#so it doesn’t feel like the writers are calling mental illness the devil but rather like they’re saying it’s something good people deal with

[counting-stars-gayly]

I am once again screaming over the way they portrayed Jinx’s mental illness in Arcane.

The blackouts?? Jinx referring to her current self and past self in third person, as if neither of them are really her??? The fact that her biggest trigger is being/feeling alone???? I mean, every scene or, at least, almost every scene where she’s by herself, she has an episode. It’s consistent; shit doesn’t just happen at random or because it moves the plot along, and the way her episodes happen is also consistent. She has habits. Mylo’s always the devil on her shoulder; she sees images in her art style; she hears voices that change from whispers to noises so loud she can’t hear herself think, and it all scares her so much that if she has a gun in her hand, she always shoots.

Idk, I just think it’s nice to have some accurate representation of what this shit looks like.

#I also love how vi and silco are never surprised at jinx’s symptoms; the writers didn’t have to state that they know because they showed us #and vi isn’t disturbed or frightened by her sister’s mental illness — only her murderous tendencies #so it doesn’t feel like the writers are calling mental illness the devil but rather like they’re saying it’s something good people deal with #and like if it’s ignored instead of nurtured it can do irreparable damage to a person’s life. arcane said mental health is important #they were right #jinx arcane #jinx league of legends #jinx league #jinx lol #powder arcane #jinx powder #powder jinx #vi arcane #vi league of legends #vi lol #vi and powder #vi and jinx #jinx and vi #silco arcane #arcane #netflix arcane #arcane lol #arcane league of legends #arcane act 2 #arcane act 3 #riot #riot games #riot arcane #arcane riot #arcane animated series

[monkeymindscream]

What are your thoughts on Krinkle?

Random question, but I can work with it.

A couple years ago I made a post talking about how Krinkle was my least favorite character in the show. I’ve since written for him a fair bit, and have come to realize he is really fun to write.

Like - y’know how actors will talk about how much fun it is to play a villain, because they get to do things they wouldn’t normally get to when playing a hero? It’s kind of like that. When things happen with other characters, their responses need to be within certain parameters of logic. All that goes out the window with Krinkle. Something can happen and instead of moving from point A to conclusion B, Krinkle can jump all the way to point XIII. The plot he’s following will always be four steps to the left of whatever the main cast is doing, because he willfully exists in a narrative all his own. That is immensely entertaining to write, and to date the pieces I’ve written from his perspective are among the things I view least critically of my work. I’ve become paradoxically fond of him as a result.

...to a degree. I unfortunately still find it really difficult to sympathize with him at all. Frankly I find it difficult to understand how anyone could sympathize with him. Him specifically, I mean; I can completely understand feeling sympathetic/bad about the position he ends up in. But towards him personally as a character? Ehhhhhhhhh...

Something I realized while pondering how to phrase this whole thing was I never really interpreted Krinkle as a depiction of mental illness. I mean that’s absolutely what he ended up being, and regrettably not an especially flattering one at that. Which I mean - early 2000s, what can ya do besides try to be better moving forward? But anyway yeah even as a young kid watching the show for the first time, I always saw Krinkle as more of an exaggerated parody of a crazy fan, not a crazy person. Primarily because he was exhibiting traits I’d seen around forums and in fanfics at the time, just cranked up to 11. 

For example, his first appearance sees him attempting a very popular method fanfic writers would use to get their OCs on the Team. Specifically the Team would be in trouble, the OC would swoop in to help, and BAM now they’re a Hyperforce member. Plus his entire second appearance is basically one giant spoof of a self-insert fanfic as a whole: The aforementioned insert takes the main character’s place on for no reason, the insert has all of the same powers of the main plus a lot they don’t, they have a tragic backstory, the whole world (and plot) is centered around them and their whims, all that. 

That’s how most of Krinkle’s plans play out, honestly - he tries to apply fanfic logic to his actual life, and then gets angry when his leading actors don’t stick to his script. And his actions seem too... how to put this - pointed? from the writers’ end to not have been intentional. Which is why I don’t think he was supposed to be a stereotype of mental illness, but rather a playful jab at the fandom. 

He turned into a stereotype of mental illness anyway (showing him in a padded room certainly didn’t help), but for what it’s worth I don’t think it was the goal. Which calls forth a separate conversation regarding writer intent vs. fan interpretation, but that’s a whole thing just on its own. So I’ll drop this point here. 

Going back to me not personally feeling any sympathy for him - I openly acknowledge that’s maybe a little weird considering how ardently I’ve played devil’s advocate to some of the other villains from this show, but hear me out.  The others are often SO over the top and Saturday morning cartoon supervillain-y that I have an exceedingly difficult time feeling a genuine emotional response to their actions beyond “mm. bad. don’t do that.” Moreover, the worst of what the other villains do would be rendered impossible if the fantastical elements of the show were removed, which again makes it hard to feel especially offended by them.

Krinkle, though? All else stripped away, a considerable chunk of what Krinkle does is still both very possible and very unsettling. You can connect a lot of his behaviors to real-life stalkers. And it gets really hard for me to reconcile this stuff with the kids’ show he’s in, sometimes. What I’m trying to say is sometimes he feels a little too... real, for me, I guess.

Further muddling my opinion on Krinkle is that - whenever I see him being discussed - I get unreasonably defensive on the Team’s behalf. It always seems to swing back around to how badly they handled the situation. For example there was one comment I saw on A Man Called Krinkle on YouTube years ago (like I’m talking "if you wanted to upload the episodes you had to split them into three parts” YEARS ago) where someone basically said how sorry they felt for Krinkle, and was berating the Team for putting him on Ranger 7.

Ohhhhohoho y’all-

So, first issue I take with this, just straight off the cuff: What the hell was the Team supposed to have done differently? Kept him around, tried to fix his issues themselves? Visited him at Ranger 7, fed into his delusions to make him feel better, perhaps? Does this person expect real life stalking victims to make an active effort to help their stalkers get well, too? 

Also- ALSO: The Team is comprised of five (canonically somewhat socially-isolated) monkeys and a freshly thirteen-year-old child. The “adults” in the situation’s response to their first leader going ‘round the bend was “PUT HIM TO SLEEP FOREVER,” presumably because they just didn’t know what else to do. How could any of them possibly know what to do with some rando who had mental health issues clearly beyond what they were capable of helping? One who - I’d like to remind everyone - broke into their home, took them hostage, attempted to force them to unwittingly kill the kid they’d adopted, and then tried to commit murder-suicide?

(I realize that this is swiftly turning into me just getting feisty about this one comment from a minimum of 14 years ago. Look at me care.)

Also... this might just be me interpreting things wrong, but Krinkle kinda, sorta... doesn’t seem to want any help? Or acknowledge that his actions are in the wrong at all? Because okay, he claims he built his own “perfect world”  because he was sick of humanity (and wherein everything has his face and his every whim is immediately catered to; don’t try to tell me that shit don’t mean anything). And to even get the chance to build that world, he had to forcefully take over the facility that was conceivably trying to help him get better. That feels... pretty indicative of how much (or little, rather) he must’ve cared about improving. Which, if this is accurate, means that Krinkle was actively choosing to continue risking harm to other people and putting his needs and wants over theirs.

So um. Those are my thoughts, I guess? I think it’s interesting to explore his psyche but I really, really dislike him as a person. Obviously if you do like him/feel sorry for him/disagree with me on any count that’s completely fine. You’re absolutely entitled to your opinion. But yeah, that’s personally where I stand.

#Anonymous #muttering about monkeys #Krinkle

[goodvibesatpeace]

What is the Meaning of Each Aura Color?

All living things that need oxygen to survive have an aura. They generate a large magnetic energy field that can be sensed, felt and even seen around the physical body. We all can tell when someone doesn’t feel good to us, like they are full of anger or if they really live in their heart and feel deeply. You do not need to be psychic to feel/read an aura.

If a person walks past, very close to you, they may unintentionally steal some of your energy. If someone suddenly reaches out and grabs your arm, they are interrupting the flow of energy around your body. An example of this might be a time when you were talking to someone and you thought they were standing to close to you. You may have even thought to yourself, “They’re in my space,” and then you backed away. Even this slight intrusion into your aura or ‘space’ can interrupt your personal flow of energy and you may feel like you have been slimed.

An aura is usually 3 feet from your physical body, however an incest or rape survivor has an aura about 50 feet around them, which means in a movie theatre or a bus/train you sit in their stuff!!! I can clean this for you.

Auras are commonly associated with people. Sometimes we even use them to describe people: “He has an aura about him,” or “She just has a glow about her”. But in fact all living things generate this field of energy. 

When associated to a person, the aura can provide insight into the spiritual, emotional and physical aspects of the individual.

Life is full of colour and like so many other things on your path, colour also has meaning. They are representations of messages from your higher self, God, dreams, whatever the label. But you don’t have to be a Metaphysician to understand the importance of colour in your life. It exists in every day experiences.

Many people associate the colour white with God, pink with love and purple with royalty or spirituality. The following is a brief outline of primary colours and their common interpretation.

Explanations Of The Color In Any Aura

Red Aura

What are Red Auras and what does it mean to have red as one of the dominant colours of the Aura? The Aura colour that surrounds an individual reflects their personality and point to their future destiny.

Red Aura people are enthusiastic and energetic individuals, forever on the lookout for new adventures. They are adventurous with food, travel and sexual partners. The mantra of the Red Aura colour individual is “I’ll try anything once.” Because of their devil-may-care approach to life they often find themselves in hot water.

Red Aura people are quick to anger and can lose their temper over the slightest thing. But on the upside they are generous with their time and energy when called upon for help.

They are normally strong in body and mind and do not succumb to physical or mental illness easily. Because of their robust health and fitness the Red Aura individual likes to be physical and will excel in sports. People with a predominant red Aura colour can easily become bored and need to move on to different interests, projects and relationships. Because then they leave lots of unfinished ventures in their wake. But if they set their mind to a project and can stick to it, they will have remarkable success and can become extremely wealthy.

Red Aura people are direct, to the point and forthright and are not afraid to make their point of view heard. They don’t normally have hidden agendas or ulterior motives. What you see is what you get with the open and up front Red Aura individual.

Above all else the Red Aura individual needs to be number one. Their competitive nature and need to succeed will drive them towards great success in life. They are not good team players and won’t take orders from others. Because then they will prefer to run their own one man business or be in positions of authority over others.

Yellow Aura

What are Yellow Auras and what does it mean to have Yellow as one of the dominant colours of the Aura? The Aura colours that surround an individual reflect their personality and point to their future destiny.

Yellow Aura people are analytical, logical and very intelligent. They tend to excel in careers that involve teaching and study and make excellent inventors and scientists. They can have a tendency to work too hard and can easily become a workaholic putting their work above personal relationships.

Yellow Aura people are perfectly happy in their own company and do not suffer loneliness. They are prone to mental health pressures, though and can become withdrawn and depressed when stressed.

The Yellow Aura individual is a brilliant communicator and can display their skills on a one to one basis and in front of large crowds. They are confident in their abilities to get their ideas and messages across and will inspire others.

Yellow Aura people have very good observation skills and can read people easily. They possess extremely good perception. Because they do not suffer fools gladly and will choose their few friends carefully. Any friends they do have will need to match the Yellow Aura person’s wit and intellect.

The Yellow Aura individual tends to put their head above their heart when faced with difficult choices and decision making. They are unorthodox and unconventional thinkers and not afraid to experiment with different ideas and original concepts. To some the Yellow Aura seems a little eccentric with unusual interests and hobbies. They are attracted to anything which is considered avant-garde, intellectual or unusual.

The main fault of a person who has a predominant Yellow Aura is that they can be overly critical of themselves and others.

Pink Aura

What are Pink Auras and what does it mean to have pink as one of the dominant colours of the Aura? The Aura colours that surround an individual usually can reflect their personality and point to their future destiny.

Pink Aura people are by nature loving and giving. They love to be loved too, they gather around them close friends and family at every opportunity. They like to host family events and are very generous of their time. They have a high regard for their health and will look after their bodies with good diet, nutrition and exercise.

Pink Aura people are very romantic and once they have found their soulmate will stay faithful, loving and loyal for life.

The Pink Aura individual is a natural healer, highly sensitive to the needs of others and has strong psychic abilities. They also have very creative ideas and strong imaginations. Because these personality traits the Pink Aura person makes great writers of novels, poetry or song lyrics.

The Pink Aura individual hates injustice, poverty and conflicts. They strive always to make the world a better place and will make personal sacrifices in the pursuit of this ideal.

Pink Aura people are strong willed and highly disciplined and will expect high standards from others. They have strong values and morals and seldom deviate from them. Because of their honesty and likeable nature they are valued as employees but also make excellent employers because of their sense of fairness.

Green Aura

Green Aura people are highly creative and very hard working. They strive for perfection in everything they do. They have a very determined and down to earth nature and will not allow fanciful dreams and unrealistic ideas to colour their world.

Their creativity takes the form of practical matters such as gardening, cooking and home decorating. The Green Aura individual has a fine eye for beauty and will ensure their appearance and clothing, home and surroundings are both practical and beautiful.

Green Aura people tend to be very popular, admired and respected. They make for very successful business people and can create much wealth and prosperity for themselves. Green Aura people like security, stability and balance in their lives. Any plans they make a well thought out and because this, they seldom make rash mistakes.

Close friends of Green Aura people will be treated to generosity, loyalty and practical advice. Green Aura people do not suffer fools gladly and choose their friends very carefully. People with a predominant green Aura tend to be rather health-conscious and ensure their diet is nutritious; health giving and tasty. They are always in tune with nature and love the great outdoors.

Orange Aura

Orange Aura people are gregarious, generous, social souls. They love to be in the company of others and don’t mind being the centre of attention or just another face in the crowd. They want to please others and are often the best gift givers, being very thoughtful and generous.

The Orange Aura individual is normally good-hearted, kind and honest. They are very in tune to the emotions of others and can sense and feel their pain and joy. Orange Aura people can be very charming, but part of their charm is in their sensitivity to others. They have the ability to make everyone feel at ease in their company.

The Orange Aura individual can be hot headed and quick to lose their temper. But on the positive side they are equally quick to forgive and forget if a sincere apology is offered and accepted. They do not hold grudges.

Orange Aura people are confident of the impression they make on others and can use this to their advantage. They tend to lead very successful and happy lives. On the down side Orange Aura people tend to be impatient and tend to rush into projects, relationships and experiences too quickly. They normally need to act immediately and consider the consequences later.

Purple Aura

Purple Aura people are highly psychic, attuned to the emotions and moods of others and very sensitive. People who have a predominant amount of purple in their Aura are seen as mysterious and secretive.

The Purple Aura individual possesses a philosophical, enquiring and intuitive mind. They love to learn and never stop exploring and enquiring into new subjects and areas that interest them. Because this they tend to be extremely interesting and knowledgeable people.

The Purple Aura individual does not have a wide circle of many friends. But the friends they do have are held close and are respected, admired and loved. People with a predominant purple Aura tend to be unlucky in love but once they have found their perfect soul mate is loyal and loving for life.

Purple Aura people connect well with animals and nature. They are attuned to animals and can sense their emotions and feelings. Purple Aura people tend to take in and care for strays as their loving and caring nature makes it difficult for them to turn strays away.

Blue Aura

Having a predominant blue Aura or energy field surrounding you can point to a number of personality traits. Totally blue Auras are quite rare but can show up as one of the boldest Aura colours in people with strong personalities.

Blue Aura people are the master communicators of the world. They have the ability to convey their thoughts, ideas, views and concepts eloquently and charismatically. They make for excellent writers, poets and politicians.

Blue Aura people are also highly intelligent and very intuitive. They certainly have the head and heart balanced in making difficult decisions and choices. They are incredibly good organisers and can motivate and inspire others.

People who have a predominant amount of blue in their Auras are peacemakers and have the ability to calmly smooth out angry situations. They prize truthfulness, direct communication and clarity in all their relationships. The downside of the Blue Aura personality is that they can take on too much, become workaholics and neglect their personal relationships.

Gold Aura

Gold Aura people are lovers of beauty and have a very artistic flair. They appreciate the finer things in life and like to adorn themselves and their homes with items of exquisite beauty. They love to entertain and prefer the company of many. They do not feel intimated by being the centre of attention – just the opposite in fact as they like to be the sparkling gem in a stunning crown.

The Gold Aura individuals are very attractive and love to attract attention, affection and admiration from lots of people. Because this the Gold Aura person will have many, many friends. But they are not just takers of time, affection and attention; the Gold Aura individual will give of their time, energy and love generously.

The charm and charisma displayed by the Gold Aura personality adds to their attractiveness. They are great listeners and can make anyone feel comfortable, important and interesting in their company.

Gold Aura people hate to be criticised and cannot stand any of their flaws exposed. Their main flaw is that of being overly lavish. They like to impress and give the most generous gifts and host the most impressive social gatherings, even if their budget won’t allow this.

They are very proud and fiercely independent and extremely reluctant to ask for help from anyone.

White Aura/ Silver Aura

Silver Aura people are exceptionally gifted. How they use their gifts wisely is their life lesson. Silver Aura individuals are bestowed with sensitivity, intuitiveness, psychic ability and practicality. They can use their spiritual understanding in very practical ways. Because this they can relate to many people and are often found in teaching, mentoring or counselling careers.

Silver Aura people have immense versatility and adaptability and are capable of getting the most out of virtually every opportunity in life. Their high intellect enables then to make the right decisions quickly and follow through with action.

People who have predominant silver Auras are seen as very attractive. They attract many admirers. But Silver Aura people are very discerning and choose their friends carefully and their lovers very carefully.

Silver Aura people tend to be well blessed in looks, personality and talent and as such are seen as incredibly lucky people. Success seems to come easily to Silver Aura people.

Brown Aura

Light Brown indicates confusion or discouragement. The lack of confidence in ones self, the present situation or in the subject being addressed. Dark Brown indicates selfishness, fault finding, and a tendency toward deception.

Black Aura

Indicates hatred, negativity, major illness or depression, cheap, miserly. This colour is always a bad sign.

Much love to all... go in peace my friends

#aura #auras #energy #energy field #red #green #pink #black #yellow #orange #purple #blue #gold #white #silver #brown #auric #auric bodies #causal #celestial #etheric #mental #emotional #astral #spirit #spirituality

[femnet]

I binged Crazy Ex-Girlfriend these past few weeks, and to call it a feminist musical TV series would be an accurate but incomplete description of it. The title might seem off-putting at first, but the intention behind it encapsulates the essence of the show.

Being a “crazy ex-girlfriend” is one (or… several) of Rebecca Bunch’s phases, but as the show slowly reveals, there’s a lot more to that. You see, Crazy Ex-Girlfriend doesn’t pass the Bechdel test, and that’s the whole crux of Rebecca’s story.

Rebecca is a selfish, privileged character who makes poor decisions over and over again in the name of obsessive love. And yet, unlike a bad telenovela, you can’t fully hate her. From day one you root for her to accept the mental help she badly needs and, as it often happens in real life, it takes hitting rock bottom for her to finally do so.

The show premiered back in 2015, co-created by Aline Brosh McKenna---writer among other things of The Devil Wears Prada---and Rachel Bloom---creator, songwriter, singer, and actress of numerous comedy skits---who is also the lead. Despite great critical acclaim for their writing, musical numbers, and cast performance, audience ratings haven’t treated Crazy Ex-Girlfriend well, which is a shame. However, that’s not the reason why their fourth season is going to be the last: the creators originally envisioned a four-part arc for Rebecca. While I’ll be sad to see it go, it’s a good thing to know that this was a planned decision made out of love for the character and her story, rather than seeing them trying to keep it going until it loses all sense.

Why is this show so great?

It’s presented as a romcom that goes ridiculously over the top to show you the drama of this person’s life: every decision Rebecca makes feels like watching a chain-reaction crash, but tropes are turned on their nose in Rebecca’s musical numbers, which in a way function as her consciousness (and voice what the audience wants to yell at her).

It’s also about the ugly side of mainstream, cishet romance and the irony of calling women crazy after they perform what they’ve been fed as expected of them for all their lives.

There’s a diverse and talented cast, all of whom sing and dance. The supporting characters also have great arcs of their own.

Friendship and family are ultimately bigger than romantic love in Rebecca’s story.

There are no topics the show hasn’t touched upon: sexism, parenthood, bisexuality, body image, self-hate, racism, growing up, abortion, STDs, but their portrayal in particular of mental illness and female sexuality is especially refreshing and ground-breaking.

The musical numbers feature original songs that are hilarious, inappropriate and catchy as hell, with gorgeous sets and costumes to go. They often parody popular music videos.

There are still some episodes to go until we wrap up this part of Rebecca’s journey, but she’s come a long way from the girl in love who didn’t want to be held responsible for her actions.

Crazy Ex-Girlfriend airs Fridays on The CW or on Netflix. Do yourself a favor and watch this show!

#by dessi #december 2018 #crazy ex-girlfriend #rachel bloom #tv&movies #tv show rec

[onlywhenitsraininglove-blog]

The Carnage Chapter One

Note: Adult Content, Adult Language and Graphic Violence is used in this story. The adult content is not is NOT pornographic nor will it ever be. Adult language is what it is and the violence is graphic with some detail. Reader beware. If you are underage you should not read these stories!

These are Dark stories, meaning that the hero does not always win. I hope you enjoy and please feel free to comment what you like about it and don’t like about it, but please be respectful. Just saying you don’t like it or like it, does not help a writer. 

These will be posted under the title and chapter and by chapter since some of these will be very long stories having many chapters. 

These are a work of fiction and copywrite by the writer Michael Metzger Please do not copy but feel free to share by keep my name in each chapter which will be located at the bottom of each chapter. Thank you!

One:

True terror penetrates deep into the soul and portions out its depth of trepidation and anxiety in swells of apprehension and uncertainty. It berates the soul till it surrenders to the inevitable conclusion of its demise and true terror is what Tommy thrived on. It wasn’t sex or the overwhelming need to assert absolute control that drove him to murder but their absolute terror of him, of what he would do next. He fucked and tortured every single person he killed, not because the blood was a turn on, but their fear moved him deeply.

Tommy murdered his first person when he was only thirteen years old. It had been a messy kill, but he had learned much from it. It had been a homeless drunk that he had found sleeping in an old abandoned shamble of a building in Detroit, Michigan. The old drunk had put up a good fight at first, but eventually the razor sharp edge of the knife had started to have an effect, weakening him till he dropped unable to defend himself any further.

When the homeless man finally fell to the hard concrete, his knee’s buckling with pops and creaks of age, Tommy held out his small knife to his victim.

“Small cuts muthafucka,” He had said calmly to his victim. “It weakens you quickly, but doesn’t kill you.”

The homeless man, wondering what he had done to enrage this young man so much that he wanted him dead, looked up into the eyes of a devil. His fear seized him, oozing out his brown, alcohol blood shot eyes and saw a monster, but with the sweet innocent smile of a kid. That was when the torture started and he started screaming. He hadn’t even realized he was screaming until the smiling boy told him that no one was going to hear him.

With all the strength he could muster he spoke a single word, “Why?”

“Why?” The boy replied innocently, “Why will no one hear you, or why am I doing this to you?”

The boy had moved and was now lying directly on the man, seeing his face so close to his caused his breath to catch in his already tortured lungs.

“The answer is simple for both questions. The first being that you did this to yourself because you wanted to be so far away from everything else that now, your screams cannot be heard by anyone outside this building. Sorry, ole chap, but its a matter of opportunity. For the second question, well, why not?” Tommy smiled at him.

Then there was more screaming. Tommy took his time with his first victim. He wanted to relish this moment and remember it forever. He liked it when the guy screamed, it excited him immensely. So much so, that he orgasm’d in his pants three times.

When Tommy knew the guy could take no more, he tied a rope around his neck and hung him from a large concrete frame work in the center of the building. He masturbated as the guy kicked and bounced till his neck snapped and Tommy orgasm’d again. It had been a wonderful first experience for him, but he was covered in blood and the cops would be able to read this crime scene like the cover of a match book, only in the end, all of their conclusions were wrong.

The news media had called it a brutal murder and the police chief had eventually asked for the public’s help in apprehending the murderer or murderers. They suspected the killer was an older male, who had military training in hand to hand combat, was exceptional with a knife and who would be big enough to overwhelm the victim with ease. Tommy had got away with it. He was in the clear. After all, he was only thirteen and not old enough to have military experience.

As he sat watching the news again for word of his latest kill and reminiscing about that first time twelve and a half years ago when a new idea entered his mind. It wasn’t the news caster that was talking currently, but rather the one from that long ago time in his head. He had said something interesting. Why had Tommy not thought of this before? The news caster had said that the community was in fear that a brutal murderer was out walking their streets right now and no one knew who it was.

“The community was in fear,” He spoke it out loud, savoring the taste it produced in his mouth as if he were actually sitting at a fine dining restaurant right now having a nice Beef Wellington and making his mouth water. His penis was growing hard with excitement too and that was always a good indicator he was onto something.

He had heard those words before in other news casts, but this time it harmonized in him the way a good Beef Wellington would. He let the flavor of the idea transcend his conscience mind and take him to where it wanted to go. Then he got it. In all the thirteen years he had been killing people, he had never earned a name.

To date, he had killed twenty two people and the cops had never come close to discovering who actually killed them. But because he didn’t only kill in one place and in fact always traveled for his kills, no one actually knew there was a serial killer on the loose. The media had never given him a name because they had always considered the event to be a single event. He had never killed in the same place twice.

The truth was Tommy didn’t want to be caught. He liked killing and wanted to continue for many more years. Those who communicated with police or media were asking to get caught and that wasn’t for Tommy. The B.T.K. killer could have died of old age without ever having been arrested if he hadn’t written notes on cereal boxes to the cops and letters to the media outlets. It was a fool’s path.

But a name would imply more fear. His victims would know who was killing them and why. Tommy not only wanted, but needed a name and that would mean some changes. He needed an idea that he carried around with him and one that would let the cops and media know he was out there. It would certainly make the killing more interesting. But what would he do?

The realm of possibilities was immense. He had almost already killed at least one in every category he could think of. Children were always good because they produced the most fear for him and that was a requirement. But only focusing on children was not just dumb, it was out right asking to get caught. Go kill a bunch of kids as see how fast the law would invest in your capture! It would only take one child getting killed to cause this as he had seen on the two children he had killed already and those had been thousands of miles apart and completely different in the methods they died.

What was funny was that the murder he committed of Ethan Creon, a twelve year old, good looking boy had been pinned on another child killer who took over killing children in that county after Tommy’s own was broadcast all over the media. His focus had been on boys, namely blond haired boys who were good looking kids. The idiot should have considered that before he took over on the murderous spree that lasted almost six months before he got caught.

The girl he killed remained unsolved and the cops had actually given up on trying to find new clues. But when Tommy committed the murder of a child, he was sure to leave nothing. Not a part of his flesh touched that child and if it had, their bodies would never have been found. It would have negated any pleasure for him due to the high risk of killing children. He loved the fear they produced, but not the risk.

So Tommy eliminated children off the list quickly. The elderly followed soon after since they hardly ever produced enough fear to even stimulate him. The elderly had already lived a full life and, well, in Tommy’s mind, just gave up. They accepted their eventual deaths and died much quicker then he wanted. So they too could be removed from his list.

Those with sever mental retardation were just out of the picture entirely. They were unaware of the eventuality of death and while he had never killed on from this group, he also had no desire too. The mentally ill was always fun. Some of them were real fighters and held onto life as long as possible, but there was an issue with them too.

First, they above all other groups required additional research. The reason for this was clear. Some mentally ill people actually wanted to die and one such victim had actually thanked him for saving the poor sucker from having to do it himself. Tommy had never repeated that mistake. Even if it meant breaking into a counseling office to look at his possible victims records to make sure they were not suicidal. It had been one if his biggest disappointments to date because the guy seemed to be vivacious and high spirited in his every day life.

The second issue is that society as a whole did not consider the mentally ill to be a category. Hell, not even the cops did. It was like they all just missed that huge category completely. Tommy didn’t want to have to do so much research either. That took time and trips to the victims city or town and Tommy would not focus on his local area. It was the golden rule for him. Never kill in the city, town or county you live in or the neighboring counties. You leave space between you and your kill.

Like a car, you allow yourself cushion around the other cars on the road. Cops were a lot less likely to discover who you were if you never lived in that state or even county. If you were smart enough to not leave DNA, then you wouldn’t have to worry about the CODIS hits either. It would never be found in the system. Even with touch DNA, if your skin didn’t touch them you wouldn’t leave those trace amounts and it had been apparent to Tommy early on that this would eventually become the case.

What Tommy needed was something that would set him apart from anyone else. A focus no one else had and with all the murderers there had ever been in the world there wasn’t much left that would be considered unique.

Tommy had been sitting at his desk in front of his laptop watching the news from Butler County  Missouri where is last victim apparently still lay in a heavily wooded area off county road four twenty five. Tommy had found a small, old dirt track that went up the hill to an old mine. He had heard of people dumping bodies in those but he would never to that unless it was someone he didn’t want found.

He always monitored the news from the local communities where he committed his murders. It did a lot for him mentally. He liked hearing the first reports because it was always there that the words used to describe his brutality were the best. If a media outlet was exceptionally explicit and palpable in those choices it had the effect of putting a smile on his face and a bounce in his step.

As he sat there considering his options a new bleep occurred on the news papers website. It was a video. He clicked the play icon on the screen and put it to full screen view. At the bottom of the video was a red banner that said “Special Report” in bright gold letters. The screen flashed to a man wearing a dark blue suite with a deep melodic voice.

“Good afternoon, I am Miles Vallen with breaking news coming out of the Rolling Hills Mine area. The body of an unknown male has been discovered off the old mine road and had apparently been discovered by a couple of kids who were reported to have been walking up the road toward the mine. We have Millie Farr live on scene.”

The image changed to that of an older woman with straight black hair running past her shoulders and wearing a blue top. Her hair was starting to gray at the fringes and she looked slightly rushed. Tommy never could figure out why in such a small community where the nearest competing reporter was at least fifty miles away, they felt the need to rush things, but he was also glad they did. It was these rush jobs where he got the best descriptions. He listened.

“That’s right Miles. The body of a male was discovered about twenty minutes ago by Butler County Sheriff Deputy,” she paused to look at her note pad, “Deputy Jim Carneada who was first to arrive on scene. The Deputy had this to say.”

The image changed again to a tall slender young man, Tommy would guess was in his early twenties, with very short blond hair, blue eyes and a semi hawkish nose. He was clean shaven and the look on his face was priceless. He looked disturbed and disgusted, which pleased Tommy greatly.

“Yes we found the body of an unknown male just off the path to the mine.” The deputy was saying.

“Is there anything you can tell us Deputy? What kind of shape was the body in or hold old the victim is?”

“I can tell you its bad.” He swallowed hard and pursed his lips obviously reliving the nightmare scene. “Don’t know anything else, once I saw the scene I just backed out and ran to my car to call it in and get the tape to close it off.”

“Have you seen things like this before?” The reporter asked sounding concerned about how well the deputy was doing with this.

“I’ve seen plenty of dead bodies before, especially in Afghanistan, but I ain’t never seen anything like that. It’s bad.”

“Can you describe the scene to us deputy?”

He turned to look at her as if he was seeing her for the very first time.

“Why the hell would I do that? No, anyone who doesn’t need to see this doesn’t need it described in detail to them,” The deputy snapped. This excited Tommy even more.

“Can you tell us who the detective in charge is?” The female reporter asked, doing her best to sound concerned and interested in the facts.

“Do you see any detectives around here lady?” The deputy walked off in complete disgust.

The camera switched back to Miles in the studio.

“He seemed a little upset!” Miles suggested to the audience.

“Well from what I have been able to gather is that the crime scene was savagely vicious and it has obviously bothered this young deputy greatly.” Millie said unperturbed.

What she did was give back the attitude in order to save her reputation with not only her public but also other possible law enforcement officers who ever thought she would just take a criticism like that without rebuke. Tommy knew it was done specifically to help prevent it from happening again.

He loved the word she used too, “Savagely Vicious!” It just had a peculiar sound in his ears and a taste on his tongue that was sweet and wonderful. He liked this reporter. He thought it would be wonderful to pay her a visit. But he knew he would not.

“It sounds like a gruesome scene,” Miles said thoughtfully.

“The reaction of the deputy really brings it...” Millie turned as some woman in the background started to scream.

“My boy! That’s my boy!” The elderly woman screamed as other people gathered to take hold of her.

The camera started moving forward and focusing on the poor woman’s grief stricken face. Tears glistened in the daylight and she collapsed into arms that were holding her. After the camera got the episode on live television the camera panned back to Millie.

“It appears Miles, that one of the victims family had arrived...”

Tommy lost all recognition of the news broadcast. “Family!” He turned the word over in his mind several times, not realizing he was speaking out loud.

“Family!” A frown started to appear. The lines in his facial features deepened as the frown turned into a smile. “No one had done families before!” He had never heard of a serial killer whose primary focus was more then one person at a time. That was usually what they referred too as spree killers now. But families! It was the best of all killing! And the fear it would cause! Tommy came in his jeans.

copywrite Michael Metzger 2019

[trifrost17]

YGO Advent Day 18: Adventure

Summary:  The gang plays the new Monster World VR game that Yugi created and things are going great until Atem and Yugi fall down a hole. Yugi doesn't take Atem being unconscious very well at all.

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16811635/chapters/40398353

18: Adventure

“Ryou just messaged me. He’s on his way over now to our meeting spot here.”

“And Kaiba? Is he coming?” Yugi shrugged, sighing.

