Blocked Contacts Quotes

As Rilke observed, love requires a progressive shortening of the senses: I can see you for miles; I can hear you for blocks, I can smell you, maybe, for a few feet, but I can only touch on contact, taste as I devour

When they bombed Hiroshima, the explosion formed a mini-supernova, so every living animal, human or plant that received direct contact with the rays from that sun was instantly turned to ash. And what was left of the city soon followed. The long-lasting damage of nuclear radiation caused an entire city and its population to turn into powder. When I was born, my mom says I looked around the whole hospital room with a stare that said, "This? I've done this before." She says I have old eyes. When my Grandpa Genji died, I was only five years old, but I took my mom by the hand and told her, "Don't worry, he'll come back as a baby." And yet, for someone who's apparently done this already, I still haven't figured anything out yet. My knees still buckle every time I get on a stage. My self-confidence can be measured out in teaspoons mixed into my poetry, and it still always tastes funny in my mouth. But in Hiroshima, some people were wiped clean away, leaving only a wristwatch or a diary page. So no matter that I have inhibitions to fill all my pockets, I keep trying, hoping that one day I'll write a poem I can be proud to let sit in a museum exhibit as the only proof I existed. My parents named me Sarah, which is a biblical name. In the original story God told Sarah she could do something impossible and she laughed, because the first Sarah, she didn't know what to do with impossible. And me? Well, neither do I, but I see the impossible every day. Impossible is trying to connect in this world, trying to hold onto others while things are blowing up around you, knowing that while you're speaking, they aren't just waiting for their turn to talk -- they hear you. They feel exactly what you feel at the same time that you feel it. It's what I strive for every time I open my mouth -- that impossible connection. There's this piece of wall in Hiroshima that was completely burnt black by the radiation. But on the front step, a person who was sitting there blocked the rays from hitting the stone. The only thing left now is a permanent shadow of positive light. After the A bomb, specialists said it would take 75 years for the radiation damaged soil of Hiroshima City to ever grow anything again. But that spring, there were new buds popping up from the earth. When I meet you, in that moment, I'm no longer a part of your future. I start quickly becoming part of your past. But in that instant, I get to share your present. And you, you get to share mine. And that is the greatest present of all. So if you tell me I can do the impossible, I'll probably laugh at you. I don't know if I can change the world yet, because I don't know that much about it -- and I don't know that much about reincarnation either, but if you make me laugh hard enough, sometimes I forget what century I'm in. This isn't my first time here. This isn't my last time here. These aren't the last words I'll share. But just in case, I'm trying my hardest to get it right this time around.

The psychosphere, the logosphere, is permeated by concepts, ideas, verbalizations, a whole apparatus devised, or rather evolved, to form some sort of mental contact with reality--or to block it off. That is, a large circle of the "thinking," "educated" class take ideas as more veridical than facts.

There are two reasons why man loses contact with the regulating center of his soul. One of them is that some single instinctive drive or emotional image can carry him into a one-sidedness that makes him lose his balance. This also happens to animals; for example, a sexually excited stag will completely forget hunger and security. This one-sidedness and consequent loss of balance are much dreaded by primitives, who call it, "loss of soul." Another threat to the inner balance comes from excessive daydreaming, which in a secret way usually circles around particular complexes. In fact, daydreams arise just because they connect a man with his complexes; at the same time they threaten the concentration and continuity of his consciousness. The second obstacle is exactly the opposite, and is due to an over-consolidation of ego-consciousness. Although a disciplined consciousness is necessary for the performance of civilized activities (we know what happens if a railway signalman lapses into daydreaming), it has the serious disadvantage that it is apt to block the reception of impulses and messages coming from the center. This is why so many dreams of civilized people are concerned with restoring this receptivity by attempting to correct the attitude of consciousness toward the unconscious center of Self.

For all our squinting at the two sexes to blur them into duplicates, few hearts race when passing gaggles of giggling schoolgirls. But any woman who passes a clump of testosterone-drunk punks without picking up the pace, without avoiding the eye contact that might connote challenge or invitation, without sighing inwardly with relief by the following block, is a zoological fool. A boy is a dangerous animal.

Look at that," he said. "How the ink bleeds." He loved the way it looked, to write on a thick pillow of the pad, the way the thicker width of paper underneath was softer and allowed for a more cushiony interface between pen and surface, which meant more time the two would be in contact for any given point, allowing the fiber of the paper to pull, through capillary action, more ink from the pen, more ink, which meant more evenness of ink, a thicker, more even line, a line with character, with solidity. The pad, all those ninety-nine sheets underneath him, the hundred, the even number, ten to the second power, the exponent, the clean block of planes, the space-time, really, represented by that pad, all of the possible drawings, graphs, curves, relationships, all of the answers, questions, mysteries, all of the problems solvable in that space, in those sheets, in those squares.

It’s a pretty good rule to remember that every time we come into contact with another person, even though just walking a block, our job is to lead him to a higher plane than that one on which we found him.

In a world where we spend ever more of our time staring at screens, blocking out even our most intimate and proximate human contacts, public institutions with open-door policies compel us to pay close attention to people nearby. After all, places like libraries are saturated with strangers, people whose bodies are different, whose styles are different, who make different sounds, speak different languages, give off different, sometimes noxious, smells. Spending time in public social infrastructures requires learning to deal with these differences in a civil manner.

Wilhelm Reich identified "armor" as the sum total of typical character attitudes, which an individual develops as a blocking against his emotional excitations, resulting in rigidity of the body, lack of emotional contact, "deadness". Functionally identical to muscular armor (chronic muscular spasms)

When we lose contact, we see only hate, only injustice, a giant so great its shadow blocks our sun.

Everyone was embarrassed. She had never realized before her life was torn apart how awkward grief was, how inconvenient for everyone with whom the mourner came into contact. At first it was acknowledged and respected and deferred to. But after a while it got in the way—of conversation, of laughter, of normal life. Everyone wanted to put it behind them, to get on with things, and there you were, in the way, blocking the path,

The Internet is a good filter. It’s a good way to find men who share some of your values. However, your friends on message boards and on social networking sites, scattered all over the world, are not going to be there for you when the proverbial shit hits the fan. Spend more time making contact with men who are geographically close to you. If you have close friends in your area, consider moving into the same apartment complex or within a few blocks of one another. Think about the way gangs start in inner cities. Men and boys have lived and died to defend tribes with territories as small as a few blocks. Proximity creates familiarity and shared identity. It creates us. Spreading our alliances across nations and continents keeps us reliant on the power of the State and the global economy. Men who are separated and have no one else to rely on must rely on the State.

Hours may have passed before I heard a throat clear behind us, saw Dad appear. His frame blocked out the sun, casting a cool shadow over where we lay. I registered only once he was there that I had slowly shifted so I was lying with my head on Elliot’s stomach, in our secluded stretch of sand. I pushed to sit up, awkwardly. “What are you guys doing?” “Nothing,” we said in unison. I could hear immediately how guilty our joined answer made us sound. “Really?” Dad asked. “Really,” I answered, but he wasn’t looking at me anymore. He and Elliot were having some kind of male Windtalker exchange that included prolonged eye contact, throat clearing, and probably some mysterious form of direct communication between their Y chromosomes. “We were just reading,” Elliot said finally, his voice shifting deeper midway through the sentence. I’m not sure if this sign of his impending manliness was reassuring or damning as far as my dad was concerned. “Seriously, Dad,” I said. His eyes flickered to mine. “Okay.” Finally he seemed to relax and squatted down next to me. “What are you reading?” “A Wrinkle in Time.” “Again?” “It’s so good.

The art of the great historic civilizations never impress us as much as an Eskimo harpoon or a mask from the South Pacific. The contact is physical, and the feeling we experience is very much like acute anxiety. Inner or outer space, the world below or beyond, becomes a great weight pressing down upon us. Each work is a solid block of time, time standing still, time more massive than a mountain, despite the fact that it is as intangible as air or thought. The handiwork of primitive peoples reveals the time before time.

Control or block?” Piper asked.

PS. Please don't block me from your email contact list.   The

She swung her fist at Nicolae’s head. He raised an arm to block the blow, and she delivered a killing stab with her wooden dagger. Nicolae laughed, staggering dramatically to the ground. “Dead, again, at the hands of the ugliest girl in creation.” He stuck out his tongue, face contorted in a grimace. Lada kicked him in the stomach. “I am no girl. Who is next?” The other Janissaries, gathered in a loose circle around Lada and Nicolae, shuffled their feet and avoided eye contact. Nicolae pushed himself up on an elbow. “Really? Cowards!” “I still have bruises from the last time.” “I cannot sit without pain.” “She fights dirty.” Ivan did not even respond, having never forgiven Lada for besting him when they were introduced. He refused to fight her and rarely acknowledged her presence. Lada laughed, showing all her sharp teeth. “Because when you are on the battlefield, honor will mean so much. You will die with a blade between your ribs, secure in the knowledge that you fought with manners.” She picked up her dull practice sword, abandoned on the edge of the circle, and swung it through the air, sweeping it across the line of the Janissaries’ collective throats.

Stop chasing people…If they block you, cut off contact with you, or ignore you…let them go. Let the people who naturally gravitate to you enjoy your energy. We spend so much time begging people to stay, “proving our worth”, clinging to them so that they won’t have room to leave. Cherish the people who WANT to talk to you, who WANT to see you, who are there by CHOICE, and not there because you chased them every time they decided to bail on you

Deep down in the European unconscious has been hollowed out an excessively black pit where the most immoral instincts and unmentionable desires slumber. And since every man aspires to whiteness and light, the European has attempted to repudiate this primitive personality, which does its best to defens itself. When European civilisation came into contact with the black world, with these savages, everyone was in agreement that these block people were the essence of evil.

Everyone was embarrassed. She had never realized before her life was torn apart how awkward grief was, how inconvenient for everyone with whom the mourner came into contact. At first it was acknowledged and respected and deferred to. But after a while it got in the way—of conversation, of laughter, of normal life. Everyone wanted to put it behind them, to get on with things, and there you were, in the way, blocking the path, dragging the body of your dead child behind you.

God began to slowly bend his knees and slide down Day’s torso, bringing his eyes level with his partner's. “What are you doing?” Day whispered. God brought his arms up and slid them under Day’s, securing them behind his back as if he was positioning them for another hug. “Cash.” Day breathed his name into his cheek while bringing his arms up around his neck. God squeezed his eyes shut and enjoyed the contact for a few seconds before lifting Day completely off his feet, up into a bear hug and turning him around so that he was no longer blocking the door. He slowly set his friend back down and did something that shocked the hell out of both of them… he kissed Day gently on the forehead before turning to leave.  

