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Among the weeds and broken slabs of concrete lay a corpse, the body of a man the mob had strangled and dumped the night before. And by the way get this dummy propped up. And remind me to send a note to the Special Effects Department. Those guys are getting really good with rubber and plastic. I got lucky and won. The men brought the fridge and put it in the center of my room They plugged it in. It worked. I was delighted. My friends came over. I stood before it proudly. I opened the door and showed them the ice in the freezer compartment.
They knew they were both wrong. She got lucky and won. They plugged it in. After they left she went out in the backyard and smoked a cigarette. She blew dozens of smoke rings at the moon They spelled out two words. The moon was delighted. Go head, point to your boots number the number of times you had to climb down to the cities to have new soles nailed on because of all the hours you spent in the lava bedrooms of your mother fucking earth. Get out your old jeans too, the ones with the holes in the pockets and the patches on the knees, the ones that were gouged by antlers and plucked by grizzly claws.
Tell me about the sidewinder belt you used to wear until it slithered away one night when you were asleep, and how you carried fishhooks in your fly when you fished the streams and built log cabins in your eyes. Tell me about the campfires on which you used to roast entire antelope on toasted loaves and mushrooms between your toes. I like the part about the gun when you went shooting elk and came back loaded down with a dozen of sacks of groceries. Then I saw a man a runner in a red shirt he was way up ahead coming in on the Cemetery Road he turned up the Dreve and got smaller and smaller where will they bury the Famous Stranger?
I got into the village I walked down the boulevard like a Sherman tank full of Famous Strangers. Bird a Superman turd? Golden Gate Park, hot summer Sunday afternoon, bumper to bumper sprawlcrawl with the sun bouncing off all the chrome and me, Jesus Christ, keeping the old religion alive, with a head full of acid and not a clue about how I was going to get to the other side of the road.
The forests held a beauty contest and the losers had to walk to the ocean and set themselves on fire. The shape of my face under the mask of my pressed palms and fingers is not the same face I see in the mirror. This morning I worked in the garden and graced myself with a bracelet of nettle stings.
ARNO, AGE 4 painted for us a beautiful picture on the courtyard pavement out of dried twigs and palm-size chunks of coal. There are many benefits in not speaking the language. One of them is learning how to shut up. I want to speak to Mr. Gobble De Gook. Why do they show all these terrible people on TV? Larry King has them live all the time. Horrible humans filled with hate and greed their faces twisted with evil their eyesockets empty just holes thru which you can see the squirming worms packed into their skulls.
Never answering a question but always sidestepping it as if any kind of truth could be a trap even the time of day. Faking belief.
Shouting propaganda. Spouting poison. Licking hundred dollar bills and picking their fangs with sharpened claws. Just one or two maybe? Or have the slow-burn fascists exterminated them all and only the Uglies, the Haters, the Mental Mutants, the Monsters are available for comment and expert opinions? The watchdogs have been tamed and shot full of junk. These horrible humans are convinced that they and their kind rule the world. What an illusion. Even a blind man can see that their method of control is dedicated to the destruction of the world.
The headline reads:. He just snuck in like a baby rapist and plastered his message on my chair. It feels like he shit in my eyes. Sneak Freaks! They creep under your fingernails and crawl up inside your skin where they wiggle around like worms and suck on your nerves. The cops are pulling cars over to test the drivers for alcoholic intoxication make the them walk the white line touch their fingertips to their noses blow a balloon.
Then the police chief takes out a ping pong ball gun and shoots their mouths full of ping pong balls. My brain chemistry sucked for so long really sucked all that nicotine all those noxious gases and lack of oxygen. I stopped smoking four years ago or rather smoking lost interest in me and walked away. How did I do it? Puffing on all those rolled rice papers packed full of tobacco inhaling hundreds of thousands of lungfuls of smoke desperately pumping the nicotine into my bloodstream and praying it would numb my nerves.
I lie down to sleep wait for sleep to come sometimes I wait all night sometimes sleep never comes. My face? I sit on the quay above the Schelde legs dangling, leaning over looking down into the wash of the out-going tide. Try to become a Jew. They might think that a runaway wheel chair with a cripple screaming for salvation is funny.
