragged. Everything looked exceedingly normal. Gabriel went down to the end of the hallway and started messing about with one of the doorways, trying to open it I guess. I went over to him, and he hurriedly handed me something. "Take, take for fucks sake!" he whispered angrily and thrust into my hand a collection of small metal plates. They were a dull aluminum color, about four inches long and one and a half inches wide. They had a slight curve to them.
I was confused by headed back to the others who were waiting by the elevator, while Gabriel continued to mess with the door.Suddenly, when I got back to the others, one of the sets of doors opened, and a businesslady started shouting at us. "What are you doing here? You can't be here. Let me see your keys this instant or I'll call the police". I handed her the little plates of metal, and her tone changed dramatically. "So sorry to distrub you gentlemen, we've had some security issues here, is there anything I can get for you?" There were blurred figured in the room behind her, I couldn't make them out, but they were moving as if they were dancing at a formal ball. Something seemed wrong with them, with the perspective at which I was seeing them and the fact that they had no features. One of the others thanked her politely and the three of us (minus Gabriel, who seemed to have disappeared) started to get back into the elevator. As the doors were closing I heard her say to someone else, "stop them in the lobby, don't let them through".
The elevator was at some crazy tilted angle, and somebody had to jam one of the pieces of metal into a slot to get it back to normal. Suddenly we were in the lobby; I noticed big fat columns of black marble and a waterfountain, and a maze of glass doors. I could see a city street outside, and for some reason I assumed that it was Canada. "Excuse me, gentlemen, a word" a consierge was calling from behind a desk, but we ignored him and moved away, and he didn't follow.
For some reason, at this point, I decided that I needed to stay in the hotel and see what had become of Gabriel. The others weren't so interested in this, so while they slipped outside, I ventured down a hall and then through a large open doorway.
That's when I realized where I really was. I was in a large room, with big machines sticking up through the floor, making all sorts of ungodly noise. It looked like part of a hydroelectric damn, except everything still had that nice hotel lobby feel to it - marble tiling, felt ropes. There was a huge staircase that went up towards the ceiling, and all manner of people were hurrying down this staircase, as if propelled by a fierce wind. They were a diverse lot as they made this downward journey, but as they came closer to the bottom they all transformed into tall white men wearing a dark suit and a fedora. Each and every one of them. There was a huge sign hanging on the wall next to the staircase, a slab of marble with the word "GROUNDLINGS" engraved in it, with an arrow pointing at the staircase.
Suddenly I knew that this was Hell, and that this staircase was the entrance to it. For a moment I panicked and tried to run up the staircase, but of course some magnetic force pulled me back down. "Well that was stupid", I thought, "of course everyone would just go right back up if they allowed it".
I went back out into the lobby, and out onto the street - which was, curiously, at the same level, and thus still below the entrance at the top of the stairs. I walked across the street and confirmed my suspicions. In spite of the long elevator journey, the hotel was no high-rise but looked like a small, single-story building. The elevator had been going down.
Suddenly I was back at the Victorian house from the beginning, inside, on the second floor. "So" I said to myself "it seems I'm dreaming about Hell." Realizing that I was in fact in a dream world, I immediately began trying to manipulate the world. But it was much more difficult than usual. I attempted to test things out my re-painting the walls of the room I was in, but as I waved my arms around, all that would happen was that the world would become briefly warped and then quickly return to normal. I walked over to a doorway, and tried to trasform the structure into a similar doorway that I had seen in a castle where I once stayed in France, and thus transport myself to that location. But something went wrong. I was able to mentally re-create the new location (Avezan, France) but the old location (Victorian house, Hell) did not go away. Two worlds were overlapping, and it quickly become impossible to see anything because of the double-vision. Everything was ghoslty and overlapping with everything else, and all sounds were muffled. The only thing I could do was to get rid of the second layer of reality that I had created, and settle on being back in the Hell world.
I grabbed some random friends who showed up at the house, somehow got them to appear with me on the street in front of the hotel. I explained what had happened, about the elevator, the pieces of metal, the businesslady. I gesticulated wildly at the lack of a high rise building. And I'm sure they believed me, because they refused to enter the building. And they refused to allow me to enter. They held me back, and semi-lucid dream or otherwise, there was nothing I could do to free myself from their grip.