In a sense, one’s internet presence is one’s true personality. Old-fashioned ‘face-to-face’ conversation is all very well, but the best way to debate serious political issues is surely through an online forum in which you won’t have to deal with the potential intimidation that comes with actual human contact, and thoughts need not be developed beyond a 280-character limit. In addition, it’s important to be able to block people who disagree with you to avoid being triggered by challenging opinions.

SALT: your mouth waters itself. Flakes from Brittany, liquescent on contact. Blocks of pink salt from the Himalayas, matte gray clumps from Japan. And endless stream of kosher salt, falling from Chef’s hand. Salting the most nuanced of enterprises, the food always requesting more, but the tipping point fatal.

A woman cannot give a man his sense of maleness. He can desire her, but not identify with her. At best, she can give him a negative identification: I am the opposite of her. This can be very thrilling, but still leaves him deprived of an object of positive identification. (..) other men are brought in to fill the void. They provide contact with an element the inventor, consciously or not, knows he needs to assert himself as fully male. (..) By joining in their sexual games, the woman grants absolution and permission. It isn’t so much that these men use women to get to other men as that they need the woman to help break through the guilt barrier that blocks them from their feelings about other men.

Speaking to a foreigner was the dream of every student, and my opportunity came at last. When I got back from my trip down the Yangtze, I learned that my year was being sent in October to a port in the south called Zhanjiang to practice our English with foreign sailors. I was thrilled. Zhanjiang was about 75 miles from Chengdu, a journey of two days and two nights by rail. It was the southernmost large port in China, and quite near the Vietnamese border. It felt like a foreign country, with turn-of-the-century colonial-style buildings, pastiche Romanesque arches, rose windows, and large verandas with colorful parasols. The local people spoke Cantonese, which was almost a foreign language. The air smelled of the unfamiliar sea, exotic tropical vegetation, and an altogether bigger world. But my excitement at being there was constantly doused by frustration. We were accompanied by a political supervisor and three lecturers, who decided that, although we were staying only a mile from the sea, we were not to be allowed anywhere near it. The harbor itself was closed to outsiders, for fear of 'sabotage' or defection. We were told that a student from Guangzhou had managed to stow away once in a cargo steamer, not realizing that the hold would be sealed for weeks, by which time he had perished. We had to restrict our movements to a clearly defined area of a few blocks around our residence. Regulations like these were part of our daily life, but they never failed to infuriate me. One day I was seized by an absolute compulsion to get out. I faked illness and got permission to go to a hospital in the middle of the city. I wandered the streets desperately trying to spot the sea, without success. The local people were unhelpful: they did not like non-Cantonese speakers, and refused to understand me. We stayed in the port for three weeks, and only once were we allowed, as a special treat, to go to an island to see the ocean. As the point of being there was to talk to the sailors, we were organized into small groups to take turns working in the two places they were allowed to frequent: the Friendship Store, which sold goods for hard currency, and the Sailors' Club, which had a bar, a restaurant, a billiards room, and a ping-pong room. There were strict rules about how we could talk to the sailors. We were not allowed to speak to them alone, except for brief exchanges over the counter of the Friendship Store. If we were asked our names and addresses, under no circumstances were we to give our real ones. We all prepared a false name and a nonexistent address. After every conversation, we had to write a detailed report of what had been said which was standard practice for anyone who had contact with foreigners. We were warned over and over again about the importance of observing 'discipline in foreign contacts' (she waifi-lu). Otherwise, we were told, not only would we get into serious trouble, other students would be banned from coming.

For the first 3 weeks of that month, I was also under internal segregation. This simply meant that no other political prisoner was allowed near me. During meals, I was made to sit apart from the others, often with a guard between us. During my ration of sunshine, I had to sit in my corner, often with a watchful guard to ensure that there was no talking or other contact between me & any of the others. Because we were all on the same block it wasn't easy for the warders to enforce total segregation. The other political prisoners would break through the cordon by shouting across to me or by finding any & every excuse for going past where I was sitting & hurriedly throwing in one or two words of solidarity...This was always touching coming from people who were in no better conditions.

I didn't falter and together we matched, step for step. Each swing of the sword was blocked, each step countered. No blade ever made contact with flash. We twirled around; my concentration far too focussed to feel dizzy. All I could see was Macrucio's wicked smirk, one that reminded me far more of my past than even Nathaniel did. I wasn't fighting Macrucio now; it was my former life I had to eradicate.

Besides, even if I blocked my thoughts, my eyes would give me away. It was easy to put on a brave face but the eyes were essentially the window to the soul. Your eyes would always betray you; no wonder people avoided eye contact when they had something to hide. The eyes couldn’t fake emotions – surprise, happiness, betrayal, remorse. The list went on and on. Mine were probably screaming anticipation with a hint of irritation.

She had never realized before her life was torn apart how awkward grief was, how inconvenient for everyone with whom the mourner came into contact. At first it was acknowledged and respected and deferred to. But after a while it got in the way—of conversation, of laughter, of normal life. Everyone wanted to put it behind them, to get on with things, and there you were, in the way, blocking the path, dragging the body of your dead child behind you.

Peyton, wait!" Jace called, followed by the sound of his quick footsteps. He caught up and walked along beside me. "Please stop." He got in front of me. I tried to go around him, but no matter which way I tried, he blocked me. "Get out of my way," I growled, refusing to make eye contact. Anger. That was an emotion I felt comfortable with. "No, I won't." "I'm done with this date." "Peyton, let me apologize, please." He gently grabbed my arms. "I still don't want to talk about Ethan." I fought to hold back the tears until I couldn't any longer.

I once read the most widely understood word in the whole world is ‘OK’, followed by ‘Coke’, as in cola. I think they should do the survey again, this time checking for ‘Game Over’. Game Over is my favorite thing about playing video games. Actually, I should qualify that. It’s the split second before Game Over that’s my favorite thing. Streetfighter II - an oldie but goldie - with Leo controlling Ryu. Ryu’s his best character because he’s a good all-rounder - great defensive moves, pretty quick, and once he’s on an offensive roll, he’s unstoppable. Theo’s controlling Blanka. Blanka’s faster than Ryu, but he’s really only good on attack. The way to win with Blanka is to get in the other player’s face and just never let up. Flying kick, leg-sweep, spin attack, head-bite. Daze them into submission. Both players are down to the end of their energy bars. One more hit and they’re down, so they’re both being cagey. They’re hanging back at opposite ends of the screen, waiting for the other guy to make the first move. Leo takes the initiative. He sends off a fireball to force Theo into blocking, then jumps in with a flying kick to knock Blanka’s green head off. But as he’s moving through the air he hears a soft tapping. Theo’s tapping the punch button on his control pad. He’s charging up an electricity defense so when Ryu’s foot makes contact with Blanka’s head it’s going to be Ryu who gets KO’d with 10,000 volts charging through his system. This is the split second before Game Over. Leo’s heard the noise. He knows he’s fucked. He has time to blurt ‘I’m toast’ before Ryu is lit up and thrown backwards across the screen, flashing like a Christmas tree, a charred skeleton. Toast. The split second is the moment you comprehend you’re just about to die. Different people react to it in different ways. Some swear and rage. Some sigh or gasp. Some scream. I’ve heard a lot of screams over the twelve years I’ve been addicted to video games. I’m sure that this moment provides a rare insight into the way people react just before they really do die. The game taps into something pure and beyond affectations. As Leo hears the tapping he blurts, ‘I’m toast.’ He says it quickly, with resignation and understanding. If he were driving down the M1 and saw a car spinning into his path I think he’d in react the same way. Personally, I’m a rager. I fling my joypad across the floor, eyes clenched shut, head thrown back, a torrent of abuse pouring from my lips. A couple of years ago I had a game called Alien 3. It had a great feature. When you ran out of lives you’d get a photo-realistic picture of the Alien with saliva dripping from its jaws, and a digitized voice would bleat, ‘Game over, man!’ I really used to love that.

An individual with genital character, according to Reich, was fully in contact with with his body, his drives, his environment- he possessed “orgastic potency,” the capacity to “surrender to the flow of energy in the orgasm without any inhibition…free of anxiety and unpleasure and unaccompanied by fantasies”; and while genital character alone would not assure enduring contentment, the individual at least would not be blocked or diverted by destructive or irrational emotion or by exaggerated respect for institutions that were not life-enhancing.

Even in a forest, there are loners, would-be hermits who want little to do with others. Can such antisocial trees block alarm calls simply by not participating? Luckily, they can't. For usually there are fungi present that act as intermediaries to guarantee quick dissemination of news. These fungi operate like fiber-optic Internet cables. Their thin filaments penetrate the ground, weaving through it in almost unbelievable density. One teaspoon of forest soil contains many miles of these "hyphae." Over centuries, a single fungus can cover many square miles and network an entire forest. The fungal connections transmit signals from one tree to the next, helping the trees exchange news about insects, drought, and other dangers. Science has adopted a term first coined by the journal Nature for Dr. Simard's discovery of the "wood wide web" pervading our forests. What and how much information is exchanged are subjects we have only just begun to research. For instance, Simard discovered that different tree species are in contact with one another, even when they regard each other as competitors. And the fungi are pursuing their own agendas and appear to be very much in favor of conciliation and equitable distribution of information and resources.

Social infrastructure is not "social capital" -- a concept commonly used to measure people's relationships and interpersonal networks -- but the physical conditions that determine whether social capital develops. When social infrastructure is robust, it fosters contact, mutual support, and collaboration among friends and neighbors; when degraded, it inhibits social activity, leaving families and individuals to fend for themselves. Social infrastructure is crucially important, because local, face-to-face interactions -- at the school, the playground, and the corner diner -- are the building blocks of all public life. People forge bonds in places that have healthy social infrastructures -- not because they set out to build community, but because when people engage in sustained, recurrent interaction, particularly while doing things they enjoy, relationships inevitably grow.

I began avoiding certain streets. If I was spoken to going one way, I’d come back a different way, and found myself winding around many blocks. I trained myself to tuck my head down, avoiding eye contact, feigning invisibility. Instead of strolling looking up at the trees, I walked with unwavering conviction, or stared down at my feet. Once a man started walking next to me and said, Can I walk with you? I began walking faster. Let me walk with you. As his feet kept pace with mine, I just shook my head, my hands gripping the handles of my backpack, waiting for him to fall back. Some men would be offended when I didn’t respond, one man saying, I’m just trying to start your day right. But the compliments didn’t feel like compliments when my body language communicated I didn’t want to be looked at, didn’t want to be spoken to. They didn’t feel like gifts when they were thrown at me or whispered so only I could hear. Every comment translated into, I like what I see and I want it. But I don’t want it, I don’t want it, I thought.