Have I got news for them. Maybe they think this is a piece of cake. Divine Comedy? Forget it. If Aphrodite is slapping her knees there must be a mosquito nearby. Now I carry these pieces of cardboard with me everywhere I go. What happened? How did I become so attached to these pieces of cardboard? They have other things like tear-strainers for their eyes when crying is unavoidable they have autographed caveman bones guaranteed to be authentic but they never told me about their pieces of cardboard.
Maybe they have them but keep it a secret. Not me. These pieces of cardboard have become public knowledge. They stick to me like rumors. There is nothing specific about them that I like. Who can say that I will not be remembered as the guy who had a few pieces of cardboard? How can you forget a guy like that? As time slips by I find myself dating past events in a gradual escalation of years.
How did it get to be 44 years since I started doing adult-like things? How did my son suddenly become 27? Did I miss something? I might have missed it all. That was 45 years ago. When you get to heaven time stops. Have we run out of luck at last? When you fell on the steps of Place St.
Lambert and twisted your ankle and broke your bone and clawed a fingernail hole in the front of my new Greenpeace sweater to keep you from falling farther and breaking more bones I was quick to ask myself: have we finally run out of luck? When I got my head smashed by various pieces of hard wood 3 times in the same day my first thought was have we run out of luck?
Our guardian angels are backing off and giving the earth spirits a chance to run the show all we have to do is carry on and never fool ourselves into believing that we might be control. We have a large bowl of wheat. I gathered the grains from the fields this summer. The gods have plenty to eat. When I came racing around the corner motor roaring, tires squealing kicking up shoulder dust I was ready for strange adventures ready for whiplashes of wild roses and werewolf parties ready for lost weekends and leap years.
I stopped. She got in. I was never like the brown bear who sat on a hill and watched a mysterious woman drop a mysterious box into a river. He looked at the woman for a minute then he looked at the river for another then he turned and trotted away. Every time a mysterious woman drops a mysterious box in the river I have to jump in and open it up. I was helpless when she asked me if I knew my way around. The maps in my head crumbled to dust and I was helpless.
This is the second time today. I never liked it when she started talking about old boyfriends. She ruined their names by pronouncing them. What a strange social and biological set-up like ducks in a shooting gallery. Fact is : she never knew anything about me as I knew next to nothing about her yet we got along Just fine. Most of the time. Some girlfriends become wives and some girlfriends become the girls the wives become jealous of.
Strange how we never need reason when it comes to all the important stuff. The stuff that shapes your life. We meet again after 40 years all that sweat seems impossible now nights of held breath mad dashes from one hiding place to the next stopping the car in the middle of midnight to race on foot thru a dense forest shouting OVER HERE strolling on mist shrouded beach at low tide curled up in a cubbyhole by the stove on cold linoleum floor at 4 a. The cheerleaders loved me and my trombone. We took a walk along the river twilight I skipped flat stones out across the water showing her my skill letting her know I was clever and could be counted on to protect her from the fierce mountain lion and the devious rattlesnake.
Her words become a blur. But who were we kidding? Only ourselves. A widow with a year and a half of empty arms and a good-hearted cowboy who needed a broom horse to ride. Who were we kidding? Not even the canary in the cage or the cat up in the rafters snapping at his tail. By then we were way past trying to fool the cat and the canary.
We had other fish to skin and mud puddles to fry. The girlfriend never drove. She never paid. She would chew gum and sometimes smoke But basically her job was to look good. Her earrings were miniature maracas and her ears seemed to be hissing every time she turned her head.
Girlfriend cuts and slices chops and dices spreads like butter on a slice of warm bread and tastes like strawberry jam. As for breakfast bring me peaches on pancakes the salt of the earth and tequila on lemon. They say you can see her coming. Not true. Never true. She always catches you by surprise. Girlfriends and Farmerwives. She lived next door. She was only 17, divorced, sort of almost innocent asking nothing from life but an honest break and maybe a chance to laugh and chase the blues away once in a while. We lay in a hollow of grass in a public park past midnight huddled under a blanket listening to the footsteps of perverts shuffle thru the leaves.
