458 Slices
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Medium 9781847778772

Lecturing to the Army

Ford, Ford Madox Carcanet Press Ltd. ePub

Ford’s notes for three military lectures, unpublished manuscripts, Cornell.

[a] With the S[cottish]. W[omen’s]. H[ospitals] in France18

1.
[Descrip[tio]n of progress of wounded from lines to us]
Man wounded – dressed – ambulance – train.
Train – hanging stretcher – [padded?] sheets – doctors & attendants.
In train [night?] men – stat[io]n in the camp.

2.
Hospital – a long path, dust in summer & thick with mud in winter – on either side rows of huts & barracks. These were wards, kitchen, office, sleeping place for staff – store – everything.
Wards two rows of beds, bathroom, wash up place.

3.
[Recep[tio]n of wounded]
Everyone ready & waiting – men arrive taken to receiving ward – looked at by C[hief]. M[edical]. O[fiicer]. who decides on ward to go to – carried there
Business of washing & putting to bed & feeding. Difficult. Clean up.

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Medium 9780253356864

6. Colors

Robert B. Ray Indiana University Press ePub

“Colours spur us to philosophize,” Wittgenstein once observed, but what are to make of Thoreau’s prodigality with them? In “The Ponds,” he begins a description of Walden by casually remarking that “All our Concord waters have two colors at least, one when viewed at a distance, and another, more proper, close at hand” (121). He doesn’t leave the matter there. The ensuing paragraph assembles twenty-nine separate mentions of color to suggest how the neighboring ponds and rivers appear under different conditions and from different perspectives: blue, dark slate-color, green, as green as grass, the color of the sky, a yellowish tint, light green, uniform dark green, vivid green, verdure, blue mixed with yellow, the color of its iris, a darker blue than the sky itself, a matchless and indescribable blue, more cerulean than the sky itself, original dark green, muddy, vitreous greenish blue, colorless … as … air, green tint, black or very dark brown, a yellowish tinge, alabaster whiteness.

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Medium 9781574412086

10. Ray Gonzales, “Tortas Locas” from The Underground Heart

Edited by David Taylor University of North Texas Press PDF

Chapter 10

Ray Gonzales

Tortas Locas

Ray Gonzalez is the author of nine books of poetry. Turtle Pictures

(Arizona, 2000), a mixed-genre text, received the 2001 Minnesota Book

Award for Poetry. His poetry has appeared in the 1999, 2000, and 2003 editions of The Best American Poetry (Scribners) and The Pushcart Prize: Best of the Small Presses 2000 (Pushcart Press). “Tortas Locas” is taken from his collection of essays, The Underground Heart: A Return to a Hidden Landscape

(Arizona, 2002), which received the 2003 Carr P. Collins/ Texas Institute of Letters Award for Best Book of Non-fiction, was named one of ten Best

Southwest Books of the Year by the Arizona Humanities Commission, named one of the Best Non-fiction Books of the Year by the Rocky Mountain

News, named a Minnesota Book Award Finalist in Memoir, and selected as a Book of the Month by the El Paso Public Library. His other non-fiction book is Memory Fever (University of Arizona Press, 1999), a memoir about growing up in the Southwest. He has written two collections of short stories,

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Medium 9781780491929

Chapter One - Psychiatric Diagnosis and its Dilemmas

Sue McNab Karnac Books ePub

David Harper

In the West, the dominant discourse for understanding mental distress is a psychiatric one and a key element in this discourse is diagnosis. Systemic practitioners encounter diagnoses every day because they are enshrined in their institutional contexts. In the USA, for example, practitioners are required by insurers to give clients a diagnosis from the American Psychiatric Association's (2013) Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (DSM). In other countries, diagnoses from the World Health Organization's (2010) International Classification of Diseases (ICD) might be required for a range of administrative reasons. In addition, in the UK, the National Institute for Health and Clinical Excellence (NICE) has published a range of clinical guidelines based on diagnostic categories. Systemic therapists have a range of responses to diagnosis. For example, in their study, Strong, Gaete, Sametband, French, and Eeson (2012) noted “counsellors shared a diverse range of views on the DSM: everything from an enthusiastic embrace to dismissal or even subversion” (p. 97).