Limitation of scope, however, could represent a profound advantage from an ecological point of view. The sun, the wind and the earth are experiential realities to which men have responded sensuously and reverently from time immemorial. Out of these primal elements man developed his sense of dependence on—and respect for—the natural environment, a dependence that kept his destructive activities in check. The Industrial Revolution and the urbanized world that followed obscured nature's role in human experience—hiding the sun with a pall of smoke, blocking the winds with massive buildings, desecrating the earth with sprawling cities. Man's dependence on the natural world became invisible; it became theoretical and intellectual in character, the subject matter of textbooks, monographs and lectures. True, this theoretical dependence supplied us with insights (partial ones at best) into the natural world, but its onesidedness robbed us of all sensuous dependence on and all visible contact and unity with nature. In losing these, we lost a part of ourselves as feeling beings. We became alienated from nature. Our technology and environment became totally inanimate, totally synthetic—a purely inorganic physical milieu that promoted the deanimization of man and his thought.

Two sailors hauled on ropes, hoisting the jolly boat up to the ship’s side, revealing two apocryphal figures standing in the center of the small craft. At first glance, Sophia only saw clearly the shorter of the two, a gruesome creature with long tangled hair and a painted face, wearing a tight-fitting burlap skirt and a makeshift corset fashioned from fishnet and mollusk shells. The Sea Queen, Sophia reckoned, a smile warming her cheeks as the crew erupted into raucous cheers. A bearded Sea Queen, no less, who bore a striking resemblance to the Aphrodite’s own grizzled steward. Stubb. Sophia craned her neck to spy Stubb’s consort, as the foremast blocked her view of Triton’s visage. She caught only a glimpse of a white toga draped over a bronzed, bare shoulder. She took a jostling step to the side, nearly tripping on a coil of rope. “Foolish mortals! Kneel before your king!” The assembled sailors knelt on cue, giving Sophia a direct view of the Sea King. And even if the blue paint smeared across his forehead or the strands of seaweed dangling from his belt might have disguised him, there was no mistaking that persuasive baritone. Mr. Grayson. There he stood, tall and proud, some twenty feet away from her. Bare-chested, save for a swath of white linen draped from hip to shoulder. Wet locks of hair slicked back from his tanned face, sunlight embossing every contour of his sculpted arms and chest. A pagan god come swaggering down to earth. He caught her eye, and his smile widened to a wolfish grin. Sophia could not for the life of her look away. He hadn’t looked at her like this since…since that night. He’d scarcely looked in her direction at all, and certainly never wearing a smile. The boldness of his gaze made her feel thoroughly unnerved, and virtually undressed. Until the very act of maintaining eye contact became an intimate, verging on indecent, experience. If she kept looking at him, she felt certain he knees would give out. If she looked away, she gave him the victory. There was only one suitable alternative, given the circumstances. With a cheeky wink to acknowledge the joke, Sophia dropped her eyes and curtsied to the King. Mr. Grayson laughed his approval. Her curtsy, the crew’s gesture of fealty-he accepted their obeisance as his due. And why should he not? There was a rightness about it somehow, an unspoken understanding. Here at last was their true leader: the man they would obey without question, the man to whom they’d pledge loyalty, even kneel. This was his ship. “Where’s the owner of this craft?” he called. “Oh, right. Someone told me he’s no fun anymore.” As the men laughed, the Sea King swung over the rail, hoisting what looked to be a mop handle with vague aspirations to become a trident. “Bring forth the virgin voyager!

If I can keep fighting,” she said, “then so can you.” “Back to the stone,” he said in a harsh voice. “I know you’re not a coward, Murtagh. Better to die than to live as a slave to one such as Galbatorix. At least then you might accomplish some good, and your name might be remembered with a measure of kindness after you’re gone.” “Back to the stone,” he growled, grabbing her by the arm and dragging her over to the slab. She allowed him to push her onto the ash-colored block, fasten the restraints around her wrists and ankles, and then tighten the strap around her head. When he finished, he stood looking at her, his eyes dark and wild, the lines of his body like cords stretched taut. “You have to decide whether you are willing to risk your life in order to save yourself,” she said. “You and Thorn both. And you have to decide now, while there is still time. Ask yourself: what would Tornac have wanted you to do?” Without answering, Murtagh extended his right arm and placed his hand upon the upper part of her chest, his palm hot against her skin. Her breath hitched at the shock of the contact. Then, hardly louder than a whisper, he began to speak in the ancient language. As the strange words tumbled from his lips, her fear grew ever stronger. He spoke for what seemed like minutes. She felt no different when he stopped, but that was neither a favorable nor an unfavorable sign where magic was concerned. Cool air washed over the patch on her chest, chilling it as Murtagh lifted his hand away. He stepped back then and started to walk past her, toward the entrance of the chamber. She was about to call out to him--to ask what he had done to her--when he paused and said, “That should shield you from the pain of most any wound, but you’ll have to pretend otherwise, or Galbatorix will discover what I’ve done.” And then he left. “Thank you,” she whispered to the empty room.

Then he was striding toward me. His mesmerizing gaze pinned me in place as he cupped my face. When his lips covered mine, I gasped. He took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, groaning into the contact. His hands tightened on my face. His sexy groans made my toes curl, muddling my thoughts. Block that out! I was Aric’s wife. I’d wronged him in the past, had consigned him to misery for hundreds—no, thousands—of years. I needed to make this right. Like penance. There was something vaguely threatening about his words. Misgivings about this arose. Too fast. “If you have feelings for him, fight them,” Aric commanded me. “By going to him, you’d be stoking them once more. Don’t you understand? He can find another woman—I cannot. If you choose him, you’ll be consigning me to a hellish fate. As you’ve done again and again. No, this will be even worse, because I’ve had a greater glimpse of what I’ll be missing.” “I just want to talk to him. I’m leaving this weekend,” I said in an unwavering voice. “No, you will not.” His arrogant demeanor back in place, he said, “Understand me, I’m not surrendering the one woman who was born for me alone. Not to a human, not to anyone.” “You can’t keep me here against my will any longer. What are you going to do? Put that cuff back on me?” I held up my hand to stop him. “I understand why you did it. But I won’t be a prisoner anymore.” He snatched up his shirt, threading his arms into the sleeves. “You say you keep your promises now? You made a vow before gods to be my wife. In this life, you will keep your promises to me—before you ever honor one to him!” “You can’t stop me from leaving. I have my powers back. I earned my powers back.” With a cruel curve of his lips, he said, “You promised never to harm me, Empress. Know that you’ll have to kill me before I would ever let you go.” As he strode out the door, I said, “And know that you’ll have to put that cilice on me to keep me prisoner again.” He whirled around, fury in his expression. “You refused—twice—to beg me for your own life, but you’d beg for his?” I whispered, “Yes.” With a calculating gleam in his eyes, he said, “This isn’t an impossible task you ask of me. I could call in ancient favors, contact old allies. They could be here in mere hours. We’d ride out as one.” “T-truly?” “On one condition: you’ll become my wife in truth, mine in every way. Beginning tonight. Comply, and I’ll take on an army for you.” My lips parted with shock. “How can you do this to me?” “Deveaux is lost to you in one way or another. He’ll either be slaughtered by the Lovers—or saved by my female, by her sacrifice.” He offered his hand. “Come with me, and begin this.” “Don’t, Aric! Don’t destroy what I do feel for you.” “I’ll take”—he seized my hand, yanking me close—“what I can get.” Despite myself, I shivered from the contact, from his husky voice. His hold on me was firm, proprietary. Because he believed I was about to become his. The red witch in me whispered, Death thinks he has you at his mercy. But the Empress doesn’t get collared or caged—or controlled. Take his head and pay the Tower. Shut up! “Please, Aric. I’ll grow to hate you for this. I don’t want to feel that way about you. Never again. Don’t force me to do this.” “Force?” Unmoved, he led me toward his bedroom. “I’m not forcing you to do anything. Just as you can’t force me to save your lover’s life. We each make sacrifices to get what we want.” With my heart pounding, I crossed the threshold into his dark world. Black walls, black ceiling, black night beyond his windows. Yet outside I thought I saw . . . a single fluttering snowflake. Like a sign.

Here are eight tips for writing effective cover letters.   Address the cover letter to a specific person, ensuring the correct name, title, company, and address. This shows respect for the person you are sending the résumé to. “To Whom It May Concern” salutations should be used only if you can’t determine the name of the hiring person or the company (for instance, when responding to a blind ad). If you were referred by someone, be sure this is included in the first sentence of the cover letter: “Jennifer Wells suggested I contact you in regard to an accounts receivable position you have open …” It’s an attention grabber. If asked to include salary history or requirements, you must address this or risk being disqualified. Provide a healthy range, such as “Over the past five years I have earned between $35,000 and $48,000. However, I am open to any reasonable offer consistent with my ability to produce results and meet your performance expectations.” If asked for salary requirements, use the same strategy: “I am aware that the salary range for a loss prevention manager in the Houston area averages between $75,000 and $110,000. Given my experience and, most importantly, my ability to make significant contributions to your company, I would hope to be on the upper end of this scale.” If you are sending the résumé out electronically, the cover letter can be inserted as the e-mail itself; just attach your résumé. If you prefer that your cover letter is the first page of the attachment, that’s fine. But the general guideline is not to attach multiple files. Make it easy on the hiring manager and send only one attachment or file to open (unless you have a good reason to do otherwise). Do not rehash what is on the résumé. This is disrespectful of the reader’s time. If you have done a good job with your résumé, you want the cover letter to quickly entice the hiring manager to read your résumé. Cover letters should not be preachy. Sales managers know that sales are the heartbeat of any company; you don’t have to lecture them on this. Nurse supervisors know the importance of compassionate patient care; you don’t have to tell them what they already know. Keep the letter short and concise. The cover letter is not the place to preach or teach. It’s the place to invite recipients to read your résumé! Finally, the four most important words on the cover letter are “I respect your time.” The following cover letter is a sample template to use in these challenging and troubled times. Notice the first four words of the second paragraph.

Stumbling to my feet, I glanced at my mom who still sat at the table. She looked at me then Larry then lowered her gaze and returned to her coupons. The logical choice for me was to run from the house. I was so much smaller than these three battling men and the smart thing was to run. Yet, Larry and his bullshit family were why Raven left. They were always telling me what to do and making me feel like shit. Now, he’d hit me and I wasn’t running. Grabbing a chair from the table, I swung it at Glenn and hit him at the back of the neck. As he went flying forward, the bastard tripped over Dylan and toppled hard to the ground. Before I could celebrate, Larry ripped the chair out of my hand then came at me. I backed away and grabbed one of the millions of bear figurines. Throwing it at him, I nailed Larry in the chest with the first one. The second one caught him over the eye, leaving a gash. As Larry chased me around the room, I grabbed more bears and flung them over my shoulders at him. While most missed, a few made contact and he finally hollered in frustration. Having recovered from the blow, Glenn tried to block me in. However, Dylan shoved the older man outside then locked the door. Unfortunately for Glenn, Larry’s stupid fluffy dog hated him and proceeded to attack his leg. “Dylan, this is your last chance,” Larry said, his face red and blood dripping down his face. “Give me that girl or you’re done.” “Fuck you. I was done the minute you put your fucking hand on her.” Watching the two men glare at one another, I exchanged the bears in my hands for heavier ones. “I’m leaving,” I said more to Mom than Larry. “If anyone messes with me, I’m cracking their heads open with Picnic Bear.