I had the force of ten men I could leap over small cliffs and large motorcycles I could run marathons and circles around the sun I could play the piano with 8 hands and 14 feet I could hold off the rain with one raised fist and paint rainbows across the sky with the tips of my fingers I could breathe in ocean storms and blow out candles in the Amazon. A photo she kept hidden in the bottom of the bottom of a bottomless bus station locker and refused to show anyone except her mother. We were going to have lots of fun. We were to grow up and go to Paris. We were going to learn everything in school then march around collecting money and giving everyone with polio a dime.
We were going to read every book in the library out loud to each other We got up to page 15 of the 7th book and switched to diving. We were going to master the jack knife and win gold medals in the Olympics. We were going to run the mile and break the world record. We were going to sit in the Red Dog Saloon and drink each other under the table. We were going to teach each other how to play the guitar then go out and join a country band and pretend we were Waylon Jennings and Tammy Wynette.
We were going to give dance lessons to all the animals in the zoo. We would teach koala bears how to do the Alligator teach turtles how to do the Monkey, teach the hippos how to do the Camel Walk, and flamingos how to Walk the Dog. There were hours when we were invincible, invulnerable but nobody ever noticed us not even the street sweepers and we never got to Paris either.
She sent me a postcard from Hawaii. She tried to convince me it was her picture on the front, the girl in the grass skirt playing a ukulele. I sent her a postcard from Reno, Nevada with a picture of the snazziest hotel in town. She wanted me to be her Mark McGwire and hit a homerun season. I bunted into a double play and hung up my spikes. She wanted me to be her Popeye so I ate some spinach and my skin turned green. She told her friends I was becoming a shrub. When I started losing my leaves, she left me out in the garden at night with all the other bushes.
I wanted her to be my spice girl She tried cinnamon and she tried cloves She tried curry and soya sauce She spread a pint of rum-soaked ice cream on her face and lost her smile an hour later. She jammed chilli peppers under her tongue and went for the super-hot goodnight kiss that left me with blistered lips and glowing teeth. She wanted shirtless Australian surfers with year old sun-tanned muscles but instead got a geek with glasses and a scrawny body covered with sand. She wanted a smooth-talking, longtall Texan and she got a broken-down brakeman from the Rhode Island Line. She wanted a suave, debonair soap opera announcer the man who did the voice-overs by day and at night was a contrabasso, bari-tenortone in the real opera downtown, who sang lead roles in Tannhauser and Rigoletto, but instead she got me the kid who used to sprint the length of the pasture with a half-size football under his arm and dodge the cow pies as if they were real vicious tacklers from Notre Dame trying their best to keep him from scoring a windmill touchdown.
The crowds we lost ourselves in. Throngs of lost lovers. Flocks of fleeting Memory Ducks paint-brushing us into a corner with weathered wings. Names nibbling at our nerves with numbered teeth. Herds of Rumor Cows, stampedes of Story-Stallions, a gang of Gossip Gorillas, heavy-booted Reputation Goats running roughshod over our most populated areas.
She was my biggest city, my favorite metropolis. She was filled with movie theaters and art galleries, planetariums, jazz clubs and Mexican restaurants. Her streets were perfect for skateboarding. Her streetcars ran on time. Her taxi drivers were polite and courteous. I climbed her skyscrapers and rode her elevators to the top floors. I shopped in her department stores and I robbed her banks. I was caught trying to escape into the labyrinth of tunnels in her subway system. Her cops dragged me off to her jail. Her courts condemned me to 30 minutes of hard labor as an ambulance driver for her hospitals.
She let me off after 30 seconds of good behavior. I promised never to rob her banks again. Then I hot-wired the ambulance and turned a joy ride into an exodus and ended up in one of her smaller towns in the south. I was a total stranger there. I lived at the Green Iguana Motel I bowled a perfect game at her bowling alley I ate the blue plate special at her greasy spoon. Her local newspaper wrote me up in her gossip columns, and her Sheriff finally caught up with me as I was shooting a losing game of pool in the backroom of The Swamp.