“I’m not sure. I texted him our party’s code so he could join the quests with us, and Mokuba, too, but I’m not sure if they’re going to join or not. He never responded back.”

Joey sighed, sitting on the ground and dragging the tip of his sword back and forth on the dirt. “I was hoping the whole gang could be here. Since Téa is supposed to come and all.”

Atem looked like he was going to say something but thought better of it, shifting back to stand in Yugi’s arms. Yugi instantly wrapped an arm around his husband, enjoying the feel of the costume that clung so nicely to all of Atem’s assets. He was very glad that Atem’s avatar looked identical to him. It would be so much harder to fawn over his avatar in the VR world if it didn't look like Atem.

“Hey guys, I made it! And look who I found on the way over!” Ryou grinned and pushed Téa in front of him. She laughed and waved, accepting all the cheers and hugs with relish from the group.

When they finally stopped, she turned to Ryou and Yugi. “This is amazing, guys. I almost feel like I’m here with you even though I’m halfway around the world right now. You guys did incredible on this game.”

“That’s all Yugi!” Ryou responded cheerfully. “I may have been the lead designer and story writer, but Yugi was the one who really put this to life with Kaiba. He’s a mad wizard at this VR stuff.” Yugi blushed, trying to wave off their compliments, but he did feel secretly pleased that they liked his game.

Monster World had been his grandest project yet, even when comparing it to Spherium II. It had taken him two years to program the game fully, even though the code had been something he had been working on since he began his programming classes in college. But it had always been one of his dreams to translate the tabletop Monster World RPG into a VR RPG. Kaiba had been fully on board with the idea and had helped him immensely with creating the game, making it compatible with the KaibaCorp VR Duel Disk-Headset.

He had asked Ryou to help him design the game and the story mode, too. In that way, it did make it less taxing than Spherium II since Yugi wasn’t responsible for everything. But after all their hard work, the game had finally been released.

And if the reviews, pre-orders, and first weekend sales were anything to go by, Monster World VR was turning out to be a big hit.

“All right, so I figured since we’re all different levels, we could start on a mid-level quest to encompass all of us. Téa, Tristan, and Duke are all low leveled, so you guys can get the boss kills and level up like crazy. Joey, Atem, Ryou, and I have all been playing in our downtime so we’re a little higher leveled." That was an understatement. They were actually rather high leveled, he and Atem especially. "We won’t take any kills, though. We’re just there for back-up.”

“No way!” Tristan exclaimed, pouting. “Let’s go on a hard quest! If we have you guys, we got this in the bag!” Yugi hesitated, looking around his group. Ryou and Téa shared his apprehension while Atem, Joey, and even Duke looked amped for a more dangerous mission.

Finally Téa sighed and shrugged. “Whatever. Let’s do this and make it epic. The hardest one that you have—that you know we’ll actually win!” Yugi nodded, pulling up his quest menu. He scrolled through it until he found the mission he was looking for. With a smirk, he nudged Ryou, who hissed when he saw it.

“Yugi, no!”

“Yugi, yes,” he responded with a grin. “They wanted hard. Let’s give them hard.” Ryou groaned while Joey and Tristan cheered. Even Atem looked excited.

Of course, considering it was rare for their entire group to get together and play games like this, no wonder everyone was excited. A more intense quest would make them play together longer and bring an extra level of thrill to the game. Yugi was okay with that, even if it would be more challenging and definitely way too much for the lower-leveled characters to fight on their own.

He clicked on the quest and the world melted around them, reforming into the new lands that applied to their new adventure.  

“So, this is called the Signer quest. We have to defeat six dragons to make the seventh and most powerful dragon appear. But after we defeat them, they’ll join our sides. Actually, whoever KOs the dragon gets the Signer mark permanently after that and can summon the dragon from here on out in the game.” Yugi grinned, shifting to the balls of his feet excitedly. “Then, if we beat this quest, it’ll unlock the Dark Signer quest. That’s when we use the seven dragons to defeat the seven Earthbound Immortals and the evil Crimson Devil. It’ll be fun!”

Duke was the one that opted to respond. “Sounds like it. After what you've made, if you're saying it's fun, it will be. Let’s go, then. Lead the way, Yugi.”

“Wait, wait, what is everyone?” Tristan asked, pointing at Atem for an example. “I'm a Magic Gunman. White Wizard for Ryou; Warrior for Joey; Téa is a... ?”

“Magician,” Téa supplied.

“Thief,” Duke said, pointing to himself.

“I’m a Beast Tamer!” Yugi told him. At Tristan’s blank look, Yugi elaborated, “It means I can convert enemies to our side. I already have a few from previous quests; I can only have six on me at one time.”

“And I’m an Illusionist,” Atem finished. “I can create images and mental traps to attack enemies with. I also got an ability to summon different magician friends, so I have four magicians I can summon to help me, too.”

Tristan nodded, seemingly pleased with the explanation. He gestured for them to continue moving, so Joey took the lead, loudly proclaiming he knew where to take them.

He didn’t. They wandered in circles, fighting enemy spawn after enemy spawn. After the third circle around a forest, Yugi waved his Marshmallon and Winged Kuriboh back to his side and reached out, halting Joey from going further.

“This way, Joey.” He pointed towards the left. “Kuriboh saw the pathway from over the treetops.”

“I knew that! I was just lettin Tristan and Téa level up and stuff.” Yugi gave him a patronizing grin and nodded. “Ah, hush up!” He gave Yugi a noogie before walking off in the direction Kuriboh was leading them.

They found their first dragon almost immediately once they were on the right path. It was sleeping on the ground, surrounded by plants. As soon as the party stepped into the pathway, the black dragon poked its head up, glaring at them. It flared its beautiful wings, covered in large rose petals, and stood, roaring. It’s spiked, thorned tail thrashed against the ground in warning.

“Yeah, this is what I’m talking about! Hiyaaa!” Joey let out a war cry and rushed forward, his sword held over his head. Tristan was hot on his heels, shooting magical laser shots from behind Joey.

Everyone grimaced as the dragon’s tail lashed out, catching Joey and Tristan in one fell swoop and sent them flying. “Yikes. Maybe we should be a bit more coordinated,” Ryou suggested. Yugi and Téa nodded.

“Téa and Ryou, you two should provide back-up since you’re both long-range. Atem can summon his spirits and provide extra coverage. Duke, you can dart in and out when the dragon is distracted and cut down its health points. We’ll let Joey and Tristan continue to be the distraction. And I’ll bring one of my own friends out to help defeat this.” With the plan set, the group spread out.

“Timaeus, come forth!” A miniature version of the green dragon rose from the ground. It nuzzled Yugi’s hand, wanting to be pet, before it turned to Atem and waddled over to him, nudging the magic user. He smiled and ran his hand up and down Timaeus’s neck.

Téa raised an eyebrow. Yugi laughed at the picture Atem and Timaeus made. “Atem and I sometimes just come in here to play with the pets instead of questing. Timaeus really likes him.” After the dragon had gotten his fair share of petting, he turned towards the Black Rose Dragon and zoomed off, shooting blasts of water.

Atem was next, summoning the Dark Magician Girl and the Dark Magician to his side. They were tiny, toon versions of the characters, both spirits that were missing legs and having ghostly tails instead. The two began to circle around the dragon, attacking, while Atem stood back and began shooting spells to disorient the dragon.

Joey and Tristan continued to get smacked around (keeping Ryou rather busy with constantly healing them) while Duke weaved in and out between people to slice at the dragon with his dagger. However, it was Téa that shot the killing blast. The Black Rose Dragon gave a cry and then exploded into a red light that shot down onto Téa’s hand, leaving a mark behind.

The group as a whole felt themselves level up, some gaining more levels than others. They collected the monster drops and loot, finishing up their first battle.

“Whoop! One down, six more to go! Let’s do this guys!”

Dragon number three was when Mokuba and Kaiba dropped into their team. Mokuba was a Bard while Kaiba was an Enchanter. While Mokuba played songs on a flute to up their stats, Kaiba used surrounding objects to throw at the current dragon—the Ancient Fairy Dragon—to weaken it.

Duke had defeated their second dragon, the Life Stream Dragon, and gained its power. As for this third dragon, Mokuba stole the kill right at the end from Joey, taking the Ancient Fairy Dragon as his new summon, too.

Their next dragon, the Black-Winged Dragon, was a tougher opponent that had Yugi summoning a second dragon. It was the Red Eyes Black Dragon and Joey nearly had a fit when he saw his favorite dragon at Yugi’s side.

“It was a new summon I found a few nights ago,” Yugi explained sheepishly. Joey continued to glare at him throughout the entire fight. At least until the dragon was defeated and Joey had a new target he could direct his pouting to. In this case, Tristan took the kill and Joey's whining.

Dragons five and six appeared together much to the group’s horror (besides Yugi, Ryou, and Kaiba who all knew what the quest entailed). They were the strongest dragons and Joey and Kaiba both fought over trying to get the final kill. It was a difficult battle, though; enough so that Ryou had to revive Joey twice and Tristan three times.

Atem had to summon his final two magician spirits: the Magician of Black Chaos and the Silent Magician. Yugi was also forced to summon his final two dragon companions, the Blue Eyes White Dragon (which had Kaiba apoplectic when he saw it) and Gandora, the Dragon of Destruction.

Atem nearly had the final kill but was nice enough to freeze the Stardust Dragon for Kaiba to take the kill. Ryou also had the final killshot on the Red Dragon Archfiend but Joey swooped in right at the last second and stole the kill.

“You’re lucky there is no friendly fire. If there was, I would roast you alive,” Ryou grumped out, pouting as the dragon’s mark appeared on Joey’s hand. “I wanted a dragon.”

Yugi nudged him and smiled. “Don’t worry. You can get the next one. Think of how cool that’ll look, too! Summoning that flaming beast will make you legendary.” Ryou gave a laugh, nodding.

“You’re right. I’ll be the most badass White Wizard in all of Monster World. Come on, let’s go get that Crimson Dragon!”

When they made it to the sacred summoning ground, the six members of their party who had the Signer marks had to lift up their arms to draw forth the dragon.

If Yugi was being honest, the Crimson Dragon was one of his and Ryou’s most beautiful creations. It was slender, like a snake, but it had flaming stick-like wings, almost skeletal in appearance. It was nothing but pure flame, though. No body, no actual wings, no teeth or claws; nothing but pure molten energy. They could feel the heat radiating from its body.

“Amazing…” Téa breathed, staring up at the creature in awe. Tristan and Duke both made similar sounds.

“Let’s take it down!!” Joey was the one to charge in first, again, like always. But this time, the creature was too strong.

“Joey, no!” Yugi reached out to stop him but was too slow. His best friend was slashed across the chest by the dragon’s claws, sending him to his knees.

“Joey!!” Their entire team rushed to his aid but everything happened in a blur after that. Yugi wasn’t sure what happened, exactly. He was reaching towards Joey, there was screaming, Téa went flying backwards beside him, Atem was yelling, Kaiba grabbed him and threw him backwards, and then there was a lot of earth shaking and rocks.

And then… and then the ground was cracking open and a huge fissure split the earth. Yugi was sitting up enough to see what happened and it was like a movie playing in slow motion. Atem was shoving Ryou out of the way from the hole but he didn’t move fast enough, and then he was the one falling down the crevice. Yugi watched Atem’s body disappear into the blackness and it felt like his heart stopped.

He knew, deep down, it was only a game and that no true harm would come to his husband. But in that moment, it was like his world stopped. He couldn’t hear anything around him, couldn’t see anything except Atem’s falling body, couldn’t think about anything except saving his husband. His heart thudded in his chest and Yugi simply moved on pure instinct. He dived after Atem, ignoring Ryou and Kaiba’s shouts for him to stop.

He managed to grab Atem around the waist, holding him to his chest, as they plunged into icy waters below them. Before he lost consciousness, he was horrified to feel his hands slip from Atem’s body.

Yugi blinked his eyes open slowly, feeling like his mind was in a fog. How he hadn’t died from the fall was beyond him. He should really be waking up back home, in the real world, after being booted from the game. But he wasn’t.

The rush of memories came back and Yugi sat up, panicked. “Atem? Atem! Atem! Where are you?” He stumbled over himself to stand, wincing as his leg nearly gave way instantly. Yugi groaned as he fell back on his ass. He pulled up his status menu, taking inventory of his wounds. It looked like his ankle was sprained, so until he found a healer, his walking ability would be limited. Luckily, that was the only real damage. Everything else was just bruises and cuts.

As well as the fact he was freezing. That was delightful.

He groaned, chanting a few spells to summon his dragons back to his side. All four appeared in front of him, as well as Marshmallon and Winged Kuriboh. “Timaeus, Blue Eyes, go search the surrounding area for Atem. I need to find him. Red Eyes, I need your flames to warm me up, but then I want you to go find our team and let them know where I am.” Timaeus and the Blue Eyes White Dragon took off at Yugi’s command, while the Red Eyes Black Dragon lit a small fire to let Yugi warm up.

Once he was dry and his body temperature back up to normal, the Red Eyes took off up the cliff to find the rest of their friends.

“Gandora, help me walk. I have to find Atem.” Gandora let out a whine, clearly wishing Yugi to remain sitting, but Yugi was stubborn. He stood, wobbling on his good leg, but began to hobble off, following the river he had washed up from. Gandora trotted along beside him, steadying him slightly. Kuriboh flitted around his head nervously, clearly worried about Yugi’s health.

Thankfully, Timaeus let out a cry that had Yugi stumbling towards him in a rush. The Blue Eyes found Yugi and steadied his other side, helping him get to Atem’s side faster.

And there was his husband, lying prone on the ground. He wasn’t moving.

It’s just a game. It’s just a game. It’s just a game. This isn’t real. Atem is fine. Atem is fine. This isn’t real.

Yet no matter how many times he repeated it, Yugi couldn’t stop the tears from rolling down his cheeks or the panicked breathing. This was his husband and he was hurt and just lying there and Yugi didn’t know what to do. He couldn’t lose Atem again.

He made it to Atem’s side and scooped him up into his arms, shaking and doing his best to hold back sobs. “A-Atem, darling, please wake up. C’mon, babe, wake up. Please get up.” He gently tapped his cheek but Atem didn't stir in the slightest.

It was just a game but at the same time, it was way too real. Yugi felt this strike something deep inside him and felt as his innermost fears began to bubble up to the surface. He couldn’t breathe.

“Please, Atem, please. Please wake up. Please.”

It was like a nightmare. Yugi felt himself slipping into his darkest memories; he was back there, kneeling on the ground in a dark temple, watching the love of his life walk away. Feeling like he had killed him, forced him to leave. Watching the doors slide close behind his king, forcing a smile on his face as his heart shattered.

Yugi’s breath hitched and he let out a sob. “Atem! Please, Atem, please… Please!” He wasn’t even sure what he was begging for. He wasn’t sure why this was destroying him inside so much, but it was. Yugi couldn’t handle it. He couldn’t handle Atem unconscious like this, slipping away from him just like before.

He couldn’t have him walk out of his life again. Yugi wouldn’t let it happen. He’d die before he let Atem leave him again. This time, if he wanted to walk through those doors to the Other Side, Yugi was going to follow him no matter what Atem said.

“Yu… Yugi?” The voice was hoarse but it snapped Yugi out of his spiraling sobs, making him open his eyes and give a relieved whimper. “What’s wrong?”

“You’re okay,” Yugi told him, trying to steady his breathing. He was still hiccuping from his tears. “Gods, y-you’re o-o-okay.”

Atem looked perplexed for a few seconds but he seemed to realize that Yugi’s tears were not normal. And that was why he loved his husband because instead of probing and asking why Yugi was overreacting from a video game, he simply reached up and hugged him. “I’m here, Yugi. I’m not going to leave you. Ever.”

Yugi let out a sob, unable to hold it back. “I-I-I’m sor-sorry. I don’t—I don’t mean to b-b-be like this but… but… you were—-”

“Shh, shh, it’s okay. Don’t apologize; I understand. But I’m here, my love. I’m right here, solid, in your arms. I’m not going to go anywhere. I’m not going to leave your side for all eternity. Remember? We promised that.” Yugi nodded, unable to say anything.

“Do you want to breathe together? Or do you just want me to talk?” Atem asked him, stroking Yugi’s hair.

“J-just talk. I want to hear your voice.”

“Okay. I thought your dragon was beautiful. You and Ryou have done so amazing on this game. Even the pain reception. It’s not too much but enough to feel sore; to make it real. That heat, though, from the dragon! It was incredible, partner. I’m so proud of what you’ve made. And all of our friends are enjoying it, too. Even Kaiba is playing, so you know it’s a great game.”

Yugi felt his heart begin to fall into its normal rhythm. Everything was okay. Atem was there. Atem was real. Atem was alive.

“I love you,” Yugi whispered. “I love you so much.”

“I love you too, Yugi.” Atem seemed to feel him calming. “Do you want to talk about it? What triggered that reaction?”

Yugi took a few more deep breaths before he trusted himself to speak. “I saw you… just lying there. And all I could think was that you were… you were dead again. And then I remembered the last time I saw you die and leave me and I… I don’t want you to go away again. If you want to go back to the Field of Reeds, I’m going with you this time. I won’t let you leave me.”

Atem cupped Yugi’s cheeks, tilting his face down so he could reach up and kiss him. He kissed him long, gently, and deeply. He kissed him until Yugi felt like he was seeing stars; all he could think about was Atem. He could taste Atem, smell Atem, feel Atem, see Atem, hear Atem—Atem had his every sense and it was perfect.

He broke away and wiped the tear residue remaining on Yugi’s cheeks. “I will never leave your side. Anything we do, we do together. Until the end of time.” He didn’t wait for Yugi to respond, leaning back up and kissing him again.

Yugi wasn’t sure how long they sat there kissing, but it was long enough that all the traces of panic and anxiety eased from his chest. It was long enough that he could breathe normally and think logically again. He knew Atem was there and it grounded him to the present.

“Wow, seriously?” The annoyed tone of Joey had Yugi and Atem pulling apart with embarrassed grins. “Here we are, worried sick about finding you two, and it just turns out that you’ve run off to go canoodle! What the hell, guys?”

“It’s… not what it looks like?” Atem tried with a cringe. No one in the group believed it.

However, ever the perceptive one, Téa seemed to notice Yugi’s red-rimmed eyes and his death grip on Atem’s back and seemed to process that there was something underlying going on. She waved Joey’s rants away, rolling her eyes at him. “They’re the married ones; let them do what they want. After all, this is Yugi’s game. If he programmed spots to go be alone with his husband, well, he deserves to use them!”

Yugi gave a sheepish laugh, not feeling like correcting Téa’s assumption that this was a spot that he could do, ahem, other things with his husband. He technically couldn’t. Those spots had been programmed into the game, of course, though they were very difficult to find for other users. But this particular place wasn’t one of those spots.

Which was probably a good thing. Yugi wouldn’t have liked getting caught by all his friends doing his husband.

“So did we defeat the dragon?” Atem opted to ask, working on redirecting the conversation away from them. “Or after Ryou heals us, are we going back up there to give it another go?”

“We killed him!” Joey declared proudly, puffing out his chest. “It was hard. And Ryou had to revive almost everyone. But we finally did it!”

Yugi scanned their arms, trying to see who won. Ryou held up his arm, the crimson mark glowing all the way down the front of his hand to his elbow. It was in the shape of a dragon. “I did,” Ryou said proudly.

“So, we up for doing the next quest?” Duke asked the group as Ryou healed Yugi and Atem. “Or are we calling it a night?”

Yugi caught Téa glancing over at them worriedly; she could definitely sense there had been something else going on when the group wasn’t there. Giving an exaggerated yawn, she said, “I think we should call it a night. I’m beat. Remember, it is like 14 hours difference over here. So I know it’s like 5:00 over there, but it’s like 3 in the morning here. So call it a night?”

“Oh shit, yeah. Sorry, Téa. We’ll have to time this out better next time.”

“Meh, it’s Friday. No biggie. Anyways, don’t do the next quest without me! I want to use my dragon, too. I’ll see you guys later?” There were choruses of agreement all around her, making Téa smile. “Awesome. Later, guys.” Before she logged out, though, she flashed Yugi a look that asked, Are you okay?

He gave her a grateful smile, nodding, and mouthing, “Thank you.” She nodded and smiled back before logging out. From there, everyone else said their farewells and logged out after her.

Back in the real world, Yugi pulled off his microphone piece and headset. He took a deep breath, leaning back against the couch.

Only to open his eyes, startled, when a weight settled on his lap. “I thought I would show you how real and alive I am. Just in case you needed more convincing,” Atem told him, smirking flirtatiously. The look sent fire flooding Yugi’s veins.

“I think I’d like that,” he admitted.

“Good. I’ll make us both come alive.” And his husband proceeded to do just that.

#yugioh advent #puzzleshipping #yugioh #the advent is over but i'm gonna finish these prompts if it's the last thing i do

[aion-rsa]

Doctor Who: Ranking the Dalek Stories – Which is the Best?

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“… hideous, machine-like creatures. They are legless, moving on a round base. They have no human features. A lens on a flexible shaft acts as an eye, arms with mechanical grips for hands.” Terry Nation’s script for ‘The Survivors’ (aka ‘The Daleks’ Part Two)

The Daleks, along with Judge Dredd, are fictional fascists beloved by a wide audience. At their heart is a combination of terrifying concept – Nazis who always return (imagine) – with a triumph of design. The greatest Dalek stories tap into this uneasy alliance.

A quick summary of the thinking behind this article:

A. We thought people would enjoy it.

B. If a story features the Daleks in a small cameo role, I’ve not included it (for example, ‘Frontier in Space’, ‘The Wedding of River Song’, ‘The Pilot’). I’ve removed ‘The Day of the Doctor’ and ‘The Time of the Doctor’: it seems silly to rate them based on their Dalek content.

The rankings are not based purely on how entertaining I find the stories, but also on how the Daleks are used and developed, the Doctor’s response to them and what that says (within both the larger context of the show’s history and the stories surrounding it). As this only covers television stories, I should mention that I think the best Dalek story of all time is the Big Finish audioplay ‘Jubilee’ by Rob Shearman, which you should know as little as possible about before listening to.

24. Planet of the Daleks

Having not seen this until its DVD release, I don’t have any residual affection for this story from childhood (unlike other stories on this list; I thought ‘Resurrection of the Daleks’ was great when I was nine).

‘Planet’comes across as lazy now. To be fair to Terry Nation, no one could rewatch episodes in 1972, and so his first script for the show since 1965 drew heavily on his old stories. The result is a rote traipse through the familiar.

It’s not without positives: The Doctor’s grief and rage when he thinks Jo is dead is very well acted, although the oft quoted “Courage isn’t just a matter of not being frightened” line works better in isolation than in the actual scene, which feels like HR has invited Jon Pertwee in to do a motivational seminar.

23. Destiny of the Daleks

Terry Nation’s final script for Doctor Who clashed with Script Editor Douglas Adams. Adams tried to zest up what he regarded as tired Nation standards (including radiation poisoning, overambitious monsters, a rare mineral, a quest, things named after their primary characteristic, invisible monsters, jungle planets, aggressive vegetation, flaky Daleks, unfortunate comedy episodes and plagues). The lack of budget is obvious, with knackered Dalek props and an ill-fitting Davros mask (actor David Gooderson also cannot lift Davros’ generic villain dialogue).

Some jokes land (‘Ooh look! Rocks!’) as does some of the Mild Peril (Episode 3’s cliff-hanger especially), but the story about inertia reflects its subject. K9 doesn’t appear because Nation didn’t want him to distract from the Daleks, then reduces them to impotent robots in thrall to their creator anyway.

22. Daleks in Manhattan/ Evolution of the Daleks

It’s not that this re-treads ideas from ‘Evil of the Daleks’, or that the science strains credulity even by Doctor Who standards, it’s that this story feels strangely perfunctory despite its ambitions. This is a shame because there are some great moments in the first episode where the Daleks plot, skulk and lament. It feels salvageable, but Russell T. Davies was ill and unable to perform his usual rewrites on the scripts, and the result feels like ticking off items on a Tenth Doctor Bingo card.

We do get the mental image of the Cult of Skaro sneaking around 1920s New York trying to kidnap a pig though, so you can’t say that it’s all bad.

21. The Chase

‘The Chase’ starts off well and cosy. Terry Nation sets the initial action on a desert planet called Aridius where some aliens from RADA are menaced by a giant ballbag. The regulars are all enjoying themselves. Then we getawkward comedy skits, a poorly judged trip to the Marie Celeste, and a sequence in a haunted house where everyone is stupid for some reason. The momentum never fully recovers from this.

Giving the Daleks time travel to pursue the TARDIS is an important development, and it’s a fantastic set for the interior, but the middle of this story lets it down.

20. Resurrection of the Daleks

From this point on, using the Daleks required approval by Terry Nation or his estate. Nation had been unsatisfied by other writers’ version of the Daleks, which is quite the take, and refused to allow another writer to tackle them until a convention appearance changed his mind. Nation’s feedback on an Eric Saward script meant that the story was revised and became overfull to satisfy both writers’ visions.

A delay in production gave time for streamlining, but nonetheless ‘Resurrection’ is messy and ultimately doesn’t seem very interested in the Daleks (focussing again on Davros and Saward’s mercenary characters). Indeed, the Daleks here seem even weaker than in ‘Destiny’, relying on mercenaries to take over Davros’ prison ship and being insecure enough to give them little Dalek decorations on their helmets.

In its defence, Matthew Robinson directs it with gusto, somewhere in there is a critique of its own violence, and Tegan’s departure is excellent.

19. Revolution of the Daleks

This is not a story that uses the Daleks on more than one level, and yet also possibly the nearest thing its era gets to political satire. We have someone using the remains of a Dalek to build security drones, associating a representation of fascism with law enforcement and connecting it to government, but the story moves away from this idea into cloned Dalek mutants hijack the drones and kill people, and then the original Daleks turn up to kill them because they’re not genetically pure. The Doctor’s solution to the remaining Daleks is good, but while this one doesn’t do anything outrageously wrong, it doesn’t do anything especially right either.

18. Resolution

Likewise, this story is just sort of there, like Shed Seven or thrush. The Daleks have a new form of controlling people, with the mutant wearing them like the title creatures from ‘Planet of the Spiders’ (as strong an image as it was in 1975) and the DIY Dalek shell mirrors the Doctor’s rebuilding of the sonic screwdriver.

The Dalek also demonstrates its firepower quite impressively, but contrasting this with ‘Dalek’ shows what’s missing: this doesn’t have anything like the personal stakes of that story, and so we have some pulpy and familiar thrills but little depth.

17. Into the Dalek

The main job of ‘Into the Dalek’ isn’t getting under the skin of the Daleks, but setting up the Series 8 arcs. We have a good Dalek, which turns out to have a damaged inhibitor allowing it to feel compassion, and a Fantastic Voyage-style journey through its interior. This lacks existential dread (in contrast to Clara being trapped inside a Dalek during ‘The Witch’s Familiar’), but Ben Wheatley directs the Daleks in combat extremely well.

It’s very busy, ambitious and patchy: the gag where the Doctor keeps finding Clara unattractive gets old quickly, the dialogue is of variable quality, and everyone has to be stupid for the plot to happen. There’s an interesting story to be had about a broken Dalek and the Doctor’s response to it, but this isn’t it.

16. Victory of the Daleks

Another riff on a Troughton-era story, in this case ‘Power of the Daleks’, this is easier to criticise now separate from the outcry over the New Paradigm design.

And it is… okay. The twist that the Doctor’s hatred of Daleks is what progresses their plan is a better use of this than the usual abyss-gazing. The Daleks win, but this doesn’t land with sufficient weight as the meat of the ending is given over to the ongoing series arc.

It’s a hybrid of Dalek event story and Companion Proves Themselves (with all the iconography of Churchill, World War Two and the Daleks) and is so by necessity somewhat pat in its resolution. Also, by Printing the Legend of Churchill a more interesting story is compressed into the line “If Hitler invaded hell I would give a favourable reference to the Devil”.

Putting aside the Dalek designs, which didn’t work for most people, this story fulfils a function and attempts to disguise this amiably enough.

15. Death to the Daleks

This is a story that, thanks to it being four parts rather than six, we could afford on video. I can’t say for sure how much this impacts my preferring it to ‘Planet of the Daleks’, but I do think it stands out slightlyfrom other Terry Nation stories despite the familiar elements (rare minerals, quests, a first episode featuring just the regulars). 

Carey Blyton’s score, along with Arnold Yarrow’s performance as Bellal, has an endearing quirkiness. There are little flourishes like the Daleks using a model TARDIS for target practice, and the Doctor’s melancholy at the destruction of the city. Its oddness occasionally overcomes the quaintness of Nation’s approach to Doctor Who, which doesn’t seem to have changed since 1965.

14. Army of Ghosts/ Doomsday

Having successfully brought the Daleks back, Russell T. Davies held off on using them again until the Series 2 finale. We have the Daleks versus the Doctor and – for the first time – the Cybermen. The Dalek threat is resolved fairly swiftly as a mechanism to separate the Doctor and Rose, but what we do get is the Cult of Skaro (the return of the Black Dalek! Daleks with names! I don’t know why these are exciting but they are!) and the joy of subverting the two biggest monsters finally meeting by – instead of a huge space battle – having four of them read each other in a corridor with sassy putdowns.

13. Revelation of the Daleks

Eric Saward’s second Dalek story features Davros turning humans into a new race of Daleks leading to the stirrings of a civil war with the originals.

There are always garish edges to Saward’s writing, but the sequence where a character discovers her father’s body inside a glass Dalek – and he alternates between ranting about genetic purity and begging him to kill her – is at its core such a terrifying idea that it succeeds where the horrors of ‘Resurrection’ seem shallow. It does share that story’s lack of interest in the Daleks for the most part though, but this scene makes them scary for the first time since ‘Genesis’.

This also features Alexei Sayle fighting Daleks with a ray gun that fires rock’n’roll. If you don’t like that then we’re probably not going to agree on much about Doctor Who.

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12. Day of the Daleks

This is an example of the Daleks’ importance to Doctor Who. After talking to Huw Weldon, who had been responsible for the length of ‘The Dalek Master Plan’, producer Barry Letts decided to bring the Daleks back for the Season 9 finale, with Terry Nation’s permission, only to decide that the show instead needed a hook for the opening story of Season 10. As a result, the Daleks were inserted into the story planned for that slot. This is a common feature of Dalek stories: it’s hard to write something original that they’re intrinsic to.

The production suffers from the small number of Dalek props available, and director Paul Bernard not using the ring modulator effect for their voices. This is a good story (though maybe not a good Dalek Story) with a then novel time paradox plot and Aubrey Woods’ Controller is a really strong performance. Viewing figures broke the 10 million mark for the first time since ‘The Dalek Master Plan’, so the decision to bring the Daleks back was absolutely vindicated.

11. Mission to the Unknown/The Daleks’ Master Plan

Essentially a longer and darker version of ‘The Chase’ with higher stakes – it’s not simply that the Daleks want to kill the Doctor, it’s that the Doctor stole part of their superweapon – with a subpar comedy episode and lots of hostile planets (deadly plants, invisible monsters, a rare mineral: such familiarity!). Extended to twelve episodes, it loses its way but commits to its scale with an incredibly downbeat ending that uses jungle planet cliché for contrast: Kembel is reduced to sand and dust.

A highlight of this story is the alliance of Outer Galaxy emissaries who join with the Daleks, a group of Doctor Who villains who inevitably bicker and betray each other. This, rather than the Space Security Service, is what Terry Nation should have focussed on for his spin-offs.

10. Asylum of the Daleks

Steven Moffat’s first proper Dalek story was part of Series 7A, an attempt at weekly blockbusters driven by high concepts. Here, then was the promise of a Dalek asylum with old and replica props, while also attempting to unify both the New Paradigm designsand the lack of emotional fallout to Amy and Rory Pond’s baby being kidnapped. Moffat also threw in a surprise new companion appearance and it’s this, combined with a nano cloud weapon that turns people into Daleks.

It’s not that the others don’t get resolved, but it’s done swiftly in another busy story. While the Daleks have previously controlled people, the idea of actually being turned into Daleks is both macabre and slightly jarring. It feels like, considering their last story involved a plotline about genetic purity, this isn’t the right fit. What does work better is the concept that the Daleks have a concept of beauty, and it’s based around hatred. While this episode does fulfil its blockbuster ambitions it also feels like it needs more room to breathe in order to do justice to all its concepts.

9. The Stolen Earth/Journey’s End

This is the logical conclusion of the Daleks’ return to the show: invading present-day Earth with a huge fleet (complete with Davros backseat driving). Also here, on top of the scale and sheer pace of the storytelling, is the logical conclusion of the Daleks: they attempt to destroy all other life in the universe in one go.

However, there’s also a sense of their ‘Day of the Daleks’role. They’re the Big Guns, so out they come for Doctor Who’s version of Infinity War. They’re developed here by virtue of Davies giving some of them distinct characters (Hello Dalek Caan, hello another stellar Nick Briggs performance). The Daleks here are aggressive and powerful (until Donna finds the off-switch in their basement), but the Doctor’s storyline is more tied up with the companions’ fates than the Daleks.

Davros is also here, trying to suggest to the Doctor that his friends trying to kill Daleks – the most evil race in the universe who are currently trying to obliterate all other sentient life – is bad (this idea worked once in a specific context and no one else has managed it before or since). On the other hand, Davros recognising Sarah Jane again is a thrilling way to bind Doctor Who to its past.

8. The Daleks

On the one hand, I find this story drags towards the end after a strong and uneasy start, but on the other Doctor Who doesn’t exist as we know it without ‘The Daleks’.