The date was November 23, 1965. One company was in contact. Machinegun fire rattled in the distance. Tom McEnry took pictures of artillery firing support for soldiers in the field. Just after eleven o’clock in the morning, McEnry complained about his light meter. “I can’t get a reading,” he said, shaking the small black instrument in front of him, banging it against his hand. At the same time, field commanders called in on their radios that something strange was happening. ‘I don’t know what it is,’ one officer called, ‘but it’s weird. It’s really gettin, uh, kinda eerie out here.’ The air became still. Insects went quiet. The artillery stopped firing. Radios were silent. The temperature, which had been about eighty-five degrees, dropped to around seventy or seventy-five. The light dimmed, though there were no clouds. The North Vietnamese broke contact. The war stopped. Someone said, ‘Look at the sun!’ Everyone looked up. A thin black disc appeared at the side of the white-yellow sun, obscuring part of it, blocking the light. ‘Far fucking out,’ a soldier said. ‘Would you believe it?’ said another. ‘A fucking ee-clipse? In fucking Veetnam?’ ‘I bet the VC think we done it,’ a GI said. ‘That’s why they took off.’ ‘Shee-it.’ Several minutes passed in near silence. The hand of an unseen presence seemed to move across the tropical savanna. No one spoke. Then the light brightened. The temperature warmed. Insects screeched. A few gunshots cracked. Field radios came alive with chatter and hiss. Artillery boomed. Helicopter blades whacked the air. The war, having skipped a beat, resumed as if nothing had happened.

In the 2016 film Arrival by director Denis Villeneuve, based on “Story of Your Life” by Ted Chiang, linguist Louise Banks (Amy Adams) is part of a scientific team summoned to Montana to help decipher the language of visiting extraterrestrials, known as “heptapods,” so that their intentions can be clarified. She starts to have frequent visions of a dying girl that she cannot place—she fears she may be going crazy from the strain of her assignment. The audience naturally assumes that these are flashbacks, memories of a child she lost in her past. As Louise begins to realize that her increased understanding of how the aliens communicate is helping liberate her cognitively from linear time, she begins having visions that aid in her work, including reading from the definitive book on the aliens’ written language that she herself is destined to write and publish in her future. From the book’s dedication, she realizes that the girl in her visions is a daughter she is going to have and who will eventually die of a rare disease. And at a key moment, when the world is on the brink of war with the visitors, she is able to contact a Chinese General on his private cell phone and talk him out of his belligerence after she “premembers” his phone number, which he will show her at a celebration months or years in the future—an event celebrating international unification in the aftermath of humanity’s first contact with extraterrestrial beings, made possible thanks largely to her intervention. It is a story about time loops, in other words. And what “arrives” at the climax and at various turning points—excitingly in some cases and sadly in others—is the meaning of Louise’s baffling experiences. The heptapods, with their circular language, feel at home in the block universe of Minkowski spacetime, where past, present, and future coexist. In Chiang’s short story, the scientists attempting to crack the code of their language get an important clue from Fermat’s principle of least time (Chapter 6), which suggests a kind of teleological interpretation of light’s behavior—it needs to know where it is going right from the start, in order to take the fastest possible route to get there. Chiang resolves the perennial questions about precognition and free will by suggesting that knowledge of future outcomes causes a psychological shift in the experiencer: an “urgency, a sense of obligation”1 to fulfill what has been foreseen. “Fatalism” would be one word for it but inflected more positively—perhaps not unlike how Morgan Robertson and Phil Dick may have seen it: as absolution rather than restriction.

In the 2016 film Arrival by director Denis Villeneuve, based on “Story of Your Life” by Ted Chiang, linguist Louise Banks (Amy Adams) is part of a scientific team summoned to Montana to help decipher the language of visiting extraterrestrials, known as “heptapods,” so that their intentions can be clarified. She starts to have frequent visions of a dying girl that she cannot place—she fears she may be going crazy from the strain of her assignment. The audience naturally assumes that these are flashbacks, memories of a child she lost in her past. As Louise begins to realize that her increased understanding of how the aliens communicate is helping liberate her cognitively from linear time, she begins having visions that aid in her work, including reading from the definitive book on the aliens’ written language that she herself is destined to write and publish in her future. From the book’s dedication, she realizes that the girl in her visions is a daughter she is going to have and who will eventually die of a rare disease. And at a key moment, when the world is on the brink of war with the visitors, she is able to contact a Chinese General on his private cell phone and talk him out of his belligerence after she “premembers” his phone number, which he will show her at a celebration months or years in the future—an event celebrating international unification in the aftermath of humanity’s first contact with extraterrestrial beings, made possible thanks largely to her intervention. It is a story about time loops, in other words. And what “arrives” at the climax and at various turning points—excitingly in some cases and sadly in others—is the meaning of Louise’s baffling experiences. The heptapods, with their circular language, feel at home in the block universe of Minkowski spacetime, where past, present, and future coexist. In Chiang’s short story, the scientists attempting to crack the code of their language get an important clue from Fermat’s principle of least time (Chapter 6), which suggests a kind of teleological interpretation of light’s behavior—it needs to know where it is going right from the start, in order to take the fastest possible route to get there. Chiang resolves the perennial questions about precognition and free will by suggesting that knowledge of future outcomes causes a psychological shift in the experiencer: an “urgency, a sense of obligation”1 to fulfill what has been foreseen. “Fatalism” would be one word for it but inflected more positively—perhaps not unlike how Morgan Robertson and Phil Dick may have seen it: as absolution rather than restriction. In the film, one of the heptapods sacrifices its life to save that of Louise and her team members from a bomb planted by some soldiers, even though it clearly knows its fate well in advance. Their race even knows that in 3,000 years, humanity will offer them some needed assistance, and thus their visit is just the beginning of a long relationship of mutual aid in the block universe. At the end of the film, Louise chooses to have her daughter, even knowing that the girl will die.

Our lives are all wrong. A person has no need of society, it is society that needs him. Society is a defense mechanism, a form of self-protection. Unlike a gregarious animal, a person must live in isolation, close to nature, to animals and plants, and be in contact with them. I can see more and more clearly that it is essential to change our way of life, to revise it. We have to start living differently. But how ? First of all we have to feel free and independent, to believe and love; we have to reject this insignificant world and live for something else—but how, where ? That is the first misapprehension, the first stumbling-block.

Thursday, June 27th of 1996, Richard Ramirez was moved out of the adjustment center to San Quentin’s East block, “Death Row,” where he would be allowed regular “contact visits” with his family and friends—the first since he’d been arrested.

This trick comes up across many different martial arts styles. In both judo and wrestling, the tug-of-war trick is a great preamble to a sacrifice throw, where your opponent leans into you, but instead of pushing back, you just take a seat on the floor (and possibly stick your foot into his stomach, depending on the throw). In some striking styles such as kenpo or muay Thai, if your opponent blocks your punch to the inside with too much force, you can let your arm go limp at the elbow. This can lead to your opponent clearing his own opening for that elbow of yours, which is already halfway there by now. This same block sensitivity is an important part of chi sao drills in wing chun and jeet kune do. These drills work by maintaining hand contact and feeling for excessive pressure in any direction from your opponent, before ultimately allowing your opponent to move his own hand out of the way with that excessive pressure while you strike. Stealing a free lunch is wonderful, and there is some ironic “stop hitting yourself” justice to it, but just like any other kind of theft, stealing a free lunch during a fight is a crime of opportunity, and there is no guarantee you will have that chance. You should approach any situation prepared to spend your own energy to get out of it, but if your opponent is going to leave his lunch sitting on the table, you should definitely eat it. Personally, when I fight or train, I like to make a mental note anytime I feel my opponent and I are pushing against each other. It doesn’t always mean it’s time for the tug-of-war trick, but chances are, if you are in a force-on-force scenario, there is probably something more productive you could be doing instead of just pushing back.

to an impaired emotional regulation system, a limited facilitation for empathy, and problems in distinguishing present reality from irrelevant memories. In the long-term there is an increased risk of developing future psychopathologies and personality disorders. As opposed to secure attachments, organized forms of insecure attachments reflect inefficient stragetgies for coping with attachment emotional stress. In cases of avoidant attachment the mother may be averse to physical contact and block her child’s attempt to get close to her. She may be intensely ambivalent about being a mother. Her avoidance of the infant is more than behavioral – psychological harm can occur through the mother who is emotionally unavailable when her infant is distressed, even if she remains in physical contact with her child. In parallel, due to the lack of interactive regulation, the child learns how to disengage from the mother under stress, as well as from his own emotional responses to her rejection. To avoid this, the stressed infant will signal his need to disengage by looking away. On the other hand unpredictable and intrusive mothering often leads to ambivalent-anxious attachment where infants can only cope with a certain limited intensity of emotional arousal before they move beyond their window of tolerance into a state of stressful emotional dysregulation. These infants are overly dependent on the attachment figure (presumably desperately seeking interactive regulation) but also angry with the caregiver’s unpredictable regulation. In the most unfortunate situation, the infant/toddler is exposed to the most intense social stressors, such as physical and/or emotional abuse. This also includes neglect, which is proving to be the most serious threat to the development of the emotional brain. The most severe forms of attachment trauma, both abuse and neglect, create “disorganized-disoriented attachment.” It occurs when an infant has no strategy that will help him to cope with his caregiver, causing the infant to be profoundly confused, physically aroused, yet emotionally paralyzed. This context thus generates

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BLOCKING HOOKS AND SWINGS: Left hooks and swings to the head are blocked with either the right forearm or the rigid, opened right hand. Blocking contact is made with the outside edge of the arm or hand. The longer and wider the blow, the more easy the block. If the punch is a left swing or left hook used as a lead, you block with the right forearm or hand, and counter simultaneously with a left jab to the chin (Figure 58). If the punch is a tight left hook at close quarters, you block with right hand or arm, and counter simultaneously with a left shovel to the chin (Figure 59). Right hooks and swings to the head are blocked with the left forearm, hand or shoulder. At long range, you counter with a straight right to the jaw; at close range, with a right shovel or uppercut. Hooks to the body are blocked with elbows-keeping the hands in punching position. You can counter with shovels or uppercuts to the chin. Uppercuts to head or body are blocked by dropping your forearm or hand onto the opponent's upshooting fist or forearm. You may be able to counter with either a regular outside hook, or an overhanded hook thrown like the "sneaker" (Figure 60). 21. Deflection Deflection is achieved by (1) "the parry," and (2) "the glance-off." The PARRY is used against straight punches for head or body. Let your mate throw a left jab at your head. Your opened right hand whisks in and gives him a brisk slap on the wrist, forcing his left jab to pass over your left shoulder (Figure 61). The parry or "brush-away" is done without great effort, without interfering with your balance. However, the deflection spins your opponent off balance and leaves him open for your countering left shovel to solar plexus or heart. Next, have your mate lead at your head with a straight right. Whisk his wrist with your opened left hand, so that his right goes over your right shoulder-or to the right of the shoulder (Figure 62). Counter simultaneously with a straight right smash to the body or with an outside right hook to the body. Parries for head blows are used only in that manner. Do not attempt to "cross-parry" head blows. Do not try to reach across and whisk a right lead with your right hand, or a left jab with your left hand. The instant you attempt to cross-parry, you leave yourself open on the side of your cross-parrying hand.