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Medium 9781938901249

27. On My Own

Susan Spano Roaring Forties Press ePub

27

ON MY OWN

At a famous dumpling restaurant in the Chinese city of Xi’an, the maître d’ told me he couldn’t seat me because I was alone. Feeling stubborn—not to mention hungry—I waited in the foyer for 45 minutes, watching waiters push through the kitchen door carrying oversized bottles of beer, tureens of steaming soup, and platters of dumplings so beautifully decorated that they looked like bonbons. Finally, a large round table opened up, which I insisted on taking. There I sat, sampling each delicious course as it came, surrounded by seven empty chairs.

The problem isn’t just that the Chinese don’t cook for one; when you travel alone, hardly anyone does. The world is a feast spread for two at the very least. Aboard cruise ships, at spas, and on package tours, the rule is almost always one room, two people. Single occupancy is allowed, but usually a supplement is charged, and although one does sometimes find hotels with lower-priced single rooms, they are usually the dreariest, smallest, worst-located accommodations in the house—in basements or overlooking air shafts. Furthermore, when you travel à deux you can split ancillary expenses, like car rentals—surely a convincing argument for finding a companion.

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Medium 9781771870825

The River Within Us

Virgo, Seán Thistledown Press ePub

THE RIVER WITHIN US

Trevor Herriot

FOR FIVE YEARS NOW I have not seen fish eggs in the marsh and flood zone that still somehow manages to breathe life into the river just downstream of Lake Katepwe. I have seen: a gathering of 872 pelicans on the lake just above the marsh; a harlequin duck lost and alone on the weir; gangs of bald eagles lurking in the poplars; mink, several times, bounding over beaver lodges; fireflies winking their soft lights above the bullrushes at dark; all manner of fisher-birds working the shallows, from herons to osprey to kingfishers to cormorants to terns; and LeConte’s sparrows, tiny with burnt orange on their cheeks, heads cocked back to sing the marsh alive from the top of signs that say “Fill Dirt Wanted”.

The Qu’Appelle, like most of our prairie rivers, is a troubled waterway, worrisome to anyone who gives it time or thought. A narrow stream, naturally brown and turbid from clay and loam on its uplands, it meanders across south-eastern Saskatchewan mixing the ecologies of the Northern Great Plains with those of the Aspen parkland to the north. The piece of the Qu’Appelle that I have come to know best is a three-mile stretch from Lake Katepwe downstream to a double-arched concrete bridge that marks where the old highway crossed in a respectful circumnavigation of the marshes and fish-spawning grounds. The new highway slashes across the belly of the wetland where the river channel resumes at the end of the lake, thereby shaving at least three or four minutes off cottagers’ car trips to their cabins and resorts. Right next to the arched bridge is the old Katepwe schoolhouse, a brick box anchored to the south-west riverbank where the children of white and Metis families were once schooled in reading, writing, ’rithmetic and river. The people who own the schoolhouse now have no little ones, and so the syllabus of a riparian education on this piece of the Qu’Appelle has fallen to my four children and one mature student tolerated for his ability to rescue mud-hole victims, fillet fish, hoist canoes, and drive cars.

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Medium 9781552452585

Drowning Doesn't Look Like Drowning

Heather Birrell Coach House Books ePub

Drowning Doesn't Look
Like Drowning

FOR A LONG TIME MY FATHER refused to talk about the accident. That he considered me at fault was obvious and how to integrate this feeling seemed puzzling to him – although, of course, not to me. I had lost him as surely as I lost my mother, lost him to a recklessness that had been mere frivolity in the past. My mothers risk-taking had always been extravagant but well-ordered, but my father grabbed at dangerous opportunities as if at bullets zinging past him. He had dropped out of the Superior trip because a gig had come up, a friend who needed help moving some cargo. Drugs? Maybe. Not weaponry, that was not his style. But that there was a hard edge, a large possibility of capture or injury, was a given. Sometimes wilderness trekking was too purely animalistic for him. Too distant from the intricacies of human infrastructures. Was my mother angry that he had cancelled – last minute – a trip that was meant to be my initiation into this type of adventuring? If so, she never showed it. In the days leading up to our departure, the expedition became ours alone – we gathered supplies, rolled and cubed clothes and gear into knapsacks built expressly for this purpose. She was a winker, my mother, and in those days she winked at me often, while reaching for a canister of propane, smoothing out a map, pointing out a buckle or clasp. Hugging me, the two of us wearing only our underwear and neon-orange life preservers.