Which, of course, left Gabriel still down there in the depths, his fate a mystery. I brought this up to those who were with me. "Oh," someone laughed "He's fine. He's probably talked his way into being their consultant. In fact I wonder how much he's overcharging them."
- ********0
hottles.
- c_valencia0
damn, it sucks when you do a clean re-install of the operating system and you forget an important folder with years of photos and whatever. sucks to be me.......................
- ********0
Although he wants to be an individual, the male is scared of anything in himself that is the slightest bit different from other men; it causes him to suspect he's not really a 'Man', that he's passive and totally sexual, a highly upsetting suspicion. If other men are “A” and he's not, he must not be a man; he must be a fag. So he tries to affirm his 'Manhood' by being like all the other men. Differentness in other men, as well as in himself, threatens him; it means they're fags whom he must at all costs avoid, so he tries to make sure that all other men conform.
The male dares to be different to the degree that he accepts his passivity and his desire to be female, his fagginess. The farthest out male is the drag queen, but he, although different from most men, is exactly like all other drag queens; like the functionalist, he has an identity — he is female. He tries to define all his troubles away — but still no individuality. Not completely convinced that he's a woman, highly insecure about being sufficiently female, he conforms compulsively to the man-made feminine stereotype, ending up as nothing but a bundle of stilted mannerisms.
- ********0
Mrs. Harcourt was sitting on a low chair near the couch. She was in a delightfully fitting tea-gown, cut fairly low at the neck, with very loose sleeves. It clung to her figure as she rose to greet me, and being made of chiffon with a foundation of pink silk, it gave one the idea at first that she was practically naked.
“Bring up tea please, Juliette,” she said to the maid, who disappeared.
“So you have found your way here,” she said, coming towards me with outstretched hand.
The room was heavily scented with perfume, which I learnt came from burning pastilles, and she herself always used a mixture of sandalwood and ottar of roses. As she approached me her perfume intoxicated me, and without saying a word I clasped her in my arms and pressed long hot kisses on her lips. To my intense delight I found she had no corsets on, and her supple body bent close to mine, so that I could feel every line of it. My hands slipped down and grasped the cheeks of her bottom as I pressed her stomach close against my trousers.
- ********0
You weren't allowed to talk; whoever let out a peep got thrown into solitary. I never cried so much in my life. An old bucket-cunt veteran from the Rue Saint-Denis did her best to comfort me. She wanted to know if I was all alone, if maybe I didn't have a man, for according to her she knew someone who could spring me out of the place. I caught on fast: she was looking for a spare to work with, that was plain as day. Arid there were some inexperienced ones who fell for that line, above all those who were all the way down and out, without even the five francs you needed to pay for a separate cell( with a cot in it and a jug of water they brought every morning). I treated myself to this luxury. The next day we had to battle for the soup: a bowl of water with a chip of potato floating in it; then came another rollcall. The sick ones were taken off to Z***.
- grunttt0
too long for morning reading.
- ********0
"Hello All,
Here is Glenn’s report from Tribeca in NYC, where the
weather has been unbelievably beautiful. I just can’t
believe that people would choose to venture into a
darkened theater rather than go frolicking in Central
Park. New Yorkers. I love ‘em.Saturday’s 11 a.m. screening was at the AMC Loews
Theater in the Village. This afternoon’s screening
(3:30 p.m.) was at the AMC Loews Theater at 34th
Street in Midtown -- just blocks away from Mychal’s
friary at 31st Street. These are real movie theaters
with Raisenets and everything!Both screenings were packed -- sold out, I believe.