Keep your weak hand up by your face, so that you can easily defend your head if a punch is unexpectedly thrown. Use the weak hand to scratch your head or cheek, brush your hair, wipe your brow, adjust your hat, etc., but keep that hand up. Remember that you will most likely be reacting to an assault, and therefore it will take too long to bring a hand up from your waist to your head to defend yourself against a sneak attack. Cover This block/cover comes from boxing, and is identical to the one taught in my book The Cook Method of the Sap for Law Enforcement and Civilians. The weak (left) hand comes up and brings the hand to the ear as though you are talking on the phone. The upraised elbow and bent arm create a large, strong defense against any type of blow, especially a hook punch, which is difficult to defend against by trying to parry or block with the hand. You can also think of this move as raising the left elbow upward. In close, this shielding move can be used as a strike, hitting the attacker with an upward elbow strike. Train this move by having a partner slowly and lightly swing with his right hand at your head. If you get boxing headgear and gloves, you can gradually increase the speed and power of this strike. It is also possible for your partner to swing at your head using the punch mitts. Hammerfist As the left elbow comes up and the left hand is placed just off your ear, your right hand –which has been resting near your left armpit-- snaps outward, striking with the bottom of the fist. Aim for the opponent's jawline. A problem with punching on the street is that it's easy to damage your knuckles when hitting someone's skull or teeth. The bottom-of-the-fist blow, also known as a hammerfist, is a very powerful blow that can be delivered with little risk of injury to the knuckles or wrist. It has proven itself to be devastatingly effective in the full-contact cage matches of the mixed martial arts. Practice doing both motions at the same time; raising the left elbow up to cover the head while striking out with the right hammerfist. Practice slowly at first, then move to the heavy bag. You can also have a partner with the focus mitts swing the right mitt while holding the left mitt up as a target for you to hit with the right hand. Once you have the form down, make the move explosive. Burst outward with the elbow and hammerfist simultaneously. Snap the hammerfist, bringing it quickly back to the start position. Another tip as you practice this move is to drop your head down, so that your chin and the side of your face are not exposed. With your chin down, the striking right hand and arm will help to shield your head from attacks with the opponent's left hand. This is how you defend yourself when an opponent has surprised you with a flurry of punches –not by trying to block a rain of blows, but by striking while protecting your head.

From GM Vasquez I learned the advanced concept of block by striking. Let us say you strike with an overight and your stick is moving toward my head. If I strike straight downward, my stick will make contact with yours and slide down your stick until it impacts your hands. Like in Modified Tapado, I make vertical strikes that dominate the centerline and intercept every attack of yours while simultaneously striking you. This is like GM Estalilla's principle that I call “cutting through”--I am not thinking about blocking, but of cutting into you every time you strike.

him. I swung my Bone Basher down at him as hard as I could. My weapon made contact with his long bow first, it cracked that thing in half, then the weapon proceeded to knock the commander down to the ground. Once on the ground, I smashed and smashed him, over and over again. Tears ran from my face as I slammed my weapon into the commander. My repeated powerful attacks squished his body into the ground. I smashed him so hard that it destroyed the blocks below him. By the time I was done, his body had poofed, and I was at the bedrock level.

I grabbed my outside rail and got into what surfers from the world of the players call the “pig-dog” stance. My back leg was bent such that my knee touched the deck of my surfboard. My front leg was bent to allow my butt to make contact with the face of the wave in order to be able to control my speed. After dropping into the wave,

Jenny… I said over and over, it was maybe today. The wind: Follower, Adherent, and the Champion. It’s only slightly better than the other expression that followed me for eons after her death, a serpent hiss and it kisses, undulating, leaving its trail of poison: Suicide. A sideways word, a word that individuals whisper and mutter and cough: a word that must be squeezed out behind cupped palms or murmured behind closed doors. Honestly, I’ve never even talked to a boy for longer than five minutes, Wal-Mart, and is always picking his nose and wiping his nose on the underside of the sweet potato. All and sundry espouse as soon as they are finished with their tutoring. It’s the way things are. The mark of a Vigorous society.’ And if I don’t pass my boards-please God, please God, let me pass them- I’ll have my wedding as soon as I’m cured, in less than three months. Her voice has always reminded me of birds flying droning flatly in the heat. ‘Don’t be irresponsible,’ Karly would say, but underprivileged of blocking. ‘Bridal is Order and Stability, I take my towel from the bin and straighten up. That name- espouse- makes my mouth go dry. ‘You know she can’t say ‘I do’ until she’s healed.’ But the thought of it still makes my heart flutter frantically, like an insect behind glass. I’ve never touched a boy, of course, physical contact between uncured of the opposite sex is forbidden.

About ten miles away Third Officer Charles Victor Groves stood on the bridge of the Leyland Liner Californian bound from London to Boston. A plodding 6,000-tonner, she had room for 47 passengers, but none were being carried just now. On this Sunday night she had been stopped since 10:30 P.M., completely blocked by drifting ice. At about 11:10 Groves noticed the lights of another ship, racing up from the east on the starboard side. As the newcomer rapidly overhauled the motionless Californian, a blaze of deck lights showed she was a large passenger liner. Around 11:30 he knocked on the Venetian door of the chart room and told Captain Stanley Lord about it. Lord suggested contacting the new arrival by Morse lamp, and Groves prepared to do this. Then, at about 11:40, he saw the big ship suddenly stop and put out most of her lights. This didn’t surprise Groves very much. He had spent some time in the Far East trade, where they usually put deck lights out at midnight to encourage the passengers to turn in. It never occurred to him that perhaps the lights were still on … that they only seemed to go out because she was no longer broadside but had veered sharply to port.

Admission in nios stream 1 block 1 for class 10th and 12th in sukhrali, sushant lok, basai, kanhai National Institute of Open Schooling (NIOS) is a board that is established with the sole purpose of giving education to those students who have left studies for any reason. It is based on distance education and open learning system. NIOS conducts board examination at 2 levels, which are secondary (which is equivalent to CBSE, ICSE, SSLC and other 10th board examinations) and senior secondary (which is equivalent to any other 12th national and state board examination). Students who have failed in class 9th and 11th standard and want to take admission in 10th or 12th standard directly can choose NIOS. NIOS Admission Process through NIOS Admission Centre in Aya Nagar, New Delhi For getting NIOS admission 2023-24 through NIOS Admission Centre in Aya nagar, New Delhi, you can visit us. You can also contact us at: Mobile: 9716451127, 9560957631 Best NIOS Admission Center in Delhi J.P INSTITUTE OF EDUCATION is the best NIOS coaching & admission center in Delhi. We help students in every way possible. Whether it is filling the form for the exam, helping students in every subject, or helping them clear their exams, they do it all. So is you want to remove your 10th or 12th with ease, then you must come to J.P Institute.

I threw out my hands, not giving him any warning as I cast a forceful gust of air to try and knock him onto his back. He was so fast to react that he blocked it before it even got close to holding him down. I cursed as he launched himself at me, trying to scramble away but I wasn’t fast enough. I didn’t even really try to fight him off as he threw his weight down, pinning me to the ground with his entire body. “You're supposed to use magic,” I said breathlessly, his throat bobbing as his mouth hovered an inch from mine. The scent of cinnamon rolled over me and fire reached deep into my belly, making me consider leaning in for a kiss. We’d made a solid decision to stay away from each other and look where we’d ended up already? Great effort. “Maybe brute force is just as efficient sometimes,” he said in a rumbling tone which delved into my chest and sent a hungry shudder through me. “You said no physical contact,” I whispered as his muscles hardened, keeping me caged beneath him. I was losing my mind. I should have tried to fight him off, but I didn't want him to go anywhere. And from the intense look he was giving me, I could tell how close he was to crossing this line again himself. “What if I’m having second thoughts?” he growled. “You're fickle,” I pointed out. “And confusing.” “I don't mean to be.” He dipped his head so his mouth was by my ear and goosebumps rose to meet the heat of his breath. “I can't think straight around you,” he said heavily, his hand clawing into the earth beside my head. “I could have lost you in that battle, or I could have died without ever knowing how this might have played out…” My throat thickened and I almost gave in to the craving rising in me. But there was too much at stake for the sake of lust. It was stupid. He could lose his job and be 'power-shamed' and I could lose my place at the Academy. “I owe you my life,” he breathed and my heart nearly detonated as he pressed his lips to my cheek. “Thank you.” “The rest of Solaria aren’t feeling so grateful,” I said as he drew away, leaving a burning mark on my skin. “Not after that Vulpecula guy printed that article.” “Fuck what he said,” Orion growled then he frowned as he realised he shouldn’t have said it. ... "I need a new Liaison,” I said through the gnawing lump in my throat. He nodded stiffly, looking boyish and broken for a moment as he hung his head. A magnetic energy hung in the air, trying to force me toward him. It was so powerful I had to consciously take another step back to try and shake it away. “This has to stop,” I said firmly then turned away and marched off through the meadow, not daring to look back even though my heart pounded painfully in my chest. As I made it into the woods I started running, racing in the direction of Aer House, needing to hide away until I smothered this desperate longing in my heart. I was panting by the time I reached my room, hurrying inside and twisting the lock. I sank down against the door, knocking my head back against the wood as my pounding heart started to slow. My Atlas pinged and I took it out of my bag, my gut fraying as I found a private message waiting for me from Orion. Lance: What if I don't want it to stop? (darcy)

SALT: your mouth waters itself. Flakes from Brittany, liquescent on contact. Blocks of pink salt from the Himalayas, matte gray clumps from Japan. An endless stream of kosher salt, falling from Chef’s hand. Salting the most nuanced of enterprises, the food always requesting more, but the tipping point fatal.

I blocked your number,” I say. I got tired of lying awake late into the night with my thumb hovering over his contact number, practically aching from wishing he’d call, tell me the whole thing had been a mistake. I needed to take the possibility away, to free myself from waiting for it.

