#william storey

[changing-my-username]

I had a dream last night where William Storey (the Rich Energy CEO) showed up to my house at 3:30AM, inviting himself in, along with a few other people, who he claimed were "Marketing executives" of Rich Energy. They seemed to just sit in the living room, watching TV, until we kicked them out. Somehow, showing up to a stranger's house, unannounced and uninvited, in the middle of the night seems perfectly in character for Mr Storey.

#Rich Energy #William Storey #and i didn't see a can of rich energy in the dream either #it doesn't even exist in your dreams

[winterfable]

Chrysalis: Am I really?

Then Sunrise kissed my Chrysalis— And I stood up—and lived— —Emily Dickinson.

I was three years old when I made the most important psychological discovery of my life. I discovered that a living creature, obeying its own inner laws, moves through cycles of growth, dies, and is reborn as a new creation.

One day I was smoking my corncob bubble­pipe helping my father in the garden. I always enjoyed helping him because he understood bugs, and flowers, and where the wind came from. I found a lump stuck to a branch, and Father explained that Catherine Caterpillar had made a chrysalis for herself. We would take it inside and pin it on the kitchen curtain. One day a butterfly would emerge from that lump.

Well, I had seen magic in my father's garden, but this stretched even my imagination. However, we carefully stuck the big pins through the curtain, and every morning I grabbed my doll and pipe and ran downstairs to show them the butterfly. No butterfly! My father said I had to be patient. The chrysalis only looked dead.  Remarkable changes were happening inside. A caterpillar's life was very different from a butterfly's, and they needed very different bodies. A caterpillar chewed solid leaves; a butterfly drank liquid nectar. A caterpillar was sexless, almost sightless, and landlocked; a butterfly laid eggs, could see and fly. Most of the caterpillar's organs would dissolve, and those fluids would help the tiny wings, eyes, muscles and brain of the developing butterfly to grow. But that was very hard work, so hard that the creature could accomplish nothing else so long as it was going on. It had to stay in that protective shell.

I waited for that sluggish glutton of a caterpillar to change into a delicate butterfly, but I secretly figured my father had made a mistake. Then one morning my doll and I were eating our shredded wheat when I sensed I was not alone in the kitchen. I stayed still. I felt a presence on the curtain. There it was, its wings still expanding, shimmering with translucent light—an angel who could fly. Its chrysalis was empty. That mystery on the kitchen curtain was my first encounter with death and rebirth.

Years later I discovered that the butterfly is a symbol of the human soul. I also discovered that in its first moments out of the chrysalis the butterfly voids a drop of excreta that has been accumulating during pupation. This drop is frequently red and sometimes voided during first flight. Consequently, a shower of butterflies may produce a shower of blood, a phenomenon that released terror and suspicion in earlier cultures, sometimes resulting in massacres. Symbolically, if we are to release our own butterfly, we too will sacrifice a drop of blood, let the past go and turn to the future.

It is the twilight zone between past and future that is the precarious world of transformation within the chrysalis. Part of us is looking back, yearning for the magic we have lost; part is glad to say good­bye to our chaotic past; part looks ahead with whatever courage we can muster; part is excited by the changing potential; part sits stone­still not daring to look either way. Individuals who consciously accept the chrysalis, whether in analysis or in life's experience, have accepted a life/death paradox, a paradox which returns in a different form at each new spiral of growth. In T.S. Eliot's "Journey of the Magi," one of the kings, having returned to his own

country, describes his experience in Bethlehem:

....so we continued And arrived at evening, not a moment too soon Finding the place; it was (you may say) satisfactory. All this was a long time ago, I remember, And I would do it again, but set down This set down This: were we led all that way for Birth or Death? There was a Birth, certainly, We had evidence and no doubt. I had seen birth and death, But had thought they were different; this Birth was Hard and bitter agony for us, like Death, our death. We returned to our places, these Kingdoms, But no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation, With an alien people clutching their gods. I should be glad of another death.

If we accept this paradox, we are not torn to pieces by what seems to be intolerable contradiction. Birth is the death of the life we have known; death is the birth of the life we have yet to live. We need to hold the tensions and allow our circuit to give way to a larger circumference.

People splayed in a perpetual chrysalis, those who find life "weary, stale, flat and unprofitable"2

 or, to use the modern jargon, "boring," are in trouble. Stuck in a state of stasis, they clutch their childhood toys, divorce themselves from the reality of their present circumstances, and sit hoping for some magic that will release them from their pain into a world that is "just and good," a make-believe world of childhood innocence. Fearful of getting out of relationships that are stultifying their growth, fearful of confronting parents, partners or children who are maintaining infantile attitudes, they sink into chronic illness and/or psychic death. Life becomes a network of illusions and lies. Rather than take responsibility for what is happening, rather than accept the challenge of growth, they cling to the rigid framework that they have constructed or that has been assigned to them from birth. They attempt to stay "fixed." Such an attitude is against life, for change is a law of life. To remain fixed is to rot, particularly if it be in the Garden of Eden.

Why are we so afraid of change? Why, when we are so desperate for change, do we become even more desperate when transformation begins? Why do we lose our childhood faith in growing? Why do we cling to old attachments instead of submitting ourselves to new possibilities—to the undiscovered worlds in our own bodies, minds and souls? We plant our fat amaryllis bulb. We water it, give it sunlight, watch the first green shoot, the rapidly growing stock, the buds, and then marvel at the great bell flowers tolling their hallelujahs to the snow outside. Why should we have more faith in an amaryllis bulb than in ourselves? Is it because we know that the amaryllis is living by some inner law—a law that we have lost touch with in ourselves? If we can allow ourselves time to listen to the amaryllis, we can resonate with its silence. We can experience its eternal stillness. We can find ourselves at the heart of the mystery. And in that place, the place of the Goddess, we can accept birth and death. The exquisite blossom will die, but if the bulb is given rest and darkness, another bloom will come next year.

Insecurity lies at the heart of the fear of change. Individuals who recognize their own worth among those they love can leave and return without fear of separation.  They know they are valued for themselves. Our computerized society, fascinating and efficient as it is, is making deeper and deeper inroads into genuine human values.  A machine, however intricate, has no soul, nor does it move with the rhythms of instinct. A computer may be able to vomit out the facts of my existence, but it cannot fathom the subterranean corridors of my aloneness, nor can it hear my silence, nor can it respond to the shadow that passes over my eyes. It cannot compute the depth and breadth and height of the human soul. When society deliberately programs itself to a set of norms that has very little to do with instinct, love or privacy, then people who set out to become individuals, trusting in the dignity of their own soul and the creativity of their own imagination, have good reason to be afraid. They are outcasts, cut off from society and to a greater or lesser degree from their own instincts. As they work in the silence of their cocoon, they often think they are crazy.  They also think they would be crazier if they gave up their faith in their own journey. Like the chrysalis pinned to the kitchen curtain, Blake's proverb is pinned to their study wall: "If a fool would persist in his folly, he would become wise."

Courage to stand alone, to wear the "white plume" of freedom, has been the mark of the hero in any society. Standing alone today demands even more courage and strength than it did in former cultures. From infancy, children have been programmed to perform. Rather than living from their own needs and feelings, they learn to assess situations in order to please others. Without an inner core of certainty grounded in their own musculature, they lack the inner resources to stand alone. Pummelled by mass media and peer group pressures, their identity may be utterly absorbed by collective stereotypes. In the absence of adequate rites of passage, ad[1]men become the high priests of an initiation into the addictions of consumerism. Everywhere the ceremony of innocence is exploited.

Without recognized rites, members of a society are not sure who they are within the structure. Children who have fumbled their way through puberty find themselves in adolescence raging for independence, at the same time furious when asked to take responsibility. Boys who have never been separated from their mothers and are fearful of their fathers cannot make the step into adult manhood. Girls who have lived in the service of their driving masculine energies are not going to forsake their P.P.F.F. (Prestige, Power, Fame and Fortune) for a sense of harmony with the cosmos. Even the rites of marriage are confusing. Unwed couples who have lived together for years may eventually believe that "marriage isn't going to make any difference," and then be genuinely confused when sexual difficulties do develop after the vows are spoken. Arriving at middle age is agony for those who cannot accept the mature beauty of autumn. They see their wrinkles hardening into lines, and new liver spots appearing every day, without the compensating mellowing in their soul. Without the rites of the elders, they cannot look forward to holding a position of honor in their society, nor in most cases will they treasure their own wisdom. For some, even the dignity of death dare not be contemplated.

The undercurrent of despair in our society is epitomized in a German word that first appeared in English in 1963, and is now incorporated into the Oxford English Dictionary (Supplement, 1985). It is torschlusspanik, (pronounced tor¬shluss-panic), defined as "panic at the thought that a door between oneself and life's opportunities has shut." Words enter a language when they are needed, and torschlusspanik has arrived. The doors that were once opened through initiation rites are still crucial thresholds in the human psyche, and when those doors do not open, or when they are not recognized for what they are, life shrinks into a series of rejections fraught with torschlusspanik: the graduation formal to which the girl was not invited; the marriage that did not take place; the baby that was never born; the job that never materialized. Looking back, we recognize that it was often not our choice that determined which door opened and which door shut. We were chosen for this, rejected for that.

Torschlusspanik is now a part of our culture because there are so few rites to which individuals will submit in order to transcend their own selfish drives. Without the broader perspective, they see no meaning in the rejection. The door thuds, leaving them bitter or resigned. If, instead, they could temper themselves to a point of total concentration, a bursting point where they could either pass over or fall back as in a rite of passage, then they could test who they are. Their passion would be spent in an all­out positive effort, instead of deteriorating into disillusionment and despair. The terror behind that word torschlusspanik is what drives many people into analysis—the last door has shut, the last rejection has taken place. No door will ever open again. Nothing means anything.

Another reason for fearing the chrysalis lies in our cultural loss of containers. Our society's emphasis on linear growth and achievement alienates us from the cyclic pattern of death and rebirth, so that when we experience ourselves dying, or dream that we are, we fear annihilation. Primitive societies are close enough to the natural cycles of their lives to provide the containers through which the members of the tribe can experience death and rebirth as they pass through the difficult transitions. To quote from the classic Rites of Passage by Arnold van Gannep:

In such societies every change in a person's life involves actions and reactions between sacred and profane—actions and reactions to be regulated and guarded so that society as a whole will suffer no discomfort or injury. Transitions from group to group and from one social situation to the next are looked on as implicit in the very fact of existence, so that a man's life comes to be made up of a succession of stages with similar ends and beginnings: birth, social puberty, marriage, fatherhood, advancement to a higher class, occupational specialization, and death. For every one of these events there are ceremonies whose essential purpose is to enable the individual to pass from one defined position to another which is equally well defined.... In this respect man's life resembles nature, from which neither the individual nor the society stands independent.

Through their initiation, for example, boys are recognized as responsible adult men. They are cut off from their mothers, trained as warriors, instructed in the culture of their tribe.

For girls, the meaning of puberty rites is somewhat different. Here I quote from Bruce Lincoln's Emerging from the Chrysalis:

Rather than changing women's status, initiation changes their fundamental being, addressing ontological concerns rather than hierarchical ones.

A woman does not become more powerful or authoritative, but more creative, more alive, more ontologically real. ... The pattern of female initiation is thus one of growth or magnification, an expansion of powers, capabilities, experiences. This magnification is accomplished by gradually endowing the initiand with symbolic items that make of her woman, and beyond this a cosmic being. These items can be concrete, such as clothing or jewelry, or they can be nonmaterial in nature, such as songs chanted for the woman-to be, myths repeated in her presence, scars or paintings placed upon her body.

The scarification is meant to provide an experience of intense pain and an enduring record of that pain. The person is rendered unique. Through this magnification, the woman "steps into the cosmic arena: she is given the water of life, with which she nourishes the cosmic tree."

Such primitive rituals did not change the way people lived. They gave meaning to life. By means of ritual, relationship to the unchanging, archetypal aspects of existence was affirmed and renewed. What would otherwise have been boring drudgery or torschlusspanik was invested with a meaning that transcended animal survival.  Through ritual, human activity was connected to the divine.

In more sophisticated societies, the church and the theater became ritual containers. Within the safety and the confines of the Mass, for instance, the individual could surrender to God and experience dismemberment and death, descent into Hell and resurrection of the spirit on the third day. One could experience the magnification of one's own spirit by experiencing oneself as sacrificer and sacrificed. Like the primitive, the participant left the ritual with enhanced meaning, with a profound sense of belonging to a cosmos and to a community that respected that cosmos.

The theater also provided a ritual container, a public chrysalis. The plays dealt with archetypal realities. On the stage, men and women saw their own psychological depths enacted and were thus encouraged to reflect on their own human situation.