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Medium 9781552452585

Geraldine and Jerome

Heather Birrell Coach House Books ePub
A chance encounter in a waiting room tests the ties that bind us.
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Medium 9780253019059

Evansville

Johnson, Owen V. Indiana University Press ePub

Century-old physician interviewed by Ernie: Likes his pipe and the news, and is becoming fond of highballs; he knows most folks are crazy

EVANSVILLE, Ind.—Gentility is a characteristic that is hard to describe. I don’t know whether people are born with it, or whether it can be acquired. But if I could reach up into a tree, and pick off a characteristic for myself, I would pick gentility.

I am talking like this because I have just spent the afternoon in a home here, talking with three of the most genteel people I have ever met.

One is an old, old man, the oldest in Evansville. He will be 100 in September. Another is his daughter, a woman of middle age. The third is his grand-daughter, in her 30’s. The three live together in a fine old house.

I never knew it was possible to talk with a man 100 years old and enjoy it. I mean talk normally, discuss things, make jokes, talk about the present as you would talk with someone your own age.

This old man is Dr. C. P. Bacon. I talked with him for two hours. There was not an “old man’s phrase” in his entire conversation. He is an aristocratic, well-to-do retired physician—courteous, understanding, sharp-minded. He doesn’t look nor act a century old. He has the sense of humor of a man 70 years younger. He “gets” everything.

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Medium 9781847772114

De Bello Germanico

Blunden, Edmund Carcanet Press Ltd. PDF

DE BELLO GERMANICO

The Publisher’s Preface

The following manuscript having come into my possession,

I decided to make it the opening number in my present

Publishing experiment.

I feel certain that those who have read and still treasure

Undertones of War will enjoy the reading and possession of

De Bello Germanico. The Author of Undertones refers to this manuscript in his introduction to that publication as if it ought not to have been written, but those who read it will find that such is not the case. Since 1918 it has slept with cobwebs and dust, and meanwhile the Author went to

Japan and there wrote Undertones. But writing a new book does not mean that you can alter facts, and so we find

Undertones and De Bello Germanico in complete understanding with each other. While Undertones has the mellowness of time and experience, this older story gives more attention to the very small detail which a young soldier was sure to notice, and indeed made his day and night. How many soldiers would not march fifteen miles rather than attend one General’s Inspection, or wish for the Front Line rather than rest and training?

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Medium 9780253000958

Letter to a Reader

Scott Russell Sanders Indiana University Press ePub

Since you ask for an account of my writing, I will give you one. But I do so warily, because when writers speak about their work they often puff up like blowfish. Writing is work, and it can leave you gray with exhaustion, can devour your days, can break your heart. But the same is true of all the real work that humans do, the planting of crops and nursing of babies, the building of houses and baking of bread. Writing is neither holy nor mysterious, except insofar as everything we do with our gathered powers is holy and mysterious. Without trumpets, therefore, let me tell you how I began and how I have pursued this art. Along the way I must also tell you something of my life, for writing is to living as grass is to soil.

I did not set out to become a writer. I set out to become a scientist, for I wished to understand the universe, this vast and exquisite order that runs from the depths of our bodies to the depths of space. In studying biology, chemistry, and above all physics, I drew unwittingly on the passions of my parents. Although neither of them had graduated from college, my father was a wizard with tools, my mother with plants. My father could gaze at any structure—a barn or a music box—and see how it fit together. He could make from scratch a house or a hat, could mend a stalled watch or a silent radio. He possessed the tinkerer’s genius that has flourished in the stables and cellars and shops of our nation for three hundred years. My mother’s passion was for nature, the whole dazzling creation, from stones to birds, from cockleburs to constellations. Under her care, vegetables bore abundantly and flowers bloomed. The Great Depression forced her to give up the dream of becoming a doctor, but not before she had acquired a lifelong yen for science. When I think of them, I see my father in his workshop sawing a piece of wood, my mother in her garden planting seeds. Their intelligence spoke through their hands. I learned from them to think of writing as manual labor, akin to carpentry and farming.

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Medium 9781743603604

A Face You’ll Never Forget

Berendt, John Lonely Planet Publications ePub

At a young age my eldest daughter had a fascination with the night sky. When darkness enveloped the world, she’d urge me outside to look for constellations. Her book for beginning astronomers splayed before her, she asked for my help finding Cassiopeia, the Big Dipper, Cancer.