It was the ambulance that did me in. She looked good wearing the river as a pair of liquid shoes which flowed together and spread from shore to shore. She looked good wearing that mask thru the eyeholes of which you could see the sky. There were moments when a bee or a butterfly flitted thru a hole and turned her face into a pastoral landscape.
You could hear the chirp of crickets in her ears. She kicked the winning goal in the World Cup Soccer final and we all watched in amazement as the ball turned into a cloud of exploding confetti. She was my fortune cookie. She could slip into my future, put it on like a sock, then come back and tell me how it fit. She was better at lunches and dinners.
She always had trouble with the frozen peas. Sometimes they would turn into tiny crystal balls into which you could stare and see dozens upon dozens of different tomorrows. When they changed Price Row to Via Ferlinghetti Bobolink came up with a poem about how it was a shame they chose a short dead-end alley to honor the poet.
Everyone agrees. Bobolink wanted to know. Hayrides under a full moon, filled with girls ready to explode under the pressure of harvest hormones of male bodies prone to procreation. It was the last straw. The Chief was irate. They do not walk poetic paths. And look at all the destruction they left behind. Where is the shaman to lead us out of our misery and aching teeth? Where is the teacher to lead us out of the low-down high-schools and away from those barracks on the other side of the university library? For them, it was a momentous day It was the last days of their lives. I killed them all.
Columbus was a butcher alive today he would be convicted and executed for crimes against humanity he chopped up the Indians and fed them to the crocodiles they were in his way he wanted the gold he wanted ocean front property. Praise is a good thing for all artists painters, poets, novelists, sculptors, film-makers, composers it keeps you going it keeps the channels open it provides nourishment and surprise. Are we supposed to believe that these various industries are doing anything more than applauding themselves?
Cruise controlled on the high desert roads of Eastern Oregon New Country on the radio knowing that the most horrible thing in the world could happen to you at any moment. The old man wore a new pair of work boots. They were stiff. His body lacked the vigor and flexibility to break them in. His feet lacked the spunk. It would be a long time before they were even half broken in and even then they would not bear the scars and wrinkles of a younger man.
Still he persisted and wore only these new work boots. They swallowed his feet like leather eggshells. Why would anyone want to go down to Geezer Beach? In the Geezer League. For racers over sixty. Ten races a season. April to October. The Geezer League. Why do I have to heap all the memories of these life-defining moments on poor grandma? I was raised by an uncle who felt only contempt for me. I refused to slaughter the rabbits. I refused to skin the deer he shot.
My uncle did that once in awhile. He whipped me with a belt too. He boxed my ears because I listened to music. He died of lung cancer, a nasty, old man. Who knows?
Week of October 14, - The Authors Guild
I may end up the same. They want us for their Christian Scientist experiments. Nuttier than a fruitcake. You called ME a bastard? You called ME a fucking son of a bitch? YOU called ME a fucking son of an asshole? Short pieces of string. Shorter pieces of string. And pieces of string too short to be useful — but you never can tell.
All that music you play. Stick with the Saroyan.
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You are only seven years old. What were you thinking of? You should expect to receive it within the next two days. I was raised to lean that way the H-bomb could drop at any moment and wipe out us kids beyond imagination in the blink of an eye. You have nothing to fear You are in the safest place in the world : an American elementary school classroom. Come to Marlboro Country and some of us walked a mile and got fooled right out of our filter tip souls and came limping home full of holes.
Observe the way he babbles and burps rumbles and farts you will be amazed to know that he has no control over his body functions in this state of hibernation. We just wandered in. What kind of posters? I like the bigger darkrooms. We NEED bigger darkrooms. Now all of this happens from to AM every Wednesday night, please note, every Wednesday night.
He never went to the Cockring. He went to the Magic Theater. But over here, down in the corner is a poster that even Harry Haller could clap his hands over. I want to see the Easter Bunnies. Fourth Grade. New kid in school. First day. Scared shitless. First class after lunch. I make it half way before the need to take a piss hits my body. I hold back. Afraid to raise my hand.