We have lost our containers; chaos threatens. Without rituals to make a firm demarcation between the profane and the sacred, between what is us and what is not us, we tend to identify with archetypal patterns of being—hero, Father, Mother, etc. We forget that we are individual human beings; we allow ourselves to be inflated by the power of the unconscious and usurp it for our own. And we do this not knowing what we do and that we do it. Liberated from the "superstitious" belief in gods and demons, we claim for ourselves the power once attributed to them. We do not realize we have usurped or stolen it. How then do we explain our anxiety and dissatisfaction? Power makes us fearful; lack of it makes us anxious. Few are satisfied with what they have. Despite our so­called liberation from gods and demons, few can live without them. Their absence makes nothing better. It may even make everything worse.

If, for example, a child has acted as buffer between his parents, he may fear his home will disintegrate if he ceases to act as intermediary. Without realizing it, he has assumed the power of the savior in his small world. When as an adult his boundaries are widened, he will tend to take on that archetypal role wherever he goes. He will also suffer guilt when he fails. He may even suffer guilt for being unable to make it snow when his family has planned a skiing weekend. Such hubris is seen as ludicrous once it is brought to consciousness, but, without consciousness, depression and despair fester inside. "I should have been able to do something. I failed," Instead of leaving other people's destiny to them and accepting his own, he attempts to take responsibility for Fate and feels inadequate when the door thuds. The resulting guilt can quickly switch to rage, rage that resonates back to the powerless childhood. "What do you expect of me? I can't do it. Get off my back. Carry your own load. LEAVE ME ALONE."

Many people, for example, think life is a meaningless merry-go-round if they are not being transported by love like Prince Charles and Lady Diana, or living for a  cause like Mother Theresa, or dying for a dream like Martin Luther King. They measure their standard of behavior by comparison with figures who carry immense archetypal projections—Marilyn Monroe, John F. Kennedy, Michael Jackson. A mask ceases to be a mask. Instead, with the help of dyes and surgery, the mask becomes the face. Cosmetics are identity or character or Fate. By identifying with an archetype instead of remaining detached from it, they turn life into theater and themselves into actors on a stage, thus falling prey to demonic as well as angelic inflation. Without the container, they confuse the sacred and profane worlds.

We are the descendants of Freud and Jung, and while poets and madmen had free access to their unconscious before those two giants, the world of the archetype is now an open market for the general populace without any ritual containment. If we are blindly living out an archetype, we are not containing our own life. We are possessed, and possession acts as a magnet on unconscious people in our environment. Everyday life becomes a dangerous world where illusion and reality can be fatally confused.

A life that is being truly lived is constantly burning away the veils of illusion, gradually revealing the essence of the individual. Psychoanalysis can speed up that process.  Sometimes people experience themselves as caterpillars crawling along. Externally, everything seems fine. Some deep intuitive voice, however, may be whispering, "It's not worth it. There's nobody here. I need a cocoon. I need to go back and find myself." Now, they may not quite realize that when caterpillars go into cocoons,  they do not emerge as high-class caterpillars, and they may not be prepared for the agony of the transformation that goes on inside the chrysalis. Nor are they quite prepared for the winged beauty that slowly and painfully emerges, that lives by a very different set of laws than a caterpillar. Even more confounding is the fact that friends and relations who may be quite happy caterpillars have no patience with a silent, hard-edged chrysalis that is all turned in on itself—"selfish, lazy, self indulgent." And they have even less patience with a confused butterfly who hasn't adjusted to the laws of aerodynamics.

Still, it is amazing how often other caterpillars, inspired by butterflies, sacrifice their landlubber condition, make their own chrysalis and find their own wings. Jung writes that coming to consciousness is "the sacrifice of the merely natural man, of the unconscious, ingenuous being whose tragic career began with the eating of the apple in Paradise.

The chrysalis is essential if we are to find ourselves. Yet very little in our extroverted society supports introverted withdrawal. We are supposed to be doers, taking care of others, supporting good causes, unselfish, energetic, doing our social duty. If we choose to simply be, our loved ones may automatically assume we are doing nothing, and at first we may feel that way ourselves. We begin to look at our primeval muck as it surfaces in dreams. All hell starts to break loose inside, and we wonder what's the point of dredging up all this stuff. We argue with ourselves: "I should be out there doing something useful. But the truth is I can't do anything useful if there's no I to do it. I can't love anyone else, if there's no I to do the loving. If I don't know myself, I cannot love myself, and if I do not love myself, my love of others is probably my projected need of their acceptance. I am putting  on a performance in order to be loved. I fear rejection. If nobody loves me, I won't exist. But who are they loving? Who am I?"

That is what going into the chrysalis is all about—undergoing a metamorphosis in order one day to be able to stand up and say I am. The gnawing hunger, the incessant yearning at the core of many lives, began at birth, or perhaps even in utero. In order to survive in a demanding environment where one or both parents projected their unlived dreams (or nightmares) onto their children, the infants gave up trying to live their own lives. As little human beings with needs and feelings of their own, they were rejected. Their mystery was never considered, and so they grew up automatically thinking in terms of other people's response. In other words, they developed a charming persona, a mask they created with infinite care—a mask that, as adults, may be at once their greatest blessing and greatest curse. Outwardly they may be brilliantly successful, but inwardly empty. They cannot understand why their intimate relationships repeatedly end in disaster, a pattern they recognize but can do nothing to stop. They dream they are actors, the spotlight is on them, but they cannot remember what play they are in, let alone what their lines are. If their ego is barely formed, they may not even appear in their own dreams, or may recognize themselves as objects or little animals.

It is important to point out, however, that we all need several personas, that is, the right mask for the right occasion. Jung was once lecturing on the topic when a student accused him of being hypocritical if he used a persona. Jung said that he had just had a fight with his wife, and he was still angry, but that anger had nothing to do with the students, nor with their reason for getting themselves to the Institute that morning. It was neither fair to himself nor to them to show that anger there. However, he said, he intended to finish the fight when he went home. The point is that we must be conscious enough to know when we are using a persona and for what reason. Otherwise we easily identify with a particular persona, which obliges us to repress our genuine feelings and prevents us from acting on them at the right time and place. The persona is necessary because people at different levels of consciousness respond to a situation with very different antennae. Naively or deliberately, making oneself vulnerable to psychic wounding without good reason is foolish. To be wary of casting pearls before swine is not conceit but plain common sense.

As the transformation process goes on, pregnancies and new­born babies frequently appear in dreams. When the conscious ego is able to release repressed psychic energy, or reconnects with unconscious body energy, or makes a decision on its own behalf, that new energy is symbolized as new life. When the psyche is preparing to move onto a new level of awareness, or one's conscious attitude has made a new connection with the unconscious, then dreams may appear where the dream ego, the shadow or the anima is pregnant. Nine months later, so long as the process has not been aborted, there are often dreams of crossing borders, passing over into a new country, moving through subterranean tunnels or actually giving birth (see below, page 158). If the ego maintains the connection, the new­born child is nurtured with soul food. If the ego falters and fails to act on the new energy, the baby may appear mutilated, starving or dead. Or it may simply disappear.

I have found that individuals tend to repeat the pattern of their own actual birth every time life requires them to move onto a new level of awareness. As they entered the world, so they continue to re­enter at each new spiral of growth. If, for example, their birth was straightforward, they tend to handle passovers with courage and natural trust. If their birth was difficult, they become extremely fearful, manifest symptoms of suffocating, become claustrophobic (psychically and physically). If they were premature, they tend to be always a little ahead of themselves. If they were held back, the rebirth process may be very slow. If they were breech­birth, they tend to go through life "ass­backwards." If they were born by Caesarian section, they may avoid confrontations. If their mother was heavily drugged, they may come up to the point of passover with lots of energy, then suddenly, for no apparent reason, stop, or move into a regression, and wait for someone else to do something. Often this is the point where addictions reappear—binging, starving, drinking, sleeping, overworking—anything to avoid facing the reality of moving out into a challenging world.

Many delightful babies appear in dreams, and just as many little tyrants who need firm and loving discipline. One child, however, is noticeably different from the others. This is the abandoned one, who may appear in bullrushes, in straw in a barn, in a tree, almost always in some forgotten or out-of-the-way place. This child will be radiant with light, robust, intelligent, sensitive. Often it is able to talk minutes after it is born. It has Presence. It is the Divine Child, bringing with it the "hard and bitter  agony" of the new dispensation—the agony of Eliot's Magi. With its birth, the old gods have to go.

Since the natural gradient of the psyche is toward wholeness, the Self will attempt to push the neglected part forward for recognition. It contains energy of the highest value, the gold in the dung. In the Bible it is the stone that was rejected that becomes the cornerstone. It manifests either in a sudden or subtle change in personality, or, conversely, in a fanaticism which the existing ego adopts in order to try to keep the new and threatening energy out. If the ego fails to go through the psychic birth canal, neurotic symptoms manifest physically and psychically. The suffering may be intense, but it is based on worshipping false gods. It is not the genuine suffering that accompanies efforts to incorporate the new life. The neurotic is always one phase behind where his reality is. When he should be outgrowing childish behavior, he hangs onto it.  When he should be moving into maturity, he hangs onto youthful folly. Never congruent with himself or others, he is never where he seems to be. What he cannot do is live in the now.

Many people are being dragged toward wholeness in their daily lives, but because they do not understand initiation rites, they cannot make sense of what is happening to them. They put on a happy face all day, and return to their apartment and cry all night. Perhaps their beloved has gone off with someone else; perhaps their business has failed; perhaps they have lost interest in their work; perhaps they are coping with a fatal illness; perhaps a loved one has died. Perhaps, and this is worst of all, everything has begun to go wrong for no apparent reason. If they have no concept of rites of passage, they experience themselves as victims, powerless to resist an overwhelming Fate. Their meaningless suffering drives them to escape through food, alcohol, drugs, sex. Or they take up arms against the gods and cry out, "Why me?"

They are being presented with the possibility of rebirth into a different life. Through failures, symptoms, inferiority feelings and overwhelming problems, they are being prodded to renounce life attachments that have become redundant. The possibility of rebirth constellates with the breakdown of what has gone before. That is why Jung emphasized the positive purpose of neurosis. But because they do not understand, people cling to the familiar, refuse to make the necessary sacrifices, resist their own growth. Unable to give up their habitual lives, they are unable to receive new life.

Unless cultural rituals support the leap from one level of consciousness to another, there are no containing walls within which the process can happen. Without an understanding of myth or religion, without an understanding of the relationship between destruction and creation, death and rebirth, the individual suffers the mysteries of life as meaningless mayhem—alone. To ease the meaningless suffering, addictions may develop that are an attempt to repress the confusing demands of the growth process which cultural structures no longer clarify or contain.

The burning question when one enters analysis is "Who am I?" The immediate problem, however, as soon as powerful emotions begin to surface, is often a psyche/soma split. While women tend to talk about their bodies more than men, both sexes in our culture are grievously unrelated to their own body experience.  Women say, "I don't like this body"; men say, "It hurts." Their use of the third-person neuter pronoun in referring to their body makes quite clear their sense of alienation. They may talk about "my heart,'' "my kidneys," "my feet," but their body as a whole is depersonalized. Repeatedly they say, "I don't feel anything below the neck. I experience feelings in my head, but nothing in my heart." Their lack of emotional response to a powerful dream image reflects the split. And yet, when they engage in active imagination with that dream image located in their body, their muscles release undulations of repressed grief. The body has become the whipping post. If the person is anxious, the body is starved, gorged, drugged, intoxicated, forced to vomit, driven into exhaustion or driven to frenzied reaction against self-destruction. When this magnificent animal attempts to send up warning signals, it is silenced with pills.

Many people can listen to their cat more intelligently than they can listen to their own despised body. Because they attend to their pet in a cherishing way, it returns their love. Their body, however, may have to let out an earth-shattering scream in order to be heard at all. Before symptoms manifest, quieter screams appear in dreams: a forsaken baby elephant, a starving kitten, a dog with a leg ripped out. Almost always the wounded animal is either gently or fiercely attempting to attract the attention of the dreamer, who may or may not respond. In fairytales it is the friendly animal who often carries the hero or heroine to the goal because the animal is the instinct that knows how to obey the Goddess when reason fails.

It is possible that the scream that comes from the forsaken body, the scream that manifests in a symptom, is the cry of the soul that can find no other way to be heard. If we have lived behind a mask all our lives, sooner or later—if we are lucky—that mask will be smashed. Then we will have to look in our own mirror at our own reality. Perhaps we will be appalled. Perhaps we will look into the terrified eyes of our own tiny child, that child who has never known love and who now beseeches us to respond. This child is alone, forsaken before we left the womb, or at birth, or when we began to please our parents and learned to put on our best performance in order to be accepted. As life progresses, we may continue to abandon our child by pleasing others—teachers, professors, bosses, friends and partners, even analysts. That child who is our very soul cries out from underneath the rubble of our lives, often from the core of our worst complex, begging us to say, "You are not alone. I love you."

We dare not drop the tensions. In order to widen consciousness, we have to hold both arms on the cross. If we reject one part of ourselves, we give up our past; if we reject the other part, we give up our future. We must hold onto our roots and build from there. Those roots often appear as a psychic home sometimes a summer cottage that the dreamer loves, or the country of his origin, or his ancestors' origin. The longing to go Home must certainly be looked at symbolically, for it is often more than a regressive longing for the security of the womb. It can be the one solid root that goes right through one's life, becoming the point of genuine nurturance for spiritual growth.