‘There, Daddy, look,’ she said, pointing up. ‘There’s Orion.’

I knew Orion. I didn’t know many others, especially in the washed-out sky of urban North America, but I knew Orion.

Long before my daughter was born, I had stood at midnight by railroad tracks on the tropical island of Sri Lanka, looking at a sky full of stars. The moon was long gone, the darkness so complete I could barely discern the outlines of the surrounding forest. Above, pinpricks of light so filled the sky that I began to believe I could see in three dimensions, looking into the depth of the cosmos at layer upon layer of stars, rather than the usual flat expanse of sprinkled light. It seemed I was viewing the universe for the first time. A trickle of sweat meandered down my spine and I wondered if it was caused by the tropical heat or the sudden awareness of my utter insignificance.

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Medium 9781847778772

The Colonel’s Shoes52

Ford, Ford Madox Carcanet Press Ltd. ePub

On the 27/9/19 four men were held up at midnight between York and Darlington in a first-class carriage. One was an architect, aged fifty, two were country gentlemen from the neighbourhood of Aysgarth, in the late forties, and the last was the MO of a service battalion returning on demobilisation. He also came from near Aysgarth, where he had a practice. They had been a long time in the train; it seemed longer, and there was a dead silence all down the line. The architect, who had a grey beard, stretched out his legs and yawned.

‘Eh, but I’m tired!’ he said. ‘As tired as the old priest, Peter Monagham.’

One of the country gentlemen asked who was the old priest, Peter Monagham. The architect said he was a good old priest who, on a night when he was dog tired, received a summons to administer extreme unction. But he fell asleep, being so very tired, and only waked in the morning light in great shame and tribulation. So he rode very fast to the house of his penitent and was told the man had died.

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Medium 9780253018571

Changing Attitudes through the Example of Jesus

IU Press Journals Indiana University Press ePub

DAVIS MAC-IYALLA is one of the leading figures in the Nigerian struggle for LGBT rights. His perspective is especially unique because of his commitment to pursuing gay rights from within the framework of Christianity. In 2005, he founded Changing Attitude Nigeria as a branch of Changing Attitude England, an umbrella organization that works within the Anglican Communion (which includes the Church of England and the American Episcopal Church) to raise awareness about the struggles of LGBT people to achieve equality, both legally and in the Church itself. Because of his outspoken advocacy and public identity as a gay Christian man, Mac-Iyalla was forced in 2008 to seek asylum in the UK, after receiving a number of death threats in Nigeria and Togo. Despite now living in exile, Mac-Iyalla continues to be active in Changing Attitude Nigeria, and is more committed than ever to the struggle for LGBT equality in Africa. The editors of Transition were able to speak with Mac-Iyalla from London, where he now makes his home. In this candid interview, he talks about his experiences growing up gay in the Nigerian Anglican Church, the newly-passed Nigerian Anti-Gay Law, and his predictions for the future of the global Anglican Communion.

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Medium 9781743603604

Forty-Five

Berendt, John Lonely Planet Publications ePub

One winter day I received a glorious proposition. Would I agree to travel anywhere in the world on 24 hours’ notice? My only obligation would be to spend six days in that place, doing whatever I liked, and then write about it. I would not have the faintest clue what my destination would be until the day before I departed, when my electronic plane ticket would be emailed to me. Only countries deemed war zones were off the table. Everything else was a possibility. It could be Iceland or China. Tanzania or Peru. I said yes, but I had a condition of my own: I had to depart for my trip on September 18, the day after my forty-fifth birthday.

It was a birthday that had special significance to me. My mother had died at forty-five and I’d been thinking for quite some time about how to commemorate that crossing. In the twenty-three years since she’d been dead, the idea of this birthday had loomed painfully in the distance. A sore spot of impossibility. How could I outlive my mother? Would I? For many years I thought not. But here it was and I wanted to honor the juncture where my mother’s life ended and mine continued. The surprise trip into the unknown seemed the perfect way to do that. Though my mother hadn’t traveled much – with three kids to raise single-handedly and very little money – she’d always wanted to. It was the thing she was going to do next, before cancer put an end to it all. I don’t believe in heaven or an afterlife, but I’ve felt my mother’s presence within me every day since she died and I hear her voice too, and always it says only one word. It’s what she wanted for me and what she didn’t get for herself: Go.

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