My best friend and I were having trouble at school with this other kid and one night i dreamt that my best freind had been stabbed by him. Someone please tell me what this might mean.
Two boys were sitting on the wall by the jetty playing dice. A man was reading a newspaper on the steps of a monument in the shadow of a hero wielding a sabre. A young girl was filling her tub with water at a fountain. A fruit seller was lying close to his produce and looking out to sea. Through the empty openings of the door and window of a bar two men could be seen drinking wine in the back. The landlord was sitting at a table in the front dozing. A small boat glided lightly into the small harbour, as if it were being carried over the water. A man in a blue jacket climbed out onto land and pulled the ropes through the rings. Behind the man from the boat, two other men in dark coats with silver buttons carried a bier, on which, under a large silk scarf with a floral pattern and fringe, a man was obviously lying.
No one bothered with the newcomers on the jetty, even when they set the bier down to wait for their helmsman, who was still working with the ropes. No one came up to them, no one asked them any questions, no one took a closer look at them.
The helmsman was further held up a little by a woman with disheveled hair, who now appeared on deck with a child at her breast. Then he came on, pointing to a yellowish two-story house which rose close by, directly on the left near the water. The bearers took up their load and carried it through the low door furnished with slender columns. A small boy opened a window, noticed immediately how the group was disappearing into the house, and quickly shut the window again. The door closed. It had been fashioned with care out of black oak wood. A flock of doves, which up to this point had been flying around the bell tower, came down in front of the house. The doves gathered before the door, as if their food was stored inside the house. One flew right up to the first floor and pecked at the window pane. They were brightly coloured, well cared for, lively animals. With a large sweep of her hand the woman on the boat threw some seeds towards them. They ate them up and then flew over to the woman.
A man in a top hat with a mourning ribbon came down one of the small, narrow, steeply descending lanes which led to the harbour. He looked around him attentively. Everything upset him. He winced at the sight of some garbage in a corner. There were fruit peels on the steps of the monument. As he went by, he pushed them off with his cane. He knocked on the door of the house, while at the same time taking off his top hat with his black-gloved right hand. It was opened immediately, and about fifty small boys, lined up in two rows in a long corridor, bowed to him.
The helmsman came down the stairs, met the gentleman, and led him upstairs. On the first floor he accompanied him around the slight, delicately built balcony surrounding the courtyard, and, as the boys crowded behind them at a respectful distance, both men stepped into a large cool room at the back. From it one could not see a facing house, only a bare gray-black rock wall. Those who had carried the bier were busy setting up and lighting some long candles at its head. But these provided no light. They only made the previously still shadows jump and flicker across the walls. The shawl was pulled back off the bier. On it lay a man with wildly unkempt hair and beard and a brown skin—he looked rather like a hunter. He lay there motionless, apparently without breathing, his eyes closed, although his surroundings were the only the only thing indicating that it could be a corpse.
The gentleman stepped over to the bier, laid a hand on the forehead of the man lying there, then knelt down and prayed. The helmsman gave a sign to the bearers to leave the room. They went out, drove away the boys who had gathered outside, and shut the door. The gentleman, however, was apparently still not satisfied with this stillness. He looked at the helmsman. The latter understood and went through a side door into the next room. The man on the bier immediately opened his eyes, turned his face with a painful smile towards the gentleman, and said, “Who are you?” Without any surprise, the gentleman got up from his kneeling position and answered, “The burgomaster of Riva.”
The man on the bier nodded, pointed to a chair by stretching his arm out feebly, and then, after the burgomaster had accepted his invitation, said, “Yes, I knew that, Burgomaster, but when I first glance around I’ve always forgotten it all—everything is going in circles around me, and it’s better for me to ask, even when I know everything. You also presumably know that I am the hunter Gracchus.”
“Of course,” said the burgomaster. “I received the news today, during the night. We had been sleeping for some time. Then around midnight my wife called, ‘Salvatore’—that’s my name—‘look at the dove in the window!’ It was really a dove, but as large as a rooster. It flew up to my ear and said, ‘Tomorrow the dead hunter Gracchus is coming. Welcome him in the name of the city.”
The hunter nodded and pushed the tip of his tongue between his lips. “Yes, the doves fly here before me. But do you believe, Burgomaster, that I am to remain in Riva?”
“That I cannot yet say,” answered the burgomaster. “Are you dead?”
“Yes,” said the hunter, “as you see. Many years ago—it must have been a great many years ago—I fell from a rock in the Black Forest—that’s in Germany—as I was tracking a chamois. Since then I’ve been dead.”