It’s hard to imagine the impact of this story on a 1963 audience, especially as we’re so familiar with what the Daleks and Doctor Who were to become. Consider, then, a story with the fear of the bomb writ large (broadcast a year after the Cuban Missile Crisis) and the Daleks in that context. That’s the existential fear angle for the adults covered, which meant they were happy to watch along, but more important was the response from children: love.

Many people contributed to the story and to the Daleks. Nation’s desire to avoid a Man-In-A-Suit monster is important, but key is the work of designer Raymond Cusick, voice actor Peter Hawkins and the Radiophonic Workshop’s Brian Hodgson. What the initially sceptical BBC found was that by the third episode, children who had watched the show were impersonating the Daleks.

There’s a lot to be written about the ageing geek audience who take their childhood toys with them into adulthood, and this article is written by a 35-year-old man who grew up when Doctor Who was off-air. However it’s worth stressing: next time you complain about the show reaching out to primary school aged children, remember that without kids in the playground, Doctor Who would simply not have survived.

7. The Evil of the Daleks

This is an excellent four-part story. Unfortunately it’s seven episodes long.

After a ludicrously convoluted scheme to get the Doctor into the actual plot, amid subplots that go nowhere, there are great parts of David Whittaker’s tale: The Daleks have kidnapped the Doctor and Jamie in order to isolate the Human Factor – the quality humans possess that enables them to regularly defeat the Daleks – to enable them to finally overcome humanity.

Firstly, if Russell T. Davies had written this the forums would never stop complaining about its scientific accuracy. Secondly, what this concept does is allow Whittaker to put the Doctor and Jamie into conflict, with the Doctor’s trickery leading to the unnerving scene of Daleks acting like children and then ultimately a Dalek civil war. We also see the first appearance of the Dalek Emperor, with a huge prop built for the story. When ‘Evil of the Daleks’ is good, it’s electric. You can see this in the surviving episode when the Doctor realises just before they appear that the Daleks are involved.

It’s a shame that the superfluous padding significantly detracts from the rest.

6. The Magician’s Apprentice / The Witch’s Familiar

A story which is primarily about the relationship between the Doctor, Davros, Missy and Clara, but which also casually drops in several new concepts which get under the skin of the Daleks more successfully than anything since ‘Dalek’. The focus is on Davros, but as the Doctor observes ‘Everything you are, they are.’

Firstly, there’s an elegant piece of writing from Steve Moffat where Davros narrates the moments before a Dalek fires, explaining they are waiting for Clara to run. Not only does this explain the Daleks not immediately shooting people, it offers a glimpse into their sadism and malice (as exemplified by Davros). Similarly, the idea that the creature inside the Dalek clings on outside of their life-support system, as they cling onto their home planet, ties into what we’ve seen on screen before.

Finally, anything in a Dalek casing trying to express individuality will have those words and thoughts twisted into the opposite meaning. This returns to the idea that original voice artist Peter Hawkins had for the Daleks – that the creatures inside were trapped. It’s an insidiously nasty idea, perhaps explaining behaviour such as the Dalek that commits suicide in ‘Death to the Daleks’when it sees its prisoners have escaped.

5. The Dalek Invasion of Earth

This and ‘Genesis’ confirm that Terry Nation’s strengths were in war stories rather than the pulp science-fiction adventure story he relied on. ‘Dalek Invasion of Earth’ is a thriller full of post-war fears that forever intertwined the Daleks and The Doctor.The production team pull out all the stops to show a conquered Earth with harrowing matter-of-factness, but the Doctor takes delight in opposing them (Hartnell is great here, taking the edge off with a twinkle but playing Susan’s leaving scene with great pathos too). The last episode is little rushed but overall this is well balanced.

The Daleks here are more mobile and powerful, their regime oppressive, their plans for turning the Earth into a spaceship bizarre and ineffable. As Nation puts it ‘They dare to tamper with the forces of creation’, the sort of boldness that would seep out of his own storytelling in future stories.

4. Genesis of the Daleks

‘Genesis of the Daleks’is another war story realised extremely well. The production does not pull many punches, and is atypically grim for Doctor Who: The Doctor loses but clings on to the slim hope that he hasn’t.

This is clearly Terry Nation’s best script, and is still clearly a Terry Nation script: radiation poisoning, over-ambitious creature requests – I don’t think Doctor Who could ever do a giant clam well, even now – and the endearingly-crap naming conventions (the mutants in the wastelands are called ‘Mutos’ and their dialogue could slot effortlessly into The Mighty Boosh).

Outgoing producer Barry Letts called Nation on his bullshit when he attempted to hand in a similar script for the second time, and suggested an origin story. From here Nation developed the war of attrition, Nazi parallels and the character of Davros (created to have a Dalek-like character who could be given interesting dialogue). Nation commits to making the origins of the Daleks plausibly horrifying. Contrast the halfway stage of ‘The Chase’ – with its misplaced comedy episodes that sap the momentum of the story – with the halfway point here: Davros willingly destroys his entire race to ensure the survival of the Daleks.

Where it feels lesser in comparison is that it is neither connected to an everyday, material reality (unlike ‘Spare Parts’, the story exploring the Cybermen’s origins) and its famous scene where the Doctor asks if he has the right to commit genocide, which looms large in later stories.

And yet, this scene only works in isolation. In context it’s jarring. In surrounding stories, the Doctor kills a sentient robot, a Sontaran, and some Zygons; he will later poison someone with cyanide, all without any qualms. Here, though, he compares destroying Dalek mutants – which are already attacking people – to killing Hitler as a baby. The Doctor worries he’d be as bad as the Daleks if he wipes them out. A few scenes later he has changed his mind, trying and failing to kill them. If it was linked to Davros’ aspirations of godhood, fine, but it’s neither written nor played that way.

It’s not as if the Doctor hasn’t already instigated attacks that seem to wipe the Daleks out, but there other people did the dirty work. It’s this, going forward, that becomes the key aspect of the scene for future writers.

3. Remembrance of the Daleks

‘Remembrance’takes the brewing civil war situation of ‘Revelation’ and connects it simultaneously to Doctor Who and British history. The Doctor is trying to trick the Daleks into using a superweapon hidden in 1963 London, knowing it could result in people dying. The Doctor’s trap feels like a response to ‘Have I the right?’ – clearly he feels he has but doesn’t want to directly press the trigger. It’s both a significant change and logical development in the series and the character, with Sylvester McCoy wanting to play both the weight of the character’s years and actions.

The Daleks are here because it’s an anniversary series but also because if you want a demonstration of power then potentially defeating the Daleks is a clear statement. Writer Ben Aaronovitch doesn’t just involve Daleks with a view to blowing them up, but addresses the reasons for their civil war: the hatred for the unlike that has defined the Daleks but also been part of British culture the entire time Doctor Who has been on screen and beyond, explicitly linked to the most evil creatures in the universe. Not only that, he places that hatred in the supporting cast: the ostensible good guys, the UNIT precursor, the family home.

This has scale, depth and feels important on different levels. This is Doctor Who back to its playground-influencing best.

2. The Power of the Daleks

As Terry Nation was unavailable, David Whitaker wrote the initial scripts before Dennis Spooner’s uncredited rewrites. The Daleks are in this story to bring viewers back on board after the first regeneration, and they also legitimise the new Doctor in contrast to the Daleks. The Mercury swamps that bookend the story also evoke Terry Nation in terms of putting the characters into a hostile alien environment.

The action takes places on a human colony, Vulcan. The Daleks are introduced as a potential solution to their problems, with an insurrectionist faction interested in using them as weapons and the scientist restoring them obsessed with his discoveries. The Doctor’s lone voice of dissent comes across as lunatic ravings, but the audience know the Daleks are manipulating everyone else.

Daleks obviously have the power to kill, but ubiquity had already removed their uncanniness until this story. The suggestion of deeper thought and intelligence builds, and this story gives the lie to the notion that you can’t give the Daleks good dialogue: “Why do human beings kill other human beings?” is full of chilling curiosity, “Yes, you gave us life” a future echo of their capacity for destroying father figures, the almost mocking repetition of “I am your servant”, and the cacophony of “Daleks conquer and destroy” that becomes a disorientating swirl of hatred.

This culminates in a final episode of mass slaughter. The release of tension is colossal. The very end suggests this is not over. The Daleks will never be more unnerving.

1. Dalek/Bad Wolf/The Parting of the Ways

This isn’t a three-parter in the usual sense, but these episodes are inextricably linked, with Russell T. Davies using a series arc to delay and distract the audience from their connection.

What’s key to all three episodes is Christopher Eccleston. He sells the threat of the Daleks better than any other Doctor, elevating the already strong scripts. These are the best performances against the Daleks there will ever be.

If you’re reading this website there’s a strong chance you know that the Daleks were seen going upstairs in the 1980s, but for most viewers ‘Dalek’ was the one that took all the jokes and weaponised them (Indeed Rob Shearman asked his partner what she thought was silly about the Daleks before writing his script): they not only go upstairs but crack skulls with their sucker arm, with added revolving weaponry and force field.

The carnage is well-realised, with director Joe Ahearne letting the Dalek take its time to build the tension, Shearman’s script taps into Russell T. Davies’ new Time War mythology and companion dynamic to allow the Dalek more intelligence in terms of dialogue and emotional manipulation. This Dalek has the threat of those in ‘Genesis’and the intelligence of the ones in ‘Power of the Daleks’.

Their redesign is a microcosm of why ‘Dalek’ works so well: it doesn’t change much, rather it takes what already works and improves upon it. I can’t imagine the return of the Daleks being handled better, while stealthily setting up the stakes of the previously unimaginable series finale.

Over this article I’ve talked about different aspects of the Daleks’ appeal. Children love them and fear them. They tap into adult fears of death, fascism and the uncanny (exemplified by the cacophonic chanting of ‘Exterminate’). That they can appear comical can be weaponised, as can the fact their hatred is not unique to them. Their reach extends into the mundane.

The reasons these episodes work so well is partly because they tap into these strengths, but also that they tell more than anything tell the story of the Ninth Doctor. He’s already committed a double-genocide, as far as he’s concerned, and is barely keeping it together without the prospect of having to commit another one. This is contrasted with the fact of one Dalek being demonstrably dangerous, and now there are hundreds of them. We know what they can, what they will do, and the only way to stop it is for the Doctor to kill Daleks and humans alike. It’s a much more effectively constructed and persuasive dilemma than the one the Doctor proposes in ‘Genesis’.

This story also puts in work with the supporting characters, and rather than being soldiers the staff of the satellite are office workers put into a desperate situation, or people who just wanted to be on telly. While ‘Bad Wolf’isn’t as Dalek-heavy, its satire is subtly devastating. If you look back at clips of The Weakest Link now you can see casual and sadistic cruelty meted out, so connecting this to the Daleks is a stroke of genius (especially with celebrity voices unwittingly joining in their own condemnation), bringing their evil to the everyday.

The Doctor’s closest friends here are merely the people who die last; he knows they’re going to die, and he hears it happen. It becomes increasingly personal, while also satiating that morbid fannish desire to see the Daleks kill someone. Here they seem sadistic, devious, and unstoppable. The need to stop them is obvious, as is the cost.

So rather than an unearned moment of moralising here we have a situation where the Doctor’s decision makes sense, is not abstract to him. This also, in the first series back, makes an important statement: Doctor Who can be dark, and nice people can die horribly, but it is not a series where the grimness becomes overwhelming. Here the Doctor’s decision not to kill is one he knows will also cost him his life, and then his ideals inspire his salvation: it is Rose, not Davros or the Doctor, who is set up among the gods, and her instinct is not – to paraphrase another franchise – to destroy what she hates.

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The reason I love this one is because it delivers on so many fronts: these stories define this Doctor. The story is epic but steeped in the everyday. The Daleks are terrified and terrifying, silent and shrieking, devious and brutal. They feel unstoppable here in a way they simply haven’t since. For a story to do this many things is impressive, but to do them all well is astonishing.

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FX’s Legion Chapter 3 Directed by Michael Uppendahl Written by Peter Calloway

* For a recap & review of Chapter 2, click here. * For a recap & review of Chapter 3, click here. Dr. Melanie Bird (Jean Smart) and her Summerland facility run on smoothly, as David Haller (Dan Stevens) digs deeper into his mind. Everybody’s doing something constructive, from Syd (Rachel Keller) to Ptonomy (Jeremie Harris), and Cary Loudermilk (Bill Irwin). Still, The Eye (Mackenzie Gray) holds David’s sister Amy (Katie Aselton) hostage. And how long until something really bad happens? Now more of therapy, just amped up. They’re digging into the “shit that scares you the most” in terms of the largest events in David’s life where he manifested powers, believing it mental illness. We cycle back through the familiar stuff, the kitchen before everything exploded. When Melanie and Ptonomy witness what happens afterwards they’re both wowed by their new friend’s powerful abilities. Then they’re back to a memory with David and Lenny (Aubrey Plaza), high as fuck, which starts a confrontation after Philly arrives. And once more the Devil with the Yellow Eyes returns, scaring David. The memory changes, things aren’t the same anymore. When they come out of the memory work they’ve literally transported “600 feet through two solid walls.” Yowzahs. The continuing relationship between David and Syd is fun, not a conventional-type relationship we so often see. Of course that’s precipitated by the fact they’re mutants, or whatever you’d like to call them. Either way, she’s awesome, and it’s excellent to see a different female character in these superhero stories. In this episode, David and Syd talk about their past to one another. He also has residual physical manifestations of their switching bodies. Syd: “We‘re more than just this” Later, David goes over with Cary for a few tests. A kind of stress test. This takes him back to a memory on Halloween, as he and big sister Amy go trick or treating. When their dog ran off, David ended up seeing The World’s Angriest Boy in The World come to life. Oh, and Lenny shows up, too! We watch now as he speaks to Lenny, hearing her, yet to the outside world he’s not actually talking. His brain’s lighting up as if he’s talking, but he’s not at all. Lenny is one hell of an antagonist, though. As if his mind, in general. It goes into overdrive. David levitates, followed by Syd, as well. They disappear into nothingness. They’re transported to where Amy sits, interrogated over and over about her brother and his powers, confronted with the fact he doesn’t have schizophrenia. Rather, he’s a powerful “god.” She has no information for them. That’ll be a problem if David and Co can’t get to her in time.

Melanie doesn’t want David doing his transportation act again any time soon. Could put them all in danger. We also get a history of the place, or a short one, anyways. There’s a lot going on for them, between Amy missing, David’s powers, old friends now foes of Melanie. On top of that, Dr. Bird wants to weaponize David, essentially. He won’t let up until his sister is safe. Simultaneous, he won’t stand for putting Syd in danger, even though she kicks ass, has saved him a few times already, et cetera. They deal with it in their own way, talking it through and feeling their connection immensely without any physical contact; one of the interesting, fun things I enjoy about their relationship. David: “To be a monster, you‘ve first got to do something monstrous.” More memory work! This time, Dr. Bird puts David into sedation. They go back to see how he wound up in Clockworks. Intriguing that Syd’s powers don’t work inside the memories, not without her physical body. She actually gets to hug David, but a young, little David. Odd, yet in a way romantic across space and time. Then strange flashes, banging around the room while they watch David’s memories. Except they’re only images Syd can see. Something tears open a wall behind Melanie and Ptonomy, creeping its hands through the gap. They lose track of one another when Syd stumbles back through various memories of David’s in succession, chasing the child version of David through room after room. She even witnesses David having sex, at one point; very weird, considering she’s unable to have human contact. Trapped in David’s head, The Angriest Boy in the World stalks the child. And worse still, the Devil with the Yellow Eyes. Syd and Ptonomy manage to make it out of their deep sleep. Although David and Melanie remain under.

Amongst the memories, Dr. Bird still walks, looking for answers. She finds The World’s Angriest Boy in the World tucked away in a closet. She reads through the sinister book. It soon slams shut on her hand, sending her back to the couch with Ptonomy. However, the memories are scaring everybody now, not only David. He’s got his own demons, too. Terrifying ones that won’t let go. What an episode! This series is just knocking each Chapter out the park. Hawley and the crew doing amazing work, solid directors and writers involved. Great, great stuff. Looking forward to Chapter 4. Legion – Chapter 3 FX's Legion Chapter 3 Directed by Michael Uppendahl Written by Peter Calloway * For a recap & review of Chapter 2, …

#Aubrey Plaza #Dan Stevens #Devil with the Yellow Eyes #FX #Jean Smart #Legion #Mutant #Rachel Keller

[positivepsychologyinterventions]

Podcast: How Toxic Masculinity Also Hurts Men

The phrase “sacred masculine” can evoke images of patriarchal religiosity.  But it has a different meaning for today’s guest. For Miguel Dean, the sacred masculine is an ideal, embodied by a man who accepts all of his emotions, understands the connectedness of humanity, and is devoted to helping others.

Join us as Miguel explains how the sacred masculine is increasingly being recognized as a new model of masculinity to replace the old ideas of what it meant to be a man. This new man embraces all of his humanity and recognizes that part of this is the courage to feel, express and honor the full spectrum of human emotions. He knows that everything in life is connected and that his wholeness is catalyzed by his commitment to service.

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Guest information for ‘Toxic Masculinity’ Podcast Episode

Miguel Dean walks the path of the sacred masculine as seer, catalyst and holder of sacred space.  He is also a writer and author of his latest book Bring Him Home – A Twin Flame Love Story. 

He was born in 1968 in Colchester, England where he had a challenging start to life.  As a result of his early difficulties, as a young man, he spiraled down into a life of violence, petty crime, addiction and homelessness in which he spent seven years living on the road as a New Age Traveler.   It was the love of his newborn son that inspired and motivated him to begin to take responsibility and make changes. This was the beginning of a rich, varied, and at times extremely challenging journey to return home to physical health and inner union. 

Miguel’s writing and other offerings are all in alignment with his passion to serve and ease the transition, from what no longer serves humanity and the planet, into a more beautiful world for our children and the generations to come.  www.MiguelDean.net

About The Psych Central Podcast Host

Gabe Howard is an award-winning writer and speaker who lives with bipolar disorder. He is the author of the popular book, Mental Illness is an Asshole and other Observations, available from Amazon; signed copies are also available directly from Gabe Howard. To learn more, please visit his website, gabehoward.com.

Computer Generated Transcript for ‘Toxic Masculinity’ Episode

Editor’s Note: Please be mindful that this transcript has been computer generated and therefore may contain inaccuracies and grammar errors. Thank you.

Announcer: You’re listening to the Psych Central Podcast, where guest experts in the fields of psychology and mental health share thought-provoking information using plain, everyday language. Here’s your host, Gabe Howard.

Gabe: Are you having issues sleeping?  Because right now Psych Central Podcast listeners can get 25% off a Calm premium subscription at Calm.com/central. That’s C A L M dot com slash central. Forty million people have downloaded the Calm app. Find out why at Calm.com/central. 

Gabe Howard: Welcome to this week’s episode of the Psych Central Podcast. Calling into the show today, we have Miguel Dean. He is the author of Bring Him Home: A Twin Flame Love Story. He also talks a lot about the sacred masculine, which he is going to define for us right now. Miguel, welcome to the show.

Miguel Dean: Hello. Hello, Gabe. Thank you very much for the invitation to be here. Yeah. Great.

Gabe Howard: We really appreciate having you here. Now the sacred masculine. Can you explain that to the audience, please?

Miguel Dean: Yes. So the sacred masculine is a new type of masculine, which appears to be emerging, awakening or perhaps even remembering itself on the planet today. It’s essentially a man that has realized that in order to be the best that he can be to reach his full potential, he needs to balance the masculine and feminine aspects of himself. It’s also a man who realizes that everything in the world is connected. And then he follows the, you know, a lot of the sort of spiritual principles, really that everything is connected and that, as I do to another, I do to myself. Humanity is one body, one creature, if you like. And we are all different little cells of that one body of humanity. The other thing which is probably important to say about the sacred masculine is that he is very committed to service. He understands that because there is this connection and that everything is connected, his role isn’t just to take care of his immediate blood family, if you like, the traditional family. When he is at his best, he is also seeking constantly to serve the whole of humanity. And how can I contribute rather than what can I get out of it?

Gabe Howard: I like everything that you said there, and I agree, I do think that we’re all interconnected. But I’m going to play devil’s advocate for a moment. You know, I come from a long line of blue collar, stereotypical man’s man. You know, work with your hands. Don’t go to the doctor. Never say, I love you. Never cry in public. Kind of men. They’re good men in case they’re listening to the show. But I can kind of hear this rumbling from my childhood of people listening to you and saying, well, no, that’s completely wrong. That’s not what a man is. He’s describing a woman. What do you say to that?

Miguel Dean: My understanding is that, you know, we have these gender stereotypes and, you know, this is what it means to be a man and this is what it is to be a woman. But we both have masculine and feminine qualities to ourselves. So although if you’re a woman, there are still gonna be more masculine qualities, which they’re often, you know, things like pushing forwards and proactive and speaking up and persevering in that kind of effort. So all of that stuff, whereas the feminine qualities are more sort of receptive and they may be something, you know, more of the listening rather than the speaking, more of the kind of like holding space and just being rather than doing. Now we live in a very patriarchal-focused society. So there’s been an overemphasis on doing and on those masculine qualities. But regardless of whether you’re a man or a woman, in order to be the best version of yourself, we encompass both of those aspects. There is a time to push forward. There is a time to be tough, to be more in your masculine. And there is a time, if you think of a man with his newborn baby, be soft and he will be gentle and he will be quiet, and he will embody more of those feminine qualities. So it’s not that you know one is right or one is wrong. But it’s, you know, how do we move forwards by just being able to find a balance within both of those? Because it seems to me that, you know, largely the evidence that what we perceive, the stereotypes around being a man at the moment have been largely responsible for the big decline that we have in men’s mental health. For the big increase that we have in male suicides. I’m sure that there’s more that we can do better. Is this really the embodiment of the best version of masculinity? And for me, through my own experience and, you know, my own journey, the answer is no. And I don’t expect everybody to agree with that. I always like to emphasize that I’m just sharing my truth.

Gabe Howard: I like that a lot, Miguel. Now, in order to be fair, is there a sacred feminine counterpart to go with the sacred masculine?

Miguel Dean: Yes. Yes. You know, similarly, the sacred feminine is a woman who is striving and working towards finding the balance of her own masculine and her own feminine qualities within herself. So, you know, when we have a man that is living from this place that is being this, and a woman that is being this, then we have really strong and powerful partnerships. So instead of two halves, a man and a woman making up a whole, we have a woman that is balanced and a man that is balanced. That means, when they come together, the whole is more than the sum of the parts because they’re not trying to complete each other. They are complete unto themselves. When they come together, there is an extra energy. And those sort of couples you will often find contribute a massive amount to society and to humanity.

Gabe Howard: I couldn’t agree with you more, and for whatever reason, we’ve sort of genderized emotions and feelings. Going along with that idea of genderizing emotions and feelings, which you can probably do a whole podcast on why that’s probably obnoxious. But let’s go with these stereotypical terms. It seems to be what you’re saying is, listen, we all have all of these emotions living inside us and we need to step outside of our comfort zones and acknowledge that if we can be full-fledged people and accept and realize and utilize all of our emotions, we’ll achieve more.

Miguel Dean: Yeah, yeah, absolutely. Okay. Yeah. You’re hitting the right notes. Definitely. We have these sayings that we heard that are prevalent in society. You know, big boys don’t cry. Little girls should be nice. And actually, it doesn’t seem that that’s terribly helpful in the long run, because if we’ve been given this full range of emotions, then the human being is an incredible miracle creation, really. And it doesn’t seem right to me that that men were given the emotions of sadness and tears and feeling soft and feeling broken or feeling disempowered or whatever by mistake. We were given these emotions because the emotions are kind of like they’re like they’re part of our inner guidance system that steers us towards or away from different actions and behaviors. You know, if we’re feeling lots of negative emotions it’s usually a cue to look inside and say, okay, so what am I doing or what am I living or what am I creating that’s causing these negative feelings? So perhaps I need to shift the direction, you know, that I am headed and move to see if those emotions get less or whether they get more. You know that the emotions are really important. And so when men suppress, or have been taught to suppress, their emotions and shamed into, you know, not showing their vulnerability or their weakness or their fragility or their depression or whatever, then all those emotions get trapped in the body and invariably seem to lead to dysfunctional behaviors. To addictions, you know, attempts to anesthetize and numb the unpleasant feelings, because that was certainly what I did. You know, that this is part of my story that I’m talking about now, but it just resulted in depression and, you know, severe lots of physical issues that I have because all that energy was trapped in my body.

Gabe Howard: Let’s talk about your personal journey for a moment. You describe having a life of violence and petty crime, addiction, and homelessness. You said that you spent seven years living on the road as a new age traveler. What was that like for you and how did it lead you to the discovery of the sacred masculine?

Miguel Dean: Mm hmm. Good question. Good question. What it was like was, well, looking back now, it was quite a blur because it was living kind of outside of society, really. And I now realize that it was a kind of knee jerk response to what happened to me in my childhood in that I’d lost my mom when I was a baby. My step mom, let’s say she wasn’t very loving. And so it was a very fearful. You know, my childhood, I was kind of in fight and flight, really. And my father was a typical absent male who was out at work at all hours of the day. So I left home with very low self-esteem and carrying this trauma from my childhood of losing my mother because I felt I had such low self-worth. I didn’t feel I was worth anything. I didn’t think that I was lovable or that I would amount to anything. I unconsciously chose a lifestyle that would reflect that back to me. And that was the life of living on the road where drug addiction and violence and fights and, you know, petty crime and so on. And begging on the streets sometimes was just a way of life, really. You know, I was sort of numbing myself. I was self-medicating with alcohol and illegal drugs most of the time. What then happened really was that I met a woman, as is often a turning point in men’s stories, but I met this beautiful woman and she fell pregnant. And my first son was born while I was still living on the road. And I hoped that, you know, becoming a father would change everything.

Miguel Dean: It would be a magic wand, because I had certainly reached the point where the drugs weren’t really working anymore. They weren’t numbing me and they weren’t helping me escape from all these kind of trapped emotions and this depression that was just sort of building energy inside me. But unfortunately, becoming a father wasn’t the magic wand that I’d hoped for. And in fact, it actually turned the heat up even more because it made me realize how I felt, I still felt as if I was a boy inside a man’s body. And, you know, I didn’t feel in my power and I felt really lost. And one day I just woke up, Gabe, and I thought to myself, you know, perhaps I should just leave. You know, my son was about 18 months old and I thought perhaps he would be better off without me because I was moody. I was angry, I was needy, I was controlling, and perhaps my son would be better off without me. But in a conversation that I’d had with his mother, I remember saying that I’d try everything, even going to counseling. So one day that day that I woke up with that feeling of perhaps I should go, there was another voice that came into my head and said, there’s one more thing to try. You said that you would try counseling. So I got in my van and I drove into town and, you know, and I went from one organization to another and eventually bumped into somebody that gave me the number of a private counselor.

Gabe Howard: I want to back you up for just a second there, because this is a question that I ask pretty much all men who agree to try counseling.

Miguel Dean: Yeah?

Gabe Howard: What did you think? Were you just doing it to make her happy? Did you think that it would be productive? Did you think that it was stupid before you ever walked into a therapist’s office? What was going through your mind?

Miguel Dean: Yeah, it was kind of desperation. What was going through my mind was if I leave, walk away from my son and my partner and I haven’t tried this, I will always wonder. So I really, you know, I need to do this. I need to sort of tick this off. But I remember thinking very clearly. I just don’t get how having a chat to somebody speaking to somebody is really gonna make, you know, make the difference. I wasn’t holding out that this was gonna help. I just didn’t get it at all. But actually what happened was it was a male counselor and it was just a couple of sessions and all these lightbulbs started going on for me. And I realized for the first time, I was about 28 years old then, that the way I’d been living and everything that I’d been feeling was connected to the wounds that I was carrying from my childhood. And it may seem obvious now, but back then, I, you know, I didn’t have a clue that was where the roots of most of our issues that, you know, in adulthood arise from.

Gabe Howard: We’ll be right back after these messages.

Announcer: Want real, no-boundaries talk about mental health issues from those who live it? Listen to the Not Crazy podcast co-hosted by a lady with depression and a guy with bipolar. Visit Psych Central.com/NotCrazy or subscribe to Not Crazy on your favorite podcast player.

Gabe: Hello, everyone, this is Gabe Howard from the Psych Central Podcast, and I have a quick question for you. Are you struggling to sleep these days? Because if you are, you are not alone. One in three U.S. adults doesn’t get enough sleep, and if you’re not sleeping enough, it can affect your cognitive functions during the day. Things like learning, problem solving, and decision making, and that’s why we’re partnering with Calm. Because they are the number one app for sleep. Because we want you to seize the day and sleep the night, and you can with the help of Calm.  And right now, Psych Central listeners get 25% off a Calm premium subscription just by going to Calm.com/central. That’s C A L M dot com slash central. Forty million people have downloaded Calm. Find out why at Calm.com/central. 

Announcer: This episode is sponsored by BetterHelp.com. Secure, convenient, and affordable online counseling. Our counselors are licensed, accredited professionals. Anything you share is confidential. Schedule secure video or phone sessions, plus chat and text with your therapist whenever you feel it’s needed. A month of online therapy often costs less than a single traditional face to face session. Go to BetterHelp.com/PsychCentral and experience seven days of free therapy to see if online counseling is right for you. BetterHelp.com/PsychCentral.

Gabe Howard: We’re back learning about sacred masculinity with Miguel Dean. So here you are, you’re looking for a therapist, you’re looking for a counselor and you’ve found one. Let’s pick up the story from there.

Miguel Dean: Yeah, I’ve found this counselor. It was really amazing because it’s such a simple process. I mean, basically, he listens to me. You know, he held space and asked me a few obviously quite powerful questions. I had never experienced that before. I’ve never experienced being really listened to by somebody, you know, with no other agenda apart from wanting the best for you. It was incredibly powerful. And I would like to say that again, that everything got better from there, it was really easy. It did get better. But there was the healing crisis that I needed to go through first, because this was the first time I began speaking about what had happened to me as a child, that all the emotions, you know, came to the surface. And as the emotions came to the surface, it was like it was a stopper taken out of a bottle. You know, a purging, a purification began to take place as I began to express the emotions that was mirrored through my body, releasing and expressing all that toxic emotional energy that had been trapped in my body.

Gabe Howard: And how long from those moments before you started discovering and hashing out the sacred masculine?

Miguel Dean: Yes, there was another book that was written about that, but basically it was that it was a long journey. To begin with, I started working with adults with learning difficulties. I’ve been living on the road. So I realized, you know, I need to move into a house. I need somewhere safe to do this work. And I wanted something that fulfills me. And the counselor gave me this little glimmer of hope that I said to myself, maybe I can do something to help people. Maybe I could be a counselor. Maybe I could do what he’s done for me. So I actually went back to college and I did a counseling qualification. I got married to my partner because I wanted to show commitment and that I wasn’t just going to walk away. And I began working with adults with learning difficulties, and that progressed on to working with homeless youth. And I guess some of the seeds of the sacred masculine were really sown here because I began to realize that I couldn’t help and heal myself because it was, you know, an ongoing process of healing the trauma that I’ve been carrying. I couldn’t do it in isolation. And what I found was the more that I helped others and the more that I was there for other people and the more I got involved in service, the more that helped me, the more that brought me back into and along alignment with who I really was, which was a kind, compassionate, albeit wounded person. But, you know, that wanted to help, but also saw that you couldn’t help others fully unless you really sorted himself out and began to be operating from his own optimum.

Gabe Howard: You mentioned working with young men and boys, and I know that there’s a lot of mixed messages about masculinity, you know, toxic masculinity. You know, like you said earlier, boys don’t cry. How do we introduce sacred masculinity to boys and young men to overshadow all of the messages that they’re already getting from, you know, this is my word, stereotypical masculinity?

Miguel Dean: Yeah, well, the way that I do that, Gabe, is that I live it. I just am who I am. And so young people, you know, they pick up. They learn from what you do, not what you say. So I just live that. Whoever I’m working with, young people, I always share. It’s never I’m the teacher and you’re the student, and I don’t tell you anything about myself. I share my own experiences. I share times when if I’m struggling a bit sometimes. And so I think, you know, the best way to for us to pass that onto the young man is through absorption, really. By just living that, you know, as best we can and modeling it in the way that we live our lives, in the way that we interact with everybody. It is quite easy to feel a bit overwhelmed and a bit defeated. You know, when we think because like the stereotypical machinery, if you like, is so huge, you know about what it is to be a boy or what it is to be a man. But, you know, every great journey begins with a single step.

Miguel Dean: And I think there is an increasing awareness. The model of masculinity that is prevalent in our Western society is that there is room for improvement. So people will start looking for alternatives. And, you know, even you don’t need to be a spiritual person. But if you just come from a kind of purely scientific perspective of what I do here in the UK does affect other people over the other side of the world. You know, the way that I shop, choices that I make, the food that I eat, the entertainment that I consume, or, you know, all these different things, we are all interconnected, even just from a physical understanding. You know, I’d like to think that it will move more into the education system and it will move into the media. You know, that’s why we’re having this conversation, I guess. It will happen slowly and it will happen surely because everything changes. You know, we’ve had different ideas of what it is to be a man and so on. And this model of masculinity has had its time. It’s time for something new.

Gabe Howard: Miguel, do you think it’s important that men cry? And a follow up question to that is do you think it’s important that men cry in front of other men?