Kerno became an informant and intelligence contact for the U.S. State Department and FBI at the time of his ruling blocking the UNWCC records, according to U.S. files obtained under the Freedom of Information Act.30 Many of Kerno’s contemporaries who knew his position and background believe he spied for the CIA as well. Kerno eventually defected to the United States in 1952

The thirty-day no-contact rule Recovering from a breakup on a more practical basis can be likened to getting over an addiction. You go through periods of major withdrawal where you become overwhelmed by a cocktail of emotions, including guilt, fear, randomly missing him, and suddenly feeling like what he did to you ‘wasn’t that bad’. You start to play the mental showreel of all your good times (even if you only had a few), and suddenly you can’t remember why you left. Feeling this cluster of imbalanced emotions can be very confusing and irritating, but all hope is not lost. Contrary to popular belief, breakups don’t actually have to be hard. We assign so much spiritual and emotional value to these men, that by the time we finally distance ourselves from them, we feel distant from ourselves. And that’s really heartbreaking, because no man is worth losing yourself over. Ever. They say it takes about thirty days to break a habit. Texting your ex, stalking his profile from your second account, deliberately asking your mutual friends certain questions to get updates on his life and his new girl – it all needs to stop. So right now, go cold turkey, block his number on whatever messaging app you use, remove him from all your social media. Maintaining little corridors of access to him means he’s still on a pedestal. It also means your value system when it comes to men is warped, because naturally you’re going to keep comparing new guys to him as long as he holds this much space in your head. You want to evict him from that space so that someone new can blow you away when the time is right! This guy is not the be-all and end-all of your experiences with men, and the outcome of your situation with him really doesn’t have to define your future relationships. This thirty-day period of making yourself the centre of your world has a 100 per cent success rate, because by the time you get to day thirty, if it’s done honestly and correctly, you will have either a) met a new guy or b) found a whole heap of new reasons to love your healing self. But the thirty-day no-contact rule must be adhered to strictly, and if you break the pact with yourself, you must start all the way from the beginning – which might feel like torture.

The Soviet Union he returned to, in January 1970, was even more repressive, paranoid, and dingy than the one he had left three years earlier. The Communist orthodoxy of the Brezhnev era seemed to leech away all color and imagination. Gordievsky was repelled by his own homeland: “How shabby everything seemed.” The queues, the grime, the suffocating bureaucracy, fear, and corruption stood in grim contrast to the bright and bountiful world he had left in Denmark. The propaganda was ubiquitous, officials alternately servile and rude, and everyone spied on everyone else; the city stank of boiled cabbage and blocked drains. Nothing worked properly. Nobody smiled. The most casual contact with foreigners provoked immediate suspicion. But it was the music that gnawed at his soul, the patriotic mush blaring out of loudspeakers on every street corner, written to Communist formulas, bland, booming, and inescapable, the sound of Stalin. Gordievsky felt under daily assault from what he called this “totalitarian cacophony.

Mathematics with Brouwer gains its highest intuitive clarity. He succeeds in developing the beginnings of analysis in a natural manner, all the time preserving the contact with intuition much more closely than had been done before. It cannot be denied, however, that in advancing to higher and more general theories the inapplicability of the simple laws of classical logic eventually results in an almost unbearable awkwardness. And the mathematician watches with pain the larger part of his towering edifice which he believes to be built of concrete blocks dissolve into mist before his eyes.

When you give feedback, make sure to give some examples. You listen well: I know that because you ask questions, nod your head, maintain eye contact, and so on.

Designer roller blinds in Australia Our designer Roller Blinds in Australia creates a casual and relaxed environment for any space. Prices include the supply of BQ Design fabric and the manufacturing of the product. We custom make our designer roller blinds to your exact requirement using either your own image or design, or one from our extensive library of artwork, photographs and patterns. Our printed roller blinds are redefining the creative landscape of Interior Design. They are perfectly suited to both commercial and residential applications and have many exclusive qualities. The qualities are fire resistant, crease resistant, easily cleaned, made in Australia, Printed with the latest technology. Our designer roller blinds come standard in a full block out fabric but by special request are also available in sheer view. Contact us or visit our Sydney showroom for motorized, linked systems, sheer view or additional decorative trims and finishes. Powered by SEO

DAY 12: BUILD A SIMPLE SPEAKER ONE-SHEET Now that your flagship presentation has some texture and shape, you can summarize it on a speaker one-sheet. Local networking groups, chambers of commerce, and association chapters often want to see this before booking you to speak in front of your hand-selected target market of prospects. Lay out a simple one-sheet in Microsoft Word, or pay a little extra for a designer to format it more professionally. The building blocks are: 1.  One or more Topics/Programs 2.  Target Audience(s) 3.  Benefits (especially in headlines and program titles) 4.  Your Mini-Biography 5.  Your Sample Client List 6.  Testimonial clips about the quality of your programs 7.  Your Contact Information

Storm’s Fast-Flux and Conficker’s Domain-Flux In 2007, security researchers identified a new technique used by the infamous Storm botnet (Higgins, 2007). The technique, named fast-flux, used domain name service (DNS) records to hide the command and control servers that controlled the Storm botnet. DNS records typically translate a domain name to an IP address. When a DNS server returns a result, it also specifies the TTL that the IP address remains valid for before the host should check again. The attackers behind the Storm botnet changed the DNS records for the command-and-control server rather frequently. In fact, they used 2,000 redundant hosts spread amongst 384 providers in more than 50 countries (Lemos, 2007). The attackers swapped the IP addresses for the command-and-control server frequently and ensured the DNS results returned with a very short TTL. This fast-flux of IP addresses made it difficult for security researchers to identify the command-and-control servers for the botnet and even more difficult to take the servers offline. While fast-flux proved difficult in the takedown of the Storm botnet, a similar technique used the following year aided in the infection of seven million computers in over two hundred countries (Binde et al., 2011). Conficker, the most successful computer worm to date, spread by attacking a vulnerability in the Windows Service Message Block (SMB) protocol. Once infected, the vulnerable machines contacted a command-and-control server for further instructions. Identifying and preventing communication with the command-and-control server proved absolutely necessary for those involved with stopping the attack. However, Conficker generated different domain names every three hours, using the current date and time at UTC. For the third iteration of Conficker, this meant 50,000 domains were generated every three hours. Attackers registered only a handful of these domains to actual IP addresses for the command-and-control servers. This made intercepting and preventing traffic with the command-and-control server very difficult. Because the technique rotated domain names, researchers named it domain-flux. In the following section, we will write some Python scripts to detect fast-flux and domain-flux in the wild to identify attacks.

And it was big enough that organized crime was split two separate ways. The west of the city was run by Ukrainians. The east was run by Albanians. The demarcation line between them was gerrymandered as tight as a congressional district. Nominally it followed Center Street, which ran north to south and divided the city in half, but it zigged and zagged and ducked in and out to include or exclude specific blocks and parts of specific neighborhoods, wherever it was felt historic precedents justified special circumstances. Negotiations had been tense. There had been minor turf wars. There had been some unpleasantness. But eventually an agreement had been reached. The arrangement seemed to work. Each side kept out of the other’s way. For a long time there had been no significant contact between them

connection to the crypt, and break the bond with my current token, the doll.” Seth could not feel any hint of the connections she described. He had a sense of her presence, and that was all. He glanced at the Everbloom. Holding the plucked leaf in one hand, Seth reached out with the other and rested a finger against the petals of the flower. Immediately he felt a powerful influx of energy, and his mind sharpened. He fixed his attention on the phantom. The dark umbilicus connecting her to the crypt was obvious, and so was the dark channel of power uniting her to the doll. The channel of power to the doll felt sullied. Somebody was tampering with it. “I feel the connections,” Seth said excitedly. “Change them,” Dezia said. “Link me to the leaf. I am willing it. Help it to happen. Break the bond with my current token. Be quick about it. If they catch on to what we are doing, they will try to pull me away.” Seth searched the power inside of him. The darkness he drew from to quench torches was enlivened by his contact with the Everbloom. Drawing on that power, Seth focused on creating a channel between Dezia and the leaf, but the connection to the current token blocked his effort. Seth concentrated on her bond with the doll. He could not sense the location of the doll, only that it was far away. He willed the phantom free of that bond, as he would when attempting to open a lock.

Of course, as the poor become dangerous - addicted, short-tempered, diseased - the middle class withdraws still further from contact. Better to close the park, as some affluent lower-Manhattanites have argues, than risk mingling with those who have no other space in which to sleep or pass the time. Better to block off public streets, as some Miami neighborhoods have concluded, than allow fee passage to the down-and-out. Even our city streets are less likely than in the past to offer the promiscuous mingling of "others." Suburban mall have drained downtown shopping areas and left them to the poor; the new urban skywalks lift the white-collar population into a weatherproof world of their own, leaving the streets to the overlapping categories of the poor, blue-collar workers, and people of color. And the more the poor are cut off or abandoned, the less they are capable of inspiring sympathy or even simple human interest.

The primary focus is empathy, attachment, attunement, and positive emotions related to interpersonal relationships. The therapist must emphasize face-to-face gaze, eye-to-eye contact, matching facial expression, matching tone of voice, and using reflective responses. Also effective are play and play activities, such as singing, music, enjoyable social activities, playing with a pet, telling stories, special handshakes, playing with stacking blocks, Legos, or manipulatives, games that allow taking turns, playing with a cardboard box maze, playing social games (Red Light, Green Light; Mother,

Teach children how to greet a dog properly, by using the no touch, no talk, no eye contact rule until the dog signals that it wants to have more interaction. When the puppy first arrives, make sure the children limit their engagement with it for the first few days, and that they always interact in a calm, quiet manner. Educate your kids about leadership, and show them how to block a puppy’s excitement if he begins to play too rough. It may seem cute in a tiny puppy, but it could become dangerous as the dog grows up. Don’t ever let a child tease a puppy.

One of the many reasons New York is such a splendid city for writers is that one is constantly in contact with one’s fellow citizens. In most of the rest of the country, people spend all their in-between time in cars. They listen to their radios or natter away on their cell phones—or, alas, both—and they’re effectively insulated from everything going on around them. If a Los Angeleno’s SUV is a culturally sterile environment, a New York subway is a veritable Petri dish, swarming

For the next three weeks, Shockley kept up a furious pace. By late January he had come up with a theory, and a design, for a transistor that both looked and functioned differently than Bardeen and Brattain’s. Theirs had been described as the point-contact transistor; Shockley’s was to be known as the junction transistor. Rather than two metal points jammed into a sliver of semiconducting material, it was a solid block made from two pieces of n-type germanium and a nearly microscopic slice of p-type germanium in between. The metaphor of a sandwich wasn’t far off. Except the sandwich was about the size of a kernel of corn.