“But you’re also alive,” said the burgomaster.
“To a certain extent,” said the hunter, “to a certain extent I am also alive. My death ship lost its way—a wrong turn of the helm, a moment when the helmsman was not paying attention, a distraction from my wonderful homeland—I don’t know what it was. I only know that I remain on the earth and that since that time my ship has journeyed over earthly waters. So I—who only wanted to live in my own mountains—travel on after my death through all the countries of the earth.”
“And have you no share in the world beyond?” asked the burgomaster wrinkling his brow.
The hunter answered, “I am always on the immense staircase leading up to it. I roam around on this infinitely wide flight of steps, sometimes up, sometimes down, sometimes to the right, sometimes to the left, always in motion. From being a hunter I’ve become a butterfly. Don’t laugh.”
“I’m not laughing,” answered the burgomaster.
“That’s very considerate of you,” said the hunter. “I am always moving. But when I go through the greatest upward motion and the door is shining right above me, I wake up on my old ship, still drearily stranded in some earthly stretch of water. The basic mistake of my earlier death grins at me in my cabin. Julia, the wife of the helmsman, knocks and brings to me on the bier the morning drink of the country whose coast we are sailing by at the time. I lie on a wooden plank bed, wearing—I’m no delight to look at—a filthy shroud, my hair and beard, black and gray, are inextricably intertangled, my legs covered by a large silk women’s scarf, with a floral pattern and long fringes. At my head stands a church candle which illuminates me. On the wall opposite me is a small picture, evidently of a bushman aiming his spear at me and concealing himself as much as possible behind a splendidly painted shield. On board ship one comes across many stupid pictures, but this is one of the stupidest. Beyond that my wooden cage is completely empty. Through a hole in the side wall the warm air of the southern nights comes in, and I hear the water lapping against the old boat.
I have been lying here since the time when I—the still living hunter Gracchus—was pursuing a chamois to its home in the Black Forest and fell. Everything took place as it should. I followed, fell down, bled to death in a ravine, was dead, and this boat was supposed to carry me to the other side. I still remember how happily I stretched myself out here on the planking for the first time. The mountains have never heart me singing the way these four still shadowy walls did then.
I had been happy to be alive and was happy to be dead. Before I came on board, I gladly threw away my rag-tag collection of guns and bags, even the hunting rifle which I had always carried so proudly, and slipped into the shroud like a young girl into her wedding dress. There I lay down and waited. Then the accident happened.”
“A nasty fate,” said the burgomaster, raising his hand in a gesture of depreciation, “and you are not to blame for it in any way?”
“No,” said the hunter. “I was a hunter. Is there any blame in that? I was raised to be a hunter in the Black Forest, where at that time there were still wolves. I lay in wait, shot, hit the target, removed the skin—is there any blame in that? My work was blessed. ‘The great hunter of the Black Forest’—that’s what they called me. Is that something bad?”
“It not up to me to decide that,” said the burgomaster, “but it seems to me as well that there’s no blame there. But then who is to blame?”
“The boatman,” said the hunter. “No one will read what I write here, no one will come to help me. If people were assigned the task of helping me, all the doors of all the houses would remain closed, all the windows would be shut, they would all lie in bed, with sheets thrown over their heads, the entire earth would be a hostel for the night. And that makes good sense, for no one knows of me, and if he did, he would have no idea of where I was staying, and if he knew that, he would still not know how to keep me there, and so he would not know how to help me. The thought of wanting to help me is a sickness and has to be cured with bed rest.
“I know that, and so I do not cry out to summon help, even if at moments when I have no self-control, for example right now, I do think about that very seriously. But to get rid of such ideas I need only look around and recall where I am and where—and this I can assert with full confidence—I have lived for centuries.
“That’s extraordinary,” said the burgomaster, “extraordinary. And now are you intending to remain with us in Riva?”
“I have no intentions,” said the hunter with a smile and, to make up for his mocking tone, laid a hand on the burgomaster’s knee. “I am here. I don’t know any more than that. There’s nothing more I can do. My boat is without a helm—it journeys with the wind which blows in the deepest regions of death.”
Example: Can a 14 year old get lipo? ?
ok im 14 and 248 lbs. can i get liposuction?
These mountains I love
of a fist
that hold your dreams to the ground
while a ghost-woman boards the city buses
you knew, lifts her eyes to another horizon,
living the life you planned.
A thousand lived like hers move
through Santiago, invisible as a decade without days,
Their colours bled out through the last
open doors of Chile
while Victor Jara curled his soul in his fist
and threw it to a cold star
and Allende died.