Whether we like it or not, one of our tasks on this earth is to work with the opposites through different levels of consciousness until body, soul and spirit resonate together. Initiation rites, experienced at the appropriate times in our lives, burn off what is no longer relevant, opening our eyes to new possibilities of our own uniqueness. They tear off the protective veils of illusion until at last we are strong enough to stand in our own naked truth.

The process is mirrored in dreams, often in images of cooking, cars, cupboards and clothes. The Cinderella work is accomplished in the kitchen. Having brought the wild things of nature in, taken off their feathers, cleaned out their entrails, cooked them and made them accessible to consciousness, the ego stands firm. Mother and Father no longer drive the car. The incessant sorting through actual cupboards and drawers has ceased, and the sorting in dreams has reached a finely differentiated level of detail. What clothes to wear is no longer a constant frustration, and the incongruous shoe combinations have at last settled into pairs that are the same color with the same size heel. Or maybe no shoes at all—just good solid feet on good solid ground. Usually the Self allows the ego time to enjoy this period of experiencing its new strength—perhaps months, perhaps years. Each process in unique, moving at its own appointed pace.

The existence and continuity of the ego is essential to our lives. It is necessary that we experience the person who wakes up in the morning as the same person who fell asleep last night, despite the fact that what took place during the hours of sleep may appear so unrelated to the waking state that it never enters consciousness. One way in which the ego maintains its integrity is to remove from itself everything that does not directly offer it support. It simply excludes or suppresses everything which does not coincide with its conscious understanding of itself.

The danger in such a limited view is that the ego may harden and dry up, just as the earth will harden and dry up if it is not continually replenished with water. The ego needs the nourishment of underground springs. It requires the compensatory life of dreams if its continuity is to move beyond mere survival and perpetuation. In addition to these, it requires direction and purpose. As soon as it gives itself up to a higher goal, however, it is threatened, not only by the fear that it may not be able to achieve it, but by a dawning sense that that higher goal, because of the demands it makes, is the enemy of the ego. In some sense, the ego feels that it may be working against itself. Ultimately, of course, it is, but for a better good.

The goal of human striving in the individuation process is the recognition of the Self, the regulating center of the psyche. That recognition relativizes the ego's position in the psychic structure, and initiates a dialogue between conscious and unconscious. "The only way the Self can manifest is through conflict," writes Marie­Louise von Franz. "To meet one's insoluble and eternal conflict is to meet God, which would be the end of the ego with all its blather."

If the ego rejects that conflict, then the goal is contaminated by the ego's desire for more and more power, or wealth, or happiness. The result is ego inflation.  According to Jung:

An inflated consciousness is always egocentric and conscious of nothing but its own existence. It is incapable of learning from the past, incapable of understanding contemporary events, and incapable of drawing right conclusions about the future. It is hypnotized by itself and therefore cannot be argued with. It inevitably dooms itself to calamities that must strike it dead.

Paradoxically enough, inflation is a regression of consciousness into unconsciousness. This always happens when consciousness takes too many unconscious contents upon itself and loses the faculty of discrimination, the sine qua non of all consciousness.

The inflated ego tends to idolatry. It focuses on a single image, fashions it and worships it. Determined to create that image, it is trapped in profane ritual.

Religiously speaking, all such profane rituals are contained in the worship of the Golden Calf. A fat woman's body image, for example, may be her Golden Calf. No matter how much she thinks she hates it, her rituals are taking place around it. It is this thralldom before her own body image that she may be called upon to sacrifice. The profane worship must be sacrificed to make way for the sacred. The withdrawal from the one operates simultaneously with the entrance into the other. We withdraw as we enter. Withdrawing is entering. Whether we stress the withdrawing or the entering, we are stressing the same thing.

When this process begins, it may be reflected in the dreams by a bell tolling, an alarm sounding or lightning striking. It can also be heralded by physical symptoms. It can be brought on by loss of faith, loss of relationship or the imminence of death. Something almost imperceptible begins to happen. For people watching their dreams, the bell usually tolls some weeks before the actual events occur. In real life we seem to be carrying on as usual, but a very clear inner voice may begin to comment,  hinting that things are not as they seem to be. We may find ourselves singing songs that put a very ironic twist on our conscious actions. Our inner clown may be singing, "Put your sweet lips a little closer," to the tune of "Please release me and let me go." If the ego has not sufficient strength and flexibility, it will panic and either regress to its former terrors of annihilation, or regress to its former rigid framework—in either case, refusing to go through the birth canal.

The ego now has to be strong enough to remain concentrated in stillness, so that it can mediate what is happening both positively and negatively. It must hold a detached position, relying now on its differentiated femininity in order to submit, now on its discriminating masculinity in order to question and cut away. Something immense begins to happen in the very foundation of the personality, while consciousness experiences the conflict as crucifixion. Ego desires are no longer relevant. The old questions no longer have any meaning, and there are no answers. There may be a few stricken "why's," but they belong to the order of logic and discipline, and what is taking place is irrational, beyond ego control. The ego on some level knows. It knows that what is happening has to happen. It knows that its personal desires have to be sacrificed to the transpersonal. It knows it is confronting death.

It is a period of throbbing pain. It is King Lear howling on the heath, brought to submission and reunited with the daughter whose truth was her dowry. At last, he says,

Upon such sacrifices, my Cordelia,

The Gods themselves throw incense.

It is Job covered with boils, moving from "Do not condemn me; shew me wherefore thou contendest with me" to "I have heard of thee by the hearing of the ear: but now mine eye seeth thee."

It is Jesus in Gethsemane, sweating blood, moving from "Let this cup pass from me" to "Thy will be done."

A woman during such a period of withdrawal and entry had the following vision:

I was walking by the St. Lawrence one sunny, summer day. I thought I was going Home. Instantly the sky darkened; the earth grew cold. I could not see with my eyes, nor hear with my ears. I was seeing inside, hearing inside. Then I realized I was on ice, floating, suddenly not floating, but being thrust by the power of the current. The ice began to crack. I leaped from one floe to another, the ice cracking in front, behind, beside. I thought I might die in the ice-cold water, or be ground by the grating blocks. And all the time I knew I was being propelled toward the ocean. I just kept jumping and screaming, "Please, God, don't kill me. Not yet. Not this time."

At times like this, Rilke's words can be very reassuring:

Be patient toward all that is unsolved in your heart and... try to love the questions themselves like locked rooms and like books that are written in a very foreign tongue. Do not now seek the answers, which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, live along some distant day into the answer.

These situations, whether in analysis or in life, or both, can raise profound religious questions. Is this God confronting me? Was I on the wrong track? Am I being forcibly turned around? Is there some almighty plan that is different from mine? Am I being forced to submit? Should I accept Fate? Do I, in fact, have any free will? Is this God burning away the veils of illusion, or am I facing the devil? Is he making one last stand to cheat me out of my own life?

Psychologically, the questions are equally blistering. Is this the Self demanding a sacrifice? Or is this the real face of the complex that has crippled me all my life? Just when I thought I could be free, there it is to destroy me. Everything I have fought so hard to bring to consciousness is now in question. Why do I suddenly wake up every night at the same time? Why do I feel this searing pain? Why are my hands so weak? Am I really alone? I'm worse off now than I ever was. I'm back in the old pattern. I'm back in the matrix—back in the Garden recognizing the place for the first time. Is this who I really am? Is this who I have been running away from all my life?

Psychologically, the ego, like Lear, Job and Jesus, is penetrating and being penetrated by the archetypal Ground of Being in an effort to bring to consciousness whatever it can of that vast unknown. It experiences another law operating from within, a dawning realization that it has a destiny of its own which must be obeyed. It knows that something new is being born; it has to breathe into the pain and let it be.

Many people in our culture are attempting to suffer these transformations alone, without any ritual container and without any group to support the influx of transcendent power. Like Eliot's Magi, they experience the birth as "hard and bitter agony . . . like Death, our death." They are "no longer at ease here, in the old dispensation,/With  an alien people clutching their gods."

Without the container and without the group, the aloneness is almost intolerable. The individual ego has to be strong enough to build its own chrysalis in order to create a loving communication with its own inner symbols. Their numinosity brings the confidence and integrity, humor and illumination without which the ego could not survive, let alone expand. A childish ego, primitive and unconscious, cannot maintain a living chrysalis; it wants to project everything, and, tuned to a natural order, it explains what happens by magic. The chrysalis becomes too precious in itself, shellacked with sentimentality. A childlike ego can hold the tension, pull in the projections and ponder the inner mystery. At the transpersonal level, the symbols are simultaneously individual and universal. At that level, none of us is alone. New relationships, bypassing the world of transitory disguise, begin at that depth, and from there relate back to the world in a totally new way.

Hours before he died, Thomas Merton, author of The Seven Storey Mountain, gave a lecture which concluded with a plea for openness to the "painfulness of inner change":

What is essential... is not embedded in buildings, is not embedded in clothing, is not necessarily embedded even in a rule. It is somewhere along the line of something deeper than a rule. It is concerned with this business of total inner transformation.

According to his own account, Merton completed his inner transformation on his Asian journey standing barefoot in the presence of the giant Buddhas of Polonnaruwa in Ceylon. "I know and have seen what I was obscurely looking for," he wrote. "I don't know what else remains but I have now seen and have pierced through the surface and have got beyond the shadow and the disguise."

When Merton asked a Buddhist abbot, "What is the 'knowledge of freedom'?" the abbot replied, "One must ascend all the steps, but then when there are no more steps one must make the leap. Knowledge of freedom is the knowledge, the experience, of this leap."

Voices from the Chrysalis

It's hard for me to trust life. I like to take hold of it, grab it by the neck and put my teeth into it, just to be sure it doesn't get away on me.

I try to see how far I've come, rather than how far I have to go.

Now that I'm contacting my own inner clock, I am so slow. My life is on top of me. The collision of values overwhelms me. Am I wasting my time? I don't know.... I don't know.... this terrible aloneness.

I've always identified with what I'm not. But who am I? My guilt and shame and fear are making me human.

I was always waiting until all the responsibilities were completed, then there would be time for me. How? I never thought about that. I've been so busy doing, I've missed something very important to me. I don't think I was ever a child. I have no recollection at all of being a very young child with any sense of being ME.

I wonder if it takes a holocaust, outer or inner, to help us to realize what is really essential in life.

I lived a smile­and­grin, smile­and­grin existence. I was dying.

I rage for life. I want so much to be free.

I'm trying to have faith—faith that I will be born.

I'm so off balance. I pray for daily guidance to avoid tripping over things. I can go to sleep when I orient myself  to the stars.

The spirit is in the volcano inside. My relationships aren't very good right now, so I go back to work. I'm safe there. But even that isn't perfect.

I'll explode if I have to react to one more thing. I'm pulling back. I'm overwhelmed by the pressures of the outside world and the mounting pressures of the interior world are making me feel actually sick.

Used to feel capable, used to speak and write well. Now I never feel secure because I can't find words.

Am I fighting my destiny or does my destiny require I take a stand?

When I touch into that essence and recognize myself as what I've been running away from, I am humbled.

I'm Miss Compassion, Miss Humanity. I'm a missing piece. I'm also a child of God.

To get rid of one's past one has to forgive—confront and forgive—and move into the present. Forgive oneself too, and God.

I hated my father. I imitated hated myself.

--Marion Woodman en "The pregnant virgin"

#emily dickinson #william blake #carl jung #freud #psychology #archetype #the pregnant virgin #marion woodman #Marie-Louise von Franz #rainer maria rilke #lear #Job #jesus christ #T.S. Eliot #journey of the magi #thomas merton #the seven storey mountain

[streetsofdublin]

I USUALLY AVOID THE DOMINICK STREET LUAS TRAM STOP REF-226667-1

The Dominick Street Regeneration Project has seen a small number of new homes built directly across the road from the old flats which are now derelict.

BECAUSE OF EXTREME DRUGS RELATED ANTI-SOCIAL ACTIVITY About a week before Christmas I met my next door neighbour and he asked me if I knew why the building beside the Luas Tram Stop was being boarded up .. . that is discussed below. Anyway, the following day I went to Trim, County Meath, for Christmas but on my return to Dublin I discovered that my neighbour had sold his apartment and had moved…

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#containing 198 units #five-storey flats #Fotonique #Infomatique #January 2024 #lower dominick street #luas tram stop #New Housing Complex #Regeneration #Sony HX90V #The Dominick Street Regeneration Project #Tram Stop #William Murphy

[annadoingshitpoorly]

FRIENDS IN THE DARK - Chapter 1

Ellie Williams x Reader x Abby Anderson - TWILIGHT AU

Word Count: 6.1K+

Content Warnings: Uninvited Visitors, parents being proud of you, USE OF Y/N, nicknames (from parental figure), motor vehicle accident, being chased/hunted, Ellie-Abby beef, Abby having beef with Mel, Abby in general in this tbh…

Men, Minors and general fuckheads DNI 💚

The prologue can be found here

Jackson, Wyoming. It’s a quiet town. The sort of town where nothing ever seems to happen. Surrounded by hills and woods, people who are born there eventually move away nine times out of ten, those that do stay have been there for generations and can’t escape the monotony of the town. It’s the kind of town where one is never rudely awakened. Especially on the weekend.