This afternoon, in fact, a few people were sitting in
the aisles. The screens were GIGANTIC, and the
projection and sound were amazing. The pictures and
graphics looked gorgeous. It some respects, each of
these were more powerful experiences than the opening
night at PACE, which was a very large theater.The smaller theaters provide for an even more intimate
viewing experience. Sitting in the audience, you can
hear every sniffle, cough and laugh. You can really
sense that the audience is captured by the story, and
very willing to stay with it until the end. I’m happy
to say that the laughs are pretty consistent with the
Thursday night screening (much more than I expected
all around). The tears are there as well. Of course,
these audiences have such a visceral reaction to 9/11,
but it is really Mychal's story that keeps them in
their seats.With the exception of some pipsqueak movie guy who
worked his blackberry throughout the entire third
screening, the response has been overwhelmingly
wonderful. I wish you could all be there to hear and
feel the impact your work has on the audience. It’s
very moving.After Saturday’s screening there was a lively Q and A,
which started with this wonderful (if somewhat manic)
woman who jumped up as soon as the lights came up and
shouted out from the back of the house: “I knew Mychal
Judge. He always said that ‘God is in the now.’ He was
right. God is in the now. God bless you. You did a
wonderful job.” She then proceeded to repeat this as
she exited the theater, leaving everyone smiling.A second comment which I love from another woman in
the audience who said in a quasi threatening tone --
“You could have blown this . . . but you didn’t!” She
went on to say how wonderful she thought the film was.One man in the audience said that the only problem
with the film was that he was left without anything to
feel – he had experienced so many emotions throughout
the screening he felt depleted. I prefer the term
“cathartic,” but it was a nice thing for him to have
shared.Lots of good questions about the archival footage
(including the September 10 mass) and about Mychal’s
quotes in the narration. At both screenings people
asked if they could get a copy of the script.After the Q and A both Brendan and I were approached
by many people, each with their own Mychal experience
to share. Many were crying. I loved chatting with a
husband and wife from New Jersey who were married by
Mychal. He also baptized their child. They were very
happy with the film.I then went out into the sunshine, where I was
approached by more lovely people who had connected in
very strong ways with the film.Today’s screening had some great reactions as well.
Mary Lanning was there and shared her happiness with
the film.For me, there were some other really great moments.
The first was when a woman stood up and shared with
the audience that her sister died in 9/11, while
helping a fellow coworker. In fact, today was her
sister’s birthday. She made an emotional plea for us
to get this film out to as many people as possible –
it seemed to be a healing experience for her. I was
honored that she chose to spend this special day
watching the film.The second moment was when a firefighter approached me
after the Q and A. He left the theater and felt he had
to come back to talk to me. Choking back tears, he
told me that Mychal Judge was one of the greatest men
he ever new. He said that he was at the firehouse for
the September 10 mass that we feature in the film. He
said that he wasn’t sure if he wanted to see the film
or not, and inquired at the Friary about what they
would recommend. I was so happy to hear him say that
whoever he spoke with at the friary told him to go and
see for himself. He thought we did a very good job. I
told him that I was so glad he came and we shook
hands.The third was when I spotted Mychal’s lifelong friend
and fellow friar after the screening with a big smile
and a warm handshake. He couldn’t come up with enough
accolades . . . This is the man that Brendan and I had
lunch with very early on in the project. At that time
he said that we couldn’t make a story about Mychal
without talking about his sexuality, and that any film
about Mychal would be incomplete without it.I wish you could be at each of the screenings with me.
But in that spooky technical way, you are there. In
every frame. I am grateful for the good work.I’ll report back after Thurday’s screening.
xxoo
glennP.S. In case you haven’t had a chance to google the
film (like, who hasn’t?) here are some links to some
interesting thoughts about the film and about Mychal.
Each of which should make you feel like we’ve done
something right."
- ********0
Was he a top or bottom?
- ********0
aha--ouch.
- ********0
He turned to Candy just before closing the inner-office door. “Excuse us for a minute, please,” he said.
“Yes, of course,” said the bewildered girl, and she sat down again in the chair. For a moment she could hear the murmur of their voices, then something like a door slamming and she knew the young man had left. She waited a minute but the professor did not return.
'Selfish! Selfish!' she was thinking of herself. 'To be needed by this great man! And to be only concerned with my material self!' She was horribly ashamed. 'How he needs me! And I deny him! I deny him ! Oh, how did I dare ?'
She listened, and her heart grew swollen and soft within her as she heard what was unmistakably a sob. 'Oh Prof-' she could not bear it; he was alone, weeping in his need for her—'Oh, Meph, Meph,' she started up, and toward the door. She would go to him, give herself to him—fully.