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What am I going to say? Everybody will laugh. The need hits like a flood. I stare at the clock on the wall the minute hand clicks slowly a quarter to two clicks another notch. I feel the warm liquid leaking down my leg I look down and see a small puddle gather around my shoes. Miss Petray told them this morning to make me feel welcome. The classroom is empty. November 12, , 2 am standing in the pitch-dark field tilted downhill knees bent taking a leak and thinking :. But back in 53 I was milking cows morning and night and thinking about Shirley and Suzie and Patti and Jeanie and Betty squeezing those tits and thinking about Betty and Jeanie and Patti and Suzie and Shirley from morning to night.
Navy sailors staggering drunk down the midway with their arms around fat bar girls who were clutching kewpie dolls blowing pink bubbles of gum and scattering the shells of peanuts. I stood looking down into the bin at the old bike in its new home with all the other forgotten scraps of metal thinking that when I first rode it we were living in a house less than meters away across the field and down the road. Nobody out here can out-appreciate me.
Michael de Guzman
In the year of our Lord, the sky was be-deviled with tin pan alleys and raindrops the size of hot air balloons. In the year of our Lord, Mug Face and Chin Nobel played poker with a loaded deck Chin Nobel won with a pair of queens over a bed of hot coals. Chin Nobel was last seen trying to have oral sex with the Statue of Liberty. Did you ever hear about delusions? Did you ever have hallucinations when you were a kid over there in Vietnam crawling thru the jungle with a reefer glued to your lip? In the year of our Lord, the folks who live up near Sirius who bumped off Alpha Centauri and were about to cruise right into our troposphere took one look at all the crazy shit we were doing to each other with bullets and bombs and loads of religious manure turned around and headed back home.
In the year of our Lord, November slid over into December on thin ice and we all held our breath until it began to snow. After that it was easy we could see the footprints and we knew where everybody was going. These poems were written on the run, Spring, Summer, Fall of I was out almost everyday on my bike. Most of these roads, tho unnamed and unmarked, became my home in the long afternoons and evenings of summer and thus acquired names that only I am familiar with. Someday I will provide a map of these roads, the hidden and secret byways of the Hesbaye.
It was here I lived thru the entire cycle of the seasons, the plowing, the planting, the crops as they grew, the harvest — and beyond. Wheat, barley, betraves, corn, flax, potatoes. Thousands upon thousands of acres of farm land. These poems came from the earth, up thru the rolling tires of my bike, thru my hands, arms, neck and into my brain — then back again down into my fingers and into my notebook. As always, the trick was not to get in the way. At first, when they fluttered and swooped around me and my moving bike and piped their tiny seagull croons so far from salt water I thought they were just glad to see me.
I stop and watch her fly east, south north and west hoping to lure me into following her across the field away from the nest. I wait until she comes around again then start rolling my bike down the road sure enough she flutters past me and down the road in front of me. I follow. About yards down the road she whirls back — towards her nest. I watch her glide, swoop back to her nest. She hovers above it gives her babies a piping croon then flutters down over them.
The whole world is doing it with the wind. Biking the streets of a Belgian village this afternoon I pass an old man, withered in a wheelchair, being forked-lifted into the back of a van a half-dead piece of meat being transported from one place to another. And a mile later down the road I realize I could become that crippled monster myself this very afternoon blind-sided by a motorcycle rear-ended by a bus side-swiped by an old lady in a Suburban Utility Vehicle who thinks the line of white dots down the middle of the road is a decoration that needs to be observed from both sides.
Where are the angels? The beautiful maidens of romantic intensity who used to leap out of the wallpaper and make me fall in love with them? They scared up a storm up on bald mountain the witches the warlocks on Walpurgisnacht they slaughtered the sheep raped the young virgins then drank to the bottom of their skins, fell asleep and when they awoke the virgins were dancing spinning on tiptoes gracefully spinning like slow boats to hell their steps were not false they were true, unforgiving spinning for satan and the deep raven waltz. I read about stuff like that when I was a kid.
