In our current tech-savvy world where communication is sometimes too easy, there's something special about the rare occasions when people take the time, effort and care to write a letter to someone. Little One, it is not, has never been, and never will be your job to “keep him interested.” Little One, your only task is to know deeply in your soul--in that unshakeable place that isn’t rattled by rejection and loss and ego--that you are worthy of interest.
If you can trust your worth in this way, you will be attractive in the most important sense of the word: you will attract a boy who is both capable of interest and who wants to spend his one life investing all of his interest in you. Because in the end, Little One, the only thing you should have to do to “keep him interested” is to be you.
It is with a heavy heart that I return the Eagle Scout pin and badge I was awarded in August of 1980 while I was a member of Holy Cross Troop 31, Bay Lakes Council. How sad that an organization that teaches leadership has chosen to relinquish the lead in one of the most important civil rights issues of our time.
I pray that one day you will see the error of your ways and realize that the principles and ideals of scouting can be taught by men or women, gay or straight.
Kicking Chad out of your home simply because he told you he was gay is the real "abomination" here. The only intelligent thing I heard you saying in all this was that "you didn't raise your son to be gay." Of course you didn't. I know how much you like to hear that — but I don’t only write it because you like it — I write it because it makes me warm all over inside to write it to you. It is such a terribly long time since I last wrote to you — almost two years but I know you’ll excuse me because you understand how I am, stubborn and realistic; and I thought there was no sense to writing. But now I know my darling wife that it is right to do what I have delayed in doing, and that I have done so much in the past. I find it hard to understand in my mind what it means to love you after you are dead — but I still want to comfort and take care of you — and I want you to love me and care for me. When you were sick you worried because you could not give me something that you wanted to and thought I needed. I know you will assure me that I am foolish and that you want me to have full happiness and don’t want to be in my way.
This BBC TV show "That's Life" that aired in 1988 connected Sir Nicholas Winton with some of the lives he saved during World War II. Before I begin the thankless, never-not-mortifying task of discussing late night texting etiquette, I must first declare this a shame-free space. I will say, however, that I get a sick pleasure out of being on the receiving end of texts of the "u uppP?"-ilk.
After the recovering from the initial flattery of him having want to "sex me up," I experienced mortification. There are apps you can buy that make you solve complex math problems to make sure you're sober enough to text, but I'm not so sure I like this.
Of course, it's always good to have friends around to stop you from late-night texting or tweeting or emailing or Facebook messaging. I just hope that if I work on myself in the daytime -- acknowledging what I want, who I want, and how I feel about myself at any given moment -- this sort of thing will happen less in the nighttime. As a Sacramento Wrongful Death attorney, over the past 30 years, I’ve experienced first hand the human toll it takes on families when they lose a loved one.
If you’ve lost some-one close to you, its important to remember how much they loved and cared about you, and how they would never want you to suffer. I’ve put together a list of some of the things my clients have told me helped them over the years.
Bereavement support groups on-going and open to the public in Elk Grove, Roseville, and Sacramento.
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Jan Bohuslav Sobota died on May 2nd of 2012 and this is my remembrance of this fine man who was a friend and mentor to me. Each autumn, salmon return to the rivers of their birth a€“ there to spawn and once again trigger a renewal of the eternal passion play.
Salmon that do eventually arrive at their destinations must once again compete a€“ this time for mates and to fight for access to the precious and very limited gravels. The profligate expenditure of life and extravagant wealth of biology is there everywhere to behold, as Death dances lightly among the gathering throngs of fish, picking and choosing from among them; who from their number shall successfully spawn and who shall just be food for the gathering predators and scavengers. Spend a day in silence, walking among the spawning salmon, as they dig spawning redds, jockey for position and slash at competitors with those gaping, snaggletoothed, hooked jaws. Jan Bohuslav Sobota has died, while half a world away; I was preparing these etchings of Spawned Salmon and dedicating them to Jan, the lover of fish.
The book you hold in your hands has evolved from my simply giving these etchings a second life in book form, to my using them as a vehicle for honoring a friendship of three decades. In 1985, Jan and I had been corresponding for some months without ever meeting a€“ all quite distant and correct. A short bit of background on Jan Sobota to begin, but fear not; Ia€™ll soon be spinning anecdotes and thoughts on books as art a€“ celebrating Jana€™s life of course, telling a few stories out of school, but also straying into the personal and speculative in search of the meaning to be derived from the life and death of a friend.
Jana€™s father was a serious bibliophile and collector of fine books, who nurtured that same love of books in his son a€“ an appreciation that steadily grew, until he was apprenticed to master bookbinder Karel A ilinger in PlzeA?. The pivotal event in Jana€™s early life as a book artist was the posthumous retrospective exhibition of fellow Pilsener, Josef VA?chal in 1969.
Jan supported a family, sponsored workshops, exhibited widely, did conservation work on rare historic books, ran a gallery a€“ and on it went. What Jan did for contemporary bookbinding, was to act as a bridge between the traditionally trained masters of the past and innovators of the present. America was a great place to be a book artist in the early 1980a€™s precisely because it was an active zone of hybridization and hotbed of creativity. An instructive contrast to the anything-goes US scene was the icy reception I got when I showed a wooden box containing loose sheets of poetry and etchings to a Prague publisher. Neither Jan nor I had much interest in the book-like objects that often sneak into the museums as book arts a€“ the carved and glued together things that sorta, kinda have a bookish aspect to them a€“ rough-looking a€“ perhaps chain-sawed Oaken boards or granite slabs, slathered in tar and lashed together with jute; but lacking text.