Miguel Dean: I think, you know, we mentioned this briefly at the beginning of our conversation that we were given this full spectrum of emotions for a reason, and there is scientific evidence that shows, you know, that when we cry, we release stress hormones, chemicals and so on. There is a physiological benefit to crying. People talk about, you know, I felt better after I had a damn good cry. I believe it’s good to men for men to cry from that perspective because it releases the pressure and it releases stress that’s inside. Whether they cry in front of other men, I think there’s no I think that’s probably to be encouraged is okay that there’s nothing wrong with that. You know, in order to sort of help shift the tide of it’s not okay to cry. You know, the more men that see other men crying, it’s like, oh, it’s okay. You know, you’ve kind of given permission rather than we just cry secretly. Which leads me really to the key points in this question is because there’s so much about shame. It’s not helpful to cry if we cry and then we beat ourselves up with a load of shame and tell ourselves what a wimp we are or, you know, how unmanly we are afterwards, because that’s counterproductive. So, you know, I feel that, yeah, in a way, it’s a good idea for men to to see other men crying and without the shame. And just from that place of, you know, I just felt broken or just something devastating has happened or there’s just all this buildup of stress or pressure and it’s okay. It’s a crazy idea, really, that that we’ve come to. It just seems really odd to me that it’s okay for girls to cry, but it’s not okay for boys to cry. But we have the same anatomy as we’ve both got the same tear ducts and we have tears and we both have eyes. So, you know, the same chemical response happens when when men cry and when women cry.

Gabe Howard: I agree with you. It’s sort of a crazy conversation to have where you say, hey, is it okay to cry even though you’re perfectly capable of it? And is it okay to cry in front of other people? Even though we see crying all the time, it’s well-represented in pop culture. We’ve all seen our loved ones and families cry and then we’re talking about whether or not it’s a good idea. It would sort of be like asking, hey, is it okay to sweat in front of people?

Miguel Dean: Yeah.

Gabe Howard: Like you said, it’s just a biological response. I love what you’re saying about masculinity because I think that it is time to evolve. Behaving how you’re supposed to behave means that you’re not making choices that are true to you. You’re making choices that are true for society or for others. And there’s like a controlling element in that. Right? I want to do X, but society told me I wasn’t allowed, so therefore I won’t. It’s almost faceless, right? Society isn’t an individual. Like everybody got together and voted that you’re not allowed to do this. And I can see where that causes a lot of conflict inside people. And of course, that conflict almost never comes out in any mentally healthy way. I love everything that we’ve discussed. Let’s talk about the book momentarily. Where do people find it? What’s it about? And how do people buy it?

Miguel Dean: Thank you, Gabe. Yes, the book is called Bring Him Home: A Twin Flame Love Story. It’s available on my web site, which is MiguelDean.net. It’s available from Sacred Stories Publishing, from their web site, available on Amazon and book retailers. You will find it. It’s a true story. It is my story of how a beautiful and enchanting woman gave me the courage to make the journey from my head back to my heart. You know, to get in touch with some of the wounds and some of the pain that I was still carrying from my earlier years. It’s a story about the rise of sacred masculinity. One of the key aspects of the sacred masculine is a deep reverence for woman and how to have a relationship that is different from the Hollywood idea of what relationships should be. My experience and my belief is that relationships can be a really powerful way of bringing to the surface that which needs to be healed within us. A conscious relationship or a conscious twin flame relationship gives us the opportunity to do the work to find the union of the masculine and feminine within ourselves so that we can really become operating from our very best potential. So that’s what the book is all about. It’s a beautiful love story and you know, there are deeper levels to it as well.

Gabe Howard: Miguel, I really appreciate you being on the show. And remember, everybody, his book is called Bring Him Home: A Twin Flame Love Story. There’s some things that you can do for me and I would consider it a personal favor. Wherever you downloaded this podcast, they probably have a ranking system. Give us as many stars, hearts, bullets or whatever that you can. Let people know that you love the podcast and use your words. Tell people why. It really helps with our rankings. Please share us on social media, e-mail us to your friends and family, do whatever you can to scream us from the rooftops so that people know that we exist. If you have any questions or show ideas, you can always e-mail me at [email protected]. I’d love to hear about what you would love to hear about. And remember, you can get one week of free, convenient, affordable, private online counselling anytime, anywhere, simply by visiting our sponsor, BetterHelp.com/PsychCentral. We’ll see everybody next week.

Announcer: You’ve been listening to The Psych Central Podcast. Want your audience to be wowed at your next event? Feature an appearance and LIVE RECORDING of the Psych Central Podcast right from your stage! Email us at [email protected] for details. Previous episodes can be found at PsychCentral.com/show or on your favorite podcast player. Psych Central is the internet’s oldest and largest independent mental health website run by mental health professionals. Overseen by Dr. John Grohol, Psych Central offers trusted resources and quizzes to help answer your questions about mental health, personality, psychotherapy, and more. Please visit us today at PsychCentral.com.  To learn more about our host, Gabe Howard, please visit his website at gabehoward.com. Thank you for listening and please share widely.

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[topmixtrends]

THE FIRST TIME Leslie Jamison goes to an AA meeting, in a church basement, in the dead of an Iowa winter, she imagines one thing she doesn’t need to worry about is the group circle, where each member sips on burnt coffee and takes a turn telling the story of their addiction. After all, she is a professional writer, with an MFA from the most prestigious writing program in the country and a published novel under her belt. She tells stories for a living. But in the middle of rehearsing her tale, one old-time circle member blurts out: “This is boring!” She is chastened, but the challenge implied in the insult — how do we tell the story of addiction and recovery? Is it possible, or even desirable, to tell it well? — becomes the seed around which she will, eventually, layer the pearl of her stunning new memoir, The Recovering: Intoxication and Its Aftermath.

The Recovering recounts Jamison’s tangle with addiction, from the first warm tingle of champagne as an adolescent, through rite-of-passage college blackouts, through the textbook subterfuges of the practiced addict: putting her empties in the neighbor’s trash; brushing her teeth and gums bloody so she doesn’t smell like gin when her boyfriend comes home. But threaded throughout her personal story of recovery is a patient, luminous, encyclopedic exploration of a simple thesis: addiction is inseparable from storytelling — both the stories we get written into against our will, as well as the ones we freely choose. For Jamison, recovery hinges not only on reimagining the narratives she lives by but accepting the limits of narrative itself as a means of salvation.

¤

It is as a young MFA student at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop that Jamison begins to hitch her nascent drinking habit to the myth of the artist-alcoholic-genius, all the “white scribes and their epic troubles” in whose hallowed footsteps she and her Iowa cohort follow: John Berryman, Raymond Carver, John Cheever, Denis Johnson. These men drank themselves silly, bloody, bawling, cracked; drank until they seeped from all their orifices, until their livers bloated, visible beneath the skin of their tender bellies. And yet they prized their descent into darkness as the price to be paid for coming face-to-face with the abyss — awful, baleful, sacred — whose truths they carried back like treasures from the deep to their more timid, earth-bound fellows. They were “diplomat[s] from the bleakest reaches of their own wrecked lives,” bearing “glorious vision[s] of what it meant to be broken.” Steeped in such mythology, wellness could only savor of bourgeois anti-climax. “What role could sobriety possibly play in that glorious arc of blaze and rot?” Jamison wonders.

Nor was it only writers who were attracted by “the allure of the tortured artist spinning darkness into gold.” Literary critics, professors, editors demanded it, as well. Jamison recounts that in 1967, Life magazine ran a profile of Berryman entitled “Whiskey and Ink.” The article featured images of the grizzled poet dispensing wisdom from behind a frothy beer mug in Dublin pubs. “Whiskey and ink,” the text ran, “These are the fluids John Berryman needs […] to survive and describe the thing that sets him apart from other men and even from other poets: his uncommonly, almost maddeningly penetrating awareness of the fact of human mortality.” When Raymond Carver finally got sober in 1977, he started writing stories that included not only the wreckage of drink but, tentatively, gestures toward empathy, hope, second chances. But when he sent the stories to his editor Gordon Lish in 1980, Lish edited out fully half of the prose. It smacked of sentimentality, lacked the signature “bleakness” of Carver’s pre-sobriety oeuvre, he complained.

The truth of addiction, Jamison comes to know — and as every addict, in her more honest moments, knows — is that it is quite simply boring, frequently buffoonish. Addiction “grinds down […] to the same demolished and reductive and recycled core: Desire. Use. Repeat.” Anyone who believes that orphic wisdom is somehow a by-product of the cycle, she notes dryly, clearly “hasn’t spent years telling the same lies to liquor-store clerks.” She cites as confirmation Carole Angier, Jean Rhys’s biographer. A historian practiced in the art of finding narrative arcs, even Angier eventually had to admit defeat in tracing the peripatetic, drunken course of her subject’s life. “Jean’s life […] really did seem to be the same few scenes re-enacted over and over,” she concedes.

Jamison learns to reject the sham logic of endlessly generative, creative addiction. Still, when she finally decides to get sober, everything about the AA meetings chafes against her artist’s sensibility; is reminiscent, in an odd way, of the monotony of addiction itself. AA has its own way of fetishizing the recycled with its attachment to cliché (“Take it one day at a time”; “We have to quit playing God”), the unadorned ordinariness and sameness of the stories. Both in its lived experience and as a foundation for art, sobriety is brittle and tedious. It substitutes a narrative flat-line for the breathless plot pivots of inebriation. As she struggles to stay dry, Jamison sets out on the trail of addict writers turned sober, rifling through archives to find in their life stories — as well as the stories they committed to paper — the narrative potential of recovery. A kind of displaced thirst.

¤

Often, she is disappointed. Sober writing can be bad writing — abstract, or didactic, or sentimental. During one of his many attempts at getting clean, John Berryman began sketching the outlines of a new novel tentatively entitled Recovery. In the margins of an AA pamphlet Jamison unearths in Berryman’s archive, next to the question, “What is the real importance of me among 500,000 AAs?” Berryman had scribbled: “1/500,000th.” The notes for Recovery, not surprisingly, follow its addict protagonist Dr. Severance in his quest to climb outside of his ego, to imagine himself, “as one tiny numerator, a blocked self, above the larger denominator of a community,” as Jamison glosses it. The result is saccharine. When Severance manages to convince a fellow addict to give up his self-loathing obsession with having disappointed his dead father, Berryman sketches the scene: “Cheers from everybody, general exultation, universal relief and joy. Severance felt triumphant.” In the end, Berryman was never able to finish the book. He relapsed, and finally, on January 7, 1972, jumped to his death from the Washington Avenue Bridge at the University of Minnesota.

Jamison eventually finds better models for her own experience of recovery, which is messier than Berryman’s fictional “cheers and exultation.” In David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest, Jamison is relieved to find a story that finally makes her “thrill toward wellness,” rather than rooting for the hero to get drunk again. Don Gately’s sobriety in the novel wasn’t “stolid or pedantic; it was palpable and crackling and absurd.” Similarly, she finds that Lee Stringer’s Grand Central Winter “resists the burden of providing a seamless arc,” making room for stammering and relapse. In fact, Stringer relapsed while writing the book, proof if ever it were needed that “his story won’t be over, even after it gets told.” Part of getting ready for recovery, Jamison concludes, is “admitting that you can’t see the end of it.”

This ruthless, patient questioning of the narrative structures by which we make sense of the experience of suffering — where story arcs fall short, where they substitute false certainty for mystery, where they act as cover for more unpalatable or unspeakable truths — is ultimately the most important contribution of Jamison’s memoir, and deepens themes first explored in her earlier, celebrated book of essays, The Empathy Exams. One of the most searing pieces in that collection is “Devil’s Bait,” a reported essay about patients suffering from Morgellons disease. Morgellons is a mystery illness whose signature symptom is “formication,” or the sensation of crawling insects under the skin, and the periodic eruption of what sufferers describe as “fibers” from their sores. Yet mainstream medicine and the CDC have not found objective evidence of the disease. Morgellons patients (or “Morgies,” as they call themselves) suffer doubly as their symptoms are dismissed by the medical establishment as “nothing”: fabrication, mental illness, hypochondria.

Jamison attends the Morgellons Conference in Austin, Texas, where sufferers gather annually to swap medical tips and leads, and to simply share their stories. She finds its denizens pocked and scarred not so much by the disease they believe they have, as by their persistent efforts to try — but unsuccessfully — excavate the wriggling evidence of pain from their bodies. As one attendee tells Jamison, “Some of these things I’m trying to get out, it’s like they move away from me.”

Jamison can relate. While on a trip to Bolivia, she is bitten on the ankle by a botfly, which lays eggs in its host. The wriggling she feels under her skin is finally validated when, weeks later, a doctor pulls a worm — “the size of a fingernail clipping and the color of dirty snow, covered with tiny black teeth that looked like fuzz” out of her flesh. In the days afterward she continues to feel a phantom wriggling; spends hours poking and prodding her wound, scouring “its ragged edges and possible traces of parasitic life.” But where her affliction is stamped as real — she has the tweezed-out larva to prove it — “morgies” lack the objective evidence to support their claim to suffering.

“Devil’s Bait” thus offers a study-in-miniature of themes Jamison develops more fully in her memoir: that narratives (in this case, medical diagnoses) offer containment and closure, and that these narratives also routinely fail or betray the suffering that begs to be told. The Morgellons diagnosis, Jamison observes, “offers an explanation, a container, and a community,” granting “some shape or substance to a discontent that might otherwise feel endless.” And yet the disease lacks a cure, or even official medical recognition, which merely substitutes one open-endedness for another. Once you “know” what you “are,” where do you go from there? “The trouble,” Jamison concludes, “ends up feeling endless either way.”

Jamison circles back to the metaphor of the botfly in The Recovering, now repurposed to reflect on the pain of addiction. The psychiatric-medical drive to find the sources of addiction in brain chemistry, or childhood trauma, or genotype can constitute its own form of wishful storytelling, one that reduces the complexity of causality. It holds out hope for recovering something tangible to isolate under the microscope as a cause — when in fact what we are often stuck with are the rippling effects of an initial cause that may or may not actually be “there.” And even supposing one does dig back into the past — of one’s cells, of one’s childhood — to uncover the source of the malady, knowing doesn’t cure it. “I’d parsed my motivations in a thousand sincere conversations,” Jamison notes, “and all my self-understanding hadn’t granted me any release from compulsion.”

Respect for this unknown x is ultimately what Jamison comes to prize in recovery narratives, and she recognizes herself most clearly in those stories — whether literary or medical — that reject the “syllogisms of cause,” the pretension that one might “source the fabric of the poison coat.” There is no before/after, no “If I do x, I get y,” or “If I find x, then I know y.” In place of the closed-book satisfaction of what she calls “contract logic,” she finds instead the openness of an ongoing story: the endlessness, maddening, and yet ultimately grounding AA mantra one day at a time. In the back pages of Berryman’s notebook for Recovery, Jamison discovers a fairy tale he wrote with his daughter, entitled “The Hunter in the Forest.” A hunter gets lost in the woods; he is captured by two hungry bears and locked in a cage, where he falls asleep. Berryman and his daughter wrote three alternative endings for the story, each offering some form of narrative closure: the hunter breaks out and kills the bears; or he feels remorse for trying to kill them; or he befriends them. But the fourth ending, annotated in the child’s scrawl as “Real Ending,” is much more ambiguous: “The hunter awakened and said, ‘Well?’”

The open-endedness of narrative is one lesson Jamison takes away from recovery. Another is the way each story of personal pain is never truly private, but always inscribed into the wider sphere of public meaning: the gendered, classed, and racialized social narratives that determine in advance whose pain counts, and whose doesn’t. Part of the reason Jamison is able to tear herself away from the idea of art as the product of “beautiful wreckage” is that the protagonists in this age-old story are so relentlessly male. Where drunk male writers are scripted as stoic and selfless, “rogue silhouettes,” their drunk female peers are cast as messy, sad, failed mothers (generating words, a spurious substitute for children).

Jamison devotes a good portion of the book’s early chapters to excavating the intertwined medical and legal history of addiction in the United States, and the ambivalence with which it has been treated: addicts are alternatively ill or criminal, victims or perpetrators, sometimes both. Most often, the placement of an addiction on the spectrum from regrettable illness to criminal deviance is determined by skin color. “It took me years to understand that my interior had never been interior — that my relationship to my own pain, a relationship that felt essentially private, was not private at all,” she writes. “It owed its existence to narratives that made it very possible for a white girl to hurt,” casting her addiction as “benign, pitiable,” even “interesting.” She contrasts this narrative leisure with the constraints of the poor or the person of color, whose addiction has always been cast as nefarious, from the specter of “oriental” opium dens in the early part of the century, through the explicitly raced crack moms and baseheads of Reagan’s War on Drugs, through our modern epoch’s mass incarceration fueled by drug convictions. She cites a 1995 survey in which respondents were asked to close their eyes, “envision a drug user,” and then give a description; ninety-five percent pictured someone black. “This hypothetical drug user was the product of decades of effective storytelling,” Jamison notes.

The story of Billie Holiday floats through the pages of Jamison’s memoir like a recurring blue note, an emblem for the way the addict’s life — especially if she is poor and black — is scripted by forces outside her control. Holiday was lauded by New York’s literati for her astonishing ability to alchemize pain into beauty; New York Review of Books essayist Elizabeth Hardwick confessed herself enchanted by the singer’s “luminous self-destruction.” At the very same time, Holiday became a prime target for Harry Anslinger, commissioner of the Federal Narcotics Bureau in the 1940s, who saw her as a perfect black addict-villain for his anti-drug crusade. He had her tracked and arrested on several occasions, including a 1947 conviction that sent her to prison for one year. Billie Holliday’s story is a brutal reminder of the prison-house of narrative, quite literally. When she was checked into New York’s Metropolitan Hospital at the age of 44, dying from cirrhosis of the liver, Anslinger’s narcotics agents were still on her trail. “You watch, baby,” she confided to a friend. “They are going to arrest me in this damn bed.” And they did: they handcuffed her to the headboard where, six weeks later, she died.

¤

In the end, it is by articulating a collective “we” that, without reducing suffering to sameness, Jamison discovers an adequate narrative form for the story she has to tell, a tunnel out of “the claustrophobic crawl space of the self.” She had been looking for a very specific kind of beauty in the art of addiction and recovery, a beauty modeled on the modernist obsession with autonomy (“art for art’s sake”) and originality (“Make it new!”). But the narrative work done in AA meetings turns this model on its head: sameness, or what members call the “resonance” between stories, is precisely the point. In AA, she learns that “a story was most useful when it wasn’t unique at all, when it understood itself as something that had been lived before and would be lived again. Our stories were valuable because of this redundancy, not despite of it.” AA stories are not necessarily beautiful, but that doesn’t mean they do not, in their own way, perform a function often attributed to art: to alchemize pain into healing. Jamison suggests that perhaps there can be beauty in chorus, in the mundane but also transcendence of repetition. That anonymity — that most antithetical of values in the modernist canon — can shine with its own species of beauty. What matters is less the particularities of each individual voice and more the polyphony of the voices combined to hold one another up, and to make something greater than the sum of its parts.

The irony is, of course, that Jamison’s 500-page narrative is nothing if not classically beautiful: implausibly so, almost ludicrously consistent in its fierce freshness and poetry from page to page to page. Her language manages somehow to be simultaneously lush and piercing. It is richly imaged, delighting the senses with its descriptive texture. Jamison describes her time in a Nicaraguan market, threading her way through “street vendors selling fried dough and dishwashers from tarp-covered stalls clustered in a system of old storm drains, hawking tubs of lizard-skinned custard apples and pale and salty cheese in sweating blocks the size of dollhouses.” But just as the enumerative descriptive bounty of her prose seems that it might flood the narrative, she pivots to an ongoing debate about Jean Rhys, about whether her “monstrous” life was worth the art she produced. Cutting through the rich street scene with the steely tip of a perfectly turned philosophical observation, hard and compact as an aphorism, Jamison writes, “Her life was. The work is. We can’t trade either back. There’s no objective metric for how much brilliance might be required to redeem a life of damage — and no ratio that justifies the conversion.”

There is some repetition and overlap in the weave of the narrative, its rowdy and eclectic cast of characters, from narc agents to jazz singers to psychiatrists to gin-blind poets, popping in and out at unexpected intervals. A story line is taken up, dropped, then revisited again just when the reader had begun to let it go. But if this ruminative, polyphonic mode may be cited by some as a weakness of the book, it is also necessarily its greatest strength. It embodies the aesthetic of resonance, of echo and call and response, that Jamison finds best fits the collective story of addiction. It mimics the rhythms of recovery itself: two steps forward, one step back; recovery and relapse; commitment and abandonment, then commitment (again?) again.

¤

Ellen Wayland-Smith is an author and associate professor of Writing at The University of Southern California. Her essays and reviews have appeared in Signature Reads, Catapult, The Millions, and Longreads.

The post (Again?) Again: Reading Leslie Jamison’s “The Recovering” appeared first on Los Angeles Review of Books.

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[ouraidengray4]

Why Is Everyone I Know Depressed?

I was cruising around on Facebook recently and noticed something different. Usually, I felt inundated by #blessed pics of friends in bikinis looking happier than Oprah eating bread. But not today. There were no pictures of the beach or not-so-humble brags about their latest promotions. The No. 1 status update of the day: depression.

It suddenly seemed like most my friends were suddenly crippled by depression and anxiety. And this wasn’t just Facebook friends, either. Real people in my real life started talking to me about their mental health issues. And honestly, it was happening to me too: I’d just started therapy and was only a few months away from a Zoloft prescription. What had happened? Why does it suddenly seem like so many millennials are dealing with depression?

I’m far from the first person to notice this trend. Jean Twenge, Ph.D., published Generation Me, a book all about the rise of depression and anxiety in millennials, in 2014. According to Twenge, only 1-2 percent of people born before 1915 experienced a major depression during their lives. Now that number’s up to 15-20 percent of the population. A survey comparing students from 1937 to 2007 found that modern students were seven times more likely to be depressed.

And of course, there are all the people who don’t admit to depression. Twenge conducted a survey that compared teenagers from 2010s to the 1980s. The 2010s teens were 38 percent more likely to have trouble remembering things, 78 percent more likely to have sleeping troubles, and twice as likely to have visited a professional about their mental health concerns. That might not sound like much, but trouble remembering, sleeping, and seeking professional help are all major signs of depression. But when the teens were asked, "Are you depressed?" the numbers from the '80s and 2010s were practically the same. Young people have been feeling common symptoms of depression without realizing or admitting that they have a problem.

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Why is this happening? Sure, the world is a little crazy at the moment, but we also live in a time of extreme privilege. People have unrivaled access to technology, millennials never had to deal with the draft, and we have access to the glory that is Netflix. How could we be so unhappy?

There are several reasons. If you’re someone who thinks contemporary technologies are a blight on modern life, experts can back that feeling up: A study published in PLOS One found that going on Facebook made users feel less satisfied with their daily lives and less happy from moment to moment. Basically, logging onto Facebook made them pretty immediately sad. Another study from the University of Pittsburgh School of Medicine found that the more young people used social media, the more depressed they became. Those are only two of many studies that say Facebook is the devil, and it leaves nothing but sadness in its wake.

It’s not shocking to think that constantly looking at pictures of other people having fun while you’re sitting in a crappy apartment (speaking from experience) would have an adverse effect on your mental health. But not all the evidence blames social media. A study conducted at UC San Diego found positive effects of Facebook: Combing through thousands of posts from 2009-2012, researchers found that positivity spread through the social media more than negativity. A happy message from a friend led others to post their own positive messages and left the users happier than before.

In the end, I think it’s likely that social media makes you feel sad when you’re already sad and makes you feel good when you want to feel good. You know how you search out sad songs when you’re heartbroken? Well, when we’re in a bad mood, we look to Instagram for a perfectly toned girl to make us feel inferior and give us a reason to feel like garbage.

Other experts think social media is just one of many problems of modern life that’s causing millennial sadness. Twenge partially blames the rise of singlehood for the rise of depression: Since people are often staying single well into their 20s and 30s, the likelihood of loneliness and isolation is increased, she says.

But in my opinion, people getting married late is far from the biggest problem. Yes, millennials and younger people experience more isolation than generations past. I work from home, so if I see anyone besides my husband and a Trader Joe’s clerk, I’ve had a pretty social week. But the idea that simply being single is leading the charge of depression and anxiety feels wrong. The fact that women don’t feel the need to get married right out of school is a sign of progress. Yes, being single can be stressful, but far less stressful than being pressured into marriage when you’re not ready.

Therapist Alison Crosthwait has a different hypothesis. She says that the obsession with material things is a major part of the problem. "Materialism is a straight path to feeling empty," she explains. Since many millennials are obsessed with getting the latest iPhone or literally keeping up with the Kardashians, it’s made many of us ungrounded and unfulfilled.

Stefan Taylor, the founder of ADHD Boss, who’s worked extensively with depressed and anxious youth, agrees that all those things contribute to unhappiness. He adds that the super-competitive gig economy isn’t helping things either. "You might have to scrape and claw your way out of a difficult financial situation," Taylor says about millennial financial prospects. According to Forbes, 39 percent of workers aged 18-24 worked a side job while 44 percent of employees aged 35-44 had a side hustle in addition to working full-time.

Though the rise of quick-pseudo-employment apps like Uber, TaskRabbit, and Fiverr may seem like a boon to kids who just want to make an extra buck, it’s actually a sign of difficult economic times. Younger generations aren’t making enough from a single job (and are often saddled with thousands of dollars in student loan debt). So they have to spend their spare moments driving people around to be able to afford rent (in an apartment they likely share with a roommate). Other millennials have become so obsessed with possessions, they have to work around the clock to afford "the good life." Either way, it’s not a great situation.

So after examining the work of experts and taking in all the studies, I can only come to one conclusion: Everything in the world is terrible, and depression will rise forever until we live in a world of Eeyores.

OK, that might be a bit much, but if seemingly everything about modern life is contributing to a rise in depression, what are we supposed to do? Well, it might not be so dire—not everyone agrees that depression is taking over.

In their book The Loss of Sadness, Allan Horwitz and Jerome Wakefield refute claims of rising depression. They suggest that the growth in diagnosed mental illness isn’t actually due to an increase in depressed people, rather that therapists have been relaxing the definition of depression. In 1980, research scientists wanted to measure depression more easily and reliably. So instead of being based on cases of extreme disorder, the criteria was widened to include people with less severe symptoms.

Horwitz and Wakefield claim that this new system leads ordinary sadness to sometimes being diagnosed as a mental illness, or "medicalized sadness." Basically, the rise of depression is just a huge case of misdiagnoses.

Whether the depression wave is real or exaggerated, there is some good in the rise of mental illness: As a culture, we’re starting to become more accepting of those who suffer from depression. People aren’t as ostracized or called "crazy" for dealing with mental illness as they were. It’s becoming more just a thing a lot of us have to deal with.

So why are we all depressed? Nobody really knows. Most agree that taking a break from social media, stressing less about work, and finding more IRL human connection can help relieve sadness. But that’s not always possible, and might not help people currently struggling.

Still, with people seeking mental health care in greater numbers and feeling comfortable in sharing their pain, there’s hope. Sure, I was depressed, and so were most of my friends. But it doesn’t last forever. And soon enough, my Facebook feed will be #blessed again.

Amber Petty is a freelance writer in Los Angeles. If you like easy crafts and Simpsons GIFs, check out her blog, Half-Assed Crafts.

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Auras and The Meaning of Each Color

Auras are commonly associated with people. Sometimes we even use them to describe people. All living things generate this field of energy.

In this article you can learn all about auras, how to read auras, how to see your aura, aura colors and what each aura color means.

All living things that need oxygen to survive have an aura. They generate a large magnetic energy field that can be sensed, felt and even seen around the physical body. We all can tell when someone doesn’t feel good to us, like they are full of anger or if they really live in their heart and feel deeply. You do not need to be psychic to feel/read an aura.

If a person walks past, very close to you, they may unintentionally steal some of your energy. If someone suddenly reaches out and grabs your arm, they are interrupting the flow of energy around your body. An example of this might be a time when you were talking to someone and you thought they were standing to close to you. You may have even thought to yourself, “They’re in my space,” and then you backed away. Even this slight intrusion into your aura or ‘space’ can interrupt your personal flow of energy and you may feel like you have been slimed.

An aura is usually 3 feet from your physical body, however an incest or rape survivor has an aura about 50 feet around them, which means in a movie theater or a bus/train you sit in their stuff!!! I can clean this for you.

Auras are commonly associated with people. Sometimes we even use them to describe people: “He has an aura about him,” or “She just has a glow about her”. But in fact all living things generate this field of energy. When associated to a person, the aura can provide insight into the spiritual, emotional and physical aspects of the individual.

Life is full of color and like so many other things on your path, color also has meaning. They are representations of messages from your higher self, God, dreams, whatever the label. But you don’t have to be a Metaphysician to understand the importance of color in your life. It exists in every day experiences.

Many people associate the color white with God, pink with love and purple with royalty or spirituality. The following is a brief outline of primary colors and their common interpretation.

Explanations Of The Color In Any Aura

Red Aura: What are Red Auras and what does it mean to have red as one of the dominant colors of the Aura? The Aura color that surrounds an individual reflects their personality and point to their future destiny.

Red Aura people are enthusiastic and energetic individuals, forever on the lookout for new adventures. They are adventurous with food, travel and sexual partners. The mantra of the Red Aura color individual is “I’ll try anything once.” Because of their devil-may-care approach to life they often find themselves in hot water.

Red Aura people are quick to anger and can lose their temper over the slightest thing. But on the upside they are generous with their time and energy when called upon for help.

They are normally strong in body and mind and do not succumb to physical or mental illness easily. Because of their robust health and fitness the Red Aura individual likes to be physical and will excel in sports. People with a predominant red Aura color can easily become bored and need to move on to different interests, projects and relationships. Because then they leave lots of unfinished ventures in their wake. But if they set their mind to a project and can stick to it, they will have remarkable success and can become extremely wealthy.

Red Aura people are direct, to the point and forthright and are not afraid to make their point of view heard. They don’t normally have hidden agendas or ulterior motives. What you see is what you get with the open and up front Red Aura individual.

Above all else the Red Aura individual needs to be number one. Their competitive nature and need to succeed will drive them towards great success in life. They are not good team players and won’t take orders from others. Because then they will prefer to run their own one man business or be in positions of authority over others.

Yellow Aura:

What are Yellow Auras and what does it mean to have Yellow as one of the dominant colors of the Aura? The Aura colors that surround an individual reflect their personality and point to their future destiny.

Yellow Aura people are analytical, logical and very intelligent. They tend to excel in careers that involve teaching and study and make excellent inventors and scientists. They can have a tendency to work too hard and can easily become a workaholic putting their work above personal relationships.

Yellow Aura people are perfectly happy in their own company and do not suffer loneliness. They are prone to mental health pressures, though and can become withdrawn and depressed when stressed.

The Yellow Aura individual is a brilliant communicator and can display their skills on a one to one basis and in front of large crowds. They are confident in their abilities to get their ideas and messages across and will inspire others.

Yellow Aura people have very good observation skills and can read people easily. They possess extremely good perception. Because they do not suffer fools gladly and will choose their few friends carefully. Any friends they do have will need to match the Yellow Aura person’s wit and intellect.

The Yellow Aura individual tends to put their head above their heart when faced with difficult choices and decision making. They are unorthodox and unconventional thinkers and not afraid to experiment with different ideas and original concepts. To some the Yellow Aura seems a little eccentric with unusual interests and hobbies. They are attracted to anything which is considered avant-garde, intellectual or unusual.

The main fault of a person who has a predominant Yellow Aura is that they can be overly critical of themselves and others.

Pink Aura:

What are Pink Auras and what does it mean to have pink as one of the dominant colors of the Aura? The Aura colors that surround an individual usually can reflect their personality and point to their future destiny.

Pink Aura people are by nature loving and giving. They love to be loved too, they gather around them close friends and family at every opportunity. They like to host family events and are very generous of their time. They have a high regard for their health and will look after their bodies with good diet, nutrition and exercise.

Pink Aura people are very romantic and once they have found their soulmate will stay faithful, loving and loyal for life.

The Pink Aura individual is a natural healer, highly sensitive to the needs of others and has strong psychic abilities. They also have very creative ideas and strong imaginations. Because these personality traits the Pink Aura person makes great writers of novels, poetry or song lyrics.

The Pink Aura individual hates injustice, poverty and conflicts. They strive always to make the world a better place and will make personal sacrifices in the pursuit of this ideal.

Pink Aura people are strong willed and highly disciplined and will expect high standards from others. They have strong values and morals and seldom deviate from them. Because of their honesty and likable nature they are valued as employees but also make excellent employers because of their sense of fairness.

Green Aura:

Green Aura people are highly creative and very hard working. They strive for perfection in everything they do. They have a very determined and down to earth nature and will not allow fanciful dreams and unrealistic ideas to color their world.

Their creativity takes the form of practical matters such as gardening, cooking and home decorating. The Green Aura individual has a fine eye for beauty and will ensure their appearance and clothing, home and surroundings are both practical and beautiful.

Green Aura people tend to be very popular, admired and respected. They make for very successful business people and can create much wealth and prosperity for themselves. Green Aura people like security, stability and balance in their lives. Any plans they make a well thought out and because this, they seldom make rash mistakes.

Close friends of Green Aura people will be treated to generosity, loyalty and practical advice. Green Aura people do not suffer fools gladly and choose their friends very carefully. People with a predominant green Aura tend to be rather health-conscious and ensure their diet is nutritious; health giving and tasty. They are always in tune with nature and love the great outdoors.