In the streets near your home
a ghost-woman moves
through walls that were not yet built,
through trees that have grown surprisingly
in fourteen years.
To know you
is to learn to resist beauty
of the single red rose in a glass.
It could not belong on my table
were it not for the roots and leaves,
the possibility of fruit,
that is only cut once.
Example: Why won't they just assimilate?
Ted Kennedy’s Immigration Reform Act of 1965 has created a situation in which 85 percent of our immigrants hail from the Third World and Asia, this portends the destruction of the western civilization that has given us everything we hold dear, from our freedom to our prosperity.
With Moslems and Mexicans on the march from Maine to Monterey, this should be obvious. Yet, the gravity of this situation still eludes many, sedated as they are with bread and circuses. So let’s discuss assimilation.
Assimilation is not a process magically initiated upon setting foot on American terra firma. Rather, it only occurs when one or both of two conditions are met: The foreign elements must have a desire to assimilate or the host nation must place pressure on them to do so. Unfortunately, neither is the case today because both immigrants and native-born Americans are far different than they once were.
I’ve pointed out that a nation allows its stabilizing majority to disappear at its own peril (unprecedented Third World immigration has reduced America’s European-heritage population from almost 90 percent to about 66 percent in just a little more than four decades). But a critic could rightly mention that white Americans weren’t always viewed so monolithically. When our nation saw a huge influx of Irish, Italian and German immigrants, there was often great group conflict; ethnic slurs passed lips and fights were not uncommon (amazing how they negotiated this period without “hate crime” laws, huh?). Yet, there was a difference.
Immigrants: Today vs. Yesteryear
The M&M invasion (Moslems and Mexicans) is distinguished from previous immigrant waves by a feeling of entitlement. A Zogby poll found that 58 percent of Mexicans believe California and the Southwest rightly belong to them. Although this belief is bred by a tendentious view of history, it doesn’t change the end result. It has spawned groups such as Movimiento Estudiantil Chicano de Aztlan (MEChA), which advocates conquering the Southwest in the name of Mexico. More significantly, it causes many average Mexicans to have no compunction about imposing their culture and language on the country that has so generously given them succor.
Where Mexicans exhibit ethnic patriotism, Moslems manifest religious chauvinism. Far too many pious Moslems believe they have been enjoined to impose their faith on others by any means necessary; this is why they will unabashedly demand concessions, such as their own dormitories at colleges and an Arabic public school in New York City. It’s also why they have fought for the right to use sharia law to settle civil disputes in Canada.
This lies in stark contrast to the behavior of yesterday’s immigrants. Like anyone else, they certainly felt comfortable in the bosom of their own subculture; yet, they knew they were in another’s land and never viewed accommodation by their host nation as a birthright, and any ethnic patriotism harbored was often trumped by the dream of becoming American. Unfortunately, today’s immigrants’ dream is often our nightmare, one from which we could arise if only, if only, if only. . . .
Looking at the American in the Mirror
Walt Kelly wrote, “We have met the enemy and he is us.” The truth is that when assigning blame, our feet are where the majority must lie. There was a time when Americans, like most nationalities, took pride in their culture and defended it with manly fortitude. Today, though, after decades of imbuing the modern mind with the “Hey, hey, ho, ho, western culture’s gotta go!” mentality, this is no longer the case. Too many of us have imbibed the multiculturalist malt, with its evenhanded principle stating that others have a right to their cultures and we have a right to them, too. But this philosophical shift has been addressed before, so let’s discuss a nuts and bolts aspect of the problem.
Many of us understand how government actively thwarts assimilation by pandering to foreign elements. Our government will print official documents in other languages (the standard California driver’s license test is available in 32 of them) just so those without enough respect to learn our national tongue can collect our national treasure and cast votes for those who lavish it upon them. But this isn’t where governmental complicity in this problem ends.
Traditionally, Americans never relied on government to achieve most goals, and ensuring assimilation was no exception. Many years ago, for instance, if a person insisted on dressing like an advertisement for the Middle Ages, didn’t learn the language or sought to impose strange beliefs in the workplace, he would have been fired or not hired in the first place. What this means is that the Moslem clerks and cab drivers who, respectively, won’t ring up pork and won’t pick up passengers with alcohol or seeing-eye dogs would have either changed their ways or returned to where ways don’t change. This enforcement of tradition through individual initiative is what every non-western country does and makes sense. If you’re so enamored of your native ways, stay in your native land.