The morning after your first night in Jackson, the nearly eerie silence that seemed to descend across the valley is broken so abruptly that the thundering noise can only be described as strange, forcing you to wake early and not due to your body clock. But to a heavy handed knock on your front door, maybe choosing the room with the front facing window was a bad idea but you’d made your bed now all you had to do was lay in it… well a you put a mattress on the ground and had to lay on top of it, but that’s besides the point. Throwing a fleece blanket over your shoulders you peek out the open window, stood there was a girl. You lean on the window ledge and poke your head further to try and see her better, but with little success, only being able to gather that she was blonde with an extremely impressive shoulder span.

Shrugging into your jeans from the day before, you quickly get down the stairs to answer the door, the blaring of the radio from the kitchen explaining why your mom hadn’t answered the knocks. As you stand in front of the door, you smooth the creases in your shirt from having slept in it last night and pull the doorknob.

Blue eyes meet yours and a small smile comes to her face. “Hi. I’m Abby, I live across the street." She tilts her head towards a rather impressive two storey house with a vintage Chevy out the front. You pause for a moment looking towards where she motioned but thankfully catch yourself and open the door wider, “Wanna come in?” She nods and steps in as you close the door behind her. “I’m Y/N, by the way. Mom’s in the kitchen if you want?” Politely Abby nods and follows behind you as you head into the back where you push the door and find something akin to a bomb scene. Amid pots and pans, silverware and slow-cookers, stands your mother with her hair tied out of her face with a bandana and beads of sweat amassing on her furrowed brow.

“Mom. Mom! MOM!”

“Huh? OH, GOOD MORNING SLEEPYHEAD!” She turns and twists the volume down on the little portable blue radio, “Who’s your friend, doll?” At this Abby extends her arm towards your mother and shakes her hand, her grip is firm and confident, “Abigail Anderson, ma’am. I live down the road.” They continue to chat as you lose yourself in thought…

It’s the name that causes you to stop in your tracks, shattering your coherence. Wait- this is Abigail Anderson?! The same Abigail that was your first kiss in elementary school at eight years old?! The same Abigail that braided your hair at recess in the school yard? The same Abigail that always swapped half of your peanut butter and marshmallow fluff sandwich for half of her chicken salad sandwich? The same Abigail that hugged you so tight that last day of school, whose tears had made your shoulder damp and you held each other one final time before you left Jackson for what was supposed to be forever… Abigail- Abby. She’s all grown-up now, you suppose you have too, she probably didn't recognise you for that very reason just as you hadn’t clocked on to her. Looking at her as she talks to your mom, her hair is still the same dirty blonde more golden than hay-like as it had been but it is confined to a braided prison that falls over her shoulder and onto her shirt, a shirt that does nothing to hide the fact her shoulders are so toned and broad how she’s clearly built an incredible amount of muscle. The freckles up her neck are new, maybe from the summer sun. And they trail up to her ears, little golden brown flecks and her eyes piercing blue, glacial and bright. Further down her face her mouth is moving, and she’s looking at you- She's talking to you. Oh fuck. OH FUCK-

“Sorry, I lost my train of thought… what was that?” Shit. Count on you to sound so fucking ditsy, but at least she’s smiling, maybe she likes bimbos. Wait why would you think that-

“I was asking if you needed a lift to school on Monday? You’re going to Johnson-Bailey High right?” Abby’s trying to start a conversation and you can’t even think straight.

“Oh yeah, I am.” Awesome, common ground to start from again, “Are you going into senior year too?”

“Yeah! Hopefully we’ll have a class together,” She’s moving from her spot on the breakfast bar, and is dusting herself down, “well, I’ll leave you to get sorted out. Call me if you need a hand with those tables and boxes?”

Your mom is wrapping her arms round over Abby’s shoulders to hug her as the blonde girl attempts to make it to the door, and you’re left following behind the pair. “Thanks for coming over Abigail, please tell your father he’s welcome over anytime and you are too.”

“I’ll see you later, Y/N?”

“I’ll see you later, Abby. It was nice seeing you again.”

“You too, really nice.”

As you close the door you walk away as Abby waits outside the door for a few moments, mumbling under her breath, before jogging away of her own accord. Meanwhile your mother returns to the kitchen, you in tow.

“It was nice for her to offer you a lift, make sure you thank her on Monday.”

“I will, mom.” And boy you wish you could do more than just thank her.

The rest of that Saturday breezes by, from unloading the moving truck to constructing the newly purchased ikea furniture, with your hands full the whole day you never even notice how tired you are until the your head hits the pillow on top of your now put together bed, the Friday night’s mattress now having a place to rest, your phone on your nightstand and plugged in to charge buzzes with a notification just as you’re dozing off. You decide to check in the morning. Despite your tiredness and complete willingness to fall asleep, something keeps you tossing and turning. A burning sensation, like someone holding a lighter too close to your flesh. Pulling the quilt over your head eases the feeling a bit, enough for you to finally fall into a deep rest.

When you wake on Sunday morning at a far more reasonable time than the day before, you pick up your phone, finding all that's displayed on the screen is the time. You could have sworn that you’d gotten a message last night but brush it off.

That Sunday morning and afternoon follows a similar path as the previous, unpacking the boxes and shuffling around mini mountains of clothes and kitchen ware. It hadn’t occurred to you in the chaos of the past two days that you had school starting that next day, the weekend had been rattled through so quickly that both you and your mother hadn’t had time to rest - the rest that the weekend would serve you under normal circumstances, but these weren’t normal circumstances. Abby had come over around noon, said she was coming back from a jog and left you her mobile number for the morning. You had forgotten that she’d offered you a ride.

Pushing past your mothers relentless teasing of ‘oh you’d be so cute together’ and ‘such a pretty couple’, you finally get her to back off with a sharp “Mom. I don’t know if she’s even into girls.” With your mom now quelled at least partially, you hide in your room opting to sort through the boxes of your personal belongings.

By the time books are on the shelves and the majority of your clothes have been tucked away into the closet that sits to the left of your bay window, it’s late. Like super late, 11:45 isn’t that late you tell yourself initially but then remember that you should be up at 6:30 at latest… Deciding that you’d be best sleeping immediately you text Abby as you crawl into bed to check that her offer of a ride still stands and much to your relief it does. With clothes for the morning on the desk beside your full and definitely heavy backpack, you feel confident enough in your preparations to set your alarm. Abby will pick you up at 8:00AM with that thought in your mind you drift into a contented sleep, small smile on your lips.

The alarm sounds and your phone vibrates on the nightstand, you wake with a most unhappy groan spewing from your mouth. You definitely should have gone to bed earlier. Steam and hot water provide your achy muscles a modicum of relief as you soak in the spray of the shower, the water pressure is definitely better here. Getting dressed, you look outside the window relief rushing over you as the morning is misty and overcast but for the first time since Friday night, it’s not raining.

You greet your mother as she comes out of her bedroom, dressed in her casual wear. “There’s some cereal in the cupboard and milk in the refrigerator, but I’m going to get groceries after talking with the doctor.”

“Are you not feeling good?” She shakes her head, yawning while trying and failing to speak at the same time. “You’re trying nursing again?”

“Hey! I’m good at it, plus it’ll pay more than waitressing or being some retail assistant.”

“Fair.”

You sit at the table, scrolling through your phone. While checking your tumblr a knock at the door snaps you from your passive scrolling, the digits on the corner of the screen read ‘07:53’. Abby likes to be early. Noted. Leaving the spoon and bowl to clatter in the sink, you snatch your backpack and throw it over your shoulder before yelling a hasty ‘Bye Mom!’ to your mother through the front door from the front porch.

Abby waves at you from the bottom of the driveway, her posture is relaxed as you open the car door and drop down into the seat.

“Hey, you ready to go.” The blonde looks to your face firstly then to the backpack at your feet and finally back to your face once more, meeting your eyes.

“Ready as I’ll ever be?”

She smiles at your answer but doesn’t mention why as one hand puts the car in drive and the other pulls at the steering wheel. Her stance never changes from the calm, confident and collected aura she exudes. The small talk she makes is pleasant, the little tidbits of information the two of you exchange quickly help you re-establish a bond and the twenty minute car ride goes by in what seems like a blink of an eye. Her dad hadn’t remarried since her mom had died, she was captain of the lacrosse team, she’d broken up with her boyfriend 3 weeks before you’d arrived because she found him cheating on her. It was nice to talk to someone other than your mom, and boy did it help that Abby was easy to talk to.

Pulling into the large gates and red brick walls that bordered the grounds of Johnson-Bailey high school, Abby parks the car up in a section set aside for the seniors. The school looks much less intimidating than it did when you were younger, the brick carries on from the walls and makes up the exterior for the front school building but the extensions and external gym building juxtaposes the classic red brick with their stark white and metal make up. Hundreds of grumpy teens and even grumpier teaching staff mill about the front of the school, reluctant to be back to normality following the summer break. It feels normal. Normal is good.

Abby waves goodbye to you as the assistant principal singles you out and pulls you over. Standing next to the finely dressed lady (‘Miss Dandridge’ she had said) is a very pretty girl, thick curly hair tied back from her face and light makeup enhancing her dark features. She introduces herself as Nora, and your personal ‘buddy’. Despite the forced friendship aspect of the introduction, Nora is extremely likable as she makes small talk and gives you a quick tour of the school building on your way to your joint home room. Opening the door, Nora heads to the back of the room and sits in the spare spot next to a familiar blonde.

Following the lead of Nora you move further into the classroom and find a seat next to a tall Asian boy with the floppiest black hair you’ve possibly ever seen. He leans over and offers you his hand, “Jesse. You new?”

Taking his hand, thankful for him approaching you first, “Yeah, Y/N. I’ve just moved back.”

He smiles, “Well, it’ll be nice to have a fresh face ‘round here. Jackson’s a bit shit, to be honest.”

You laugh at his seeming ‘down to Earth’ness and continue talking with him until the man that had previously been sitting at the teacher’s desk gets up from his spot and the scraping of chalk against black board alerts you to his shift in demeanor.

“Good morning, Class S-1. I hope you had an enjoyable summer, I’ll be your home room tutor and your English teacher. My name is Mr O’Bri-”

The door opens and a girl comes in a heavy blush on her face as she rushes past and sits down at the desk directly in front of you and Jesse and as she scurries around, fixing herself in the seat Mr O’Brien locks eyes with the girl. “Dina, see me after first period.”

“Goddamn it…”

Aside from the initial interruption of the Dina girl, the period passes swimmingly. And the one after that, and the one after that. The day continues smooth and steady as a drumbeat and lunch rolls around before you have time to realize. Following the stream of students into the cafeteria, you look around and spy Nora and Abby sitting beside some other people in letterman jackets around a circular table in the corner, after a small amount as you approach the table. Abby gives you a smile as you approach, pull a chair out and sit down. You breathe a sigh of relief as Nora introduces you to the rest of the table, a few guys and a couple of girls. There’s a tension you immediately pick up on a few side glances between Owen and Mel, deciding to ask Abby about it on the ride home at three thirty you keep your voice down and occupy yourself with the mystery meat in a hamburger bun.

The lunch is pleasant and the company is definitely the cause of it being so. As you find yourself walking back to class with Manny, the brown haired boy keeps you in chat as you head towards the physics classroom. Manny sits behind you as the teacher instructs you to sit along the benches each row separated by gender.

There are no familiar faces in the room, but as class drags on you feel a burning sensation at the back of your head. That’s familiar, but you can’t place why or where from. Looking back at the rest of the class, green eyes meet yours. They’re burrowing into yours as you struggle to break the contact. You finally snap back to reality with a nudge from Marta who’s sat beside you. You clear your throat and try to ignore the churning in your stomach as you can still feel the pine needle eyes stabbing into your back. As the bell rings, you rush to your final class. Throwing the notebooks and pens haphazardly into your backpack, charms around the zips clinking together in your attempt to make a quick get away. You don’t notice as one of the button badges on the front of the bag pops off as you fling a strap over your shoulder. But she does. Her eyes lock onto the cute little smiley face pin. Long fingers wrap around it and slip the accessory into a jean pocket.

By the time the final bell rings to signal the end of the school day, you’re relieved to say the least. The flushing of students towards the front of the school and out to the parking lot sweeps you away until you’re in front of Abby’s car, waiting for her to show up. To be fair to her, she had warned you that would most likely be running a bit behind the rest of the student body as the coach would be looking to talk to her. And as it was currently twenty to four, she was turning out to be correct. Nora walks past and waves as she hops into her car, a little green fiat. Abby can’t be too far behind as Nora was a part of the lacrosse team too. Scrolling through your phone, enjoying the screen time for the first time since lunch, you get lost in the endless dopamine hits the silly little TikToks give you. You’re completely in a world of your own when a poke to your arm shocks you. And there she is. Staring you down once more, is the green eyed girl from Physics.