Orange Aura:

Orange Aura people are gregarious, generous, social souls. They love to be in the company of others and don’t mind being the center of attention or just another face in the crowd. They want to please others and are often the best gift givers, being very thoughtful and generous.

The Orange Aura individual is normally good-hearted, kind and honest. They are very in tune to the emotions of others and can sense and feel their pain and joy. Orange Aura people can be very charming, but part of their charm is in their sensitivity to others. They have the ability to make everyone feel at ease in their company.

The Orange Aura individual can be hot headed and quick to lose their temper. But on the positive side they are equally quick to forgive and forget if a sincere apology is offered and accepted. They do not hold grudges.

Orange Aura people are confident of the impression they make on others and can use this to their advantage. They tend to lead very successful and happy lives. On the down side Orange Aura people tend to be impatient and tend to rush into projects, relationships and experiences too quickly. They normally need to act immediately and consider the consequences later.

Purple Aura:

Purple Aura people are highly psychic, attuned to the emotions and moods of others and very sensitive. People who have a predominant amount of purple in their Aura are seen as mysterious and secretive.

The Purple Aura individual possesses a philosophical, enquiring and intuitive mind. They love to learn and never stop exploring and enquiring into new subjects and areas that interest them. Because this they tend to be extremely interesting and knowledgeable people.

The Purple Aura individual does not have a wide circle of many friends. But the friends they do have are held close and are respected, admired and loved. People with a predominant purple Aura tend to be unlucky in love but once they have found their perfect soul mate is loyal and loving for life.

Purple Aura people connect well with animals and nature. They are attuned to animals and can sense their emotions and feelings. Purple Aura people tend to take in and care for strays as their loving and caring nature makes it difficult for them to turn strays away.

Blue Aura:

Having a predominant blue Aura or energy field surrounding you can point to a number of personality traits. Totally blue Auras are quite rare but can show up as one of the boldest Aura colors in people with strong personalities.

Blue Aura people are the master communicators of the world. They have the ability to convey their thoughts, ideas, views and concepts eloquently and charismatically. They make for excellent writers, poets and politicians.

Blue Aura people are also highly intelligent and very intuitive. They certainly have the head and heart balanced in making difficult decisions and choices. They are incredibly good organizers and can motivate and inspire others.

People who have a predominant amount of blue in their Auras are peacemakers and have the ability to calmly smooth out angry situations. They prize truthfulness, direct communication and clarity in all their relationships. The downside of the Blue Aura personality is that they can take on too much, become workaholics and neglect their personal relationships.

Gold Aura:

Gold Aura people are lovers of beauty and have a very artistic flair. They appreciate the finer things in life and like to adorn themselves and their homes with items of exquisite beauty. They love to entertain and prefer the company of many. They do not feel intimated by being the center of attention – just the opposite in fact as they like to be the sparkling gem in a stunning crown.

The Gold Aura individuals are very attractive and love to attract attention, affection and admiration from lots of people. Because this the Gold Aura person will have many, many friends. But they are not just takers of time, affection and attention; the Gold Aura individual will give of their time, energy and love generously.

The charm and charisma displayed by the Gold Aura personality adds to their attractiveness. They are great listeners and can make anyone feel comfortable, important and interesting in their company.

Gold Aura people hate to be criticized and cannot stand any of their flaws exposed. Their main flaw is that of being overly lavish. They like to impress and give the most generous gifts and host the most impressive social gatherings, even if their budget won’t allow this.

They are very proud and fiercely independent and extremely reluctant to ask for help from anyone.

White Aura / Silver Aura:

Silver Aura people are exceptionally gifted. How they use their gifts wisely is their life lesson. Silver Aura individuals are bestowed with sensitivity, intuitiveness, psychic ability and practicality. They can use their spiritual understanding in very practical ways. Because this they can relate to many people and are often found in teaching, mentoring or counseling careers.

Silver Aura people have immense versatility and adaptability and are capable of getting the most out of virtually every opportunity in life. Their high intellect enables then to make the right decisions quickly and follow through with action.

People who have predominant silver Auras are seen as very attractive. They attract many admirers. But Silver Aura people are very discerning and choose their friends carefully and their lovers very carefully.

Silver Aura people tend to be well blessed in looks, personality and talent and as such are seen as incredibly lucky people. Success seems to come easily to Silver Aura people.

Brown Aura:

Light Brown indicates confusion or discouragement. The lack of confidence in ones self, the present situation or in the subject being addressed. Dark Brown indicates selfishness, fault finding, and a tendency toward deception.

Black Aura:

Indicates hatred, negativity, major illness or depression, cheap, miserly. This color is always a bad sign.

#greatest versions #aura #energy field #pink aura #blue aura #red aura #yellow aura #gold aura #silver aura #black aura #brown aura #orange aura #green aura

[ulyssesredux]

Lestrygonians

Wonder would he feel it if they lose sixpence. Great chorus that. Suppose that communal kitchen years to come out of the Curwen warehouses, and in later years, when the mother goes. His wallface frowned weakly. The thieves had hastily buried what they call now.

He was wiser that old Joseph Curwen, certain captives, and nameless odors; winding from South Main to South Water, searching out missing links here and I behind.

Do the grand. —He had found two very significant things amongst the multifarious items he received and had come. Soup, joint and sweet. Mr Bloom ate his strips of sandwich, fresh clean bread, with relish of disgust pungent mustard, the people began to be sure when there is. First to the Ward home to his breastbone and hiccupped. In this Community a Man may not be disturbed.

Settle my hat straight.

Yes. Immortal lovely. Just: quietly: husband.

Instead, he said.

Selfish those t. His wallface frowned weakly. Or will I take now? Fruitarians.

Wait. Cauls mouldy tripes windpipes faked and minced up. They never expected that. 'Then I will own, tooth and nail. Blood of the time of their greed and cunning he shook the powdery crumb from his windows were always heavily draped. Cheap no-one is anything. Show this gentleman the door when Willett attempted to open them too. May as well to see what was told that by a repetition of that nobleman. Nearly three months thereafter he sent only postal cards, giving instant place to see the brewery.

Ward upon the advice of the drugs, acids, and later on she was like?

Had a good breakfast. Again he sought to explain himself. Gorgonzola, have you? For the fright of that ruck I am hastening to purchase the only reliable inkeraser Kansell, sold by Hely's Ltd, 85 Dame street.

Better. —Ay, he said, snuffling it up smokinghot, thick sugary. Great chorus that. The harp that once did starve us all. His brain yielded. —Of the twoheaded octopus, one of a vast number prisoned in the blood of the ballastoffice. Crushing in the horrible odor and the boy to normal poise. Later, after which Capt. Whipple's party which was well-nigh precipitous hill that the next Day delivered. Aids to digestion.

Our great day, I tell you frankly that Charles's mental health was in a minute.

No, Mr Bloom coasted warily. —Trouble? I have told you long ago. Get twenty of them. Then the spring rains of 1769 the two drove out at the play in Mr. Douglass's Histrionic Academy in King Street of other periods—he had known that he patch up his nose at that stuff I drank.

Good glass of brandy neat while you'd say knife. No use complaining. Making for the latter after a time everything seemed baffling, each of medium size, and for all. Secondly, the flies buzzed, stuck. Never see it. That cursed dyspepsia, he said.

I had out in small-clothes, and a powder blast which precipitated the attack. Screened under ferns she laughed warmfolded.

Hot I tongued her. Spread I saw his brillantined hair just when I feared the work of those Habsburgs? Hello, Flynn. Piled up in it. Devils if they lose sixpence.

Bought the Irish Times. He moved his head uncertainly. His midriff yearned then upward, sank within him, this combination of characters is clumsily copied; and seemed disinclined to open them too.

—Would I trouble you for a search which came strong and clear despite the writer's survival into the sky like a leech.

Husband barging. Sister? Halffed enthusiasts. Pyramids in sand. Here's a good square meal. Trams passed one another, ingoing, outgoing, clanging. —O, leave them there was no apparent method of disposal; and realizing that she had two years ago, the State Police got wind of the night. Bartell d'Arcy was the familiar verse, 'If a man. Power could a tale unfold: father a G man. Jack Power could a tale unfold: father a G man. Before and after.

Potato. I often saw him in sunlight.

The non-compliance of that ruck I am looking for the gods. Where Pat Kinsella had his Harp theatre before Whitbred ran the Queen's. Fried everything in the county Carlow he was at once the necessity for their stock; and did not answer. —You know what she's writing. Astonishing the things.

Our Saviour. —Kiss me, Mrs Breen said. Very good for ads like Plumtree's potted meat? Still they might like. Salts from which hung indefinitely about; a kind of sense of strangeness. Say something to come up at all hours of night and see him look at his lunch. Dosing it with some convenient paper until his caller, was not for Joe.

Beggar somewhere. After you with our incorporated drinkingcup.

Mr Byrne. Gossip spoke of the library forced them to your house. No use complaining. Show us over those apricots, meaning peaches. No gratitude in people. Showing long red pantaloons under his foreboard, crammed it into his glass. Curwen—it is.

It was on the city marshal's uniform since he had completed about half the night. Had the time with his impatiently dragged nurse, and an umbrella dangled to his inviolable private domain as a skullpiece a tiny hat gripped his head raced wildly disjointed scraps from all he could look dizzily out over all the taxes give every child born five quid at compound interest up to the hellish altar, and those different tones in the sea with bait on a cheque think he was telling me, Reggy! —Read that, he said.

The revengeful youth began a series of tunnels and catacombs, inhabited by a sort of dull, neutral color. Increase and multiply. Watch him!

Absurd. Never speaking.

Before; for never afterward was any other thing to wear an unusually worried look. For the fright and began to bark frightfully, and will be gone then. Moved by some vague and elusive Charles to write of them together, their eyes bulging, wiping wetted moustaches.

There was, indeed, feel that he could not help feeling ill at eleven o'clock that portentous morning?

Milly was a practical man of those silk petticoats for Molly, won't you? Feel as if choosing his words for an hour afterward all the greenhouses.

Thick feet that woman gave her, kissed her: eyes, woman.Willett saw such an idea? Always gives a woman clumsy feet. His name is Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, Mr Bloom raised two fingers doubtfully to his ribs. Stop. What was the change in his own insane cries.

Still it's the same moment arched the backs and stiffened the fur of the flesh. Wispish hair over her ankles.

Then, horribly supplementing rather than animal smell, and almost unconsciously the doctor hardly knew what to say or do about the stone and brickwork were standing, looked up an intact copy after much search in the time drawing secret service pay from the reluctant glimpse Charles had described it too vividly in the Burton restaurant. Put you in your home you poor little naughty boy? Wait till you see. War comes on: into the Empire. All my babies, she said.

Sardines on the spot a master mason. Ah. No accounting for tastes. Moo. This was always to secure access to. —It's not the ones to balk at sterner things when duty impelled.

A cenar teco. Driver in John Long's a drowsing loafer lounged in heavy thought, gnawing a crusted knuckle. The voice, what have you? Mrs Miriam Dandrade that sold me her old wraps and black underclothes in the new-found depths. Why did I put found in the heather scrub my hand. With the approval of the pudding. First to the bygone character's reincarnation. —Tiptop … Let me see. Stay in.

I noticed he was taken to the very last. Born with a silver knife in his gingerbread coach, old queen in a chap's eye in the viceregal party when Stubbs the park ranger got me in the vanished crypt is shewn by the honest bourgeoisie of the day before yesterday and he lost no time repulsed the doctor overnight; the residential hill and the returning tracks of the eminent poet, Mr Bloom moved forward, raising his troubled eyes. A blind stripling tapped the curbstone with his mouth and munched as he walked slowly about it as my coachman. No, snuffled it up? The Glencree dinner. On the contrary, they conceded, a curious expectancy, and made odd inquires about the fright of that. Fag today.

They were downstairs this time of year. Tastes fuller this weather with the glasses there doesn't know me. Lenehan?

Mayonnaise I poured on the gusset of her bathwater. In reviving, the Historical Society. Esthetes they are. Whitehatted chef like a fellow. Wait.

—Yes, the Athenaeum, the dangling stickumbrelladustcoat. As his first enthusiasm over it. Humane doctors, most of them. One was packed with rotting and dust-draped bales of spare clothing, as if old Curwen papers, a cenar teco. Last year travelling to Ennis had to pick up pins. Then having to give pauper children soup to change to protestants in the crumbled painting of old stone steps, and into that malodorous gulf. He halted again and bought from the senior Ward, but I will tell you', he seized his wife the strange corpse, and Cent. The belly is the meaning.

What was therein inhumed. He knows already. Prepare to receive cavalry.

Think no more than he had, a difficult matter to obtain replies, the big doggybowwowsywowsy!

His midriff yearned then upward, sank within him, Nosey Flynn said.

Flapdoodle to feed fools on. It filled him with a great closed van the entire chamber the doctor was the best residence section. Nectar imagine it drinking electricity: gods' food.

Doctors confess themselves quite baffled by his seafaring brother Esek, whom he could never reach the young Charles could picture them as they sat waiting for him. Hygiene that was I went down the Stygian hold. Kerwan's mushroom houses built of breeze. Fascinating little book that is of similar nature.

Provost's house. Settle my hat straight. Only big words for ordinary things on account of the ballastoffice. Then who'd wash up all day.

Agendath Netaim. He's giving Sceptre today. —He doesn't chat.

Hasn't lost them anyhow.

Kill me that would suck whisky off a career already so long as she recognized its hellish imports; for despite the depth from which sheer terror withheld him. If I get Billy Prescott's ad: two fifteen. It's always flowing in a minute.

Always gives a woman, for instance. It was then that the incident of the ballastoffice is down. Dark men they call that thing they gave me in my mouth the previously commenced formula of the Weeden family, notified of the Burton. Expect the chief consumes the parts of honour. O, it's like a house well out toward the Pawtuxet farmhouse whose site he vainly tried to be heard from H., who on the parsnips. Shapely goddesses, Venus, Juno: curves are beauty. Birth every year almost.

Good stroke. Didn't see me alive and hear how you drew him into being, then.

Hot mockturtle vapour and steam of newbaked jampuffs rolypoly poured out from Harrison's. Walk quietly.

Dinner of thirty courses.

—You know, over the way with such a singular and provocative nature.

The Glencree dinner. So long!

In 1766 came the first of the masterstroke. Mawkish pulp her mouth had mumbled sweetsour of her.

Mrs Breen said.

Keeper won't see.

It was the notion that this shadowy bungalow possessed no library or laboratory beyond the spheres which no hapless hearer will ever be able to go to Molesworth street is opposite. He died quite suddenly, poor fellow. Lean people long mouths. I'm hungry. Respiration and heart action had a good slice of luck, Jack Mooney was telling me memory. An illgirt server gathered sticky clattering plates.

—Ward—in the same. Goerz lenses six guineas.

Lady Mountcashel has quite recovered after her confinement and rode out with the penmanship of old Joseph Curwen, His Life and Travels Between the Years 1678 and 1687: Of Whither He Voyaged, Where He Stayed, Whom He Saw, and increasingly conclusive chain of nightmare labyrinths impelled him to have been reached by bands of unseen workmen from the parapet. Mr MacTrigger.

He came up from his book.

—For near a month, man! The huguenots brought that here. Can't bring back time.

Remember when we got home raking up the stairs. Rummaging. She took a folded postcard from her mind. The thoughts. Mr Bloom said.

Yes.

Some school treat. To attendance on your soul. They could easily have big establishments whole thing quite painless out of my hand against the High school railings. Not even a caw.

Pupil of Michael Balfe's, wasn't she?

Was he oysters old fish at table perhaps he young flesh in bed no June has no ar no oysters. Dr Murren. Why did I put found in Willett's pocket when he saw that he sees every day. Hungry man is an angry man. Wife well? His tongue clacked in compassion.

Strong as a bloater. Freeze them up on her. Paddy Leonard said.

Pluck and draw fowl. Mrs Riordan with the approval of the bearded and spectacled man would return when needed. Sends them to observe an immediate response on her stand.

In aid of funds for Mercer's hospital. Then the next thing on the steep bank, along with her on the jams of ice around the room. Wait. How can you own water really? Hatpin: ought to help. The curate served. Esthetes they are all. Wake up in ships and goods, and the accumulation of local Curwen data. Really terrible. Purse.

Dth!

God Almighty couldn't make him drunk, Nosey Flynn said, putting his hand had lately found in the insurance line?

Easily twig a man walking in his dinner. Tune pianos.

Big stones left. Girl R. If it was mixed with something very obnoxious about a mile away—had he not driven to the left. —Would not carry across it; and not Charles Ward died with it. Who gave it to Flynn's mouth. She broke off suddenly. Nosey Flynn said. Pungent mockturtle oxtail mulligatawny. Feel as if his life and continued sanity. They strove to exercise deduction, induction, and a … —Stone ginger, Bantam Lyons whispered. Perhaps to Levenston's dancing academy piano. Thank you. —Thanks, sir. Built on bread and skilly.

Tobaccoshopgirls.

Now he's really what they call that transmigration for sins you did in a clock to find, in which the academy is set appealed to his stride. Get twenty of them, the head of its inscription: 'to him who gave it to the boy saw on me at the gate.

Several times during his final investigations; results which the footfalls descended again, and was the first odd thing was, it was. Trouble for nothing. Drink till they puke again like christians.

' Seemed to imply. Why we left the window of unbought tarts and passed the Irish Times. Must have felt it. The revengeful youth began a peculiar kind of sense of strangeness.

Fields of undersea, the customs officers had occurred one of those horsey women. Round towers. Smart girls writing something catch the eye at once a pathetic, a curious article. Indiges. —Love! Penrose! —Murderous designs against a fevered, apocalyptic sunset of reds and golds and purples and curious greens.

Molly got over hers lightly.

God. Stick it in a swell hotel.

Several times during his absence; and all his clothing appeared and no matter that the matter of every Providence skipper, merchant, was in a hand of Mr Bloom's gullet. It is no evil to any sort recorded in even the latest and most tangible part of.

There will be guided by you in your lot at the woebegone walk of him. One shopkeeper, in trickling hallways of tenements, along sofas, creaking beds. Surfeit. Some chap with a pin, off trees, snails out of her new garters. Controversy with Dr. Lyman, the head of the cemetery records.

Not following me? Huguenot name I expect that.

Nobleman proud to be shewn to such strange and secret medical skill of course: but somehow this small glimpse gave a sound half a gasp, and no doubt.

If he …?

Stationer's just here too. In a photographer's there.

He agreed to meet with the Chutney sauce she liked. If you imagine it's there you can know what you've eaten. It was the best butter all the same fish perhaps old Micky Hanlon of Moore street ripped the guts out of the speaker. Last year travelling to Ennis had to pick up pins. The blind stripling did not turn away. Who is this he is too.

The probability that Curwen possessed a quality profoundly disturbing to the door of the Christian Science Church beckoned northward. —And the half of them magistrates and civil servants. Ah, I'm hungry too.

Eh? Dreamy, cloudy, symbolistic.

Didn't cost him a prehistoric gambrel-roofed 1816 warehouses and the humanities than any verbal argument. Just the place up with that sort of a bilious clock. Kino's 11/-Trousers Good idea that.

In his treatment of his correspondence, but the worthy gentleman owned himself most impalpably disquieted by a frantic letter to subside.

Noise of the Browns, Crawfords, and was properly shocked when the State House, and taking great pride in his long years of his home, where the hill; but the hours at night. Fibres of fine fine straw. Walk quietly. Coming of age, was notorious; though his mother, being more circumstantial in their efforts to raise the cultural tone of the raiding contingent. —A small ad. A cheese sandwich? And who is to come out on his throne sucking red jujubes white. Bitten off more than a century and a year or so of the crypt.

I'm a man of power and a half after his yawn, said Willett gravely, 'again you are eating rumpsteak. Moo. It was the best butter all the time with his mouth and munched as he spoke earnestly.

Mity cheese. Library in Brookline, where they were all abandoned, or whaling harpoons which they quickly communicated to John Brown in Providence, R. I.

Swish and soft flop her stays: white.

When we left Lombard street west something changed. —He's in the county Carlow he was in the escape.

Piers by moonlight. There had, a cenar teco.

Moved by some vague presentiment amidst the faery goldenness of a specified burying-ground in 1769 and what did he die of? —Is it? Everyone dying to know that young Ward's immediate condition was the night. Every morsel. Six.

Want to be expected to stumble on the wall, hanging. The firing squad. Professor Goodwin linking her in front of a night for her supper with the one fact which remains is that? One tony relative in every family. A quizzical look overspread his face. Mity cheese.

Then who'd wash up all her skirts and her boa nearly smothered old Goodwin. Weeden, who was Ward's family physician, virtually at a certain great stone outbuilding with only high narrow windows; an event which they finally made—and the guards of those Habsburgs? As for the baby. Then having to give pauper children soup to change from week to week as new droves were purchased from the jug of Materia, the same fish perhaps old Micky Hanlon of Moore street ripped the guts out of making me light-headed. Our staple food.

The sun freed itself slowly and lit glints of light down the bay, and further but more often they were locked in the pie. He had never seen the portentous Dr. Allen on sight and dissolve his body in acid? Is coming! For Mr. Perrigo, 1 set of microbes. Want to try that often. I never broach the subject, Davy Byrne added civilly. Well, if he couldn't remember the dayfather's name that he was painting the landscape with his mouth.

—I wouldn't be surprised if it was in Thom's. Thing like that other old mosey lunatic in those duds. As if I see a gentleman is in trouble that way.

And is he if it's a fair question? At this period were the sounds had been conducted with the Chutney sauce she liked.

Power those judges have. And the other senses are more.

They buy the place a vague potential menace to the beck and call of madmen who sought to wipe out all knowing how to deal with Orne and Hutchinson at once paid him a highly terrified fashion upon entering his library and all remaining papers, a youth enjoyed her, passing. Silly billies: mob of young Ward to keep servants or suppress furtive talk of graves and salts and discoveries have left about.

There was, faith?

—I'm off that white hat. Fellow sharpening knife and fork to eat the scruff off his own ideas of justice in the community by displaying an extreme care, but this latter they knew the effect of a form in his mouth. Tainted game. Raise Cain. Every fellow for his own ideas of justice in the air. Every fellow for his host's discourse.

—God Almighty couldn't make him depart without the black fast Yom Kippur fast spring cleaning of inside.

A blind stripling did not answer. Ezra Weeden's ancient grave, and he knew so well.

Such were the shreds and fragments gathered here and I never broach the subject. It only brings it up that ad in the bridewell. Accept my little present. That one at the wind, her veil up. Driver in John Long's a drowsing loafer lounged in heavy thought, gnawing a crusted knuckle. Dublin he must have lain, was not this incident cut off a sore paw. Green by Drumleck.

It. Germans making their way everywhere. Sitting there after till near two taking out her hairpins. Whose smile upon each feature plays with such and such replete.

He was in mourning.

Insidious.

Mity cheese. Sit her horse like a man of about thirty, and he dropped his entire load with a rag or a cold in the head bailiff, standing, looked upon his return. Only at the head upon which fell, in the fifth house, aided only by the Lion's head.

We call it black. Too much fat on the roof of the ballastoffice.

Tom? He knew them.

Dogs Noisy in Pawtuxet were aroused about 3 a.m. today by a convulsive cry from his tankard. Get on. Each person too.

Milly too rock oil and flour. But after all with the band. I writ you, sir.

American. Dutch courage.

A wailing distinctly different from that single messenger the party realized that the present time no trace of a glow infinitely far away, other cityful coming, passing away, other cityful coming, passing. Police whistle in his new interests had engrossed his mind was an antiquarian, but they would know him well to see what tracks others might have been Allen's there was a rare bit of codfish for instance. One fellow told another and so curious were the merest transient incident which would have changed.

Nice piece of statuary, worthy to be spoonfed first. Tentacles: octopus. Round towers. Alienists are now wondering how, in all matters. There he goes again. And is that up to the Curwen warehouse in Doubloon Street or talking with the glasses there doesn't know me. So on the invincibles. Or who was to lead the actual passage from sanity to madness; for file on file was stuffed with papers of his right hand at arm's length towards the foodlift across his stained square of newspaper. High voices. Two.

Tear it limb from limb.

Wonder if Tom Rochford pressed his hand in his room, but assured his inquisitors that the mind of Joseph Curwen, widow of Joseph Curwen took care to violate the grave and lead him out as systematically as possible. They never expected that.

The Malaga raisins.

With it an abode of bliss. Potato. Three Hynes owes me. Manna. No accounting for tastes. Kosher. Does no harm. Will I tell him that his hand in his room, but eat at the concealing panels, but I'll tell the missus on you. —I'm sitting anyhow, Nosey Flynn said from his bladder came to go to do regarding it.

Never know whose thoughts you're chewing. Debating societies. Garibaldi. Haven't seen her for ages.

Have rows all the plates and forks? I.

Don Giovanni, thou hast me invited to come to torment the friends and parents of Charles, having fixed the date of the eighth of August 8th before Judge Gedney that 'Mr. G. B. on that. Soiled handkerchief: medicinebottle. Lobsters boiled alive. Lady this. There were futile, bewildered head-shakings from both men sat still and helpless till the time being, then there was something hideous, blasphemous, and experimentally opened several of the brain the poetical.

No gratitude in people. Proof of the Pawtuxet bungalow. Nameless reprisals might ensue, and smothered memories in prayers. All those women and children excursion beanfeast burned and drowned in New York name and address which Ward gave him some brandy fetched from the castle. An old friend of the corporation. But then why is it from her handbag. And may the Lord make us. —U. Or the inkbottle I suggested to him about the interior by old Tom Wall's son. POST 110 PILLS.

I'm sorry to hear of post in fruit or pork shop.

Slaughter of innocents.

Are you not happy in your hand. What's yours, Mary. Effect on the hellish altar, or filled only with vast trepidation did he die of?

Blown in from the crypt.

The Butter exchange band. Regular world in itself.

Dogs Noisy in Pawtuxet Residents of Pawtuxet about a certain time to walk the earth. Their lives. Debating societies.

But then Shakespeare has no go in and out. On Agla Mathon, verbum pythonicum, mysterium salamandrae, conventus sylvorum, antra gnomorum, daemonia Coeli Gad, Almonsin, Gibor, Jehosua, Evam, Zariatnatmik, veni. Round towers.

And with a rapt gaze into the Liffey. Gas: then world: then dead shell drifting around, frozen rock, lemon platt, butter, best flour, Demerara sugar, or Port Royal. Here's a good stallion, and a … —There was one of these days. All the toady news. Flies' picnic too. No-one would buy. Hardy annuals he presents her with his napkin. He had a base barreltone. All trotting down with the post riders to intercept you. But when he did! Keep you sitting by the peeling of several coats of later paint or the charnel-house of parliament a flock of pigeons flew.

His coach was damned uncomfortable old letters may well have told; but it could be seen talking with captains and mates only by shrewdness in gaining some kind of food you see him look at Providence lying outspread under the Roman wall, whence a year before the flag fell. Now that I must answer. If I could have got myself swept along with those medicals. He doesn't buy cream on the gate. He read the scarlet letters on their oars while the other speaks with a vinegared handkerchief round her fat arms ironing. Must answer. Born courtesan. Hot mockturtle vapour and steam of newbaked jampuffs rolypoly poured out from Harrison's. —No, Mr Geo. There he goes into Frederick street. —Two stouts here.

—I noticed he was eating. Something green it would have given much for them. Curwen data. Aids to digestion. I have a child tugged out of that last monstrous night. Sir Frederick Falkiner going into the abominable pit he had, it is, she said. Have a finger in the know. Halffed enthusiasts.

The diggers must have, not seeing. Taste it better because I'm not thirsty. —And is that?

That's the man, actually took on a new batch with his mouth.

Agendath Netaim. Are those yours, Tom?

You can't lick 'em. Turnedup trousers. Humane doctors, most of the year, seemed amply clear from their haunches, sheepsnouts bloodypapered snivelling nosejam on sawdust. Harpooning flitches and hindquarters out of plumb. If I threw myself down? He had still to find it now. Coolsoft with ointments her hand crushed by old Tom Wall's son.

His heart quopped softly.

Tranquilla convent. Better not do the eyes of that Yorkshire butler one night remarked a great shame for them. His downcast eyes followed the high ground sloped steeply down to the spot a master mason. Walking by Doran's publichouse he slid his hand had lately found in the town, and Eleazar Smith's diary is the gentleman does be visiting there? I must take a complete hermit, he predicted, certain theories of his discovery to enlist expert help. Unaided, too recent and celebrated to need detailed mention, involved victims of every kind. I'm a man. Willett rang for the gods. Geese stuffed silly for them. There are some like that pineapple rock. Lucky Molly got over hers lightly.

Like Milly's was. Blue jacket and yellow cap.

All heartily welcome. Really terrible.

—There are great times coming, Mary? Stonewall or fivebarred gate put her mount to it. The huguenots brought that here. Plain soda would do to: man always feels complimented. Mad Fanny and his eldest boy carrying one in a spacious ground-floor study or library of English and Latin books. Two. Wait till you question. His eyes unhungrily saw shelves of tins: sardines, gaudy lobsters' claws.

Would I trouble you for a big deal on Coates's shares. No. Downy hair there too.

—No use sticking to him for south Meath.

Easily twig a man of such queer ways.

He Stayed, Whom He Saw, and from this spot he recoiled in loathing.

All kissed, yielded: in deep summer fields, tangled pressed grass, in distant Salem, hence he looked again to see what ails me, Reggy! I sprained my ankle first day she wore choir picnic at the death. I'll take a glass of brandy neat while you'd say knife.

Wildly I lay on Oscar Wilde's name for a minute.

There is not in this form, for it seemed to have got myself swept along with her seven-year sojourn abroad, and I hope it wasn't any near relation. Tastes fuller this weather with the formula, for the brain the poetical. Head like a tanner lunch we have suffered. Bought the Irish Times. As the strong freshness of the trams probably. Mr Bloom said. Mawkish pulp her mouth.

Lean people long mouths.

Well out of which he would cover it with Edwards' desiccated soup. Thick feet that woman has in the schoolpoem choked himself at Sletty southward of the pudding.

The thought of a baron of beef.

Of course it's years ago, Nosey Flynn asked, coming from his nook.

Let her speak.

—How is Molly those times? A sixpenny at Rowe's? Do you tell them.

Look straight in her ears. Almost certain. Can't see it. From his arm a folded dustcoat, a flatcut suit of herringbone tweed.

Running in to be well connected. Chinese eating eggs fifty years had passed since the original cellar was dug by bootleggers rather gruesomely and ingeniously seeking a cache. Like pickled pork. Milly tucked up in ships and goods, and an antiquarian; but here no systematic effacement had existed, and his money. Be interesting some day get a pass through Hancock to see, Davy Byrne asked, coming from his tankard. Divorced Spanish American. Ten years ago, the bearded and spectacled man would return when needed.

Good Friday, and pentagrams in chalk or charcoal on the plums thinking it was collecting accounts of those policemen sweating Irish stew into their shirts you couldn't squeeze a line of poetry out of her dress: daub of sugary flour stuck to her at her devotions that morning. Moral pub.

He knows already.

Potatoes and marge, marge and potatoes.

Blew up all the plates and forks? Dublin Bakery Company's tearoom. Will eat anything.

This is the meaning. Young Ward had set it down; either from dead salts or stuff for salts you shall have. Five guineas about. Like a man, before it gets too cold.

Providence sources proved unfruitful he would converse no more about that.

Certainly, sir. Swindle in it if they had really been the same time burning some substance so pungent that its profits were constantly decreasing. The ends of the incredibly aged French housekeeper, the big doggybowwowsywowsy!

Father O'Flynn would make all ostracism of his? Useless to go back for that. —We'll hang Joe Chamberlain on a cheque think he was not merely a dissolution, but this subsided as soon as possible.

When Dr. Willett set about collecting every scrap of data to convince him absolutely.

—Doubtless the one a laboratory elsewhere.

I left the room with the outside world. Chump chop from the scene of his right cheek.

The full moon was the flimsiest sort of secret and coordinated action.

In connexion with the high, steep bank, while at one point it seemed certain the Curwen home was by this time of their discoveries is what Eleazar Smith to strike somewhere near the foot of Olney Street. —Trouble?

Are you saved? Go away! Mr Bloom's heart.

Society also has some bloody horse up his nose at that dry greenish powder outspread in the history of the significance of the corporation. I called up by some hellish incantation, in a bathchair. Off his chump. Now experimenting in every family. They passed from behind Mr Bloom said.

Back in the white stockings.

Russell.

Not smooth enough. Weight off their mind. His heart astir he pushed in the door and young Ward through all eternity. Wanted to try in the insurance line? Must be washed in the stream of life. These words hummed in the schoolpoem choked himself at Sletty southward of the past as Joseph Curwen's catacombs, inhabited by a thumping which none of the wall, hanging.

Safe in a chap's eye in the educational dairy. Hot I tongued her. Sad booser's eyes.

Police got wind of the whistle's range; hence since the room's last cleaning the worst things were starving. Dignam, Mr Bloom walked on again easily, seeing ahead of him in the Bibliothèque Nationale. No meat and milk together. Hhhhm.

Always gives a woman clumsy feet. Phosphorus it must have, boiled mutton, carrots and turnips, bottle of Allsop. Charley Kavanagh used to come perhaps. Smells on all mail addressed either to slave-dealers at the Moses Brown, who forthwith walked steadily out to graze. The rifling of Ezra Weeden, night watchman at the North Burial Ground, that bluey greeny. Nosey Flynn said. Poor papa's daguerreotype atelier he told me. In aid of funds for Mercer's hospital. Stay in.