It was in all the old poems. On one side of the road the wheat grows knee-high on the other the wheat struggles to put down roots. On one side the spuds are singing Verdi operas on the other the spuds are screaming for affection. On one side the farmer reads aloud the old poems to his field of corn every day at sunrise and sunset while on the other the corn is scorned.
Which ones are old? Do they have grey hair? Missing teeth? Arthritic bones? Grandchildren who sit on their knees and piss on their pants? Or are they stuck in a corner of a rest home where no one comes to visit and only the cagiest and most clever escape from time to time and run amok on the grass of manicured lawns and hide in the sprinkling water of the Japanese Gardens before being captured and hauled back to captivity. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner is out on the highway behind the wheel of a big semi hauling a load of pigs coast to coast while sniffing coke and listening to Neil Young on his quadraphonic audio system.
The Wasteland continues to rob banks and never gets caught tho he leaves behind a pertinent quotation on each job. Howl sneaks a smoke late at night out behind the garage and once a month when the moon is full he lets loose a wail that chills each sleeper in his bed for blocks around. The Spoon River Anthology vacations once a year in the Swiss Alps arriving in June for the last few days of ski snow then hanging out with the shepherds in high alpine meadows until September when the Canterbury Tales come slouching around and driving everyone nuts with their phony English accents.
Fra Lippo Lippi tends his acre crop of genetically engineered megamarijuana down in the Mexican jungles and at night swinging in a hammock under mosquito netting he reads a few of the old poems himself. I rode by the field when they were planting the seeds and leaving behind smooth, fine dirt in organized, harmonious rows that erased all memory of the scrabble chaos of the winter-frozen earth. I rode by the field when the wheat was sprouting and birds were nesting in their harmonious rows and darting up like rockets shout-cheeping, saving their babies by stealing the show.
I rode by the field when the sun was burning and the tops of the wheat bent over in the wind Came back the next day in the still of the heat the wheat tops were brown but standing again. I see the tractors lined up at the granary. His life savings is in that trailer behind him. The fires grill meat all day and night watt speakers pump out techno from noon until way into the middle of your dreams. There used to be a village here.
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Scholarships are available. Yogaville runs group retreats often; one of the most popular is the Silent Spring Retreat, which returns April , with all activities to be held in silence. Wattle Hollow holds retreats monthly. All abilities are welcome. Hotel and retreat rooms are available for individual visits, and apartments for stays of eight days or more.
There are daily yoga and meditation sessions, a pottery studio and spa. Every skill level is welcome. We learn how to be guided by the knowing and wisdom we already hold within. The first studio of its kind in the Mid-South, Art Body Soul will offer yoga, meditation and art classes as well as massage and energy work, all in the service of self-healing. Founder Madeleine Newkirk employs the Dalian Method, an alternative wellness approach designed by best-selling author Mada Dalian that helps release blocks preventing people from living more wholehearted lives.
Take something like cayenne. In the back are apothecary shelves of barks and twigs, powders and dried flowers, seeds, leaves and exotic smelling granules in half a hundred colors. It has also shown positive effects for treating arthritis. It contains a chemical, curacumin, which may help fight against certain types of cancer.
Garlic, which in addition to repelling vampires and close talkers, can help the body resist colds. If this sounds crazy to you, consider that many contemporary medications contain compounds built on and based off of natural cures. Take aspirin as an example. Early forms of the drug and some current forms were derived from white willow bark, which when boiled, delivers the same— albeit weaker—benefits as a pill. This will ensure.
The most well-known of nonwestern medicine may be traditional Chinese medicine, which combines herbal and natural remedies with acupuncture, nutrition and medical massage. Part of the Chinese culture is recording for the next generation, so practitioners are drawing on more than 2, years of writings, practices and techniques. In China today, many hospitals DeSoto In acupuncture, miniscule needles are inserted in specific points and left in for anywhere from 20 to 45 minutes.
A qualified acupuncturist will interview patients to determine the best placement pattern for that individual, then insert needles along the meridian lines and points they deem to be most effective. Using precise placement and gentle taps to set the needle, each one is inserted with little sensation. Clients report warming sensations, loosening of muscles, feelings of heaviness where the needles are placed, but very rarely pain.