She says nothing as she sets her longboard on the ground allowing herself to slide a long, bony hand into the front pocket of her baggy jeans, the belt seeming more of an accessory than a functional piece of clothing as it does nothing to support the denim laying loose around her thin hips, you get your first good look at her the auburn shaggy bob she has frames her face nicely if not causing her to appear a even more gaunt than her skinny, pale frame already is, the freckles across the bridge of her nose and up her cheekbones are comparable with constellations. Pulling her hand out of the pocket you see she’s holding something, something small and sentimental. She holds it out for you to take, “here,” she says and you take it hesitantly from her. You meet her eyes again, they’re still looking at you with as much focus as when you had your first encounter. You give a soft, nervous smile, “Thanks, where did you-”

“WILLIAMS. FUCK OFF.”

Abby’s voice booms out across the empty parking lot. You turn on your heel to look at the blonde as she moves at great speed towards you and the other girl, Williams… it must be her last name. As Abby comes to stand between the two of you, the slight warmth to the auburn girl’s eyes vanishes. She backs up and pulls the skateboard away with a slight yank of her leg, one foot rests on it allowing her to rock back and forth giving an air of arrogance to the smaller girl. “Easy! Down girl,” this elicits a guttural rumbling from Abby, “I was just returning something.” Abby lunges towards the skinny girl but you grab the blonde’s arm and pull her back. In comparison to Abby this strange girl was akin to a rag doll, small and frail looking in your eyes. The skater girl takes this as her chance to back up and she does.

“Watch it, Williams. You better fuckin’ watch it.” Abby calls out after her as she moves away towards the backgate of the school.

You reach out and meet a muscled shoulder with your hand as your touch causes Abby to snap back to reality. She opens the passenger side door for you and lets you get in before hopping around to the drivers side and sliding in. The journey home is quiet and tense. Turning your head to face the blonde, she answers your question before you even finalize it in your own mind. “Nobody, nobody good anyways. She is trouble. She will always be trouble.”

“Why’s that, Abby?”

“Bad breeding, at least in my opinion.”

She clicks the knob for the radio and music starts wafting through the car easing the tension as Shania Twain comes out from hiding in the speakers, as the karaoke begins any tension is washed away with the titters and giggles of pure unadulterated fun.

Abby drops you off at yours before pushing on towards her own home. opening the door you find the house empty and devoid of life, letting your backpack lay up against the breakfast bar you spot a yellow sticky note on the worktop, ‘Got some groceries. Snakes Snacks are in the pantry. Got an interview for the hospital. Love you, Mom.’ With a fistpump of celebration, you poke your head into the pantry only to see it much fuller than nine hours ago. Thank god. Grabbing a cereal bar you go upstairs and get stuck into your homework, this keeps you occupied for a few hours until eventually the front door opens, closes and the scuffling of shoes being cast off and relegated to a corner tells you your mom is home. “Sweetheart! I brought take out!”

With a fist pump and silent cheer, you close your laptop over and chuck your history textbook to the end of your desk. The Oregon Trail can wait, you’ve got chinese food to eat. “Comin’ now, mom!” You yell whilst running down the stairs, stepping into the kitchen you see your mom holding a plastic bag with several takeout boxes inside. “You grab plates and I’ll get some drinks, then we can have a TV dinner and you can tell me all about your first day?” Your mom suggests as she is already head and ears into the refrigerator, poking around for some cans of soda.

The flickering of whatever late night chat show is on the screen makes for ambience as you spill the gossip of the day to your mother, her face is nothing short of comical as you tell her about the tension between Owen (your mom laughs heartily at the description of him you give, of his hair being a dirty blond hedgehog with his eyes being too close together, like an opossum,) and Abby. The strange girl that had returned your pin. You even mention joining one of the clubs at school.

“Sweetheart,” your mom starts, “can I talk to you, adult to adult?”

You nod and panic flashes across your mind and definitely across your face, but your mother doesn’t seem to catch it and looks relieved.

“I’m glad you’re being so open. I was scared… I was very scared about coming back. And when your dad…”

You keep quiet, letting her ramble and fumble through her words as you watch as she becomes more and more lost in her mind before you wrap your arms around her, comforting her, soothing her worries, bringing her back to earth with a few words,“I know, mom.”

She sobs into your arms, tears wet your shoulder leaving your t-shirt damp and darkened on one side. She cries long and hard until she eventually falls asleep, grip on you loosening as your mom loses consciousness. You wiggle out of her grasp, take the blanket from the back of the couch and throw it over her, placing a kiss on her forehead you move to the kitchen and do the dishes. The street lamp light doesn’t reach this far around the side of the house but the moon is enough to at least not leave you to stare into an abyss of total darkness, the tree line starts about two hundred and fifty yards from the back porch and you watch as a fox pokes its head out from the brush. It makes its way across the portion of grass that makes up your backyard before stopping dead in its tracks. The dishes are forgotten as you watch the small canine look around panicked. It quickly sprints back into the green foliage and it disappears from view.

Getting back to the dishes, you finish the chore quickly and choose to make your way to bed, turning the TV off on your way while making sure your mother hasn’t woken up. She hasn’t.

Returning to your room, you see that you’ve left your laptop open and your books are still scattered about the desk. Taking one look at the half finished homework, you close the laptop and stash it away into your backpack. “That’s enough of that,” you mutter under your breath.

Stripping and getting dressed again for bed, you crawl in under the covers and settle down for the night. Turning over onto your side you see the curtains in The corner of your room flutter as though there was a light breeze, it’s then that you notice the window cracked open a few inches. “Fuck me…”

Feet meeting the cold floor you scuttle across the room and close the window completely, good and tight. Hopping back into the warmth of the various layers of quilt and blankets, you’re asleep as soon as you close your eyes.

The days in the valley town turn to weeks with nothing strange or startling to really speak of. You seem to be getting more forgetful lately. Your things are seemingly shifting about your room. You’re probably just being silly and misplacing things, at least that’s what you’ve been telling yourself.

The high school lacrosse season has started and Abby had tried her best to rope you into joining the team, but with the absolute disaster that was tryouts you’ve come to the realization that sitting on the bleachers cheering on your friends (new and old) is definitely the best place for you.

Abby had let little tidbits of information slip, about how Owen was her ex and left her for Mel and how she’d later come out as bisexual as a result of the relationship disintegrating. The confirmation that she was into girls had you internally kicking your feet, punching your fists and screaming until your throat was so raw that it could bleed, but you decidedly keep that to yourself. The little crush that had completely taken over your mind, Abby crawling into every little crevice that wasn’t taken up by school or the various relationships you’d been establishing or reestablishing.

You’d grown close to Dina again, her boyfriend Jesse by extension. Dina is… talkative to say the least, occupying most of your AP math class with her chittering, and you’re yet to meet this elusive Ellie you’ve heard so much about from her venting and seemingly never ending gossip. From ‘oh my god! Ellie and Cat from S-3? They kind of had a huge argument-’ to ‘Ellie is ditching class again, I’m surprised she hasn’t been kicked outta here by now, that’s what happened to her back in Boston!’ Based on what you’d heard, Ellie could only be described as a badass juvie escapist. And that’s how you’ve come to be sat in Jackson’s only diner, The Clay Pit BBQ, on a Friday evening after school waiting for ‘Ellie’ and Jesse to show up.

Dina sits across from you in the booth as you take in the cringe worthy old western themeing that seems as though it was plucked from a young child’s bedroom or a roadside tourist trap. A milkshake is sat in front of Dina with her admitting to herself more than saying to you, “I really shouldn’t be having this… lactose intolerance is a big thing with my family,” you nod at her more to quell her than to actually provide any opinion on her predicament, while a large cup of water and a plate of fries in front you. You both thank the waitress and begin to eat until a cough and playful punch lands on your shoulder. Jesse. You scooch further into the booth, the old faux leather squeaking underneath your movement. But as you turn to look at the others it’s not Jesse that’s sat beside you but the ‘Williams’ girl. The one that had returned your pin and the dots line up in your head. Dina had always said about her ditching to go skateboarding, and under the table is the same longboard as she’d made her escape on weeks prior.

“Ellie, this is Y/n.”

Dina turns to you now, “Y/n, this is Ellie.”

The air fills with a heavy tension, Dina and Jesse both look between the two of you and to each other as though having a silent conversation while Ellie keeps looking at you, as though trying to read you. Green eyes meeting your own eyes with such intensity that a heat begins to spread up your neck and it takes Jesse kicking the auburn haired girl and jolting her out of her trance-like state before she sticks out her hand. “Hi?”

‘Is that all she’s going to say’, you think to yourself as a laugh escapes your lips outwardly and you shake her hand. “Hi.”

Ellie doesn’t eat much but orders an apple cobbler and attempts to make small talk, despite the encounter starting off stale and almost jumpy as the ice breaks you find yourself relaxing into her company as though you’d known her as long and as well as you had the other pair, but you can’t seem to shake a niggling at the back of your mind that there was something off about Ellie Williams.

As the evening continues you settle into a comfortable chit chat, and discuss this and that, what’s there and what’s not. Everything under the sun. Until the waitress from before approaches your table to tell you that they’re closing up for the night and you gather your bits and ready yourselves to leave. As you stand outside the diner, you realize that your phone had died and with the only way to contact your mom dead as a doornail, Jesse asks you something you hadn’t planned for, “How’re you getting home?” You give a huff of frustration and shrug your shoulders, “I’ll walk it’s only a half hour anyways, I can take a shortcut through the woods. Dina pops her head from around Jesse's side and pipes up, “Are you sure, I can’t carry everyone but Jesse can walk home if you want to get on?”

“No I’m fine, genuinely! Besides, you both live on the other side of town.”

Ellie shuffles her way from inside to stand beside you.

“I can walk her home.”

“But Els, you live-”

“Dee. I’ll walk her home.”

Sensing the finality in Ellie’s tone and probably wanting to avoid being the cause of a scene, Jesse and Dina hop onto her minty vespa scooter, and the tall boy waves a long limb as they pull out of the street and down the road out east.

“Ellie. I appreciate the sentiment but I think a bit of alone time would be good for me?” You tell her, its the honest truth but not the whole truth. Internally you’re screaming. ‘Why would she do that? Dina said Ellie lived near her. Why would she offer to walk you in the completely opposite direction to where she needed to go?’

“Oh…” She looks disappointed but quickly fixes her face, “I- I guess I’ll see you round then?”

“Yeah, see you at school?” She lets go a small smile at your good natured teasing.

“Yeah…”

You part ways as she sets off on her skateboard, quickly picking up speed as she propels herself forward, following the same road as Dina and Jesse had just gone down. In a flash of flannel and beaten converse, she’s gone and you start the trek home.

The late evening twilight turns to night it seems as you set off and you are left with a predicament. Either brave the dark of the woods and be home fifteen minutes faster, or take the long way round and stay in the safety of the luminous orange of the streetlights… Taking one look at the storm clouds beginning to form in the western sky, you quickly make up your mind. Woods it is.

Pulling the purple hood up over your head as the occasional spitting of raindrops turns into a gentle pouring, getting past the small saplings and shrubs that make up the treeline you breathe out a sigh of relief at the umbrella provided by the canopy of the tall ancient pines. A thick, choking mist is rolling in, concealing the ground from your vision. The trek is tedious, those people that came before you and also opted for your choice of the protection of the trees have left a somewhat easily traversable path between the roots. The silence of your surroundings that during the day would be comforting is anything but as full darkness takes hold. The only sound is the trodding of your feet against pebbles, leaves and twigs. The half moon peeks out from the clouds occasionally amid the rain, the slivers of light it gives off let you know you're still on the right path and spur you onward.

Snap.

Loud and clear.

The hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

The cracking rings out over the pitter patter of rain on the leafy surroundings.

It’s what causes silence to break and it dawns on you why the woods had been so silent before. They were afraid. The birds, the deer, and the elk. The moose, the eagles, and horses. They were all afraid. And doing their best to stay out of the way of the local apex predator. You had walked head first into the lion's den. Panic sets in as you pick up speed, feet propelling you forward over tree roots and through branches.

Run.

You have to run.

As you run the backpack on your shoulders jostles around, keyrings making clinking sounds with each step. Another creaking noise pulls your attention back towards your surroundings as you attempt to focus on something aside from your labored breaths and the blood thundering in your ears. The same sound comes from behind you again. “Fuck.” It sounded closer than before, ‘where’s it coming from… holy shit… I’m not ready to die…’ Fear has you whipping your head around to the direction you think the sound had originally come from. You hear a follow up rustle as if it knows what you’re thinking. ‘Shit.’