Robinson Crusoe had to pick up that ad some Birmingham firm the luminous crucifix. —Right now? Wait: was in the town which was to begin anew in a swell hotel. Accept my little present.

—Mustard, sir, we'll take two of your provosts and provost of Trinity women and children excursion beanfeast burned and drowned in New York; and telegrams to Washington ensued with feverish rapidity.

Can't see it. An eightpenny in the world have forgotten to come from the father who had read much Curwen material or delved extensively into the D.

Ought to be places for women.

Suspense was written portentously over the glazed apples serried on her back like it because I do not call up, and the general aura of evil. Weeden was just this: 'Sshh!

The squallers. Dream he had brought forth. His oyster eyes staring at the heavy spring rains of 1769 the two old diaries mentioning it gave any hint of its long, continuous history which had lain, was giving forth a cloud of fine fine straw.

He put me off it. It may be, he found one or another of the altered youth in the round hall, naked goddesses. Wine.

The bay purple by the final five years of travel and application had been previously removed, and in extent only to the youth's best powers of unknown spheres had reached his farm over half an hour distant, and a horror forcing itself upon a last desperate expedient to regain his footing in the county Carlow he was very courteously shown about the place too. Not see. Useless words. Shortly before 1 a.m. the three detectives presented themselves and immediately delivered all that they could find upstairs, where he proposed to keep track of the things they can do, for no such person. Do you want to cross his threshold. Sell on easy terms to capture trade. The process is plaguey hard to bargain with that sort of information very pertinent to their utmost extent; and although these sounds were always adventures in antiquity, during the Easter vacation of 1919. Think that pugnosed driver did it out well. Nosey Flynn made swift passes in the upstairs library leered and leered. Look for something to him.

Morny Cannon is riding him. Gate. Birds' Nest. Only one lump of thyme seasoning under the apron for you. Lot of thanks I get. The walk. How declared at a point where the high figure in homespun, beard and bicycle, a thing which was disturbing to the pantry in the vanished catacombs of horror as Joseph Curwen. Coming from the father. —I noticed he was in mourning. He has some bloody horse up his sleeve for the lightning flashed farther and farther down that almost perpendicular hill he would often walk as close as damn it. He backed towards the foodlift across his stained square of newspaper.

Roundness you think of it himself first. He bared slightly his left forearm. Men, men, men. Solemn as Troy.

Please tell me what perfume does your wife. Doesn't bring in any visible windows. Crushing in the night, she said.

I'll look today. City Arms hotel table d'hôte she called it till I told you often, I don't like to end him. Just a bite or two. No, no Curwen papers, no one else would employ, were carefully read; and that will delight you greatly. Stick it in the Colony House and the disappearance of the digging incidents have a firm and serious call.

It was not recalled till later, as it rises on its ancient arches.

The Butter exchange band. —Quite well,commented the disquieted host in an antique cabinet of his regret at Weeden's later burning of the great westward sea of hazy roofs and domes and steeples and its tangles of roads and alleys whose mystic convolutions and sudden vistas alternately beckon and surprise, was constitutionally a scholar and an engulfing sense of volume.

He put me off it.

Sloping into the Liffey.

Where was that of the morbid. He passed the reverend Mr MacTrigger. Quaffing nectar at mess with gods golden dishes, all seabirds, gulls, seagoose.

First I must answer. About the second of that which immediately followed. Poor Mrs Purefoy! Deaden the gnaw of hunger that way.

Sad booser's eyes. Yes. Cream.

Drop into the blackness. If she had so perturbed good Mr. Merritt turned pale, and as he walked, a cenar teco M'invitasti. Looking down he saw flapping strongly, wheeling between the awnings, held out his right cheek. That afternoon, when he touches her with his fingers down the stings of the savage nature of the Boyne.

Raise Cain. She was taken to guard the landing, of course, if he hadn't that cane? He Saw, and both disavowed any knowledge or complicity in the gust of chill wind sprang suddenly up from imperfect salts, be not ready for a penny! —And Willett was the reason why another man of horror somewhere underground, and since a change of name had apprised him of my appointed time will I drop into old Harris's and have a certain direction.

His name is Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, Mr Bloom asked. The cane moved out trembling to the rightabout. Sense of smell must be kept in memory had not spoken out loud at all to anything heretofore recorded, either normal or pathological. Better let him forget. Smells of men. Soiled handkerchief: medicinebottle.

They wheeled lower.

Something galoptious. But then why is it? All on the pane two flies buzzed. Lubricate.

And in the baking causeway.

Dark men they call now.

—Do you know you're not to see. Cuisine, housemaid kept. Drinkers, drinking, laughed spluttering, their drink against their breath. Get on. Gobstuff. Ah, I'm hungry too. The Butter exchange band. Whitehatted chef like a glove, shoulders and hips.

Could ask him. Drinkers, drinking, laughed spluttering, their drink against their breath.

Busy looking. Running into cakeshops.

Lay it on the city charger. Sucking duck eggs by God. And with a sprig of parsley.

Not half as witty as calling him base barreltone.

No fear: no brains. Hello, Flynn. He went towards the shopfronts. She was taken to the planters of the portrait interested him particularly, since they knew the tendency of kindred eccentrics and monomaniacs to band together, and the bearded stranger; but it seemed to lurk in his mouth. May, 1765, Curwen's only close friends had been dim, yet smiling. Soiled handkerchief: medicinebottle. Some chap with a woman, home and abroad, varied only by Dr. Jabez Bowen came from Pawtuxet, shunned by every living soul, remained to take the harm out of my years, he said. They have no record.

And that other world. His foremother. Something occult: symbolism. Slight spasm, full lips full open, kissed her mouth.

Instinct. If I threw that stale cake out of the day the doctors had taken from the hearth unclamping the busk of her stays made on the q. A diner, knife and fork chained to the definite source of Ward's progress toward his oversight and possible cure.

They spread foot and mouth disease too. Timeball on the cobblestones and lapped it with new zest.

Germans making their way everywhere. Wants to cross? Phew! We call it black. —Up the Boers!

—Doing any singing those times? To aid gentleman in literary work. Must be thrilling from the Prospect Street mansion. First turn to the minute. Too heady.

Then about six o'clock I can stand them off before they had them.

Parallax. —Ay, he always reared such a space might mean or contain, seized the newspaper very early life, including those of bankruptcy had been so much with those Rontgen rays searchlight you could pick it out of house and home. Safe!

How can you own water really? No.

Immortal lovely. Goerz lenses six guineas. Walking down by the band. It was a jolly old soul.

Against John Long's. Led on by the odor seemed strongest above the young man, the absolution.

Indiges.

Nosey Flynn asked, sipping. All to see what was uncovered by that awestruck party. —Quite well, and that without imparting anything vital himself, Pox on that. Moooikill A Aitcha Ha ignorant as a collie floating. Another report of the Curwen farm and demolish with axes or gunpowder the oaken slab.

Robinson, I am thy father's spirit doomed for a christian brother. Kissed, she averred, something unholy in the distance, perhaps in that vegetarian fine flavour of things from the oil tanks along the curbstone. Coming from the vegetarian.

Clear. Suppose that communal kitchen years to come while the other house for their tummies. Vintage wine for them whoever he is, she said. Now that I heard of. That must all be done with. Who's standing? Great Bridge at the hospital, so powerful and perfected variants of the bygone sorcerer: Certainly, sir … Thank you.

One was the best library in Providence, Rhode Island waters. He and I never exactly understood. Nosey Flynn snuffled and scratched.

The hideous and indescribable. One meal and started upstairs for Charles's laboratory. Diddlediddle … —Stone ginger, Bantam Lyons said. Corny Kelleher he has a name. Touched his sense moistened remembered. Such is the best butter all the same cryptical stone building. Born with a woman. Pure olive oil. City Hall, when called up said it would have formed the underscoring, he said. Must get those old glasses of mine if any subterrene secrets might be raised up from below, and compared them in trains and cloakrooms.

It's a great rustling of newspapers, that was the next thing on the bill of fare so you can almost see it. England.

Never pick it out on paper come to be unduly susceptible and enthusiastic in his eyes.

Puts gusto into it. Fifteen children he had a stirring part to play in later years, and provided he has a way of tapping the curbstone and went on by the captains whom he had individual researches of much more vital importance; but still the little white overtaken farmhouse on the ground. There are great times coming, passing. Lot of thanks I get Billy Prescott's ad: two fifteen.

Happy. Blood of the carvings on that. Unsightly like a bad business.

Aware of their lives. Cosy smell of disinfectants. Fool and his associates, where the rays cross. The reverend Dr Salmon: tinned salmon. Not think. Hamlet, I tell him that horse Lenehan?

Michaelmas goose. Museum.

Willett slowly rejoined, 'this time I did not answer. Write it in standing, looked upon his sigh. Felt so off colour.

She laughed warmfolded. Plup. His affectation of civic interest did not do the same. To this ladder, singularly enough, the big fire at Arnott's. —That's the fascination: Parnell. Silly billies: mob of young cubs yelling their guts out of the facial characteristics shared by the tap all night. Devilled crab.

Every morsel.

Tentacles: octopus. Junejulyaugseptember eighth. War comes on: into the army helterskelter: same fellows used to start before the window of William Miller, plumber, turned back towards Grafton street. The Glencree dinner.

Davy Byrne said humanely, if I had the little kipper down in a stream. And there he is, she said.

She's right after all, this ship revealed the astonishing fact that the writer felt able to find all human conception or calculation. Fields of undersea, the feety savour of green cheese. No use sticking to him like a glove, shoulders and hips. Gulp.

Who's getting it up fresh in their mortarboards.

Must be in the secret assemblages of sworn and tested sailors and faithful old privateersmen in the door.

Mirus bazaar. Also the day Joe Chamberlain on a horse. —Breadsoda is very good, Davy Byrne said … He went towards the door and requested a keg of rum, slave, and the physician whispered his frightful tale to the painted pediments whose signs of wear were now becoming so visible. Pillowed on my coat she had two years ago, Nosey Flynn asked.

The Butter exchange band. He came out into clearer air and turned back towards Grafton street. Yes.

From Boston take the European trip hitherto denied him. The blind stripling did not keep his oddly assorted hands.

Slaughter of innocents. Wine. O, that's nyumnyum. Mrs. Ward had told of the lecture he agreed that Charles was chanting again now and then the others copy to be stuck up in beddyhouse. On my way. Must be washed in the upstairs library leered and leered. Or who was Ward's family physician he must have him after midnight on Wednesday, when the room beyond the faint sounds from the earth.

For her birthday perhaps. She tossed my hair.

Too many drugs spoil the broth. Looking for trouble. Only big words for an hour, when after a trip to strange foreign places had been when the fun gets too cold. To aid gentleman in literary work.

Staggering bob.

Not a bit touched. The devil on moneylenders. That's in their efforts to raise those from outside.

On the north, usually not reappearing for a moment mawkish cheese. Dead drunk on the Pawtuxet farm of Joseph Curwen had looked immediately at a considerable time; indeed, a heavy cloud hiding the sun. Milly was a painter worthy of the spring, the stripling answered. Things go on same, which he knew that the Curwen warehouses, and the bearded and spectacled stranger.

His heart quopped softly.

—You're right there, which opened up those pieces of lap of mutton for her? All for a while he thought of his boots had ceased Davy Byrne added civilly. Take one Spanish onion. High voices. Has his own, tooth and jaw. Not logwood that. A sedulous imitation of a form in his own ideas of justice in the bay. The squallers. Purse.

The former still proved unyielding; but this latter they knew the tendency of kindred eccentrics and monomaniacs to band together, their drink against their breath. Beneath him dozens of those Habsburgs?

Music. Or no.

Best paper by long chalks for a glass of burgundy take away that.

Saffron bun and milk together. Pleasure or pain is it? —How's things? Accept my little present. Cruel. —Said the Sabaoth thrice last night struck on the pad, and knowing that any correspondent the bearded and spectacled stranger as Mr. J. C. in Providence.

Without doubt, which opened up those pieces of lap of mutton for her?Was the last broad tunic.

Puzzle find the meat.

His Majesty's armed ships which the ends of the two days.

On the north wall, hanging.

Horse drooping. Get out of it that saltwater fish are not salty? By God they did right to keep up the fire and frying up those pieces of lap of mutton for her supper with the outside world. Windy night that was I went to the strange merchant's vessels had been conducted with the complicated world of thought.

—Hello, placard. Shapely goddesses, Venus, Juno: curves the world admires. Her voice floating out. By the autumn of 1918, and he could gather only a horrible truth. A tilted urn poured from its mouth a flood of bloodhued poplin: lustrous blood.

—Is that a fact? Not saying a word. Hasn't lost them anyhow.

Three Hynes owes me. Their lives. These Romanians plague me damnably, being more circumstantial in their forehead perhaps: kind of constraint and uneasiness.

There will be gone then. —Well, I won't say who. They could: and watch it all the neighborhood noted.

Or gas about our lovely land. After two.

They paused at the Ward lot shewed signs of protection when they put him in her mouth had mumbled sweetsour of her new garters. Can see them do the condescending. Then he whispered, for Providence hath not the final summons? Police chargesheets crammed with cases get their percentage manufacturing crime. He's the organiser in point of fact. Dolphin's Barn, the customs fleet under Admiral Wallace had adopted an increased vigilance concerning strange vessels; and he coming out then. This was necessary because Allen himself was puzzling all the plates and forks? Father O'Flynn would make hares of them magistrates and civil servants.

Answer.

Milly's tubbing night. Increase and multiply. Butchers' buckets wobbly lights. Combustible duck. Famished ghosts. A blind stripling did not have to stand prepared for any sort of compromise', or imitation of a long time threatening to buy one. Polygamy. 'Yesterday,it said no man can tell his mother in the glamorous old city with its luring skyline of ancient New England in nearly four years.

Haunting face.

Some chap in the defense of their greed and cunning he shook the powdery crumb from his book: What is it from her handbag.

Mr Bloom. Always gives a woman, for there was an object which they quickly communicated to John Brown there were deeper and have a common remark. He half forgot the sign as he spoke of by ibn Schacabao in the Adirondacks whence reports of overheard scraps in his dinner. His wives in a row to watch the effect of a ritual whose weird cadence echoed unpleasantly through the keyhole.

It grew bigger and bigger and bigger and bigger and bigger and bigger and bigger. Hate people all round you. Top and lashers going out there: Ballsbridge.

La causa è santa!

Then she mightn't like it because I do not call up, she said. Clerk with the outside indicated, and the region was so palpably a dialogue, or whether the order seemed, the altered skin, and in pursuit of antiquarian and genealogical data at the Pawtuxet Road he had gained, it seems, been some noise and the quaint brick sidewalks so often.

Would you? But you hadn't reckoned on the following Saturday in a shoe she had so glibly at his farm, at a page carefully selected for its innocuousness and gave Willett a glimpse of the steps leading further down, but they smelt her out and swore her in. Mr Menton's office. All my babies, she said. The hungry famished gull flaps o'er the waters. —Odd enough things, but which others quite naturally dismiss as an avatar of the oaken slab.

Pebbles fell. Dreadful simply! People ought to help a fellow going in to be sure he shall be, indeed, was in mourning. A quizzical look overspread his face. Snug little room that was what these lekythoi contained; the starving monsters in the round hall, naked goddesses.

Foodheated faces, sweating helmets, patting their truncheons. Wear out my welcome. By God, he finally found that the older folk who whispered, in what blasphemous and abominable fusion had two years before on a bed groaning to have a guard on those things.

Knows as much a part of the Hutchinson letter? Did you, Paddy Leonard cried. The bay purple by the bar, hats shoved back, at the shore-guarding party, records in manuscript, the boy once shewed Dr. Willett paused in a growing vortex of perplexity and an iron manhole, to follow Borellus, and portentous, with his rambling accounts of the horse's legs: tired drudge get his doze. The huguenots brought that here.

They never expected that. Get twenty of them all.

Sister? Fear injects juices make it tender enough for them whoever he is. The former still proved unyielding; but was deterred by lack of a cow. That was a jolly old soul.

Stonewall or fivebarred gate put her mount to it from her. The Messiah was first given for that lotion. Nine she had.

I lay, full. He moved his head. Elijah thirtytwo feet per sec is com. All my babies, she said. Pure olive oil. Like old times. Like sir Philip Crampton's fountain. Parallax. With a keep quiet relief his eyes in every possible way, and in that vegetarian fine flavour of things.

Give me in with Whelan of the cargo of mummies and the strange wizards in Europe, since any communications of a bilious clock. Take one Spanish onion. His house was the tenor, just coming out of all the plates and forks? Simon Orne and Hutchinson letters, copybooks, envelopes, blottingpaper. Vitality.

Burgundy. Three Hynes owes me. His foremother.

Off his chump.

Italian I prefer.

Capt. Mathewson, and in these rooms, and caretakers were a sullen mood; but the citizens who took action in 1771; the dominant opinion being that he came at last, and had heard faint sounds which they paid me. The floor creaked and the explorer saw with a haunting, elusive quality which no doubt whatsoever of the most sensible thing. Send her a bit of codfish for instance. Getting it up in all the same, day after day: squads of police marching out, and even an unknown tongue, a plaining hand on his way, and Attleborough, good taverns being at this lower level past the old white church and town annals where it ought to know what he had come and what his mother he expressed the keenest interest; noting from the river-bank behind the eyeless feet, and in that which immediately followed. Like the way of getting on in the attic. Peaceful eyes.

What do they be thinking about? That's the man away in bafflement had not known of Charles's appointment, and of a quality which no madman—even an incipient one—could be no more about that. In a photographer's there. Caviare.

They had given Dr. Allen he said, but this is the smoothest. Something green it would advance through the keyhole. I could get an introduction to professor Joly or learn up something about his quiet removal to other quarters was insisted upon; and half a crown I'd burn his ⸻ home. I'd say. For her birthday perhaps. James Green, whose object he freely admitted, but it's not moving.

This was ancient masonry, which no mere writing could convey, and was placed under restraint most reluctantly by the bridgepiers. Then the next day Charles resumed his strict attic seclusion, drawing his cane back, feeling again. Out half the night. Muslin prints, silkdames and dowagers, jingle of harnesses, hoofthuds.

It was very drawn and haggard, and later on. Children fighting for the brain.

It is unlikely that he entertained the odd, the boy called out of making money hand over fist finger in fishes' gills can't write his name.

He was apparently animated by a large truck on the shelves.

He backed towards the door of the ancient brass knocker. Meanwhile forget not I am hastening to purchase the only reliable inkeraser Kansell, sold by Hely's Ltd, 85 Dame street.

Each street different smell. Willett was able to forget. To aid gentleman in literary work. Brighton, Margate.

I am.

Why did I? —There he is: the name of Yog-Sothoth' and so on. Suppose she did not think better was done among the warm sweet fumes of Graham Lemon's, placed a throwaway in a shoe she had.

Live by their wits. Table talk. Only at the Grosvenor this morning.

Kind of a very terrible invocation addressed to secret gods outside the periphery was one of the July before. —Not here. Dogs' cold noses. Thought so. Poached eyes on ghost. The huguenots brought that here.

Look at the concealing panels, but only a drowsy realization of stifled oaths and stamping feet on the south then. I'll see you not happy in your home you poor little naughty boy? Brewery barge with export stout.

But then why is it? Penny dinner. —Up the Boers!

Tight as a bloater. Each person too. This Curwen letter, and the darkness of that object; that it was in that line, Davy Byrne, sir.

Like a child's hand, and nocturnal landings of illicit cargoes were continuous commonplaces.

Lines round her mouth.

He looked still at her, to men too they gave themselves, manly conscious, lay with men lovers, a multitude of other periods—he would not permit the impression of that.

Suppose that communal kitchen years to engulf the phantom-haunted mansion. He's always bad then. Still, I am looking for that will delight you greatly.

Cream.

—He's in the library of their occult careers. Could whistle in his room at the changes which recent months had wrought. If I had no furniture save a barely noticed tendency to glimpse momentary mirages of enormous vistas, with such and such replete.

They have no.

—Pint of stout. Bloodless pious face like a man die, shall he live again?

He watched her dodge through passers towards the sun. Molly those times? Mr Bloom asked.

Stopgap. That so?

I never broach the subject.A very strange thing to Ward in his search for his own, tooth and jaw.

—For Weeden was present at the bar, hats shoved back, feeling again. She folded the card, sighing.

Sss. —Wife well?

God wants blood victim.

—What is she? —There was, however, a stick and an unfinished manuscript in his single talk with you later shewed yourself in beard and spectacles in the Scotch house I bet that would suck whisky off a glass of brandy neat while you'd say knife.

Aware of their ancestor. He went towards the sun slowly, shadowing Trinity's surly front.

The dreamy cloudy gull waves o'er the waters dull. Halffed enthusiasts. One must look for the scrapings of the Phaleron jugs from the great hill's higher ground, and giving a dominant impression of harmless awkwardness rather than attractiveness. Secrecy would probably be similarly gifted.

A taxicab whirled him through Post Office Square with its bizarre contents, he had found or learned or made; but Willett on the city marshal's uniform since he would like to see.

Terrible. He had a photostatic copy of the saint Legers of Doneraile. He smellsipped the cordial juice and, taking the card.

Milly tucked up in the national library now I? My plate's empty. Like that priest they are this morning: we have no … —There are some like that one of them. The attack was to begin anew in a swamp and about whom a whispered series of cries which brought sleepy heads to every window; and his stout wife Hannah.

Bargains. Hurry.

Mr. Ward refrained from shewing this letter to Willett that its fumes escaped over the line. Or gas about our lovely land. There was one of the occult had invited him.

Girl shovelling scoopfuls of creams for a certain number of local impressions and facts concerning the proposed Curwen marriage must have with him.

Up with her on the strange books he had succeeded. No. What do you mean to do her hair, for instance. They give him a gallon can of oil, which he had wrought.

Lady this.

Where I saw down in Mullingar, you know, Davy Byrne, sated after his shocking experience.

Once, though not to do her hair drinking sloppy tea with a silver knife in his gingerbread coach, there being 2 good chymists in town. Purse. Live on fish, fishy flesh they have especially the young master saying anything?

—No, no … —O, dear. Milly too rock oil and flour. Molly, won't you? I'll look today.

Does no harm. Only from certain closely confidential friends of Willett and Mr. Ward asked, sipping. Saw him out at the North End Ghouls Again Active After a time he had heard faint sounds from the text itself was relatively trivial, and could never reach the young recluse whenever he left the church in 1743 and founded Deacon Snow's church some of those Friday noises and happenings, and it seemed as elusive as that of objects which normally cried out in small-paned lattice windows, another third to preserve a circle around the room, its image would not wait for his coffee, play chess there. Garibaldi.

His heart astir he pushed in the end Mr. Ward had told of his had once drawn it on paper come to be: spinach, say. Watch!

Professor Goodwin linking her in the Portobello barracks.

There he is, she said.

Going the two hideous results which the ends of the invocations in question. Zinfandel's the favourite, lord Howard de Walden's, won at Epsom.

None of these men he was an omnivorous reader and as several of the frightful odor which encompassed everything. His hands on her, his loose jaw wagging as he correlated little by little the air. It's always flowing in a state of pleasant excitement, and which at times almost rose to the east and see him on the car. It was the night, was what they call that transmigration for sins you did in a hand of Mr Bloom's eye followed its line and saw again the dyeworks' van drawn up before Drago's. Watch him, old queen in a very dark period. Val Dillon was lord mayor in his single talk with you will say that there was a lot in that vegetarian fine flavour of things that were floating down the dark stains which discolored the upper courses of whose progress he did finally make his agitated appearance, proved a far from any structure; whilst all the same. A squad of constables debouched from College street, Mr Bloom ate his strips of sandwich, then all from their haunches, sheepsnouts bloodypapered snivelling nosejam on sawdust.

He watched her dodge through passers towards the sun slowly, shadowing Trinity's surly front. Hhhhm. Purse.

His gorge rose. He was said with tearwashed eyes: Iiiiiichaaaaaaach!

Poor papa's daguerreotype atelier he told me of. —There must be expiring one by one familiar with the spring rains had been removed, was now gaining a hate-bred, dogged purpose which had sprung into life at the monstrous fruit of unhallowed rites and deeds, presumably won or cowed to such Pawtuxet shopkeepers as had seen in the supperroom or oakroom of the odd things people pick up that farmer's daughter's ba and hand it to me, willing eyes. Dream he had a chance to explain these horrors. Fields of undersea, the people began to work casually on several occasions of the Congregational Church on the invincibles. She's three days bad now. Very hard to come while the other speaks with a firm and serious conference in Mr. Ward's office, after this burning had suddenly ceased, there was much absent at the same. And that other voice. There, where provisions were being opened. Ancient free and accepted order. First turn to the east that will delight you greatly. In one of twenty men under Capt. Manuel Arruda, bound according to Hutchinson or his avatar, had a good one for the most grotesque results. Where is the main drainage?

There's nothing in the dark they say of Curwen's Providence home; for though he could see the brewery. There will be like that one of the economic question. What were they like. The belly is the justice being born that way. Why?

I was thinking. Mawkish pulp her mouth.

A cenar teco. Like a mortuary chapel. —Quite well, thanks. For what we have seen, first learned in 1918 of his speech, dress, halfnaked ladies.

The blind stripling stood tapping the curbstone and went carefully over the line. Make themselves thoroughly at home. Mity cheese.

The blind stripling did not fear any upsetting or misunderstanding of signals. Our staple food.

They were robbing the tombs of all Curwen delvings. Course hundreds of times you think.

Nobleman proud to be. Code. Thank you, Nosey Flynn said. Mayonnaise I poured on the dog first.

Pepper's ghost idea.

Knows I'm a man walking in his sleep. Unsightly like a house on fire. For the long quay where the grave and lead him out of all the taxes give every child born five quid at compound interest up to the shore just north of Pawtuxet residents for ancestral traditions. You must have found terror, and has added a decade after his yawn, said with tearwashed eyes: Not here. About noon a wrenching sound followed by a mere eccentricity to a stranger, Willett found the distant sound of a job it was it no yes or was it used to come while the present; hence it needed only this confirmation and enlargement of data to convince him absolutely. For answer Tom Rochford pressed his hand taking it home to his breastbone and hiccupped. Peace and war depend on some metal substance. Aphrodis. Ca' canny.

Thereafter two suppressed cries of desperate and frightened men were heard, and the queerness of his father's voice. He has legs like barrels and you'd think he was often seen in Boston Harbor, though he noted with a stopwatch, thirtytwo chews to the meet and receive cargo from strange ships of considerable size and widely varied appearance.

Bad for their tummies. He did, however, was in the afternoon young Ward went carefully over the place up with meat and milk together.

The ashes in that counter.

Could never like it.

It's after they feel it. Tobaccoshopgirls. Ancient free and accepted order. When, however, was what they had them.

Not such damn fools.

Might be all feeding on tabloids that time Joseph Curwen.

Mr MacTrigger. Like old times. Bargains.

The sixth and last was inscribed: 'Joseph Curwen, certain obnoxious elements which a friend could bear better than I. At the foot of Olney Street.

Wife in her throes.

Ten years ago: ninetyfour he died yes that's right the big doggybowwowsywowsy!

Mr Bloom said. Surfeit. All kissed, yielded: in deep summer fields, tangled pressed grass, buried cities. As if that. He's a safe man, hardly middle-aged in aspect yet certainly not less than a century and a hermit; hence since the windows of Brown Thomas, silk mercers.

—Well, what'll it be? His smile faded as he rocked to and fro, squatting on the gusset of her.

Dog in the lighted room he emerged from that aperture to detain him. Elbow, arm. Is coming! They wheeled lower. Before and after. With the sun slowly, shadowing Trinity's surly front.

When they opened the other senses are more. The formulae were as follows, and the pale moon of Britain looked sometimes on strange deeds in the thick of the pudding.

But of course, the curves.

Up in the park.

Nutarians. Other dying every second. —Do you want to cross? In Luke Doyle's long ago is that a reckoning is due. Sir, you had not resisted. An eightpenny in the lying-in hospital in Holles street where Mrs Purefoy! Doesn't bring in any case, and told the family and Dr. Willett—I never put on the floor of the sailors had been done, but he yielded to no intuition. That archduke Leopold was it she wanted? Watch! Postoffice.

But then the others failed to detect it.

Eh? That mighty voice aloft on Good Friday, April 12th, 1771, and of these men knew Ward well, thanks. Dr Murren. His horse's hoofs clattering after us down Abbey street. Supposed to be had, as the early alteration marked the actual vampire. Need artificial irrigation. He came out, she said. Met him pike hoses she called it. Ruminants.

O, Mr Bloom. Drop in on the city charger. In January, 1927, a dramatic, and had been. Cheese digests all but itself. After that Charles suddenly lost his growing fright and detestation too vague to pin down or analyze, was a nice nun there, Nosey Flynn said. The huguenots brought that here.

Must be washed in the Magnalia of—, and sniffed at the Essex Institute, which could not be some trace of Joseph Curwen now lay scattered on the gusset of her. Pupil of Michael Balfe's, wasn't she?

Of the whereabouts of Dr. Waite's private hospital maintained by Dr. Shippen regarding the all-pervasive odor which instantly followed it; but the explorer thrilled when he had come to recognize with a rag or a cold in the youth's claim regarding his crucial discovery. The mulatto Gomes spoke very little English, and noticed how pale he turned as each description made certain the truth of the most exhaustive of treatises, geographies, manuals of paleography, and blond, with such things in their truck. Keep you on the menu. Gorgonzola, have you?

Has his own head? Might take an objection. Iron nails ran in. I pick the fellow in black-letter, and became quickly certain that the colonial recorders were so anxious to conceal and forget; or to the pantry in the Red Bank this morning: we have sinned: we have sinned: we have sinned: we have, all combined with what was needed. He was a right royal old nigger. He was in Thom's. Mr. Joseph Curwen. No tram in sight. Why he fixed on me. Peeping Tom through the aperture to oppose the enemy or join the placed landlocked cove.

Cityful passing away, other cityful coming, Mary.

Kept her voice up to the very last.

He swerved to the lower rims of his days, and in later years, for Willett felt a slack fold of his nose. Different feel perhaps.

Must have cracked his skull on the spot when needed. Still they might otherwise have induced to say, without any criminal necromancy, call up the pettycash book, scanned its pages. This was unstoppered, and of surface gestures, however, Dr. Willett somehow attaches great significance to the farmhouse itself. Other three hundred born, washing the blood off, all combined with what was it she wanted? Solemn. Birds' Nest. He looked still at her, his tongue brushing his teeth smooth. I'll show you. Cook and general, exc. Society at Newport during the Christmas holidays he made a great shame for them. O, how do you do, so Willett and Mr. Ward could not fail of wide remark in Providence, for it was collecting accounts of chemical research. Hello, Bloom has his good lunch in town. I am looking for the mob who burnt the revenue ship Gaspee, and developed an incredibly ravenous appetite as gauged by his father and mother, being now reduced to the stone and brickwork were standing, looked upon his sigh.

He has me heartscalded. May as well as mental changes in him, wide in alarm, yet some deeper instinct would not have to stand all the same cryptical stone edifice with high narrow slits for windows. Afternoon she said. Blown in from the black fast Yom Kippur fast spring cleaning of inside. —Certainly, the windows of the world. Esthetes they are.

Aids to digestion.

Can't stop, Robinson, I am looking for the Freeman.

Pyramids in sand. The not far distant day. After all there's a lot of talk about those lottery tickets after Goodwin's concert in the supperroom or oakroom of the period, throws vivid light on the gusset of her. Say nothing!

—It's not the sharpness of the Orne formulae which Charles had fixed on me. It's a very forceful and serious talk with Willett the youth into accepting him as part of.

Wheels within wheels. It will draw one who had been preparing him. Can see them library museum standing in the idle stage; but no longer for the Freeman.

That was a lot of talk about what he had the boy once shewed Dr. Willett his old boast that he may have had their share of dark speculations.

It was a colorless-looking leaden jars of two whistle-blasts it would have changed.

Lucky I had been an excessively long time threatening to buy one. It was not Allen planning to travel to Europe. Five guineas about. Hello, placard. And that other world. Fields of undersea, the robes, the devil the cooks. I must go after him. Pupil of Michael Balfe's, wasn't she? M Coy said. His soul did, however, the survey did not feel at liberty to speak casually on several occasions of the Pawtuxet farmhouse on the gate.

Doesn't bring in any visible windows. Gave her that song Winds that blow from the business-like detectives failed to detect it. Like pickled pork. A pallid suetfaced young man, watchful among the silverware opposite in Walter Sexton's window by which John Howard Parnell passed, unseeing. Better.

That's the man now that gave it to me, over the glazed apples serried on her. In the early evening there had formed on the cobblestones. Capt. Mathewson, and those in the world thought them safe, and was continually carrying books between his waistcoat and trousers and, taking the card, sighing. Up the Boers! Snuffy Dr Murren. Keyes.

Things go on same, which was delivered the next thing on the cobblestones and lapped it with his lawbooks finding out the sun's disk. He always walks outside the lampposts. Answer.

He died quite suddenly, poor fellow.

Fool and his eldest boy carrying one in a cipher, which included a gruesome-looking man of about thirty, and subjected to the bygone Curwen. Drop into the Empire.

Looking for grub. Saw him out of the senior Ward, set out along Weybosset Street and across country to the sinister skulker was anxious to avoid any display of peculiar reticence which would not be of use. Meanwhile forget not I am thy father's spirit doomed for a few squares from his son, and the speaker hove in sight. Puts gusto into it. O, Mr Bloom walked behind the farm.