If you tried this today, though, you’d receive a treatment from the proctologist of government bureaucracies, the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission. Yes, because freedom of association has been trumped by lawless judges, citizens have lost control over their businesses, rental properties and, in many cases, organizations. Privately owned and financed entities can no longer determine who receives paychecks, who will be served and who will be rented to, thus removing the social pressure to conform that the common man would naturally apply via the exercise of his values in his castle. Likewise, local school boards have been robbed of the right to set dress codes and behavior standards reflecting the surrounding community. What this means is now you can’t refuse to hire a cross-dressing Colombian from Cartagena on the basis that he is a cross-dressing Colombian from Cartagena. Ah, it sounds almost Jeffersonian . . . almost. We’ve now traded liberty for perversity.
America is being erased. The stabilizing majority that forged her unique culture is being eroded through the importation of culturally imperialistic forces by treasonous politicians. And traitors they are, and be not faint-hearted in saying so. After all, if this happened anywhere but in western nations, the lamentation over this cultural imperialism would be staggering. Just imagine if the majority population of Nigeria or Cambodia were rapidly being replaced with European one. The only question would be whether the nation they hailed from would be targeted by only stupid bureaucrats or also smart bombs.
It’s time for at least a ten-year moratorium on immigration. I know, I know, “What radicalism!” bellows the left. But since this is the set that extols the virtue of constant change, even telling us “truth” changes, it’s ironic. In the world of the leftist Utopian vision, immigration is the one constant in an ever-changing Universe.
Albert Einstein once said a definition of insanity is “. . . doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results.” Given that we have a greatly diminished sense of national identity, Moslem terrorists blending into a multicultural mish-mash, Spanish supplanting English, and Mexican flags going up while American ones come down, should we really stay the course?
The M&M invasion sympathizers may call me names, but I’ll simply render a diagnosis: They’re insane. They have turned immigration into an institution. It’s time for it to be institutionalized.
i found the answer interesting, can u guess correctly?
can u also guess which city it was credited for naming it first?
Example: Did i eat healthy or not?
Breakfast; 1 cup of Cheerios & 1/2 of whole milk.
Lunch; 1/2 of a 1 piece of a bologna slice and 1/2 slice of swiss cheese on 1 piece of whole wheat.
Dinner; 1/2 cup of applesauce & a ceasar salad with 5 crutons.
Im 88-92 lbs 5'2 & 13
Im thinking ill still be hungry so idk
How many calories & how unhealthy?
It's about a girl (age 14) who lives in the under world and it's based in medieval times. She has got powers and their are mythical creatures that i made up in it. I know it's not perfect, but it's a start. Please tell me what you think. Or parts you think i should change :D
It's night, not that you can tell the difference here. I stand still and silent, looking through the small gap in my curtain. If I was caught looking I would probably be killed, or tortured. No one really knows what would happen to you. The Last Witch is walking down the street, doing the daily routine with several body guards trailing behind her. It's not like anybody would try to attack her though, everyone’s way to scared to even look at her. We don't know why she does this, maybe it's so she can see her kingdom, but why do it at night then? Her long, dark purple dress that looks Gothic, it brushes the ground as she walks proudly down the village.
The houses all have timber frames, the wooden parts of the building are painted black or brown and the bricks are white or cream. In the upper world, where all the humans and basic creatures live they're known as Tudor houses, that’s what my Dad told me. We made them first though, not them. I don't understand what he meant, because I don't know what a Tudor is. Our roads and paths are made from stone. Were lucky here because we have more countryside then most places. Even when no plants, grass, fruit or vegetables grow here, but we have a lot of mud. We have very few trees, and the ones we do have are rotten and dead, I think it would be a dream to see a living one.
The Last Witch has been in charge for the last 200 hundred years, that's what my Dad told me anyway. He said she is the most powerful witch to of ever lived, but I don't believe that. In The Village Of Malum, everyone is immortal, we get to a certain age then we stay like that forever, unless we get killed. I think she just wants people to think she's evil and twisted. She has no family or friends apparently she murdered them to be queen. I don't think she would do that, but they did seem to disappear.
I open the curtains a tiny bit more and peer down at the guards, the Hell Demons. Demented creatures with black burnt wings, sharp brown craws, silver armour on their arms, legs and heads. Their orange skin looks crusted and dry, it match’s their souls. I know all about them. Their in my families book of shadows. My ancestors kept them as pets to help them understand what they were like. They're one of the most powerful demons, they can set you on fire in a few seconds using only their eyes. I've never heard them speak, I don't think they can, they just walk round acting weird. It turns, looking me dead in the eyes. Peering straight into my soul. I move quickly so it can't see me. I walk over to my bed, I don't dare look to see if it's seen me. A rush of panic fills inside me, I could be dead in a few seconds. I lie in bed, listening to the guards clatter down the road. I close my eyes and try to stay calm, eventually falling a sleep.