You feel like an antelope in a nature documentary. Meager, mortal prey for a wild, powerful, immortal predator. All common sense is thrown out a shattered window, basic human necessity drives you. The animalistic need to escape courses through you. Instead of sticking to the path, you run straight. Jumping over logs, and avoiding puddles. Your sneakers are going to be destroyed, your hoodie is flailing about as your arms pump back and forth. A glimmer of hope in the darkness appears ahead as the rows of trees begin to thin, the tawny light of a streetlamp. Through the rain and the mist it’s hard to determine the exact distance left, the orange tones bleeding through the weather like paint through a cup of water. The trees are skinny and short, saplings and bushes as the ground turns to soft green grass beneath your feet, you don’t stop until your feet hit hard tar. A road now under your feet.

Your legs burn, your head is light.

The glow of the streetlamp above you fills you with warmth as the adrenaline fizzes out and your breath comes back to you. Lungfulls of damp, cold air rake through your chest.

Just letting the relief flood your mind, you feel the warmth of big wet crocodile tears tracing down your cheeks. You remain unmoving as the rain continues to soak you, you haven’t felt more alive than at this moment in an exceedingly long time. The surreal nature of your escape has you standing in the middle of the road, head reeling. As you close your eyes and take another deep breath, you fail to see the lights coming around the corner.

Your ears hurt before anything else does, the screeching of rubber on tar. Cold metal throws you several yards, searing pain in your shoulder, up your neck, and down your side. Above you is a girl. The light above her head like a halo is the last thing you see as you collapse in her arms.

I hope you guys enjoyed the first proper chapter, I wanted to keep it a little longer but felt that this was the best place to cut it off.

If you wanna be added to/removed from either my TLOU tag list or the tag list for this series (FITD) drop me a message!

Tag list: @moonlightdivine @hi2647 @jasmine-gazaille @mortallyfurryjellyfish @soft-and-lush @viswifetotallyreal @chrry1ovr @paleidiot @sawaagyapong @macaroni676 @godswlwwarrior

#abby anderson #abby anderson x reader #tlou x reader #tlou #ellie williams #ellie williams x reader #Ellie Williams x reader x Abby Anderson #tlou twilight au #twilight au #werewolves #vampires #Friends in the Dark

[mutant-distraction]

Travel Through Ireland:

Great pieces of history are what shape Ireland. There is so much so explore when you visit the Emerald Island.

Finding places like the Galey Bay Castle still hanging on in there after all these years is just amazing.

It's history

Galey Castle is a tower house on the western shore of Galey Bay. Only the ivy covered east corner of a vaulted four-storey structure survives, with a grass-covered cairn at its base and a passage in the south-east wall. The castle was built in 1340 by William Bui O’Kelly, and housed the O’Kelly Clan who the time were Chieftains of South Roscommon/East Galway.

[pwlanier]

JOHN MARSDEN (ACTIVE 1735)

Model of a proposed new palace for Richmond 1735

Pearwood

A pearwood model for a Palladian style summer palace. A 3-storey building with a central portico on the first floor and a double staircase. In 1735 King George II and Queen Caroline contemplated building a summer palace, possibly at Richmond, and the architect was to be William Kent. This initiative was most likely to have come from The Queen; the model is the sole evidence of the location and date, known from a reference in the London Daily Post and General Advertiser of 15 September 1735. The surveyor, Richard Arundell, had visited Kew to show The Queen a model, created by Mr. Marsden of Vine Street, Westminster, of 'a Hunting Seat for His Majesty to be built either at Richmond or Bushy Park'. John Marsden was paid £120 for the model. William Kent is identified as the designer in a reference in the Board of Works minutes for 1 October 1771 in which the 'Model of a Palace (design'd by the late Mr. Kent) proposed to be bult at Richmond' was ordered to be sent to Hampton Court. A modern plaque on the model has the following description: 'This model was made for George II c.1735 to illustrate a design by William Kent for a country palace to replace the lodge in the Old Deer Park, Richmond. It is one of the many designs to be made for new royal palaces at Kew, none of which were executed ... Kent's design reflects the style he used in houses, such as Holkham & Chiswick. This model was almost certainly intended to have had a central dome'.

Royal Collection Trust

[thewales]

Prince William's gift to family of murdered rhino ranger

Anton Mzimba was killed by poachers in front of his wife last year - but his children have a secure future thanks to royal support

The death of Anton Mzimba has left the Prince of Wales profoundly upset, prompting the heir to the throne to make a significant private donation to support Mzimba’s vast family. He had two wives and 11 children to support. In addition to the financial assistance, Palace gifts, including the jubilee mug, were despatched to the grieving family as the smallest of gestures to demonstrate that the Prince has not forgotten them.

In the back yard of a single-storey house in a remote African village reachable only by dirt road, a little boy unwraps his family’s prized possession. It is a mug issued last year to commemorate Queen Elizabeth II’s Platinum Jubilee.

Zane, the six-year-old son of Anton Mzimba, with a Jubilee mug from Buckingham Palace CREDIT: Julian Simmonds for The Telegraph

Close to where the boy is standing is the spot where his father died, gunned down by hitmen hired to assassinate him. The death of Anton Mzimba, less than 12 months ago, sent shockwaves through the conservation community; he was an “incorruptible” park ranger who for more than two decades had fought in the increasingly dangerous war against rhino poachers.

Only a few months before he was murdered, Mzimba, 42, had briefed Prince William on how organised crime was now heavily involved in the big business that is rhino poaching in southern Africa.

Mzimba’s widow Grace witnessed the assassination of her husband and when she shouted for help, the gunman shot her in the stomach, the bullet narrowly missing the head of the three-year-old child who was holding on to her for dear life.

Mzimba was well aware of the dangers faced by rangers. It’s an unbelievably hazardous occupation. One conservation charity has estimated 1,000 rangers were killed globally in the course of a decade protecting wildlife, two-thirds of them killed by poachers.

His family are thankful for the support from the Royal family. The Anton Mzimba Education Trust, set up after his death, gives the family financial support in the “immediate future” and will help with the children’s post-school education and training. Prince William has given a significant private donation as it tries to hit a $100,000 goal.

“We are very grateful,” said Grace. “We thought the job Anton was doing was unique and important but we never knew he was meeting such important people. For the Prince to keep supporting me and my family when he is no longer alive amazes us. We don’t have the words but we are so grateful. He is helping to keep Anton’s memory alive.”

Saviour echoes his mother. “It seems crazy that Prince William has sent us money. It is very kind.”

—-

Prince William met Anton Mzimba, the ranger murdered last July, at a virtual meeting in November 2021 a few months before he was murdered. The Prince had been visiting Microsoft’s headquarters in the UK where the company has developed an artificial intelligence programme - called Project Seeker - to aid scanners in detecting illegal wildlife products being trafficked through ports and airports, such as ivory or rhino horn.

Mzimba was beamed into the room on a giant screen. Although thousands of miles away, his violent death has had a huge impact on Prince William.

The Royal Foundation, of which UfW is a part, funded Mzimba’s closest colleague Orlat Ndlovu and his cousin Leitah Mkhabela, a ranger with the all-female Black Mambas group, to fly to London for the screening of Rhino Man, a documentary about Mzimba and the work anti-rhino poachers do.

Full article

#Prince William #The Prince of Wales

[mightywellfan]

Craigievar Castle,

Craigievar Castle is a pinkish harled castle or fortified country house 6 miles (9.7 km) south of Alford, Aberdeenshire, Scotland. It was the seat of Clan Sempill and the Forbes family resided here for 350 years until 1963, when the property was given to the National Trust for Scotland by William Forbes-Sempill, 19th Lord Sempill. The setting is among scenic rolling foothills of the Grampian Mountains, and the contrast of its massive lower storey structure to the finely sculpted multiple turrets, gargoyles and high corbelling work to create a classic fairytale appearance.

#scotland #visit scotland #scottish highlands #castles of scotland #winter

[beardedmrbean]

One of two men who carried out a Satanist-inspired “thrill kill” murder in San Jose was freed from prison and released back into Santa Clara County. Former inmate Jae Williams, 29, was granted early release on November 20, court records show.

Williams was a 15-year-old high school student when he and his 16-year-old friend, Randy Thompson, decided they wanted to kill someone. The boys befriended 15-year-old Michael Russell with the sole intention of murdering him in 2009.

The victim’s family’s attorney, Scotty J. Storey, told KRON4, “Jae and Randy set out with a goal of killing someone just to find out what it felt like. They cultivated a ‘friendship’ with Mikey, lulling him into a sense of security with them, to achieve their goal.”

When San Jose Police Department homicide detectives were investigating the teen’s grisly death, Williams told police that his religion, Satanism, gave him permission to kill.

The three boys went to Russell’s house on Nov. 10, 2009. When the trio was alone in the backyard, Williams and Thompson attacked the victim with a knife. They reportedly took turns stabbing the Santa Teresa High School student.

Storey said the terror Russell must have felt realizing his “friends” were going to kill him is unimaginable.

With Williams freed from prison, the victim’s surviving family members are also terrified, Storey said.

“They are very disappointed in the legislative system that created the statute, which lead his release. They are also terrified for themselves and for society. There is no indication that Jae Williams ever showed any contrition or remorse for taking Mikey’s life or the brutal way that he and Randy murdered him,” Storey told KRON4.

For their trials, Thompson and Williams were charged and convicted as adults, and sentenced to serve 26 years to life in prison. Senate Bill 1391, passed in 2018, prohibits anyone under the age of 16 from being charged as an adult. After California’s law passed, Williams’ case was transferred into juvenile court.

Thompson — who was just one year older than Williams at the time of the “Thrill Kill” — remains locked up in San Quentin State Prison, a California Department of Corrections and Rehabilitation spokesperson confirmed to KRON4. “He was sentenced to life with the possibility of parole for first-degree murder. He is in CDCR custody,” the spokesperson wrote.

Thompson’s next parole hearing is scheduled for March of 2024. He will be eligible for parole in May of 2028, according to state inmate records.

Williams was set free hours after a discharge hearing was held in Santa Clara County juvenile court on November 20. His mother, Christina Trujillo, and defense attorney, Lewis Octavio Romero, appeared in the courtroom with him, court records state.

The court set the following probation conditions on the convicted murderer’s release:

Williams cannot change his place of residence without prior approval from his probation officer.

Williams is forbidden from associating with Thompson. He is also barred from having any “intentional contact” with the victim’s family members.

He must participate in re-entry services.

He may not leave his family’s home between 11 p.m.-6 a.m.

He must attend school, vocational training, or maintain full-time employment.

Williams may not use, possess, or be under the influence of alcohol or drugs.

He is subject to search and seizure at any time by law enforcement.

Williams is not allowed to own firearms until he turns 30 years old on June 8, 2024.

If Williams violates his probation conditions, he could be ordered back to jail for no longer than six months.

#nunyas news #wtf

[geralddurden]

Umbrella Pharmaceuticals - Chapter 35

I

A grotesque figure crashed against the glass, bile dripping from its mouth. Its spittle clung to the bulletproof mirror like putrid leeches. William did not turn away from the disgust. He'd gotten used to it. It was his job. The influx of human guinea pigs had soared. Neither William nor Albert knew where they came from, but they were from Raccoon City. Albert found out when he happened upon the wallet of one of the test subjects. A driver’s licence and some food stamps. Inside was a five-dollar buck and a tiny transparent bag with traces of heroin. Albert burned the wallet. They said nothing. There was a complicit vow of silence between them about what they had seen and done.

William sometimes had nightmares. He had gone from dreams of space travel to dreams of being trapped in the creature’s foul-smelling cell. The creature screamed “mother” “mother” as it mutilated his body and tore off his face...

He asked the guard to install a television with a VHS player in his modest room. He used it to burn up his meagre spare hours watching Star Trek on loop. Nostalgia had become his first source of entertainment and happiness. The second was wandering around the gardens of the mansion. He was not yet allowed to enter the house, but he had glimpsed its inhabitants through the windows. He didn’t know who they were, although his intuition told him not to bother finding out.

For he didn’t want to be the creature. He didn’t want to be a guinea pig. He hadn’t been born to end up ���like that’.

Cynically, he had joked with Albert about the resemblance of the infected to zombies. Also about what a viral Armageddon would be like. William joked to avoid any sense of responsibility and to dehumanise the anonymous victims. Albert would laugh at him, which reinforced the satisfaction. By turning the television up to maximum volume and mocking, he also forgot his parents. The parents who had taken care of him, who had accepted his bizarre choices, who had defended him against his aggressors…

The convulsive cries of the guinea pigs choked the saturated atmosphere of the laboratory. Three in all. Albert had revealed to him that it was Marcus who was responsible for selecting the subjects for Arklay. That amused him. The generous professor; and that he was contributing with his gifts to his best pupil being outdone.

The Alpha strain of the T-virus they were developing at Arklay had a 90% mortality rate. If you were infected, you died. Nothing else. He liked that, he told himself, because it made him look important. One problem: his low infection rate. Anyway, Spencer sent him a note congratulating him and urging him to start developing the beta strain, which would be created by merging the Alpha strain with Ebola. Spencer gave him the go-ahead to present his Ebola research as a doctoral dissertation; in fact, Spencer had awarded Albert and him a financial endowment with which they enrolled in the same distance-learning PhD programme at Yale. William planned to submit his thesis in 1980.