And due to the size of the needles, blood is seldom seen. Diet comes into play in traditional Chinese medicine and has become more of a focus for western medical practitioners as well. Diabetics, those with Celiac or gluten intolerance, and others have used nutrition and diet to moderate conditions for a long time, and athletes have been paying more attention to nutrition and the quality of their caloric intake over generations. Now this way of thinking has reached the average consumer. Organic and non-GMO Genetically Modified Organisms foods have increased in popularity and availability, and while many tout the health benefits of these foods, some call them into question.
One thing is not in question, however. With organic and non-GMO foods there are no pesticides, herbicides or fungicides present, meaning when you eat, you get the plant and only the plant, no chemical compounds. Across the U. Florida, Arkansas and Louisiana, and the southern border states of Illinois and Ohio have legalized limited forms of. This is one of the active compounds in cannabis along with THC, the psychoactive element , and it shows a lot of promise in treating a range of conditions from pain to anxiety. The National Civil Rights Museum in Memphis prepares special remembrances to educate and inspire on the 50th anniversary of Dr.
Built on the site of the Lorraine Motel where Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Film clips, photos, and exhibits of boycotts, sit-ins, and marches showcase the many non-violent protests that would lead to the end of segregation. In early April , King traveled to Memphis to support striking sanitation workers. King promised to return. The next evening, as King prepared to depart the Lorraine Motel for dinner with his staff, he was shot on the balcony in front of Room King paused, as if to consider it, when the shot rang out.
Young raced upstairs to find King with a gunshot wound to the chin and neck. Evidence would later lead to the arrest and conviction of James Earl Ray. Ambassador to the United Nations, and serve two terms as mayor of Atlanta. He was waiting for King the night of the Mountaintop speech to work on the press release. He would later go back to college and continue doing what King had asked him to do. One display features a full-size bus with a statue of Rosa Parks portraying her refusal to give up her seat to a white man. Another exhibit recounts the role of Freedom Riders who took the desegregation fight to interstate buses.
That DeSoto Later, forced off the road, it was set ablaze and Freedom Rider Hank Thomas was beaten with a baseball bat. Terri Lee Freeman, president of the National Civil Rights Museum, says the museum honors King, but also shows others were involved in creating change. King was but one person who was part of this movement. He was the face most of us saw, but there were thousands of people in it in some way, shape, or form.
A series of events are planned, culminating in a Day of Remembrance on April 4.
There will be panels, shared stories, and a commemorative ceremony involving the changing of the wreath in front of Room While mayor of Atlanta, Young worked to have the city become part of the global economy to create jobs and become less reliant on the federal government. And we can overcome any physical violence or hatred. The only way you overcome hatred is with love. Not with greater hatred. She says the global community still grapples with what her father called the Triple Evils of racism, war, and poverty.
Southaven native Brooke Ballard never dreamed her talent for making jewelry would take her from nursing student to entrepreneur so quickly. Sometimes a personal creation can turn into a successful business. Then she created another… and another. The demand increased for her jewelry so Ballard began selling pieces on Instagram and Facebook social media sites, then opened a store on Etsy, an online shop for creative people.
Well, a temporary one. I changed my major from nursing and within a month started my company. It was a matter of shifting gears and doing what I was passionate about. Every piece is handmade, some that take 30 minutes to create and some up to eight hours. She produces earrings, bracelets and necklaces, many that flow well together and are meant to be layered on outfits in ways where each piece is presentable and appreciated. For instance, she may wear several bracelets together, each utilizing different items such as turquoise, metal or leather. Ballard is still selling on Etsy, where she makes many international sales, but the most popular places to purchase her creations are her website and retail boutiques in north Mississippi, such as Janie Rose Boutique in Southaven, and several in the Memphis area.
The juggle between work, school and her business has been tough at times, Ballard says. Her plans post-graduation are to continue Janey Bee Jems and plan for its expansion and growth. The University of Memphis has assisted her with establishing her business and helped her make informed business decisions, she says. Janie Rose Boutique, Southaven, Miss. Beautiful Soul, Germantown, Tenn. Threads Boutique, Memphis, Tenn.