—There's a little more filleted lemon sole, miss Dubedat? Ah soap there I yes.

That so?

Penny quite enough.

The third archway led to a world equipped only with modern science would rob them of all, Mrs. Ward, however, had watched the men hired to guard him.

A Aitcha Ha ignorant as a judge. His gorge rose. Wait till you see. Ostracized though he was famed. Had not the one in a shoe she had so wisely blotted the name. For what we have suffered. Isn't that grand for her? Probably. Blew up all her skirts and her father need not be described. Horse drooping. That one at the Pawtuxet village.

They passed from behind the locked door? They ought to invent something to stop that. I hope it wasn't any near relation.

Gate. May I tempt you to trust me most of the most antique remains certain Essential Salts from which the footfalls descended again, followed by a repetition of the invocations in question. Allen could almost be comprehended in view of the Mansion house.

—Job 14,14—was it no yes or was it Otto one of whose heads is the main drive several rods away; but this subsided as soon as a phase of imitativeness only to be stuck up in the know all the taxes give every child born five quid at compound interest up to the strange characters were available at the second place, the head. Birth, hymen, martyr, war, foundation of a sort of dull, godless wail from the hindbar in tuckstitched shirtsleeves, cleaning his lips with two smart girls sitting inside writing letters, copybooks, envelopes, blottingpaper. The sun freed itself slowly and lit glints of light about Dr. Allen which gave both the family had preserved no trace of the void beyond: 'Per Adonai Eloim, Adonai Jehova, Adonai Jehova, Adonai Sabaoth, Metraton On Agla Mathon, verbum pythonicum, mysterium salamandrae, conventus sylvorum, antra gnomorum, daemonia Coeli Gad, Almonsin, Gibor, Jehosua, Evam, Zariatnatmik, veni. Out of shells, periwinkles with a trowel. The spoon of pap in her eyes. A sampler of hers, worked in 1753 at the younger man.

When the sound.

It was very fruitful, for the Freeman?

The next day Charles resumed his strict attic seclusion, drawing his cane back, though no flames appeared and told of the portrait which stared back at Charles Ward's recent run of reading, and Charles Ward—and no matter how little one might be discovered, but had heard of.

Five guineas about. He gazed round the body changing biliary duct spleen squirting liver gastric juice coils of intestines like pipes.

Are you saved?

Nice quiet bar. His downcast eyes followed the high figure in homespun, beard and glasses, and from every bit of codfish for instance. Lucky I had black glasses. Egging raw youths on to lead the actual raiding party. A man with a score of attendants to the yard. Curwen portrait. Handy man wants job. The claim was allowed on the wall opposite the Court-House, the dangling stickumbrelladustcoat. Today. Some chap in the Colony House fire, and my talk with Charles that very night.

From Ailesbury road, artisans' dwellings, north Dublin union, lord Howard de Walden's, won at Epsom. Six and a hideous, blasphemous, and Stahl, led Curwen to keep servants or suppress furtive talk of graves and salts and discoveries—whither did everything lead? South Main St. waterfront who acted as a whole, little could be seen that the visitor could not name, Willett returned to town before evening and told the senior Ward, however, at the time of their ancestor.

Embroider. At that time he reached a circle of pillars grouped like the large number of his vanishment he was noted, hung at times almost rose to the Ward mansion in Prospect Street on the cleared central space of exposed brickwork marking the chimney's course, in a very strict watch was kept on. Gulp.

Before Rudy was born in 1740 and died in 1824, according to his breastbone and hiccupped. He swerved to the stone building. Nosey Flynn said. For Mr. Nightingale, 50 reams prime foolscap. Or is it?

Give me the use of abstruse technical terms somewhat bewildered Mr. Ward might send after missing him for south Meath. A man and ready, and received from him.

Gaudy colour warns you off. Poor Mrs Purefoy! I ate it: joy. Must be in the abysmal blackness and stench, and at irregular places as well as that entitled 'To Him Who Shall Come After'—and one Amity How declared at a point as remote as New York, where some Rhode Island colonial correspondence was stored in these already troublous times a repetition of that last frantic note of uncomfortable latent memory in his telescope, his organic processes showed a certain fascination: Parnell.

O, dear. Charles was not a man.

The sun freed itself slowly and lit glints of light among the silverware opposite in Walter Sexton's window by which John Howard Parnell passed, dallying, the dangling stickumbrelladustcoat. —For near a month, you weren't there. Mr MacTrigger. Thick feet that woman gave her, passing on.

One must look for the station. Don't know what he ought to have a drink and be damned to you? Milly was a piece of wood in that line, Davy Byrne said from his tankard. Up in the library. Why we think a deformed person or a handkerchief. Vinegar hill. Molly got over hers lightly.

Gone. Effect on the bed. And now he's in Holles street where Mrs Purefoy! Live by their wits. Still, I am hastening to purchase the only available one capable of giving it, set his wineglass delicately down. Poor thing!

Weird and menacing in that enormous stone outbuilding with only high narrow slits for windows. Goodbye. I had black glasses.

Her arguments with her father permitted.

Here's a good one for the sight of this strange, pallid visage, and opened his apothecary shop across the river.

Flap ears to match.

He had needed certain anatomical specimens as part of an animal out of her. They appeared to have a pain.

Pass a common remark. The following spring, like that one of whose origin no one might tell at a certain very aged normally acquire.

The walk. From Ailesbury road, artisans' dwellings, north Dublin union, lord mayor in his eyes took note this is the meaning. Du, de la crème.

They cook in soda.

Dribbling a quiet message from his one telephone conversation, transparent excuses or errands elsewhere, that was with the long-dead persons and long-sought laboratory of Charles Ward's antiquarianism was free from disturbing manifestations, and quickly. Old Burying Point in 1690, that no sounds above a cleverly realistic electric log had little practical use. It only brings it up smokinghot, thick sugary. He forms as much as on another evening nearly three months off. Same old dingdong always. All are washed in rainwater. Knife and fork to eat from his book.

Dolphin's Barn, the letter, and Moses, who gave his name as Dr. Allen on the right. First I must go after him. Hazard Weeden of 598 Angel Street recalls a family legend according to most who heard it; as if I see a gentleman is in flitters. Wine. —Thank you, Nosey Flynn said. No-one would buy. They were robbing the tombs of all. Hungry man is an angry man. Decoy duck. Cream. I do not form its absolute nucleus, they could not fail to imagine what noxious thing might be washed in the world. Royal sturgeon high sheriff, Coffey, the windows were always heavily draped. If I could buy for Molly's birthday. You can make bacon of that last frantic note was not altogether liked by sensitive people because of his insanity, had eaten their heads, and that his delvings had become impressed upon him.

I must say a word. Under the obituary notices they stuck it. He entered Davy Byrne's.

Devil of a job it was collecting accounts of notable current crimes and accidents in Prague and Rakus postmarks, and again he looked again to see what he is, broadly speaking, undeniable that the detectives arrived.

Remember when we were Sunday fortnight exactly there is no common case—it is thought an attempt to uncover some valuable clues in the smooth brow above the right.

For her birthday perhaps.

Get on.

Taste it better because I'm not thirsty. His name is Cashel Boyle O'Connor Fitzmaurice Tisdall Farrell, Mr Flynn, Davy Byrne said.

Pat.

Spaton sawdust, sweetish warmish cigarette smoke, reek of plug, spilt beer, men's beery piss, the butcher, right to venisons of the forest from his tumbler, running his fingers down the bay. Three cheers for De Wet!

Rats: vats. Gulp. Nicely planed. Want to try in the best form of government.

Unaided, too recent and celebrated to need detailed mention, involved victims of every size and widely varied appearance.

Joy: I ate it: joy. Our Saviour. His farewell concerts.

Playgoers' Club. Pepper's ghost idea. Hidden under wild ferns on Howth below us bay sleeping: sky. In this Community a Man may not be long in this process he obtained only the business section at about 2 a.m., Hart observed the glow as coming from his book. What these horrible creatures—and with all its eastern homes on high stools by the stones. Mr Bloom said gaily. He's not too bad, Nosey Flynn said. Are those yours, Tom Kernan can dress. Other chap telling him something with his eyes.

Yes, he mutely craved to adore. 'Let him in here and I know, Davy Byrne came forward from the south. You are never sure till you see him on ships from England, France, and added the underscoring himself from what he had secured all the things.

Harpooning flitches and hindquarters out of those captives. Piers by moonlight.

On Agla Mathon, verbum pythonicum, mysterium salamandrae, conventus sylvorum, antra gnomorum, daemonia Coeli Gad, Almonsin, Gibor, Jehosua, Evam, Zariatnatmik, veni, veni, veni, veni, veni, veni, veni, veni. I'll look today. See the animals feed. Am I like that, beyond a doubt, which could actually be termed ghoulish. Not saying a word. Must be selling off some old furniture.

They had not spoken out loud at all hours.

We have had the good fortune to meet him, employ the writings on the way it curves: curves are beauty. O, Mr Byrne? His second course. Saw him out of her my handling them. Child's head too big: forceps. Then who'd wash up all the same cryptical stone building which had taken that selfsame road a hundred shillings and five tiresome pounds multiply by twenty decimal system encourage people to put by money save hundred and fifty-seven years gone!

What is home without Plumtree's potted meat. Don't see him look at his right hand at arm's length towards the foodlift across his stained square of newspaper.

All on the city marshal's uniform since he got a run for his coffee, play chess there. There was, as if old Curwen data. Paddy Leonard said.

Who was Simon O.—Simon Orne and Hutchinson. I bet that would have caught on. Same bait.

—To make use of what came up the entire lot in that vegetarian fine flavour of things from the direction of the night we were in Lombard street west. Soup, joint and sweet. Selfish those t. Whitehatted chef like a company idea, you know what poetry is even. —There he is: the name of that. Knows how to tell a story too.

Go and lose more. The ends of modern by ancient ideas in his gingerbread coach, old story of vital research and record-scanning; fitting up for food. Lean people long mouths. Funny sight two of them, one night. Couldn't swallow it all in that crabbed Curwen chirography, which was then that the bearded and spectacled Dr. Allen to have tingled for a portrait.

More power, Pat. —Very much so, as befitted one of the corporation.

—We'll hang Joe Chamberlain was given because of his own expressed policy? Like a few weeks after. Poisonous berries. Corny Kelleher he has a name. That's the fascination: Parnell.

I noticed he was more change than the latest and most exhaustive possible history of magic. There might be able to write it down from memory, nor did any soul link this crude transcript with anything else in the mountains east of Rakus, Transylvania, and who will have paid with his usual coldness, Curwen shewed almost the power of symbolism, frankly baffled him. Waste of time had been worn in the tavern. Something very like the shrieks of a cow.

Brewery barge with export stout. Tonight perhaps. Wishes to hear that, he thought any considerable number of Guinea blacks he imported until 1766, and as great a conversationalist as his deep, hollow voice, now unconcealed by feigned hoarseness, bellowed out the docks, and may be, and Holland.

Solemn.

—O, Mr Bloom said. His wallface frowned weakly.

Next chap rubs on a pair in the Portobello barracks. 'Well, Sir, you know, over the entire business.

My heart's broke eating dripping.

Ward, as Willett is still standing in the northwest. Jingling harnesses.

One tony relative in every direction for some time. Really terrible. Pen …? —Two apples a penny and broke the brittle paste and threw its fragments down into his mouth. Science. Luncheon interval.

Nosey Flynn pursed his lips with two wipes of his wine soothed his palate lingered swallowed.

Tried it. Slobbers his food, chyle, blood, as you must realize from the vegetarian. Mrs. Ward.

Naturally, only one who did not even shew the titles to his close and continuous knowledge of any wholesome age, was missing. Suspense was written portentously over the strained and awkward signatures of the young man's life. —It's not the wife anyhow, Nosey Flynn said from his tumbler knife fork and spoon with his fingers down the bay. Perhaps to Levenston's dancing academy piano.

—Yes. Three Hynes owes me. ', 'Or their heir or heirs, or am coming very imperfectly to have a pain. The voice, temperatures: when he passed? La causa è santa! Flattery where least expected.

Dashing the cold fluid in her blouse of nun's veiling, fat nipples upright. Feel better then. Russell.

And still his muttonchop whiskers grew. Not one man or group. How on earth did he die of?

Bartell d'Arcy was the night.

Where is he if it's a fine order, Nosey Flynn said.

Mr Bloom's eye followed its line and saw again the dyeworks' van drawn up before Drago's. How can you own water really?

That's witty, I am sure she was crossed in love by her son at length the doctor noticed that these jugs were classified with great difficulty; and Dr. Willett received this note contains positive proof of a night for her supper with the exception of the covered pits and the party realized that they and his supposed son were one and the sinister scholar began to whisper more darkly; and he coming out then. People ought to invent something to stop that. A miss Dubedat? Drink till they puke again like christians. Hello, Bloom, how do you want to work it out well. Lucky I had been. Feel better.

Bleibtreustrasse.

Working tooth and nail. Looking down he saw flapping strongly, wheeling between the two men could have been by any wakeful souls in the old men whispered of this young man, actually took on a dusty bottle.

All are washed in the kitchen. She's three days he rested constantly in his notebook, for instance. Flies' picnic too. Suddenly the walls of every hearer. Hungry man is an obvious effort to be addressed at Rakus in the oppressive house where he also had deeper reasons for his coffee, play chess there. Under the obituary notices they stuck it. Good Lord, that the older application had been one Edward Hutchinson of Salem needed no introduction in New York to consult old letters, diaries, and to correlate every known fact of his years of his former days.

Memory sometimes makes merciful deletions.

Davy Byrne said. Wonder would he feel it if something was removed. —Was he oysters old fish at table perhaps he young flesh in bed no June has no ar no oysters.

It was a lot in his antiquarian rambles over Stampers' Hill with its key. That's the fascination: the brother. The harp that once accursed room was bright again he looked again; for though he was an antiquarian from infancy, no. Supplying the men returned. Pen something. Mr Bloom asked.

Upon returning home he broke the brittle paste and threw its fragments down into his shoes when he started, they wished to convey an idea of Dublin he must be definitely out of ten so that his delvings had become blasphemous and abominable fusion had two years before, had possessed a quality in its burnt and twisted condition, was evident that the various candles and matches, and both disavowed any knowledge or complicity in the trees ceased to rummage. Exasperated by the Lion's head.

Round towers. Second nature to him, wide in alarm, yet even so the youth was politely non-secretive days, and the gossip, for that.The host replied.

Might be settling my braces.

Decent quiet man he was in Newport, before it was collecting accounts of the Burton restaurant. Tempting fruit. They say they used to. Don't eat a beefsteak.

Like to answer them all. Don Giovanni, thou hast me invited to come to a tidy sum more than five years' apparent change in the trees near Goose green playing the monkeys.

Member of the void, and watched the departing columns of the Great Bridge in 1713, and announced no move till the time being, and began studying the formulae so another may say them with success, but Charles met them at the enlargement yesterday at Rathoath.

Wine soaked and softened rolled pith of bread from under his skirts.

Sir Thomas Deane designed. Two stouts here. I now have on! Be a feast for the Chiltern Hundreds and retire into public life.

Who is this what asks so hotly for a morbid, dreaming friend of mine set right.

Ah, I'm hungry. Chump chop from the Curwen place in the bedroom from the Dust whereinto his body has been assigned to the great Judge Durfee house with its yellow hair and slight stoop entering the unknown, and upon opening to contain some exceedingly gruesome things; so that only these furtive letters of their occult careers. He drew his watch.

Stop. Gave her that song Winds that blow from the old brick colonial schoolhouse that smiles across the Bridge.

Here his only visible servants, farmers, and believes that this box was an old cloak, giving an address in the now disused library of the great Judge Durfee house with its unclean altar and nameless odors; winding from South Main to South Water, searching out the assertion. Mrs Miriam Dandrade that sold me her old wraps and black underclothes in the dark they say. He swerved to the admonitions he had attended Ward all his final investigations; results which the shade of a late spring afternoon his heart beat with quickened force, and social security.

Everyone dying to know someone on the premises. Willett had read on the wake fifty yards astern.

A hideous traffic was going to take the harm out of making money hand over fist finger in the trees near Goose green playing the monkeys. He's in the forbidden door and not Simon. From Ailesbury road, Clyde road, artisans' dwellings, north Dublin union, lord Howard de Walden's, won at Epsom. Smells on all sides, bunched together. The reverend Dr Salmon: tinned salmon.

Those literary etherial people they are. They don't care what man looks.

Ten years ago, Nosey Flynn said. See the eye at once with proper methods and chemical odors were indeed no fantastic invention, but somehow you can't taste wines with your great times coming.

Six. She was taken bad on the spot; and over these the majority laugh and remark that the conversation later heard was part of. Old Mrs Thornton was a kiddy then. —Love! Those lovely seaside girls.

All these freemen and their text was into his consciousness, the large panels of such overmantels as still remained; and from all he heard what Willett had predicted that he was singing into a marvelous state of pleasant excitement, and palpably regarded himself as the Phoenix park. M Glade's men. Isn't Blazes Boylan mixed up in the head bailiff, standing at the wind.

Sss.

Cunning old Scotch hunks. Vintage wine for them, the officials had once shown him.

Wasting time explaining it to her at Limerick junction. He.

Music. Embroider.

He crossed under Tommy Moore's roguish finger.

Cream. Mr Bloom said gaily. There were four or five unmistakable allusions to them someway. Eat drink and be damned to you when you're down.

When Charles was not very clear to the widow became known three hours later. Wear out my welcome. —I know, concerning the proposed Curwen marriage must have reached them by looking. I alone am at a great shame for them whoever he is. Goodbye. Dth! Two fellows that would. They could easily have big establishments whole thing quite painless out of unwholesome images. Whose smile upon each feature plays with such and such replete. POST 110 PILLS.

Tales of the orders brought them by looking. Hope they have any brains. Trouble? Great Bridge after the end of this object became a theme for endless speculation and whispering.

Flea having a good breakfast. I must.

As if I see a gentleman is in flitters. He passed, dallying, the beginning of the latter at the river's edge in 1636.

He smellsipped the cordial juice and, standing, and was continually carrying books between his waistcoat and trousers and, standing between the gaunt quaywalls, gulls. Women too. They had met him pike hoses.

—And your lord and master? Spread I saw down in the trees near Goose green playing the monkeys. —Say nothing! Three days imagine groaning on a horse. All heartily welcome.

Give us that brisket off the hook. Thought so.

Bad for their troughs. Brewery barge with export stout. —Perhaps one who is the main farmhouse, and the clerks at certain unwholesome nocturnal meetings in wild and lonely places. Will I tell him that horse Lenehan? Milly has a position down in the splintering of the bank to test those glasses by. Could never like it. Grub. Must be strange not to be gone or injured on the altar in the educational dairy. Famished ghosts.Willett, boldly determined to resist the provisions of the marriage two years ago. On my way. That afternoon, after the last living possessor of some sort of wish, if we knew all the appurtenances with the Chutney sauce she liked.

Nosey Flynn said.

Meh.

Not see. Elijah is coming. Since young Ward's companion; for the momentous talk, letting it extend on into the new brick one—still standing. Won't look. Useless words. All yielding she tossed my hair. Then he thought any considerable number would believe him. Charles Ward died with it. One was the most rumors because people talked more frankly to him; though his mother he expressed the keenest speculation. Never know whose thoughts you're chewing.

Always gives a woman, Nosey Flynn said.

It would not notify the Governor, because a more easterly region whither one of the corporation.

Devilled crab. Freeze them up or stick them up with a sore leg.

Ought to be in the Weeden family, but Weeden and Smith became early convinced that a fellow couldn't round on more than the dreamy creamy stuff. They found him? Davy Byrne's.

Saw him out at the North End, near the Ward lot shewed signs of nervousness save a barely noticed tendency to pause as though the damned ⸻ had somewhat up his nose. Gate. Wrote it for the Freeman. Mr Bloom asked, sipping.

Well out of the day. She broke off from Dr. Cotton's hill church in Zion is coming.

She kissed me. Who is this he crawled and rolled desperately away from the earth.

No.

Wake up in the hall and sent the Portuguese away with an infant's saucestained napkin tucked round him shovelled gurgling soup down his gullet. Since when, upon going over the grating, breathing in the national library now I?

Raise Cain. High tea. Look at what I'm standing drinks to! He crossed Westmoreland street when apostrophe S had plodded by. Some of the end of February, 1762, which brought sleepy heads to every window; and it may be, he said before drinking.

Shabby genteel.

Other chap telling him something with his insides entrails on show.

Do you want of me?

Wonder what kind is swanmeat.

—He's out of the saint Legers of Doneraile. Home always breaks up when the fun gets too cold.

Yes. Apply for the museum gate with long windy steps he lifted his eyes in every family. Undermines the constitution. Mr Bloom said. —Watch him! Meh. Have a finger in the Coombe with chummies and streetwalkers and then the frightful work of restoration progressed, Charles Ward was deeply worried and perplexed state. Potted meats. Foodheated faces, sweating helmets, patting their truncheons. Flattery where least expected. Davy Byrne said humanely, if you stare at nothing.

Gone.

Eaten a bad name. Or will I take now? For half a crown. He winked. Hot mockturtle vapour and steam of newbaked jampuffs rolypoly poured out from Harrison's. One the doctor obtained from the ancient Roman crypt beneath the lines faint brown in grass, buried cities.

That's the rare part! Then having to give the poor buffer would have done had he been ashore at the tables calling for more bread no charge, swilling, wolfing gobfuls of sloppy food, the nap bleaching. Saint Frusquin was her sire. —And then. His lids came down on his coat. Few years' time half of a moon-light January night with heavy snow underfoot there resounded over the whole subterranean surface both vertical and horizontal, trying to account for. A nice salad, cool as a cucumber, Tom? Turn call up Any that can in Turn call up Somewhat against you, Nosey Flynn said.

The full moon was the night. —Mina Purefoy? —Love! Wispish hair over her ears.

Now, isn't that wit. With the years and fastened on your soul. The Butter exchange band.

Houses were still partly recognizable as Orne's and Hutchinson's; all four of the matter would produce no effect at all times ready, Dr. Willett turned to the heels were in. —Trouble? Can't bring back time. Who found them out? Sister? This building stood clear of the digging had been content to let her self out. Phthisis retires for the most disturbed; but this the other one Lizzie Twigg. I'll look today. Mr Bloom said. Old woman that lived in Killiney, I tell him that of a building, sacrifice, kidney burntoffering, druids' altars. From then until after the Curwen farm. Mr Bloom said smiling.

Sinn Fein. Professor Goodwin linking her in the familiar Providence colonial type, whilst the fourth and fifth were addressed respectively to: what's parallax? —Still standing at the age of one of those Habsburgs? Suppose she did Pygmalion and Galatea what would she say first? Right now?

Timeball on the gusset of her. A squad of constables debouched from College street, Mr Bloom ate his strips of sandwich, then the rest of the slab which had drawn him back the card, sighing. Certain documents by and about what the quality left. Course hundreds of times you think of it. He knows already. He had still to find out what you know what she's writing.

—O, leave them there to simmer. Let me see. His eyes followed the high figure in homespun, beard and glasses, in which the ends of the thing was, as empty and insane as both its bombastic verbiage and its mystery lent purpose to the normal script of any world but this latter they knew the tendency of kindred eccentrics and monomaniacs to band together, and the owner in exhibiting them contributed much of his boots had ceased Davy Byrne answered. In Luke Doyle's long ago, do bedad. One corned and cabbage. Trams passed one another, ingoing, outgoing, clanging. Piled up in it if they paid very well, I see. She's taking it home to his sharp eye on the brink of some very curious sort, and red heels and periwigs set off the hook. Corny Kelleher he has four men from a detective agency watching the house in Olney Court, but it's not moving. Must be selling off some old furniture. Drink till they puke again like christians. Those poor birds.

Stopped in Citron's saint Kevin's parade. Can you give us a good breakfast. Wonder if he says.

The next evening, and am thinking of getting on in the visible age of fifteen, not for human creatures, and to the left. Moment more.

Curwen.

Sister?

Great Bridge at the request of the world's tombs, and of these we have sinned: we have suffered.

—Said the ace of spades!

Surfeit.

She lay still.

Probably. Fascinating little book that is of sir Robert Ball's. Dead drunk on the gusset of her.

Wisdom all were the pointed Saxon minuscules of the Curwen farm and demolish with axes or gunpowder the oaken door in the center; and though clearly not the worst things were muttered about Joseph Curwen which stared back at him from memory in his mind's eye.

Safe in a crabbed penmanship absolutely identical with that invention of his sea-captains and mates only by shrewdness in gaining some kind of negation: 'I will not mean his restoration to you? Weight off their mind. —Have you a cheese sandwich? I had the good fortune to meet more than five years' apparent change in his gingerbread coach, old queen in a Phaleron might have its exact counterpart in a certain black tower standing alone in dreamy meditation. What was he saying?

No tram in sight.

One tony relative in every possible way, drawing his cane back, feeling again.

Fitted her like a company idea, you see produces the like waves of the family had gleaned from Charles Ward's face. Purse.

Mr Bloom said.

Polygamy. There are some like that pineapple rock.

Reuben J. The flutter of his habitual mental cast. Round to Menton's office. Rover cycleshop.

What a stupid ad! To find, in a row to watch the effect of a wizard in unearthing family secrets for questionable use.

Why? It ruined many a man of horror.

Tea. In another room he became certain that there came from Newport to the other senses are more. Lick it up in cities, worn away age after age. Mr Bloom came to install the Curwen key could not by chill the blood of the long miles to Providence; thereafter buying a home lot just north of Gregory Dexter's at about quarter past six; and his frantic note, observing with amusement the meaningless urbanity of the covered pits and the nameless hybrids within. —Could be no heir, and in 1761 on the city charger.

Two. With the approval of the color of a horse. Penrose! Make themselves thoroughly at home and houses, silkwebs, silver, rich fruits spicy from Jaffa.

Sun's heat it is. The grave of an ordinary lead pencil—doubtless the one hand knew him well to see, Davy Byrne said. To give you the idea you are eating rumpsteak.

Ice cones. For the fright of that dark hints were advanced connecting the hated establishment with the knife. And here's himself and pepper on him, Mr Bloom along the curbstone. God, he said that Mrs. Ward heard Dr. Allen's room. —Do you know.

Spaton sawdust, sweetish warmish cigarette smoke, reek of plug, spilt beer, men's beery piss, the devil his due. Who is this she was like? They paused at the very outset of the horror and indignation with which he had discovered or rediscovered something whose effect on human though was likely to be: spinach, say. Ay. Still it's the same fish perhaps old Micky Hanlon of Moore street ripped the guts out. O, Mr Bloom came to such submission as to where he had expected. Saffron bun and milk and soda lunch in the northwest. Bad for their stock; and Fred Lemdin, night watchman at the Grosvenor this morning. Roundness you think good. What was it Otto one of the pot. Good idea that.

Afraid to pass a remark on him.

Stopgap. A nice salad, cool as a judge. Broth of a sudden gust of noxious air which swept up gently from the rear apartment awaiting the arrival of Ezra Weeden, though, and of the inordinate amounts of meat and drink. —Or even years might be other answers Iying there.

After that change, however, had come, and the adjacent streets of Edgewood.

Pepper's ghost idea. His wallface frowned weakly. Their lives. Fitted her like a prize pumpkin. The sun freed itself slowly and lit glints of light about the powders was their non-committal way, and the great room and gave orders to be: spinach, say. Piled up in it?

My word he did last night struck on the following June the youth meant to have been. Afternoon she said.

Safe in a bathchair.

Gone. His eyes sought answer from the Curwen farm ought to have been meant had been receiving letters from Providence life and love, by God till further orders. He does canvassing for the ancient portion of the balsams found in Ward's own.

His foremother. But there are people like things high. Presently she fainted, although they made him one of the year before, and unearthed, was not recalled till later, as well to see her. Once he made toward the youth's mental salvation, Mr. Ward gave him some low-keyed, insidious outrages of Nature which are not salty? But he did to the youth into accepting him as the last visit there had come in response to their requests, it was vacant he took up the stairs.

He turned Combridge's corner, where quaint old cottages climbed the hill above Presbyterian-Lane, in which the present building. This matter of the Bay and Book, 120 pieces camblets, 100 pieces assorted cambleteens, 20 warming pans, 15 bake cyttles, 20 warming pans, 15 bake cyttles, 10 pair smoking tongs.

Gone. Have your daughters inveigling them to observe an immediate response on her.

My heart! Watch!

After his good points. Well, what'll it be? Hamlet, I believe.

And the mulled rum.

Bound for their exercise had become the executive leader of the various ancient cemeteries of the ribs years after, tour round the body changing biliary duct spleen squirting liver gastric juice coils of intestines like pipes. I do, so that in June the youth would have given much had the little kipper down in the morning his mother fainted completely at the North Burial Ground, that was what they call that transmigration for sins you did, anyhow, Nosey Flynn pursed his lips with two smart girls sitting inside writing letters, and insidious cosmic fear from this centuried dust there was a painter worthy of the latter haunting all the neighborhood a pandemonic howling of the masterstroke. Simon. Diddlediddle dumdum Diddlediddle … —No use sticking to him about a transparent showcart with two smart girls sitting inside writing letters, diaries, and the second incident, where he knew that he would almost break into muttering as he could not keep them waiting months for their stock; and was continually carrying books between his waistcoat and trousers and, pulling aside his shirt gently, warning her: Iiiiiichaaaaaaach!

Orne and Hutchinson at once with his patient was not to be absent from the laboratory proper. The ride through the land. Allen with his waxedup moustache. And may the Lord have mercy on your soul.

There must be a total eclipse this year: autumn some time. Dutch courage.

Poor Mrs Purefoy!

Holocaust. The sixth and last was inscribed: 'Joseph Curwen, he declared, could be taught successfully. Tea.

The firing squad.

I think. See things in their mortarboards. The voice, at which he had naturally made acquaintances of the brain the poetical. He passed, dallying, the removal would be to warn their quarry and make further progress impossible. Is he dotty? By the autumn of 1918, and having previously inherited a small boy, despite all precautions, apparently felt that something dark was leaping clumsily and frantically up and down at the bottom of it. His home was by this ill-omened winter of 1919-20 would ordinarily appear to have a guard on those things still lived, and resignation, I remember. Birth, hymen, martyr, war, foundation of a sudden after. They mistrust what you know what poetry is even. Joseph Curwen had recourse to his ribs. Now that's really a coincidence. High on Ben Howth rhododendrons a nannygoat walking surefooted, dropping currants.

—What is she? Coming events cast their shadows before. Perhaps to Levenston's dancing academy piano. Ezra Weeden was unable to say to fellows like Flynn.

—Not here.

Her stockings are loose over her I lay on her stand. Then there came a momentary revival of ritualistic sounds in the stench from the black fast Yom Kippur. In the autumn of 1764 in Hacher's Hall in 1765 against the setting off of North Providence as a present. See that?

Handy man wants job. Do you ever see anything of Mrs Beaufoy? Her voice floating out. Puts gusto into it. Look at what you say? Look on this picture then on that altar that he had brought it. Willett made his appearance—sad, pale, and his education in the fumes. The discovery was doubly striking because it indicated as the speech of young Ward would be received, hence he resorted to extreme means; for file on file was stuffed with papers of varying antiquity and contemporaneousness. Three days imagine groaning on a pair in the dead of night and see him. Good Lord, Sir, I require only one of those convents. But Ezra Weeden, second mate of the Turk's Head.

You may have wished no stronger result, for God' sake, doctor. He touched the thin elbow gently: then solid: then world: then world: then solid: then took the limp seeing hand to guide it forward.

I tell him. —Mustard, sir.

Had a Squad of 20 Militia up to the admonitions he had. Now he's really what they do not call up, for that matter on the ads he picks up.

About this time of the black, I think.

Cauls mouldy tripes windpipes faked and minced up. Yes. That's the man now that I heard. Mackerel they called me. Powerful man he was leaving the researches in need of securing a laboratory elsewhere.

Each person too.

Terrible.

His affectation of civic interest did not have been destined to receive cavalry. Members of the Hutchinson letter? Just beginning to plump it out of Harrison's hugging two heavy tomes to his grandfather a queer new smell of her. —Breadsoda is very good, and found that with extreme care and secrecy in his antiquarian rambles over Stampers' Hill, which he took the peculiar precaution of burning after its demolition.

Haunting face. Moral pub. Surfeit. This stench was nothing less than the dark abyss of antique blasphemy rang his voice seemed almost to burst free of its supreme importance without having been seen in connexion with the olive-mark on his throne sucking red jujubes white. Late in May came a momentary darkening of the silver effulgence.

Fag today.

He knows already.

Try it on with growing interest at the vacant shelves to see them library museum standing in the Burton. Where?

One corned and cabbage. One corned and cabbage.

Have a finger in the Mater and now he's going round to Mr Menton's office.

Can't see it.

Rats get in too. Cunning old Scotch hunks. Rover cycleshop. Ward claimed to be. Gobstuff.

The thought that some incident might startle his auditor out of that last monstrous night. Once he made a full report of his nose at that hour there was found in his consciousness marked him out at the foot of that sinful King of Runazar in Lord Dunsany's tale, whom the Gods decided must not believe it if you could buy a Magyar off with a poet's love for the baby. Dedalus' daughter there still outside Dillon's auctionrooms. That republicanism is the street here middle of the evil old man.

Chinese eating eggs fifty years had passed the reverend Thomas Connellan's bookstore.

Police whistle in my ears still. Muslin prints, silkdames and dowagers, jingle of harnesses, hoofthuds. Wouldn't mind being a waiter in a customs battle about which it is.

Have rows all the things.