And so it was. At sixteen, he no longer felt like a teenager. He was an adult with an intermittent acne problem. He had to behave the way he thought an adult should behave, or the way the adults around him behaved.

And because he was the chief.

II

He was smoking a cigarette, leaning against a tombstone frozen by the icy wind. There was no body beneath his feet. He stared at the heavy wooden door that led from the garden-cemetery to the main building. He knew it was open because he had checked it himself.

In early autumn, he turned the knob and entered. From a staircase he entered a huge two-storey lobby. He randomly chose the double door on his right. Through the leaf, however, he heard two low voices and a very high voice, like a girl’s. Fearful of being discovered, Albert retraced his steps at a brisk pace and stepped back out into the garden-cemetery.

No one noticed.

He took a puff.

He wanted to know what was really going on there. A mansion in the woods... A secret laboratory... Biological weapons... Experimental viruses... The creature...

His interest in research had begun to pale in comparison to the shadowy network that underpinned the structure of the company itself.

It was not like the military, where the nature of classified information could be predicted. In this mansion, however, where there was no higher government than that of private interests, secrecy changed masks as easily as they disposed of guinea pigs.

A puff.

The director had left the premises. Spencer and the administrator were in charge.

William did not share his interest. He was alone.

Puff.

On his days off he would go to Raccoon City.

To look around.

#resident evil #william birkin #albert wesker

[scotianostra]

On October 1st 1763 the contract to build Edinburgh's North Bridge was signed.

Edinburgh in the 1700s was a very different city to the one we know today. The city boundary was restricted to the dramatic crag and tail feature which swept eastwards from the castle. Up to 35,000 people inhabited a space under a mile long making Scotland’s capital one of the most densely populated urban areas in the world at that time. The overcrowded population were crammed into crumbling tenements, many of them up to fourteen storeys high in order to make the most of the limited space. Make no mistake, Edinburgh at this point in it's history, was a skyscraper city, very few cities in the world had buildings the height of our capital!

Edinburgh’s nobility were often forced to accept the unthinkable and share dwellings with the lower classes. Change was not just desired, it was deemed an absolute necessity if the city was ever to move forward.

Plans to build a New Town to the north were discussed as early as the 1750s but without the means of connecting it with the rest of Edinburgh, it would be nothing more than a fanciful dream. Phase one required the draining of the ancient Nor’ Loch, a man-made stagnant body of water located in the area which we now term as Princes Street Gardens. Drainage began in 1759 and would continue up until the 1820s. Dry land at the east of the Nor’ Loch valley allowed for what was undoubtedly the most ambitious engineering project to have been built in the city at that point: An eleven-hundred foot long stone bridge. The North Bridge, as it would be named, enabled the New Town to become a reality. A brand new chapter in the city’s history was about to begin.

And so it was that the foundation stone of architect William Mylne’s North Bridge was laid on 1st October 1763 but it would be a further two years before any serious amount of progress was made. Nearing completion, the magnificent multi-arched bridge first opened to pedestrians in 1769 to much fanfare and excitement. However, the cheers would soon be emphatically silenced that summer due to a disaster of epic proportions.

On the evening of Thursday, 3rd August 1769 the side walls of the south abutment of the bridge suddenly gave way, causing a partial collapse of the structure and tragically claiming the lives of five people

Rescue efforts were recorded by newspaper the Caledonian Mercury which detailed the grim discoveries of bodies "buried in the rubbish, occasioned by the fall of the walls of the south abutment of the new bridge over the north loch".

Two of the bodies were identified as belonging to Mr Lawson, shoemaker, and Mr James Fergus, a local writer.

The Caledonian Mercury went on to mention that workers had been digging almost day and night since the collapse and that at least three to four others were feared to have shared the "same unhappy fate with the two already found".

A contemporary letter penned by a Darcy, Lady Maxwell recalls the evening of the collapse, which she had witnessed, writing

“The Lord, who is continually loading me with his benefits, has twice this day remarkable interfered on my behalf. In the evening he preserved me from broken bones to which I was exposed in a fall. A few hours after, when walking home from chapel, I witnessed a most melancholy scene occasioned by the falling in of the North Bridge. I… was within five minutes of passing over it… when almost in a moment, the greatest noise I ever heard (except on a similar occasion when I was remarkably preserved) filled the air."It seemed as if the pillars of nature were giving way. Instantly, the cry resounded “the bridge is fallen!”

A full inquiry followed and identified haste in construction and a poorly-calculated estimate regarding the depth of the foundations and sturdiness of the earth-filled abutments as the chief causes behind the disaster.

Rebuilding work demanded £18,000 (almost double the original £10,140 cost of the project) and the city would have to wait until 1772 before the grand reopening. The original North Bridge survived more than a century until the 1890s, when engineers devised an improved link that would allow for greater flow of traffic, this was at the time Waverley Train Station was being constructed.

Construction of the current steel bridge that we know today was completed in 1897 at a cost of £81,000., with the North British Railway Company contributing to a third of the cost.

A plaque recalling the founding and dismantling of the original North Bridge occupies a wall of the present bridge, which has now stood for roughly the same length of time as its predecessor.

The pictures show the evolution of the Nor Loch, I can’t find dates for them all, but you will see in the first one that the Loch is still not fully drained and very little signs of buildings on the North side, pic two shows buildings where the Balmoral Hotel now sits.

In the third pic there are signs of a Market where we now have Waverley Station, the street and buildings under the far side are now called Market Street. Pic four is dated around 1809, all the buildings you see on the left are now gone. On the top roght corner is what was The North British Train Station, the bottom of the picture you can see what is now known as “The Mound. Next pic is I guess from mid 19th century, still a long way from the construction of Waverley Station. Pic six shows the North Bridge being dismantling early 1896, and then "The Ceremony of Laying the Foundation Stone of the New North Bridge Edinburgh 25th May 1896, leading on to the commemorative plaque, which is from around the same time.

Finally is a pic of how the North Bridge looks in 2021, not much to see as it is in cladding while a multi-million restoration is taking place, the cost of refurbishing the bridge has soared from £22 million to £36m after the landmark structure was found to be in worse condition than expected. Last October the council issued a statement saying.

“Due to the nature of the construction of the bridge, full access behind the cast iron façade has not been available since it was constructed in 1897 and the last full refurbishment of this nature was in 1933. It has not been possible to properly inspect the hidden structural elements in almost 90 years.”

The briefing said testing had led to the discovery of “extensive issues” with the existing concrete bridge deck constructed in 1933.

I won't depress you with the latest details on when it will be finished, but at least it has opened to traffic now.

#scotland #scottish #history #edinburgh #Bridge #Traffic infrastructure

[changing-my-username]

Still up to his old tricks then

#rich energy #william storey

[ecoamerica]

Watch the American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 now: https://youtu.be/bWiW4Rp8vF0?feature=shared

The American Climate Leadership Awards 2024 broadcast recording is now available on ecoAmerica's YouTube channel for viewers to be inspired by active climate leaders. Watch to find out which finalist received the $50,000 grand prize! Hosted by Vanessa Hauc and featuring Bill McKibben and Katharine Hayhoe!

#ACLA24 #ACLA24Leaders #youtube #youtube video #climate leaders #climate solutions #climate action #climate and environment #climate #climate change #climate and health #climate blog #climate justice #climate news #weather and climate #environmental news #environment #environmental awareness #environment and health #environmental #environmental issues #environmental justice #environment protection #environmental health #Youtube

[dinner-at-charlies]

Harrow, A School-on-a-Hill:

The Park:

By the early nineteenth century, Harrow School had grown so much in importance, it dominated the town of Harrow-on-the-Hill, and the boys were allowed to use the grounds of a fourteenth century mansion (referred to at the time as Harrow Villa), for recreational purposes; its grounds having been landscaped and developed by Lancelot 'Capability' Brown in the mid-eighteenth century for its then owner, Lord Northwick, a governor of the School.

In 1831, the Rev William Phelps (an Harrow Master), bought Harrow Villa (then known as Harrow Park), as a boarding house for the School, and also bought it's walled garden and a substantial part of its surrounding grassy parkland.

From 1897 the House was renamed The Park, and during the twentieth century an extra storey was added and much of its grounds converted into the School's private golf course, with an area also set aside as a nature reserve. As such, there is no public access to Harrow Park. Instead, pupils and staff have exclusive access from the School's numerous properties along the park's west, north-west and north boundaries, from Football Lane, and also from a private path midway along Harrow Park Road.

Interestingly, a lion relief that was formerly above the east doorway now looks out onto the High Street from its present position above the Park's Reader. It was sculpted c. 1806 from Coade stone (an artificial stone, particularly resilient to cold and frost), ensuring the lion's features are preserved in perfect detail.

Park Lake (dating from Capability Brown's landscaping; now used for fishing by the Harrow School Angling Club), was made by building a substantial dam, and initially runs in the form of a narrow serpentine before widening near the north-east boundary of Harrow Park.

Famous Parkites include: King Hussein of Jordan (he and his brother, Prince El Hassan, later sent their sons to The Park); Edward Bulwer-Lytton (Viceroy of India); Viscount Ridley (British Home Secretary); Henry Yates Thompson (newspaper proprietor and manuscript collector); Sir Terence Rattigan (playwright); Pen Hadow (Polar explorer); Benedict Cumberbatch (actor); and the son of former British Prime Minister, Sir Robert Peel, who was also the first Harrovian to win the Victoria Cross.

Not familiar with Harrow jargon? The Reader is Harrow slang for the Library!

Always time for one more tradition: two John Glover paintings dating from the 1820s of Harrow-on-the-Hill as seen from Park Lake, are on display in The Park.

[streetsofdublin]

THE CONSTRUCTION OF A NINE STOREY APARTMENT HOTEL

This photograph was taken towards the end of 2022 however nothing really happened until a week or two when a demolition crew arrived to demolish the Dublin Working Mens Club at 33-36 Little Strand Street.

IS ABOUT TO BEGIN ON CAPEL STREET More than twenty years ago there was a Head Shop at 164 Capel Street but it was set on fire. To quote from court documents: “The facts of the case were that the appellant and another man deliberately set fire to a head shop premises called Nirvana situate at 164 Capel Street, Dublin 1, in the early hours of the 12th of February 2010. The shop specialised in the…

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#An Bord Pleanála #Apartment hotel group City ID #capel street #Dublin 7 #Fotonique #FX30 #Infomatique #little strand street #nine-storey hotel #Nirvana #North City Centre #over-concentration of hotels #partment Hotel #psychotropic substances #Ringline Investments #river liffey #Sony #Souvenir Seeds Store #William Murphy

[southeastasianists]

Acclaimed Dutch architect Rem Koolhaas described it a masterpiece of experimental architecture. Singaporeans were drawn to it for its atmosphere and the abundance of cheap Thai food. For Thais living in Singapore, it was a home away from home.

Golden Mile Complex, also known as Little Thailand, was sold in 2021 to a consortium which will redevelop the building. As it has been gazetted as a conserved building by the Urban Redevelopment Authority, its physical structure is likely to be preserved. However, the same cannot be said for its unique character. Its tenants – a mix of inexpensive Thai eateries, seedy bars and tiny shops selling Thai perishables – were given until May 2023 to move out. Now that they have dispersed, they are unlikely to return.

As an era in the building’s history ends, it is timely to look back at its history, which goes back five decades.

Building Golden Mile Complex

Officially opened on 28 January 1972, Golden Mile Complex was an urban renewal project by the government to “redevelop and rejuvenate the slum-ridden areas in the Singapore city centre”.1 In the 1960s, the site was home to squatter settlements, small-time furniture and rattan makers, and the Kampong Glam Community Centre.2

In June 1967, then Minister for Law and National Development E.W. Barker announced that the area would be one of 14 urban redevelopment projects which would be transformed – resulting in modern skyscrapers, luxury apartments, hotels and shops – to give rise to a “new look Singapore”. These projects would involve the participation of private enterprises.3

Singapura Developments won the tender for the three-acre site that would eventually host Golden Mile Complex with a proposal for a building by the architecture firm Design Partnership (now known as DP Architects), which was then helmed by William S.W. Lim, Tay Kheng Soon and Koh Seow Chuan. The three men had convinced Singapura Developments to bid for the site in May 1969, offering the unusual proposition for a single building that would integrate shops, offices and apartments. Although the concept differed sharply from the government’s original proposal for luxury apartments on the plot, Lim, Tay and another architect, Gan Eng Oon, proved their design could work with an economic feasibility study that included precisely calculated land and sale prices.4

The all-in-one design of Golden Mile Complex marked a significant shift from how city planners in Singapore then traditionally segregated areas into different zones for “live, work, play”. In fact, it embodied Lim’s vision for “megastructures” that would contain all the functions of a city within a building, which he believed to be the future of Asian cities.