- rasko40
In human-computer interaction, cut and paste or copy and paste is a user interface paradigm for transferring text, data, files or objects from a source to a destination. Most ubiquitous is the ability to cut and paste sections of plain text. This paradigm is closely associated with graphical user interfaces that use pointing devices.
The term cut and paste derives from the traditional practice in manuscript editing in which paragraphs were literally cut from a page with scissors and physically pasted onto another page. This was standard practice as late as the 1960s. Editing scissors with blades long enough to cut an 8-1/2"-wide page were available at stationery stores. The advent of photocopiers made the practice easier and more flexible.
The cut-and-paste paradigm was widely popularized by Apple in the Lisa (1981) and Macintosh (1984) operating systems and applications. It was mapped to a key combination consisting of a special control key held down while typing the letters X (for cut), C (for copy), and V (for paste). These key combinations were later adopted by Microsoft in Windows. Common User Architecture (in Windows and OS/2) also uses combinations of the Insert, Del, Shift and Control keys. Some environments allow cutting and pasting with a computer mouse (by drag and drop, for example).
Contents
[hide]
1 Performing cut and pastes
2 Copy and paste
3 Comparison to verb-object paradigm
4 See also
[edit]
Performing cut and pastesCut and paste are very frequently performed operations. It is customary to provide several methods for performing them, such as a key combination, a pulldown menu, and a toolbar button.
The text to be moved is selected by some method, typically by dragging over the text with the pointing device.
A cut operation is performed by key combination, menu, or other means.
The visible effect of the cut is to remove the text immediately from its location.
Conceptually, the text has been moved to a location often called the clipboard. The clipboard is typically invisible. On most systems there is only one location in the clipboard, hence another cut operation overwrites the previously stored information. Multiple clipboard entries are provided by many UNIX text editors and some Windows clipboard manager programs that are available over the Internet.
A location for insertion is selected by some method, typically by clicking at the desired insertion point.
A paste operation is performed which visibly inserts the clipboard text at the insertion point.
The paste operation is nondestructive; the text remains in the clipboard and additional copies can be inserted at other points.
Whereas cut and paste is usually done with a mouse on Windows-like environment, it may also sometimes be done entirely from the keyboard, especially in UNIX text editors, such as pico or vi. The most common kind of cutting and pasting without a mouse involves the entire current line, but it may also involve text after the cursor until the end of the line and other more sophisticated operations.
When cut and paste are provided, a nondestructive operation called copy is usually provided as well; copy places a copy of the selected text in the clipboard without removing it from its original location.
The clipboard is usually not displayed, because the operations of cutting and pasting, while actually independent, are usually performed in quick succession, and the user needs no assistance in understanding the operation or maintaining mental context.
Sometimes, if a section of text is cut and a different section of text is cut after it, the first section of text will be cut out of existence, with no way to retrieve it. This only applies to cut and paste programs that can only hold one thing on the clipboard. This is usually not a problem for clipboards that can hold multiple cuts.
[edit]
Copy and pasteCopy-and-paste refers to the popular, simple method of reproducing text or other data from a source to a destination, which is only different from cut and paste in that the original source text or data is not deleted or removed as it is with the latter process.
Copying can be performed on most graphical user interface systems using the key combinations Ctrl+C (used for killing the running process in UNIX and DOS environments) or Ctrl+Ins (the former being more widely supported), or by using some other method, such as a context menu or a toolbar button. Once data have been copied into the area of memory referred to as the clipboard, they can be pasted into a destination using the key combinations Ctrl+V or Shift+Insert, or methods dependent on the system. Macintosh computers use the key combinations Command+C and Command+V. In the X Window System, selecting text copies it to a clipboard, while middle-clicking pastes.
The popularity of this method stems from its simplicity and the ease with which data can be moved between various applications without resorting to permanent storage.
- ********0
nt has reached a state of absolute decadence in which every new post is accompanied by a new screen name
- ********0
"Decadence: The Strange Life of an Epithet," Richard Gilman argues the word has no meaning as we "understand" it.
control- c, control-v
- ********0
comforting memory: when our daughter was small and she rode on my shoulders in her excitement she used to absentmindedly flick at my ears with her thumb and forefinger
- ********0
character is destiny.
how unfortunate.