As much as my father was there during my childhood, he was also not there. He had an introversion common to Finns, and to engineers. He avoided eye contact. If he was growing up today, I’m curious what a psychiatrist would make of him. He had a boyhood habit of stimming, rocking back and forth to soothe himself. In his 20s, he had a compulsive blinking tic. In his middle age, he kept a notebook listing every winning Dallas lotto number, recorded in his careful, geometrically precise block lettering. A futile attempt at charting randomness.

Meanwhile, Facebook censors Palestinian groups so often that they have created their own hashtag, #FBCensorsPalestine. That the groups have become prominent matters little: in 2016, Facebook blocked accounts belonging to editors at the Quds News Network and Shehab News Agency in the West Bank; it later apologized and restored the accounts.30 The following year, it did the same to the official account of Fatah, the ruling party in the West Bank.31 A year after Facebook’s relationship with the Israelis was formalized, the Guardian released a set of leaked documents exposing the ways the company’s moderation policy discriminates against Palestinians and other groups. Published in a series called “The Facebook Files,” the documents contained slides from manuals used to train content moderators. On the whole, the leaks paint a picture of a disjointed and disorganized company where the community standards are expanded piecemeal, and little attention is given to their consequences. Anna, the former Facebook operations specialist I spoke with, agrees: “There’s no ownership of processes from beginning to end.” One set of documents demonstrate with precision the imbalance on the platform between Palestinians and Israelis (and the supporters of both). In a slide deck entitled “Credible Violence: Abuse Standards,” one slide lists global and local “vulnerable” groups; alongside “foreigners” and “homeless people” is “Zionists.”32 Interestingly, while Zionists are protected as a special category, “migrants,” as ProPublica has reported, are only “quasi-protected” and “Black children” aren’t protected at all.33 In trying to understand how such a decision came about, I reached out to numerous contacts, but only one spoke about it on the record. Maria, who worked in community operations until 2017, told me that she spoke up against the categorization when it was proposed. “We’d say, ‘Being a Zionist isn’t like being a Hindu or Muslim or white or Black—it’s like being a revolutionary socialist, it’s an ideology,’” she told me. “And now, almost everything related to Palestine is getting deleted.

I read a post on Palestinian Refugee ResearchNet’s blog claiming that Facebook was blocking the term “Palestinian” from being used in page titles. The post included a screenshot of an attempt to create a page called “Palestinian Refugee ResearchNet,” with a warning splashed across the top that read: “Our automated system will not allow the name ‘Palestinian Refugee ResearchNet.’ It may violate our Pages Guidelines or contain a word or phrase that is blocked to prevent the creation of unofficial or otherwise prohibited Pages. If you believe this is an error, please contact our Customer Support team.” The blogger, Rex Brynen, tested several similar titles, replacing “Palestinian” with “Israeli” and “Afghan.” Both worked, so he wrote to the support team.

I have never experienced what is known as “writers block.” Ideas come to me as soon as my pen hits the paper or as soon as my fingers touch the keyboard. But I have experienced cases of, what I guess I would call, “mind stretching.” That’s when urges to write compel me in publicwhen there is so much activity going on in my thoughts that I experience strong impulses to isolate myself just so I can put what I’m thinking about on paper. I recognize an overheating of my mental engine on those occasions and I have to work hard at cooling it down. I do that by putting an extreme focus on my immediate surroundings. Which results in things like rare work achievements or a deep communication with people that I come in contact with.

When we come in contact with our true self, we stop trying to be someone else. We fall in love with it and embrace it with all its flaws :-)

NBA 2K18 Wishlist - Good Badges To Deal Problems In 2K17 The NBA 2K18 release date has basketball fans hyped. The new game in the series will be the definitive way for fans to take control of their favorite franchises and players on the Xbox One and PS4. As of the features player wish to be added into NBA 2K18, we can compare it with NBA 2K17. Today, we'll list the best badges players would like to see in the latest NBA franchise. Flashy Dunker 2K Sports has spent a large amount of time recording flashy dunk animations that look great when they trigger. Unfortunately players do not equip any of these because they get blocked at a higher rate than the basic one and two hand dunk packages. NBA 2K17 has posterizer to help with contact dunks but Flashy Dunker would be for non-contact animations. The badge would allow you to use these flashy dunk packages in traffic while getting blocked at a lower rate in NBA 2K18. Bullet Passer Badge Even with a high passer rating and Hall of Fame dimer you can still find yourself throwing slow lob passes inexplicably. These passes are easy to intercept and give the defense too much time to recover. Bullet Passer would be an increase in the speed of passes that you throw, allowing you to create open looks for teammates in 2K18 that were not possible in NBA 2K17. A strong passing game is more important than ISO ball and this badge would help with that style of play. 3 And D Badge The 3 and D badge would be an archetype in NBA 2K18 ideally but a badge version would be an acceptable substitute. This badge would once again reward players for playing good defense. The badge would trigger after a block, steal, or good shot defense and would lead to an increase in shooting percentage on the next possession from behind the 3 point arc. Dominant Post Presence Badge It's a travesty that post scorer is one of the more under-utilized archetypes in NBA 2K17. Many players that have created a post scorer can immediately tell you why they do not play it as much as their other MyPlayers, it is incredibly easy to lose the ball in the post. Whether it is a double team or your matchup, getting the ball poked loose is a constant problem. Dominant Post Presence would trigger when you attempt to post up and would be an increase in your ability to maintain possession of the ball as long as NBA 2K18 add this badge. In addition the badge would be an increase in the shooting percentage of your teammate when you pass out of the post to an open man. The Glove NBA 2K17 has too many contested shots. The shot contest rating on most archetypes is not enough to outweigh the contested midrange or 3 point rating and consistently force misses. It's obviously that height helps you contest shots in a major way but it also slows you down. However, the Glove would solve this problem in NBA 2K18. This badge would increase your ability to contest shots effectively, forcing more misses and allowing you to play better defense. Of course, there should be more other tips and tricks for NBA 2K18. If you have better advices, tell us on the official media. The NBA 2K18 Early Tip-Off Weekend starts September 15th. That's a total of four days for dedicated fans to get in the game and try its new features before other buyers. The game is completely unlocked for Early Tip-Off Weekend. Be sure to make enough preparation for the upcoming event.

And Angelo had delivered in a big way. Aleks did indeed come in every Thursday morning. Magnus and I had debated the best way to make contact with Aleks, but had ultimately decided it would come down to whether Aleks was alone, which given what Remy had told us about the escort Aleks had had in the bathroom, wouldn’t be very likely. We’d opted to watch for him from our rental car at the end of the block.

please note that this is a process. You have spent many, many years trying to block out any spirit communication. So you have to learn to tear down the very wall you have spent much time and many years building.

I mostly saw Vince Foster in the hallways. He was Mrs. Clinton’s personal attaché, a lawyer from Arkansas. Word circulated that she berated him mercilessly. The first time I saw Foster I figured he wouldn’t last a year. He looked uncomfortable and unhappy in the White House. I knew what it was like to be yelled at by superiors, but Mrs. Clinton never hesitated to launch a tirade. Yet her staffers never dared say, “I don’t have to take this shit!” They reminded me of battered wives: too loyal, too unwilling to acknowledge they’d never assuage her. They had no one to blame but themselves, but they could never admit it. She criticized Foster for failing to get ahead of the constant scandals, for cabinet positions not confirmed, and for the slowness of staffing the White House. Foster eventually took his own life in Fort Marcy Park. In his briefcase was a note torn into twenty-seven pieces, blaming the FBI, the media, the Republicans—even the White House Ushers Office. A rumor circulated among law enforcement types that contended his suicide weapon had to be repaired in order for the forensics team to fire it since it wouldn’t function for them. Maybe his final shot misaligned the cylinders and later prevented contact with the bullet primers. But that, along with many other public details of the case (carpet fibers on his suit coat, etc.), made his case spooky. The last lines of his sparse suicide note read: “I was not meant for the job or the spotlight of public life in Washington. Here ruining people is considered sport.” A UD friend of mine, Hank O’Neil, was posted outside of Foster’s office as part of the FBI’s investigation of his suicide. Maggie Williams, Mrs. Clinton’s always well dressed chief of staff, physically pushed her way past Hank into Foster’s office, arguing that he had no right to block her entrance. She removed boxes that were never recovered; they were destroyed. Congressmen bashed Officer O’Neil’s integrity, but he held firm. He reported exactly what he saw and didn’t make any inferences about it, but they were sure he held some smoking gun and was protecting the Clintons.

I drive into the high school parking lot with my mind more on my sister than on the road. My wheels screech to a stop when I almost hit a guy and girl on a motorcycle. I thought it was an empty parking space. “Watch it, bitch,” Carmen Sanchez, the girl on the back of the motorcycle, says as she flips me the finger. She obviously missed the Road Rage lecture in Driver’s Ed. “Sorry,” I say loudly so I can be heard over the roar of the motorcycle. “It didn’t look like anyone was in this spot.” Then I realize whose motorcycle I almost hit. The driver turns around. Angry dark eyes. Red and black bandana. I sink down into the driver’s seat as far as I can. “Oh, shit. It’s Alex Fuentes,” I say, wincing. “Jesus, Brit,” Sierra says, her voice low. “I’d like to live to see graduation. Get outta here before he decides to kill us both.” Alex is staring at me with his devil eyes while putting the kickstand down on his motorcycle. Is he going to confront me? I search for reverse, frantically moving the stick back and forth. Or course it’s no surprise my dad bought me a car with a stick shift without taking the time to teach me how to master driving the thing. Alex takes a step toward my car. My instincts tell me to abandon the car and flee, as if I was stuck on railroad tracks with a train heading straight for me. I glance at Sierra, who’s desperately searching through her purse for something. Is she kidding me? “I can’t get this damn car in reverse. I need help. What are you looking for?” I ask. “Like…nothing. I’m trying not to make eye contact with those Latino Bloods. Get a move on, will ya?” Sierra responds through gritted teeth. “Besides, I only know how to drive an automatic.” Finally grinding into reverse, my wheels screech loud and hard as I maneuver backward and search for another parking spot. After parking in the west lot, far from a certain gang member with a reputation that could scare off even the toughest Fairfield football players, Sierra and I walk up the front steps of Fairfield High. Unfortunately, Alex Fuentes and the rest of his gang friends are hanging by the front doors. “Walk right past them,” Sierra mutters. “Whatever you do, don’t look in their eyes.” It’s pretty hard not to when Alex Fuentes steps right in front of me and blocks my path. What’s that prayer you’re supposed to say right before you know you’re going to die?