“We must reject outdated planning principles that seek to segregate man’s activities into arbitrary zones, no matter how attractive it may look in ordered squares on a land use map. We must reject arbitrary standards laid down that limit the intensive use of land,” said Lim and Tay as part of an essay for the Singapore Planning and Urban Research Group that was published in Asia Magazine in 1966.5 This vision was realised in Golden Mile Complex: a concrete megastructure that became one of the earliest mixed-use developments in Singapore and Asia.6

In January 1970, Singapura Developments began marketing the property and declared that “The Golden Mile Race Is On”. All 64 apartments were snapped up within a month, and most of the offices and shops were sold by the time building works commenced in May 1970.7

The building was originally named Woh Hup Complex, after the parent company of Singapura Developments. Rising 16 storeys, the edifice was designed in the Brutalist style popular in Europe and North America from the 1950s to the 1970s.8 It was constructed in a stepped terraced design held up by two end pillars that each adorned a star logo by Singapore’s leading graphic designer William Lee.9 Such a facade maximised waterfront views for the 64 apartments and maisonette penthouses spread across the topmost seven floors.

The next six floors housed 210 offices and studios to complete the tower that was seemingly pried apart in the middle. This sheltered a residential play deck facing Beach Road on the 10th storey while letting in natural light and ventilation into the office corridors and a three-storey podium. The latter comprised 360 shops that sat atop a basement carpark for 550 vehicles.

Completing the facilities was a four-storey residential car park at one end of the building that was topped with an open-air swimming pool overlooking the former Crawford Park. All these different functions were connected by corridors, including a “street” that ran through the podium of shops. The result was an interiorised environment designed to “encourage human interaction and intensify public life”.10

A Hub of Modernity

Woh Hup Complex was part of a pioneering wave of shopping centres to open in Singapore in the early 1970s, along with People’s Park Complex in Chinatown and Tanglin Shopping Centre and Specialists’ Centre in the Orchard Road area.

Like many of the complexes built then, Woh Hup Complex was also a strata-titled development. This form of property ownership was introduced by the government in 1968 to allow individual owners to have a share of a land. It allowed property developers to quickly recoup their investment by tapping on a pool of buyers, and also enabled individuals to participate in the on-going modernisation of Singapore.11

Woh Hup Complex offered shop lots in various sizes, starting from a 144-square-foot lot for just $16,500.12 The prices were lower compared to other shopping centres because the complex was at the city centre fringe. But its developer remained bullish about its prospects. “We offer easy parking, no frayed nerves while coming up here,” said T.M. Yong, a director at Singapura Developments. “Our shop owners will most probably be able to offer goods at lower prices.”13 The earliest tenants in the complex were an eclectic mix of shoe retailers, beauty salons, photo studios, furniture suppliers, travel agents, eateries, restaurants and nightclubs.14

As one of the first buildings to offer modern office spaces in Singapore, Woh Hup Complex attracted many businesses too. Singapura Developments and its parent company Woh Hup as well as Design Partnership set up offices in the building.15 The complex also became known for its many architecture and engineering firms, including OD Architects who were conceiving the masterplan for the National University of Singapore’s Kent Ridge campus, Cardew and Rider Engineers who were working with Design Partnership on Marina Square, and several engineering firms involved in the construction of Singapore’s up-and-coming Mass Rapid Transit network.16

But a decade after the complex opened, there were complaints of interrupted water supply, faulty air-conditioning and lifts, leaking roofs, rotting ceiling boards, rubbish piling up along the corridors, and broken or missing lights.17 These were reported after Woh Hup exited the property market and sold Singapura Developments along with its properties to City Developments in 1981.18 Woh Hup Complex was then renamed Golden Mile Complex.

The Rise of “Little Thailand”

By the mid-1980s, many of the building professionals had moved their offices elsewhere and Golden Mile Complex became better known as the haunt of foreign construction workers, specifically those from Thailand.

After work, particularly on Sundays and public holidays, homesick Thai workers thronged Golden Mile Complex to drink Singha beer, catch up on news back home by reading Thai newspapers, and listen to Thai music on cassette tapes. The draw for most was the various eateries selling Thai food at reasonable prices on the ground floor. Not only did these establishments serve food just like home, they served them on tables and chairs “scattered in front of food shops” or along the corridors and the concourse – just “[like] a street corner in Haadyai or Bangkok”.19

Golden Mile Complex was also the terminal for tour buses plying the Singapore-Haadyai route operated by travel agencies located in the complex and the neighbouring Golden Mile Tower. As the Thai clientele in the complex grew, it became referred to as “Little Bangkok” and “Little Thailand”.20 The Thai community injected new life into what was then a rapidly ageing Golden Mile Complex, and attracted even more shops to serve the community. A tailor in the complex reportedly expanded from one shop to seven to sell all things Thai, while a “100% genuine Thai style” disco named Pattaya opened in 1988 on the second floor.21 There was even a 50-seat “cinema” that screened kick-boxing specials and Thai features at $3 a ticket.22

In 1986, the Straits Times reported that Golden Mile Complex “would be a ghost town but for the office workers, who appear at lunch time, and the Thais, who have made it their haunt”. Dorothy, a secretary working in an architecture firm in the complex, told the Straits Times: “Before the Thais started coming here about four years ago, the place was very dead. Now, it’s sometimes so noisy that you get a headache.” Because fights would occasionally break out, she was not a fan of the place. “For Thai food, I’d rather go to Joo Chiat,” she added.23 Her sentiments were shared by many other Singaporeans who avoided Golden Mile Complex on Sundays.

As one shopowner explained: “Our Sunday business has been hit. Some customers stay away because of the Thai character of the place.” A food stall operator added: “The Thais linger for hours, drinking beer and eating their favourite beef noodles. Sometimes, they fight among themselves over a few drinks.”24

It did not help that migrant workers and the complex were often in the news for the wrong reasons. As part of the government’s massive crackdown on illegal migrants in March 1989, 370 suspected Thai undocumented workers at Golden Mile Complex were nabbed in a single operation.25

National Icon or National Disgrace?

In 1994, Rem Koolhaas visited Singapore and marvelled at its development in his seminal essay “Singapore Songlines”. He was particularly captivated by Golden Mile Complex and People’s Park Complex, which he praised as “‘masterpieces’ of experimental architecture/urbanism”.26 On his next visit to Singapore in 2005, Koolhaas said: “These buildings were not intended to be landmarks but became landmarks. Yesterday, I went to see all the buildings again, and they are absolutely stunning, radical and amazing.”27

While Koolhaas and many in the architecture fraternity saw Golden Mile Complex as the future, most Singaporeans regarded it as a relic of the past. By the 1990s, a slew of new shopping centres had sprung up near the complex, including Raffles City, Bugis Junction, Suntec City, Millenia Walk and Marina Square. Many felt Golden Mile Complex and other strata-title malls were simply no match for these single-owner developments that could plan a more attractive retail mix to woo shoppers.28 A 1996 article in the Straits Times assessed that Golden Mile Complex was unlikely to change because of its ownership structure and should simply “fill [the] low-end gap”.29

The disconnect between Golden Mile Complex’s celebrated architecture and its decline came to a head in 2006. During a parliamentary session on 6 March, then Nominated Member of Parliament Ivan Png called it a “vertical slum”. He was particularly irked by how each individual owner had added “extensions, zinc sheets, patched floors, glass, all without any regard for other owners and without any regard for national welfare”, resulting in “a terrible eyesore and a national disgrace”.

“The appearance of Golden Mile Complex appals me whenever I drive along Nicoll Highway. It must create a terrible impression on foreign visitors arriving from the airport. How can we be a world-class city in a garden? The Golden Mile Complex is just the most extreme of how a strata-title property can deteriorate,” he said.30

This came just after Golden Mile Complex was featured in Singapore 1:1 – City, a publication showcasing significant architecture and urban design in the city-state.31 “That’s a real joke!” said Png. “Can you imagine if that thing was standing on the Singapore River between OCBC Building and UOB Centre?” He added: “It just gives me goosebumps. It’s so close to the city, yet it’s so unlike Singapore – orderly, tidy, everything neat. It’ll drag us down.”32

Not everyone agreed with his criticism. Retiree Evelyn Ong, who moved into the complex in 2005, immediately booked her 11-storey apartment after seeing the breathtaking views. She said: “Once I stepped in and saw the view, I said book, book, must book.” She bought her 1,000-square-foot apartment for about $310,000, and spent about $70,000 on renovations to make it look like a holiday resort. “I think I’m very lucky. It’s so difficult to find such a nice view. Every day, I sit here (at my balcony) and I can see the beautiful lights at night.” She agreed that more could be done to spruce up the building though.33

The local architecture fraternity pushed back against Png’s comments. In August 2006, Calvin Low, a trained architect and journalist, kickstarted a monthly series on local architecture in the Straits Times and titled his first article “Golden Mile Still Shines”.

“The architectural thesis that GMC [Golden Mile Complex] represented was revolutionary – not just for Singapore but globally, too. It stood as a concrete realisation of the architects’ vision of a futuristic city-within-a-building that offered a whole, new integrated way of living in a modern, tropical, urban Asian context,” he wrote.34

In November the same year, a collective of architects, designers and artists known as FARM launched “Save the Modern Building Series”, a lineup of talks to raise awareness of the complex and other pioneering modern buildings such as Pearl Bank Apartments.35 In November 2007, the inaugural architecture festival, Singapore ArchiFest 07 – organised by the Singapore Institute of Architects to celebrate Singapore’s built environment – featured tours of the complex conducted by architecture students from the National University of Singapore.36

A Landmark Saved, a Community Lost

In August 2018, news broke that more than 80 percent of the owners of units in the complex had agreed to put the building up for an en bloc sale at $800 million. This came hot on the heels of the sale of another modernist icon, Pearl Bank Apartments,37 just six months earlier. Heritage and architectural experts were dismayed at the news. “It will be a tragedy and a great loss to Singapore if the en-bloc sale results in the demolition and redevelopment of such an important urban landmark with such high architectural and social significance,” said heritage conservation expert Ho Weng Hin.38

Although architects and academics petitioned for Golden Mile Complex to be conserved, residents were in two minds about it. The complex’s long-time residents confessed they could no longer keep up with the building’s maintenance needs. “The problem is that it’s an old building, and when it rains, the water seeps through some of the walls. The building has water-proofing issues,” said Ponno Kalastree, who had lived and worked there since 1989. He was among those who had voted for the sale and was planning to downgrade to a Housing and Development Board flat, but admitted that he would miss the place.39

To the surprise of many, the Urban Redevelopment Authority (URA) told the Business Times in October 2018 that they have “assessed the building to have heritage value, and is in the process of engaging the stakeholders to explore options to facilitate conservation”. “Modern architecture, dating from our recent past, is a significant aspect of our built heritage, and we have selectively conserved a number of such buildings. Where there is strong support and merits for conservation, we will work with the relevant stakeholders to facilitate the process,” said the URA. This meant that the existing building could be retained while a new block would be added next to it.40

The tender closed in January the following year without any offer, and a second tender launched just two months later with the same terms and price tag of $800 million suffered the same fate.41

Almost one year after the two failed collective sales, the URA announced in October 2020 that it was officially proposing Golden Mile Complex to be conserved in light of its historical and architectural significance.42 When it was gazetted a year later in October 2021, Golden Mile Complex became the “first modern, large-scale strata-titled development to be conserved in Singapore”.43

The owners relaunched an en bloc sale in December that year at the same price of $800 million.44 This time, the sale was successful and the complex was sold in May 2022 to a consortium comprising Far East Organization, Sino Land and Perennial Holdings. Although their bid was $100 million lower than the reserve price, the owners agreed to the sale within “a record time of 15 days”.45

At the point of publishing this essay, the new owners have yet to reveal how they plan to redevelop Golden Mile Complex, though it is unlikely that any of the former tenants will return. The battle to conserve Golden Mile Complex has, ironically, cost the community who kept it alive when others moved on to swankier new buildings. But all, however, is not lost. The redevelopment of Golden Mile Complex could serve as a model for how other similar buildings in Singapore can be conserved and enjoy a new lease of life for the future.

#Southeast Asia #Singapore #Golden Mile Complex #Architecture

[mutant-distraction]

SAD END FOR THE VENUE OF IRELAND'S FIRST MUSIC FESTIVAL!

You'll find Galey Castle teetering on one corner of what was once an impressive 4-storey tower house, on the western shores of Lough Ree near Knockcroghery in County Roscommon. The castle was built in 1340 by William Bui O’Kelly; at the time the O’Kelly Clan were Chieftains of South Roscommon/East Galway. In 1351 William invited all the poets, brehons, bards, harpers, gamesters and jesters he could muster to Galey Castle for Christmas. Often described as a poet, warrior and visionary, he organised the festival because he feared the Gaelic way of life and culture was under threat. The gathering lasted until February 1st, St. Bridget’s Day, and became known as Ireland's first Fleadh Ceol (music festival).

In 1650 Oliver Cromwell’s troops laid siege to Galey Castle. The O’Kelly clan resisted and, for their defiance, were taken to Creggan and hanged on the stepped hill just north of the village, now commonly known as Hangman’s Hill.

(M) 💚

Pic. Wiki, J.daly2