We all know that Mubarak was a Zionist sock puppet, who participated on the siege of Gaza. Now Bashar al Assad is a key ally of Iran and Hezbollah, but unlike Hezbollah he has never entered in any direct military confrontations with the Zionists, despite their occupation of the Golan heights. The removal of Mubarak brought a Muslim Brotherhood backed government to power in Egypt, who still continue to reluctantly maintain the Camp David agreement (for now).
Now five things are different in Syria:
1) The revolution is now being lead by mostly Sunni defected soldiers/officers and Muslim militias. Many of these rebels have connections with Hamas. These rebels could very well arm groups like Hamas in exchange for supporting their revolution.
2) Unlike Egypt, Syria doesn't have a peace agreement with the Zionist entity nor do they recognize it as legitimate. This means that Syria never received any funding from the US, their economy does not depend on maintaining peace with the Zionist entity.
3) Syria possesses the world's largest stockpile of Chemical and Biological weapons, if the rebels manage to take control over those weapons a small amount may end up in the hands of Hamas. While I doubt that Hamas would fire them at the occupied territories directly, they could possibly use those agents in suicide bombings or other forms of guerrilla warfare. In other words it would be extremely difficult for the Zionist regime to stop the spreading of fatal viruses, extreme fall out or deadly toxins etc.
4) The Zionist regime still controls the Golan Heights and the rebels consider it as Syrian territory, they will most likely come back for it once Assad has been defeated. Unlike former Egyptian President Anwar Sadat, the Syrian rebels would never recognize the Zionist entity in return for their land. Many Syrians view the Zionists and Assad as one and the same (both as occupiers of Syrian land and oppressors of the Syrian people).
5) Assad allowed Hamas to operate in Syria, Mubarak did not. Aren't you guys surprised how Hamas decided to abandoned the Assad regime ever since the start of the Syrian revolution? It's pretty simple, Hamas must have gotten an offer from the closely affiliated Syria rebels, an offer they would never dream of getting from Assad. Why else would they abandon a regime which allowed them to operate within their own country?
Hey so I have this idea for a sci-fi story and I want to know whether it’s any good. Please let me know what you think.
Andrew lives in the greyscape, a colorless world of eternal dark and silence. While he is fully capable both physically and mentally, he is still considered disabled by society. This is because he and the others of his kind are nightwalkers—the duds of society—while the rest are dreamwalkers—the inhabitants of the dreamscape. Dreamwalkers are telepathic, and as a result, their society is radically different from our own. For instance, dreamwalkers have no need for a written or spoken language—they simply communicate their thoughts and feelings from mind to mind. Even sexual experiences are synthetic. And they don’t have to go to school—knowledge is simply passed down from generation to generation. In fact, even the arts are entirely nonexistent. Games, movies, and music have all been traded in for the ultimate form of entertainment—dream sharing. People haven’t been making things for years. They simply think them up, and they become real in the dreamscape. But as a result, the rest of society lives in ignorance of the colorful world shining invisibly above their heads as they walk through the harsh, cold greyscape.
Andrew is one of the nightwalkers. He is viewed as a burden to society, the spoiled fruit of his family tree. As they cannot communicate with him telepathically, they use the spoken language of the nightwalkers when referring to him, but are embarrassed to do so in public as it is deemed uncivilized to screech like an animal. But most of the year they simply send him to an Alternative Institution. It isn’t long before the government decides to separate the walkers of night and dream. The two worlds are simply incompatible, and it’s considered civilly unfair. It’s just too easy for a dreamwalker to take advantage of a nightwalker. And besides, what dreamwalker in their right mind would think of marrying a nightwalker? So the government creates a special camp where nightwalkers can be with their own kind. As a result, Andrew is separated from his family. At first, the compound doesn’t seem all too bad. There are others like him, and they are protected by psychic guards. But before long they realize that the compound is a prison designed to keep the undesirable off the privileged streets. They live in poor conditions. They soon realize that they aren’t meant to survive more than a few generations in captivity, and eventually it is hoped for that they will simply die out. Andrew becomes involved in an underground organization that hopes to liberate themselves from dreamwalker control. But how can you keep a secret from a mind-reader? Andrew has the brilliant idea of doing what their ancestors did, and he invents a written language that the mind-readers won’t be able to understand.
A lot more stuff happens, but that’s the main idea. What do you think? It’s supposed to be about ghetto society and the way we treat the disabled.