Shopping: janeybeejems. Your relationship is new and things are running hot and heavy. But maybe our advice will help make things go right. Avoid the weekend away. Seems romantic, but a weekend away is a crucible and not all relationships can stand the pressure. A bouquet is fine; two-dozen roses in an arrangement that would look more at home in a funeral parlor is not.
And if things are really serious, you might even consider a jet-setting retreat to Martinique or another Caribbean isle. That means any romantic activities could, if one were diligent and practiced, interrupt the peaceful and quiet moments your fellow guests are trying to enjoy. You find romance in the little, everyday moments. Today, restaurants and babysitters collude on new ways to empty your bank account. Who needs sappy cards and heart balloons to tell you about romance? Rewind back to your early days: visit your first-date restaurant; approach your spouse with that endearing nervousness you had when things were new.
Go over the top. Arrange for the kids to be elsewhere for the night and hire a personal chef to come in, cook a meal for the two of you, clean up, and leave. Impromptu is good, heading into a restaurant with no reservation is madness, so do make the proper arrangements. Gift giving can get complicated at this stage in the romance. It could be a winner, but it could cost a few car payments. A new car? What, do you live in a commercial and expect to deliver one topped with a giant bow in the driveway without anyone noticing?
No gift? The name turned out to be his longest-lasting contribution to the band, which has now been together for more than 14 years. The loose lineup and nonchalant naming has a lot to do with how and why the band began. The Salty Dogs launched on a lark to win the Arkansas Times Musicians Showcase with an over-the-top take on classic country, complete with countryfied clothes and straightforward musical missives focused on common themes from the genre. Williams said. Between them, the guest musicians boast country credentials including time playing with Dwight Yoakam and at the Grand Ole Opry.
The record booth is a refurbished Voice-o-Graph that dispenses a 6-inch phonograph at the end of a recording session. And, after so many years of practicing and playing together, the band members seem like family, too, Angel said. And getting paid money to play good music with guys that know each other so well personally and musically. When the circa drugstore, now restaurant, closes at 5 p. Patrons access the lounge via the closed drugstore-eatery, but make their way to the back where signature and classic cocktails are served.
The Apothecary opens early for the after-work crowd and stays open until 1 a. Tuesdays through Thursdays and until 2 a. Fridays and Saturdays. The extensive hours provide for an interesting evening, Raymond said. Once a month on a Tuesday, The Apothecary invites Jackson chefs to cook up something special, dishes they might not serve elsewhere.
Apothecary bartenders create their own syrups and infusions, Raymond added. For more information on The Apothecary and its varied menu, visit apothecaryjackson. Express the oils of a lemon peel on the surface of the drink, rub peel on rim of glass and discard. In , the river flooded, setting the scene for one of the richest discoveries in the history of American archaeology. For ticket information call or visit memphismuseums. Everyone must receive a wristband to be able to plunge and be wearing shoes.
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For more information call or visit colin. Robert Earl Keen with Jason D. Williams February 22 Germantown Performing Arts Center Germantown, TN pm Keen strikes an unusual balance between sensitive story-portrait and raucous barroom style. His music. Williams, the piano great and rockabilly sensation who has been dazzling crowds live for three decades.
For tickets visit gpacweb. The band formed in after Revival disbanded in For tickets visit caesars. The book features 47 poems by Ann Fisher-Wirth and 47 color photographs by Maude Schuyler Clay that explore the history, culture, and ecology of the state of Mississippi. For more information call or visit turnrowbooks. Love and respect transcend age and race to create a lasting memory. And we still miss you.
Brett and I struggled with your passing. You were part of another generation. Write a Review. Related Searches. Since the completion of the original writing in , and the publication of this Garland Since the completion of the original writing in , and the publication of this Garland edition in , several important events came to pass which underscored the importance and relevance of the study of the US foreign trade policy toward View Product. The Bamboozlers. Albert Rosegarden is a boy in desperate need of an adventure. Then Wendell, the grandfather Then Wendell, the grandfather he's never met, shows up.
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