How to Fix Roku Error 014.30 Resolving this issue is generally straightforward, although it can be caused by problems outside of your control. Test your Wi-Fi network with another device, such as your cell phone or computer. Make sure your internet is working properly before you proceed. If not, stop and contact your internet service provider. Using your Roku remote, go to Settings > System > System restart on the Roku menu or Settings > System > Power > System restart if you have a Roku television to restart your Roku system. Reboot your modem and router. Rebooting the modem and router may reset your wireless signal to normal if there is other interference that has caused the Roku to lose signal. When all devices are powered on again, test the Roku to see if the error occurs. If the error still appears, use the Roku remote to go to Settings > Network > Setup connection and select Wireless. Choose your network and enter the network password to ensure it is entered correctly. Select Connect to proceed. If you use MAC address filtering on your network your Roku device may be blocked because the MAC address isn’t recognized. Add the MAC address provided on the error message screen to your router to see if that unblocks your Roku device and returns your service to normal. If you have determined that your Wi-Fi network is working efficiently and all other efforts to resolve error 014.30 have failed, performing a factory reset on your Roku device will restore it to its original settings. Then you can set the Roku up as if it were new and reconnect it to your network to see if it is operating properly. For further information contact :- +1 855-203-0401

If she was mine, I would guard her so close, nothing would have a chance to harm her. Have you considered that she could carry the lifemate to one of us? Perhaps my lifemate? Do not take chances with her just to give her the illusion of freedom. None of us are truly free, he warned. Jacques sent them both a look of reprimand and extended his hand to Raven with Old World gallantry. She took it and allowed herself to be pulled to her feet. Mikhail rose beside her, his arm sweeping her into the shelter of his body. She needed the contact, the closeness, the solid reality of his hard frame. Greogir, the instant bodyguard, scanned the air, the ground, moving fast as he did so. His body continually blocked the prince of their people and his lifemate from any possible threat. The three imposing figures surrounded the smaller one, moving as a unit, an honor guard, their paces slow and leisurely, their minds serene, with no hint of impatience or sign of their desire to get on to the night’s work. Hunger gnawed at Mikhail, but that too was kept at bay. When her mind touched his, Raven felt only love and concern, the desire to please her. Raven enjoyed the feel of the soft leaves under her feet as they moved through the forest. She lifted her face to embrace the wind, inhaled deeply to take in every secret the breeze could carry and would divulge. Every insect, every rustle in the underbrush, every separate sway of a branch, lightened the terrible dread in her heart, pushed the fearful memories a little farther away. “I can take them away completely,” Mikhail offered gently. Raven flashed him a small smile, meant to reassure. Her body moved briefly against his. She was well aware of what a temptation that had been for him, how the other two males thought him insane for not taking the choice from her. “You know I prefer to keep my memories. All of them.” Mikhail nodded, leaned over, and brushed a kiss over her temple. He felt the weight of Gregori’s pale gaze, his blatant disapproval. He knew he would be facing even more objections when they were alone. Carpathian males never allowed their mates to suffer needlessly. Only Gregori would dare to question or challenge the decisions of his prince. Mikhail usually welcomed the rare clashes. This time he had no way of defending his actions, at least not in a way Gregori would understand. Mikhail just knew Raven needed this semblance of normalcy and the time to come to grips with everything that had happened in her own way.

All of the above blocks our growth and development in the mental, emotional and spiritual aspects of our being. But we have a desire to contact and know our True Self. We learn that “quick fixes” such as compulsive behaviors will allow us to glimpse our True Self and will let off some of the tension. However, if the compulsive behavior is destructive to us or to others, we may feel shame and a resulting lower self-esteem. At this point we may begin to feel more and more out of control and we try to compensate by the need to control even more. We may end up deluded and hurt and often project our pain onto others. Our tension has now built to such an extent that we may develop stress-related illness manifested by aches and pains and often by dysfunction of one or more body organs. We are now in an advanced state of co-dependence, and may progressively deteriorate so that we experience one or more of extreme mood swings, difficulty with intimate relationships and chronic unhappiness. For those who are attempting to recover from alcoholism, another chemical dependence, or another condition or illness, this advanced state of co-dependence may seriously interfere. The development of co-dependence may thus be summarized as follows:

In created things - as I said before - there is no truth. There is something that transcends the created being of the soul, not in contact with created things, which are nothing, not even Angel has it, though he has a clear being that is pure and expensive, even that does not touch it. It is alien to te nature of deity, it is one in itself, and has nought in common with anything. It is a stambling block to many a learn cleric. It is a strange and desert place, and it is rather nameless than possessed of the name and is more unknow than it is known. If you could naught yourself for an instant, indeed I say less than instant, you would possessed all that this is in itself. But as long as you mind yourself or any thing at all, you know no more of God than my mouth knows of colour or my eye of taste: so little do you know or discren what God is.

Though he had not physically changed, Kai seemed to experience an increase in being. Lee was pleased with the child’s metamorphosis from a burned block of wood seemingly oblivious to the world to a sponge that absorbed all there was around him. From Lee, the boy learned a confluence of people’s languages in a contact zone. From the children, he imitated the calls of the mountain. From Cook Cu, he concocted bits and pieces of the jungle for sustenance. From the passersby, he accumulated histories of dispersal: the stateless seeking asylum, the lowlanders crossing the sea, the indigenous forced from the highlands.

He moved into a large sitting area, past a sunken bath that could fit ten and through a set of double doors, where he tossed her on the bed. She bounced as she hit and looked up. He didn’t break eye contact as he shed his jacket, tossing it over on a chair. “Strip.” “You first.” Frank toed off his shoes and loosened his tie, pulling it over his head then dropping it to the floor. “Tell you what. Whoever’s naked first, gets to be on top.” He gave her a lecherous grin and was rewarded with a rosy blush, coloring her cheeks. “Okay.” She climbed off the bed. “On the count of three.” “One,” Frank said and lifted his hands to the top of his dress shirt. She did the same, bracing for the count like a racer on the blocks, her hands behind her neck. “Three.” Frank unbuttoned the collar, and tugged the shirt over his head, including the T-shirt underneath. “That’s cheating,” she said, as she fumbled with the hooks down the back of her blouse. “You had a head start. I’m evening the field.” He ripped his belt off and undid his fly and dropped his boxers and pants all at once. She froze and gasped, staring, hunger in her eyes, snapped out of the spell and tossed her blouse and bra to the side, moving fast, but not fast enough. Her skirt puddled around her ankles as Frank stood, as bare as the day he was born. “I win.” She kicked her garment to the side and placed her hands on her hips. Her chest rose and fell, pebbled nipples displayed against gloriously soft skin and full breasts. Her eyes were wild and her soft blonde hair tousled, like she’d already taken a roll in the sack. Man, did he want to make a bigger mess of it.

These include longer hospital stay; longer and more painful recovery; higher risk of infection, organ damage, adhesions, hemorrhage, embolism, and hysterectomy; more blood loss; higher chance of rehospitalization; higher chance of a complication with the next pregnancy; less initial contact with the baby; less success breastfeeding; higher risk of respiratory problems for the baby; and twice the risk of the most catastrophic complication of all: maternal death.51

He stared, his eyes ticking back and forth between mine, until he finally spoke in a pained whisper. “How do you do this to me?” “I guess that depends on what you think I do?” I asked, praying it was the same all-consuming heat he caused in me. His eyes fluttered closed. “If I could answer that, I’d know how to block you out.” My skin tingled as I pushed the envelope of what I thought he might allow. Cupping his cheek, I whispered, “Or you could just let me in.” He groaned at the contact, a mixture of torture and desire. And then he leaned against my hand, agony etched across his face. “You have no idea what you’re asking from me.” “No. I don’t. But that’s the beauty of getting to know someone.” “And there’s our problem,” he mumbled.

The new territory opened up by the impetuous advance of a few geniuses, acting as a spearhead, is subsequently occupied by the solid phalanxes of mediocrity; and soon the revolution turns into a new orthodoxy, with its unavoidable symptoms of one-sidedness, over-specialization, loss of contact with other provinces of knowledge, and ultimately, estrangement from reality. We see this happening-unavoidably, it seems-at various times in the history of various sciences. The emergent orthodoxy hardens into a 'closed system' of thought, unwilling or unable to assimilate new empirical data or to adjust itself to significant changes in other fields of knowledge; sooner or later the matrix is blocked, a new crisis arises, leading to a new synthesis, and the cycle starts again.

CHAPTER 4 SUMMARY: BEST WAYS 71–80 71. When it comes to ensuring your family’s financial well-being, and securing a meaningful and rewarding job, you need to create a written action plan or a MAP (Meticulous Action Plan). 72. When you create a MAP, you are actually programming your own “employment GPS” so you can go from where you are to where you want to be. 73. When you’re done developing your action plan, you’ll have a highly structured schedule of activities for each day of the week. This includes your job transition campaign as well as your personal, social, and fitness activities. 74. If you are unemployed, you should invest 50, 60, or 70 hours a week on your job campaign. If you have a full-time job, you need to set aside a defined number of hours every week as your investment in your future. 75. Whether you are employed and looking for a better job or out of work seeking a new one, you must hold yourself fully accountable for putting in as many hours as possible and getting the most out of every hour you put in. 76. The first question you will need to address is, how many hours a week will you commit to your job transition campaign? Then, based on the number of weekly hours you’ll invest in getting a new job, your next step is to break weekly hours down into daily hours. 77. There are 13 primary job transition strategies for landing a job in troubled economic times. Your job is to determine which 4 to 6 strategies will be most effective for you. a. Networking and contact development b. Target marketing (identifying companies you want to work for) c. Internet searches and postings d. Federal jobs e. Search firms and employment agencies f. Blogs with job listings g. Classified advertisements in newspapers and trade journals h. Job fairs i. College placement departments and alumni associations j. Workforce System and One-Stops k. Volunteer work l. Job transition strategists m. Creative self-marketing 78. Once you have identified which job transition strategies will work best for your campaign, determine when, during the week, you will work on each. You want to create a structured weekly schedule. When you create a structured weekly schedule, you will have a detailed plan with specific daily tasks both for your job campaign and for personal and social activities. 79. Once you have a structured weekly schedule, you must set goals that you want to achieve from your weekly activities. A MAP without specific goals is not an effective plan. You will want to set specific goals for each strategy so you can track your success or modify the MAP if you are not achieving your weekly goals. 80. Prepare for the worst-case scenario. It is vitally important to remain in a positive, optimistic, and enthusiastic state of mind. But sometimes your plan won’t come to fruition as quickly as you’d like. So expect the best, but plan for the worst. This would include looking at your long- and short-term finances and health and other issues that need to be addressed to free you up to concentrate on getting your next job.

It would have been unthinkable for anyone on the block not to know the names of the players, their batting averages, and the win-loss record of the pitchers. We knew who they were playing on a given day, where they were playing, who was pitching, and how many games out of first place they might be. We also knew as much information about their personal lives as the baseball cards we flipped and traded provided. Most of our contact with the Dodgers came through the radio and TV play-by-play commentary of Red Barber and Vin Scully, who were as familiar to us as the players.