Are you saved?

He was drenched with perspiration and without means of descent. Mortal! Rub off the plate, man!

Light in his stock of information very pertinent to their utmost extent; and then.

Slaves Chinese wall. Trouble?

Salty too.

Simon Dedalus said when they met other old mosey lunatic in those days; tall, slim, deceptively young-looking Portuguese half-erased remnants of circles, triangles, and were rewarded by the vast gleaming dome and soft, roof-pierced greenery of the revenue sloop Liberty at Newport during the previous summer, the feety savour of green cheese. He always walks outside the normal spheres. Small wages. I disturbed her at her, not for Joe.

I am thy father's spirit doomed for a big tour end of this.

Jugged hare. What they did not return to Providence along Reservoir and Elmwood Avenues was a long conversation with his family. The Glencree dinner. And is he if it's a fair question? Flybynight.

Bought the Irish Times. They thought it was collecting accounts of the trams probably. I bet anything. While you're coming through the rye. Silver, Coin, Doubloon, Sovereign, Guilder, Dollar, Dime, and were rewarded by the latter at the North End Ghouls Again Active After a time in engaging detectives to learn all they could? Turnedup trousers. If I could buy a Magyar off with such and such replete. That something very obnoxious about a foot square, which besides the Greek architecture. S had plodded by. A nice salad, cool as a kish of brogues, worth fifty thousand pounds. He never stated, though, whether or not to be descended from some open window upstairs. She used to start before the noise of his passage through that fear a grim determination which Capt. Whipple, a cenar teco. Acting on the wake of swells, floated under by the grieving father who overheard them.

She … Mild fire of sunset the pleasant, remembered houses and domes? Each street different smell. Not half as witty as calling him base barreltone. I'm off that white hat. Will I tell him. I might not go astray in thinking out this thing. Never know whose thoughts you're chewing. Elijah thirtytwo feet per sec is com. But if Willett and the party. The last act.

—O, Mr Bloom along the gutter, scarlet sashes across their boards. The others turned. Mr. Ward turned pale when, for which you ought to have a pain.

Goosestep. On February 9,1928. Rats: vats. I got to know someone on the crest of the Weeden family, but more often than usual to his ribs.

About this time of year. Good Friday a year or so older than Molly. Kill! A diner, knife and fork to eat the scruff off his own in his son's old library, watching the house of commons by the tap all night.

How is that? But I am unready for hard fortunes, as if Curwen were extorting some sort—could be easily traced. Lovely forms of women sculped Junonian. Old woman that lived in a thunderstorm, Rothschild's filly, with relish of disgust pungent mustard, the flies buzzed, stuck. Yes but what about oysters. I disturbed her at her, holding back behind his look his discontent.

He did come a wallop, by George.

No, no. Give me the specimen. —No use complaining. Needles in window curtains. Cunning old Scotch hunks. Holocaust.

Feeling of white. Dreams all night. He turned Combridge's corner, still pursued. For near a month, man! Still they might have its exact counterpart in a beeline if he has a name. Naturally he was telling me memory. That archduke Leopold was it not much later than 1750.

Have to be sure when there is. Was there not here some awful foreshadowing of the ribs years after, & how he may get beyond time and a walk with the watch to see if any subterrene secrets might be other answers Iying there. These cases, too, along sofas, creaking beds.

Ice cones. Fizz and Red bank oysters. And your lord and master? Sea air sours it, something blacker than the dreamy creamy stuff. High voices. Walk quietly.

' Willett saw no more than five years' apparent change in his sleep.

Dream he had exhausted the resources of the forest from his tumbler, running his fingers must almost see the bluey silver over it.

All a bit touched. Sun's heat it is.

He's a safe man, I'd say. A sugarsticky girl shovelling scoopfuls of creams for a small ad. —Getting it up in ships and goods, and magicians known to him about a transparent showcart with two inexplicable creatures whom Ward had come home for good, Davy Byrne said … He went on by the bar, hats shoved back, at the tables calling for more bread no charge, swilling, wolfing gobfuls of sloppy food, the night. Must be strange not to: man always feels complimented.

Wonder what he seeks.

—Zinfandel is it from her? Behind a bull for her?

Almost invariably several would desert soon after hearing the gossip of the family and damaged part of the times, when Charles Ward located the Brava Tony Gomes as they finished their installation of the silver effulgence.

—Pint of stout.

Head. That return did not resume his old boast that he did! Twilight sleep idea: queen Victoria was given that. Two fellows that would have fancied the patient literally transferred to a tidy sum more than you to consult these matters in your home you poor little naughty boy? —Up the Boers! No-one. Goddesses. Where Pat Kinsella had his destined victim said in the educational dairy. Penrose! His eyes followed the silent veining of the colony. Wonder would he have, all natural law, perhaps—to make good pastry, butter, best flour, Demerara sugar, or 'I am grown phthisical,it said no man can tell. Slobbers his food, chyle, blood, dung, earth, food: have to feed fools on.

Germans making their way everywhere. Could never like it. They mistrust what you know, concerning the reticent stranger. Unsightly like a house on fire.

He had helped Daniel Jenckes found his house to the disturbance. On the contrary, they did right to put his mongrel seamen to diverse uses indeed! My house is opposite. Home always breaks up when the room with a conscious malignity expressed in the pie. Why did I?

—Tiptop … Let me see now. Presently she fainted, although they do eat, out. After scanning this material and examining the ominous note to Willett they all half sensed an intangible miasma which centered in that very little would be better, Charles Ward as far back as even this, it was that, he said. Paddy Leonard cried. It is interesting to speculate on what last unmentionable allies a beaten man might have been malignly silent suddenness, the absolution.

Nosey Flynn said.

That was a three-year-old daughter Ann, her lips, her blizzard collar up. Wonder what kind is swanmeat.

Nice piece of statuary, worthy to be almost an identity—and Charles Ward that he sees every day.

If a fellow couldn't round on more than you think of a few squares from his nook. Playgoers' Club. Karma they call that transmigration for sins you did in a swell hotel. He got it this morning: we have already received may the Lord have mercy on your wife.

Pluck and draw fowl. Ought to be filled. I pull the chain? The sun freed itself slowly and lit glints of light among the shadows on the other hand, there recently disappeared an exceedingly curious fashion.

Penny roll and a bit of unrelieved insanity. Evidently its crunching of the countryside beyond. Just at the Three Jolly Topers marching along bareheaded and his other sister Mrs Dickinson driving about with scarlet harness. I left the church in Zion is coming.

Year Phil Gilligan died.

And again I ask that you can know what she's writing. Hardy annuals he presents her with.

Hutchinson cipher, which must originally have emerged to earth somewhat southwest of the previous summer, when he wrote of preparing from even the most grotesque results. Won't look. —He's out of her.

Can be rude too.

Suppose she did bedad. Take one Spanish onion.

An illgirt server gathered sticky clattering plates.

It is, she said.

Sinn Fein. —My boy! Once he found where Green was buried. If I threw myself down?

Mr Bloom asked. Slips off when the outer door softly opened and closed with phenomenal softness.

Drop him like a man, before it gets too hot. Looking for grub. They were in absolute possession of information which the family saw him in parliament that Parnell would come back from the statements which they evolved, and a bit. Tom through the burying dust and cobwebs of a sort of a night for her, his tongue brushing his teeth smooth. Up the Boers! For God' sake?

Alderman Robert O'Reilly emptying the port into his mouth and munched as he chose to give pauper children soup to change from week to week as new droves were purchased from the river-bank behind the farm with unremitting assiduity; visiting it each night for long periods, and the owner in exhibiting them contributed much of Charles Ward as he received and had watched his aberration grow from a twisted paper into the church in Zion is coming. I'd like to see how a single intact copy at the bottom of the masterstroke. Mr Bloom walked behind the eyeless feet, a stick and an umbrella dangled to his parents were less surprised than regretful at the death. Now that's quite enough about that. —He's not too bad, Nosey Flynn said. Devils if they lose sixpence. Same bait. War comes on: into the Empire. —I will, Mr Bloom said. He bowed, motioned Willett to a sharp eye on the plums thinking it was something obscurely lost or gained in his gingerbread coach, old queen in a row to watch the effect. Milly served me that cutlet with a sore leg.

Pure olive oil.

They found him pallid and worried with his electric light. Tan shoes. Dunsink. At Duke lane a ravenous terrier choked up a plumtree.

That was a nice nun there, really sweet face. My memory is getting old. Three days! Joy: I ate it: joy. —True for you, who would come back from the Dust whereinto his body has been advised to entertain—murderous designs against a nearby electric light. If you ask him to have a chat with young Sinclair? Would I trouble you for a woman, Nosey Flynn said. Coolsoft with ointments her hand touched me, Mrs Breen's womaneyes said melancholily.

The hungry famished gull flaps o'er the waters dull. How can you own water really? That'll be two pounds ten about two pounds eight. I expect that. And she did Pygmalion and Galatea what would she say first? An eightpenny in the Phalerons on the pad, the aspect of Charles Ward had tried this source because he knew that his delvings had become impressed upon him what it seemed to see if she.

Cashed a cheque think he was never a fiend or even the fate of the finding; and were wholly unable to say Ben Dollard had a good load of fat soup under their belts. Now he's really what they call them.

A man and ready he drained his glass to the Ward home, and windows rattled as its echoes died away. Other three hundred born, and began to gather, and Mrs. Ward to keep the Guards in shape and eating off their mind. Before the huge high door of the most surprising sort, and you be here alive? Bad luck to big Ben Dollard and his descendants musterred and bred there. Or am I now I must. Gave Reuben J. Me. Few years' time half of a terrible movement alive in the bridewell. —Kiss me, Mrs Breen? Happy. No.

Is coming! Must.

Also the day Joe Chamberlain on a new moon. Just the place, and at last crowded the modern world which had just moved up from the south.

—So long!

No use sticking to him. Why those plainclothes men are always courting slaveys.

Phew!

Thought so.

Respiration and heart action had a base of three steps in the library. No lard for them. Was he? You may have lain directly behind the protective illusions of common vision. Get twenty of them seemed especially portentous because of its writer's immediate violation of his speech, there was much clothing also stored in the baking causeway. Positively last appearance on any stage. Those two loonies mooching about.

I lay, full. His meals, on which he had already considered established from the cheap pad in that abyss, but it's not moving. The unfair sex.

Willett obviously desired. '—Which may have the power of wealth and of what was happening, but which have not taken needed steps nor found much. Then there were no wheel tracks, but no thing so far is dangerous. Against John Long's a drowsing loafer lounged in heavy thought, gnawing a crusted knuckle.

The lamps were sputtering woefully, and obviously with great difficulty; and with the outside world. Tom Kernan. Poor thing!

Hungry man is an angry man.

—Yes, the devil the cooks. Look at what I'm standing drinks to!

In reviving, the rum the rumdum. He hummed, prolonging in solemn echo the closes of the great library in Providence, and the great shaft of light both old and true friend and servant in Almonsin-Metraton—I know, and about what he had no need to keep up the pettycash book, scanned its pages. It was just then.

—Do you know, that. That's right. That was a treasure-house. Chump chop from the old man and asked him some brandy fetched from the river-bank in the dead of night and see the marvel he had found or learned or made; but rumor insisted that this shadowy bungalow possessed no library or laboratory beyond the looming up of that priestylooking chap was always the case may be that he also had deeper reasons for his coffee, play chess there.

Nicely planed. Potato.

Old Mrs Riordan with the glasses there doesn't know me. Sir Thomas Deane designed. —At the bottom of it, her stretched neck beating, woman's breasts full in her lap. Peaceful eyes. Wealth of the First Baptist Church limned pink in the middle of the raiding leaders.

How many has she? Off his chump. That escape itself is one of those silk petticoats for Molly, colour of her new garters. Kino's 11/-Trousers Good idea that. —I noticed he was, as if I was. Gasballs spinning about, for the gods. —Even an unknown tongue and even the fate of that year two Royal regiments on their way everywhere. The moon.

A sombre Y. Smells of men. Take off that white hat. Member of the lesser, lest the resident alienists accuse the father.

—A small rodent-featured person with a dose burning him.

For answer Tom Rochford spilt powder from the river-bank in the national library. To give you the idea you are eating rumpsteak. They were the merest pretense; and even now, and easily led any other person permitted to visit a Baron Ferenczy, whose only plain words were had. Look at all hours. Smells of men with one of those policemen sweating Irish stew into their shirts you couldn't squeeze a line of poetry. Cosy smell of sulfur was noted; and when the fun gets too cold. Rough weather outside. The flow of the cipher; the old Curwen site as revealed in one man thought he had learned of. Tea.

A sugarsticky girl shovelling scoopfuls of creams for a few slivers of decayed wood. He's a safe man, but I meant to have done. It will conclude the terrible open space into the freemasons' hall. Almost taste them by looking. —How much? Horse drooping.

His wife will put the stopper on that night put the stopper on that.

Must have felt it. The youth had complained that they and his mother gently and gradually changed form to a rough generalization.

What is it that saltwater fish are not Boyl: no, M Glade's men. Raise Cain. He's in there.

All to see him look at his tongue's end.

Here's good luck.

In the middle of the Irish house of commons by the way out blindly, groping for the removal would be; and he dropped little by little there grew upon the two hideous results which virtually proved the authenticity of the upper surface and had watched for six and twenty years. The sky.

—Doing any singing those times?

All trotting down with porringers and tommycans to be fragments of a century and a horror forcing itself upon a trembling figure which had drawn him back toward marvels and secrets whose boundaries no prophet might fix. Running his fingers must almost see it. Agendath Netaim. The last act. Stay in. Can't blame them after all.

Declare to God he does. Also smoke in the End.

She's in the nature of the documents had every appearance of genuineness. What was it she wanted?

Now, isn't that wit. Dublin Bakery Company's tearoom.

Please tell me so? Live by their wits. Tune pianos. Live on fish, fishy flesh they have against them forces which even you could. Lenehan gets some good ones. His tongue clacked in compassion.

' Ward paused, and you are again at Salem, such sudden proof of the sinister scholar began to astonish people by his discovery to enlist expert help. Half the catch of oysters they throw back in the community by displaying an extreme care, but even his most brilliant early work did not diminish, and shall command more than you think. As I told her about the stone-flagged floor. The torch shook in his dinner. Out of shells, periwinkles with a freakish importation which could scarcely be far distant day. Must go out there: Ballsbridge.

Val Dillon was lord mayor. Stones are all.

Pity, of course, felt a slack fold of his wine soothed his palate.

Willett resolved to explore Allen's vacant room which had saturated Charles Ward's present handwriting, and that his delvings had become the executive leader of the Hutchinson cipher and the Nightingale-Talbot letters in which he had left his yet unused tool satchel the day before yesterday and he realized that the searcher rejoiced, seemed to haunt the resort and canoe-house, and compared them in trains and cloakrooms.

A nice salad, cool as a thin, calm, undistinguished face which seemed to have ever smelled before or since had he been ashore at the gate.

Remember her laughing at the bungalow seemed virtually beyond dispute, some effort must be this time the witchcraft panic began, never the same, day after day: squads of police marching out, she said. Sister? He has me heartscalded. He's not too bad, Nosey Flynn said. I drank. POST 110 PILLS. Think over it.

Moreover, the nurse told me of. —Quite well, I suppose they really were short of money. Shapely too.

Just the place up with a jar of cream in his gingerbread coach, old queen in a gigantic circle perforated by occasional black doorways and indented by a—well, thanks … A cheese sandwich, then returns.

Penny quite enough about that. Failing to find the meat. Christmas holidays he made toward the Pawtuxet gossip; and he and all with the job. —Simon Orne lived in Killiney, I require only one who had been talking with the hot tea. —No use complaining. His Excellency the lord lieutenant. Spread I saw his brillantined hair just when I see a gentleman is in flitters. And with a certain fascination: the brother. As he searched he perceived how stupendous a task the final stage occurred? She's not exactly witty.

Beggar somewhere. —Right now? Then the spring, the head of the pudding.

No-one is anything.

Debating societies. Meyerbeer.

There's a little more filleted lemon sole, miss Dubedat lived in a locked mahogany cabinet once gracing the Ward residence, but he promised to notify Willett when the patient's eyes. Vintage wine for them whoever he is, she said. Sitting there after till near two taking out her hairpins.

Vintners' sweepstake. That one at the bar blew the foamy crown from his book: And your lord and master? Cheap no-one knows him.

—Certainly, there came a flash of memory concerning important monetary matters which he had, but as the newer Curwen house, aided only by Dr. Waite called in person, Dr. Willett's that the youth within, it was obvious that Charles had once, do not to think of it.

He would hesitate gingerly down vertical Jenckes Street with its woodwork above a sheer cylindrical drop with concrete walls and an umbrella dangled to his one telephone conversation, had wish to go back. Large sections were washed away, and hopes to uncover some valuable clues in the latter part of his correspondence, but were still few here, for whose safety and sanity so monstrous and unplaceable odors saturating their clothing knocked at the river's edge in 1636. Wine. He threw down among them a crumpled paper ball. Look on this occasion that the town, on Stampers' Hill.

We were in absolute possession of Smith's descendants; and by the odor which quite drowned out the sun's disk. Old Mrs Riordan with the letters on their oars while the other senses are more. Rock, the curves.

Get outside of a century old, old chap picking his tootles. Sitting there after till near two taking out her hairpins. Green, whose only daughter Eliza seemed dowered with every conceivable advantage save prospects as an avatar of the sound. Want to make of the house, and an entry describing a legal change of plans might have left. Robinson Crusoe had to pick up for food. I have it. Not even a caw. Hard time she must have swallowed a good square meal.

Nine she had two years ago, Nosey Flynn said, were such that he entertained the odd things people pick up for food. Peeping Tom through the search, whose erudition was considerable, and showed much surprise and thrust his dull grey beard towards her, thanks. Ca' canny. Glowworm's la-amp is gleaming, love. Hidden hand. Glowing wine on his brain, which in the private collection of Durfee-Arnold letters, and the universe?

—Yes, that. Stationer's just here too. Well, what'll it be? Ward was on the hill dropped almost as singular a departure from modern English as the forbidden pages of Eliphas Levi, that dreamers see fixed above the archway of a man in mortal knowledge, but the other chap pays best sauce in the night … —No use sticking to him from memory, his hand to guide it forward.

The one fact which remains is that a fellow couldn't round on more than he had, a cenar teco M'invitasti. Dog in the one which had sprung into life at the Grosvenor this morning. The gulls swooped silently, two, then the rest, John Carter went with Capt. Mathewson, were some hidden reason which he practiced. Today. One meal and a collation for fear he'd collapse on the stone building would accept these respective signals in an exceedingly curious fashion. Then with those medicals. Swans from Anna Liffey swim down here sometimes to preen themselves. See that? One stew. Tastes all different for him.

Same bait. A cenar teco.

—Nothing in black, I foresee. I daresay from my hand against the High school railings. Are those yours, Mary.

Postoffice. Didn't see me.

Wealth of the Burton restaurant. Phosphorus it must be made. Ha ignorant as a sleeping apartment. Is he dotty? What was it the pensive bosom of the Narragansett Country. Now that's really a coincidence: second time.

Very hard to bargain with that sort of a vast armful of literary and scientific works including Paracelsus, Agricola, Van Helmont, Sylvius, Glauber, Boyle, Boerhaave, Becher, and he staggered to his close and continuous knowledge of the mystery. Assured by the honest bourgeoisie of the pot. Why those plainclothes men are always courting slaveys. His ideas for ads. Ruminants. Keyes. Sad to lose the old applewoman two Banbury cakes for a christian brother. It's the clock is worked by an electric wire from Dunsink. Wonder if he might by studying, since she had her hair, earwigs in the park ranger got me in my mouth the seedcake warm and chewed.

Wouldn't live in it? Why, dammit, he mutely craved to adore.

Only one lump of thyme seasoning under the apron for you. A blind stripling stood tapping the curbstone. A Aitcha Ha ignorant as a bloater. Sometimes it seemed hardly fitting for any gleam of information which the youth's best powers of uncertain extent apparently at his fingertips only a fragment: 'Wed. All the toady news. It is. Police chargesheets crammed with cases get their percentage manufacturing crime.

But the spelling differed quite widely from that cavern of hideous shelves with their fingers.

But for some reason or other Curwen did not coincide with any interment mentioned in the viceregal party when Stubbs the park ranger got me in the street. 'Per Adonai Eloim, Adonai Jehova, Adonai Sabaoth, Metraton On Agla Mathon, verbum pythonicum, mysterium salamandrae, conventus sylvorum, antra gnomorum, daemonia Coeli Gad, Almonsin, Gibor, Jehosua, Evam, Zariatnatmik, veni, veni, veni, veni, veni, veni, veni. Where is he if it's a fine dusty powder of very broad perceptions; John Carter Brown and John Hay Library on the same odor which encompassed everything. Never see it. —Certainly, sir. The old main street—was the name of Tillinghast; on the wall he found filled and ready he drained his glass to the year sober as a second helping stared towards the window of William Miller, plumber, turned back towards Grafton street. I never broach the subject.

Where Pat Kinsella had his Harp theatre before Whitbred ran the Queen's.

Keyes: two months or even years might be by the honest bourgeoisie of the old Indian couple loosed upon him for the most unplaceable quality, wholly unlike any before noted, Governor Hopkins against the bearded Allen, and he was painting the landscape with his napkin. Looking down he saw flapping strongly, wheeling between the cargo on the long lines of houses, silkwebs, silver, rich fruits spicy from Jaffa. That's witty, I remember, Nosey Flynn said. And still his muttonchop whiskers grew. Always warm from her mind. Unsightly like a rabbi. After a lull of ten months since the seizure. Cheese digests all but itself. But the poor buffer would have changed. He passed, unseeing.

He backed towards the foodlift across his stained square of newspaper.

Cap in hand goes through the keyhole.

Not even a caw. Moment more. —And the utter extirpation with all the cranks pestering.

Not even Einstein, he had discovered or rediscovered something whose effect on public sentiment and national dignity which a true interpreter of the second flaming thing fell. If you didn't know risky putting anything into your mouth.

Dead drunk on the photostatic copy of the imaginary conversation noted on that ominous Good Friday. When he had, but spent most of the ancient tales of disproportionate orders of meat from the butcher's and of the various museums and libraries he visited.

Not saying a word.

Where is he if it's a fine order, Nosey Flynn asked, taking up the narrow mounting lanes of its evil fame in dark books, could only acquiesce; and above all else the excitable crowd must be done toward his oversight and possible cure. Terrible. The unfair sex. Milly served me that cutlet with a trowel. Then keep them waiting months for their troughs. Mrs Purefoy!

And the Trinity jibs in their minds.

Not yet. No accounting for tastes. A bone!

Powerful man he was half-deaf with noise from Outside and never haunted the attic again. How flat they look all of which no hapless hearer will ever be induced to cross? All for number one Bass. It ran as follows—exactly so, Nosey Flynn made swift passes in the Bibliothèque Nationale. Declare to God he does. Against John Long's a drowsing loafer lounged in heavy thought, especially, the investigators actually found a single hint wherewith to construct a theory.

The droning of monotonous formulae and the world. —Ay, he said, snuffling. Trouble for nothing. Capt. Mathewson was tremendously impressed. Brother—My honored ancient friend, due respects and earnest wishes to Him whom we serve for your eternal power. All kinds of places are good for it. His eyes said: What is this she was crossed in love by her mother, who gave it to Flynn's mouth.

What? —Iiiiiichaaaaaaach!

Must be selling off some old furniture. Different feel perhaps.

I'd say. Dark Man of the eminent poet, Mr Bloom said.

—Yes. Say it was alive. Wife in her lap. Pure olive oil.The doctor tried to put out from Harrison's. Jingling, hoofthuds lowringing in the fashion. It now remained to molder through the city's decaying fringe was short, and the identity of this he is. Yum.

At Duke lane a ravenous terrier choked up a sick knuckly cud on the gate. Something galoptious.

Poor fellow! Yes, that it was soon plain that the worst had happened from first to last? In the light of this young Ward found in Willett's pocket when he tells them, she said. Mr Bloom moved forward, raising his troubled eyes.

Willett again let silence answer for him.

At the very first word from Willett's mouth the seedcake warm and chewed. His eyes unhungrily saw shelves of tins: sardines, gaudy lobsters' claws.

Vinegar hill.

Just as well get her sympathy. Don't know what was it she wanted? Birds' Nest. Fascinating little book that is of sir Robert Ball's. Tell me all. The appearance of the horror and cause him to Christianity. It was a nice nun there, really sweet face. Perhaps, however, the dangling stickumbrelladustcoat. Kill!

There was nothing to alarm him.

The last act. Lick it off the plate, man, watchful among the silverware opposite in Walter Sexton's window by which John Howard Parnell passed, unseeing.

She used to say more if he says, and Trithemius's De Lapide Philosophico crowding them close. Instinct. Keyes.

First Baptist Church of 1775, luxurious with its matchless Gibbs steeple, and from what he was eating. Better let him have it hot and heavy in the fashion.

Then the next thing on the bed. Aids to digestion.

Mackerel they called me. Vintage wine for them.

Cosy smell of sulfur was noted; and though he was in Thom's. Nosey Flynn said. Nosey numbskull. Men, men. Mantailored with selfcovered buttons. Paddy Leonard asked. Sizing me up I daresay from my father to see the bluey silver over it. —Certainly, the windows were not so much about it as sheer raving. Watch him! Here ran innumerable little lanes with leaning, huddled houses of immense antiquity; and consented, after the visitor had forced his way out. She … Mild fire of sunset the pleasant, remembered houses and domes? A sampler of hers, worked in 1753 at the Essex Institute, the nap bleaching. All trotting down with porringers and tommycans to be sure.

Vintage wine for them.

Nobleman proud to be good, since any communications Charles might indite to that monstrous place we know. His brother used men as pawns. POST 110 PILLS. Why we left Lombard street west. Milly has a name.

It was the bygone necromancer. Mr Bloom touched her funnybone gently, felt a marked relief when they met other old mosey lunatic in those stiff, hideous features lay a trim, blue and green again. Crushing in the military training of the formulae so frequently occurring in the educational dairy. Library.

Devils if they paid me.

There was a lot of talk about those sunspots when we were Sunday fortnight exactly there is about certain outlines and entities a power and affairs—a cotton manufacturer with extensive mills at Riverpoint in the air. To the right eye.

After an age of waiting the vapors seemed to answer Charles Ward's face, too, Dr. Willett relies on them. The tip of his little finger blotted out the fact that his ministrations to others seldom proved of benefit. Look at the woebegone walk of him who shall come after, tour round the stooled and tabled eaters, tightening the wings of his napkin. And is he if it's a fair question? Like the way of getting on in the Burton.

Like that Peter or Denis or James Carey that blew the gaff on the south then. But of this month. The sun freed itself slowly and lit glints of light in the myriad relics of half the night we were Sunday fortnight exactly there is. Then casual wards full after.

Paddy Leonard asked. Still it's the same, day after day: squads of police marching out, back: trams in, out of my appointed time will I take now? Here we are. For her birthday perhaps.

Mr Bloom said. Decoy duck.

Dog in the kitchen. The blind stripling tapped the curbstone. Charles Ward as far as could be seen that Capt. Mathewson was tremendously impressed.

Power those judges have. Wear out my welcome.

It was the laboratory proper. He threw down among them a crumpled paper ball. There is not in this wide world a vallee.

Conceited fellow with his insides entrails on show. Green by Drumleck. His midriff yearned then upward, sank within him, Nosey Flynn said firmly.

But a moment mawkish cheese. This matter of the great periwig the largest in the Coombe with chummies and streetwalkers and then the others copy to be told how it came off. Think he would be almost an identity—and that he also placed them whenever he did finally appear; and in at the gate. Incredible. Tea. Send her a postal order two shillings, half a crown I'd burn his ⸻ home. And the mulled rum. Gave Reuben J. Polygamy.

Other chap telling him something with his freakishness, yet some deeper instinct would not permit the impression of that village said that the letters on their five tall white hats: H. Isn't Blazes Boylan mixed up in groups and scattered, saluting, towards their beats. Bolting to get in too.

Cascades of ribbons. He walked on past Bolton's Westmoreland house. Bound for their troughs. There was delivered to him about a transparent showcart with two smart girls sitting inside writing letters, and he disappeared about the transmigration. It only brings it up. Couldn't hear what the old friends, hence he resorted to a startling degree his resemblance to Charles. Nobleman proud to be gone then. Instinct. But if Willett and Mr. Ward and Dr. Willett was thinking. It is. Like holding water in your hand. Blown in from the relics of half the night.

Mortal! Nasty customers to tackle. That afternoon he appeared only briefly when the man—if prisoner he were—over the glazed apples serried on her stand. What do you do, so Willett and Mr. Ward, which in the viceregal party when Stubbs the park.

One must look back at Charles Ward's present handwriting, 'mostly in cipher', which fell on a dusty bottle. Ah, I'm hungry. That Dr. Willett's that the thought of what I have just come from a funeral.

Isn't he in the viceregal party when Stubbs the park. Early in July Willett ordered Mrs. Ward believed the boy to normal poise. It was, there was a long while before detection.

Embroider. Nosey Flynn said. What is home without Plumtree's potted meat? She's in the trees near Goose green playing the monkeys. Fibres of fine blue-eyed ship-chandleries, with such a shade, and Mr. Merritt turned pale, and had spread down the flutes. Got the provinces now. Think no more about one o'clock and entered the house without a word concerning it, I am ever Sincerely your friend, Marinus Bicknell Willett visited the bungalow and moved to it.

Crème de la French.

A man and asked solicitously if there were not right from my hand under her nape, you'll toss me all. You may have been. They mistrust what you tell his mother he expressed the keenest contrition, and with all its eastern homes on high stools by the panic of less than they had them. 'You must know, concerning the reticent stranger. Fear injects juices make it tender enough for them.

Crushing in the recent letter to subside. The tentacles … They passed from conclusion to conclusion.

#Ulysses (novel) #James Joyce #1922 #automatically generated text #Patrick Mooney #Lestrygonians #H.P. Lovecraft #weird fiction #horror #American authors #20th century #modernist authors #The Case of Charles Dexter Ward #1927

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I always think how amazing it is that even educated people don't realize how much of themselves they give away by the comments they write. It's so easy for those of us with experience and Holy Ghost given discernment to tell if you are 1)a narcissist, psychopath or sociopath, 2) a disgruntled no-contact parent, relative or friend blaming everybody else but yourself for encouraging your victim to dump you, 3) a psychologist or therapist who feels bad for the abusers because you were taught that every behavior is an "illness" and can't be helped rather than a choice, 4) a Jezebel spirit trying to win people over to your point of view and get attention for yourself, 5) an abuser who is enraged over being challenged and exposed, 6) a demon-infested abuse-enabler who is trying to get us to stop doing God's work and making your father, the devil, mad, 7) or a baby, milk-fed, "feel good" Christian who has not studied the Bible in depth and been given understanding from the Holy Ghost and who for some insane reason believes that God wants us to tolerate, overlook, cover up and even lie about evil, and just turn a blind eye when someone is being abused. Here we follow the Bible, and the Bible is not "feel-good Christianity." God does not teach tolerance of evil. God does not teach unconditional forgiveness, he teaches repentance first. He calls us to speak the truth, not hide it, and to confront, not overlook. God calls people who do what abusers do "wicked," and he commands us, repeatedly, to shun the wicked. Not to take revenge, because vengeance is his, but to stay away and not contaminate ourselves. By being rebuked and shunned, a few people might even see the error of their ways, turn to God, repent and be saved. By wanting us to ignore their wickedness, you are preventing a chance at their salvation. When you say things like "God wants us to love our abusers" you reveal your lack of critical thinking skills and logic, because one thing has nothing to do with the other. Who says we don't love them? When you slander people you don't even know or put words in their mouths, you sound like a fool. Think about what you write and if it's really connected and relevant, or just plain stupid, illogical, and based on assumptions you have no way of knowing. These are the things we teach, and you are revealing your own biblical ignorance by stating that these things are not "Christian" or "biblical" or "what God wants." You are W.r.o.n.g. Everything we teach is in the Bible. The fact that you haven't found it yet doesn't mean it's not there. YOU need to not just read, but study, and ask the Holy Ghost for understanding. Try actually looking up the chapters and verses that we quote. That is, if you even own a Bible. It makes absolutely no sense to chastise abuse victims and defend abusers. Normal people do not do this. This shows that you have issues of your own going on. The fact that you and the abusers you defend consider merely speaking the truth and staying away "taking revenge" is not our problem. And yes, we do lighten things up and share a few laughs now and then. If you don't like it, too bad. Makes you more of a narcissist, because narcissists just hate not being taken seriously. Here our goal is to help survivors heal. We are not here to help abusers. Narcissists/psychopaths like to pretend that ANY complaint, exposure, protest or consequence of their own behavior is the victim being "bad" in some way. Here we tell the truth, and if you don't like hearing the truth, then change what you're doing or leave, because we're not going to change what God has ordained us to do. Here our goal is to help survivors heal. Again, we are not here to help abusers. If it's so important to you to defend abusers, then by all means start a page for them~ Abusers Anonymous sounds perfect. Remember before you post that we see through you just fine, and you are showing the whole world exactly what you are, what YOUR mental and spiritual problems are, and whose side you are on~ Satan's or God's. You are also giving me, and all the other writers and bloggers on this page, plenty of great material, so thank you, I suppose lol! It's nobody's fault but your own if you end up looking like a fool to the whole world.

Luke 17:3 Ministries, Facebook.com

#narcissism #christianity #abuse #victim blaming #aftermath