When Jana€™s books went beyond function, conservation or decoration, they were subtle statements about binding and the place of books, knowledge and art, as well as statements about the dignity inhering in the handcrafted - with a good dose humor.
There are others who know their conservation and those, whose scientific contributions are far greater, but few of them are also artists at heart.
It can sound so pedestrian, these eternal compromises between art and craft, yet what Jan represented was not at all common.
There is an inflection point at which exceptional craft begins to make the transition to art and it is closely associated with surmounting the limitations inhering to the discipline.
Visiting with Jan in his workshop you quickly realized, that he did what a professional must, but ultimately, he just loved messing about with books.
A curiously protean hybrid of artist and craftsman, ancient and modern, one cannot think of Jan without seeing an unabashed Czech patriot in a foreign land. Early on in their stay in Cleveland, the Sobotas experienced the quintessential American disaster. Even after their medical debts were retired, money was still an issue for a family of immigrants with three kids a€“ two with special needs. Later on, when they were living in Texas, the massacre at Waco opened Jana€™s eyes to yet another difficult side of his adopted home. In 1979, I apprenticed with Jindra Schmidt, an engraver of stamps and currency, living in Prague. Schmidt had engraved stamps for Bulgaria, Iraq, Ethiopia, Albania, Guinea, Vietnam and Libya. In 1992, Jindra Schmidt was honored for his contributions and depicted on the last stamp of a united Czechoslovakia, before it split into Czech and Slovak republics a€“ a fitting tribute. Unlike most children of immigrants, my destiny remained connected to that of my parentsa€™ homeland. My vocation as artist clarified itself in Prague while learning the increasingly obsolete skills of steel engraving. My first book was indeed, modeled after VA?chal, even to the extent of its diabolical subject matter. Jan showed me a great deal in the following years about the tradition of books as the meeting place of art, craft and ideas a€“ where printmaking intergrades seamlessly with the worlds of language, typography and illustration. One can like these things just fine and admire them from an uncomprehending distance, or you can become engaged. The book you hold was to have been a simple reprint of the Spawned Salmon a€“ something fun for Jan to work his magic upon.
Nice sentimental reminiscences, but there is still the matter of getting the work accomplished and out before the public, organizing exhibitions, printing catalogs and paying for transatlantic flights. The Prague show was reconfigured and curated by Jana€?s longtime friend, Ilja A edo, for exhibition at the West Bohemian Museum in PlzeA?. Quite predictably, I like seeing the kind of work I do honored a€“ the wood engravings and etchings made to shine in the context of crisply printed type and an excellent binding. Ia€™ve heard printmakers lament that the surest way to devalue prints is to add excellent poetry, sensitive typography and a bang-up binding a€“ and then live to see the whole thing sell for half the price of just the unbound prints. Therea€™s nothing quite like seventeenth century Bohemia, the dead center of Europe, for particularly thorough violence a€“ with the Bubonic Plague stepping in afterwards as mop-up crew.
The chapel at Sedlec was rebuilt after the major blood-letting of the thirty-years war as a memento mori a€“ reminder of death. What can you say about the mounds of dead, the ruined lives, destroyed nations and misery multiplied by millions that isna€™t trite or self-evident? But then I pan over to other fields a€“ not the kind where the grass is composting my fellow man, but to fields of endeavor where the ferment is of ideas recombining into ever more refined ways of thinking.
I once lived at the Golem house in Prague a€“ at Meislova ulice, number 8, in the old Jewish ghetto.
Horoscopes might seem a curious basis on which to select ministers and diplomats, but it is also more common than youa€™d think.
Picture the scene before you: Ita€™s a late night in Prague, before the Marlboro man dominated every street corner, even before the neon of casinos and the vulgarity of Golden Arches assaulted the nightwalkersa€™ eyes at all hours a€“ back when darkness, oh yes, that beautiful comforting velvety, all-enveloping and blessed dark, broken only by the moon, stars and late night taxis, still ruled the streets after the sun went down.
The Golem was a mythic being of Jewish folklore, created from clay and quickened by the Shem, a magical stone engraved with an ancient Hebraic inscription, inserted into Golema€™s forehead.
The maternal tongues of these small nations have miraculously survived all the invasions, floods, plagues and foreign occupiers to this day a€“ a gift preserved and delivered to them across the generations.
Minority languages, on the other hand, carry an emotional load that can scarcely be exaggerated.
Ishi and his sister were the last of the Yahi tribe to survive the genocidal colonization of California.
Those whose language and culture are not threatened can never know the burden under which the carriers of small minority languages labor a€“ nor how those in exile bring up their children to preserve that which is beyond their capacities to save. Jan was all about preserving traditions and the kind of ancestral knowledge that today is mostly enshrined in books.
Today, the stories of our tribes are less and less passed on as oral tradition and most often read to us from the childrena€™s books wea€™ve learned to treasure a€“ illustrated by fine artists and produced with care for the highly discriminating purchasers of childrena€™s books a€“ for grandparents.
A?epelA?k employed binders and typesetters to present complete suites of his work and in this too, he introduced me to a new world.
Later in Prague I missed my flight back, due to the World Trade Center bombing and was delayed by a week. The difficult thing to bear in acknowledging my teachers, models, heroes, suppliers and inspirations, is that these masters of the crafts and industries surrounding and supporting the book arts are mostly deceased. The fruit we seek is not fast food, but laden with full-bodied flavors, attained by slow natural processes.


All of us come from grandfathers who once were wheelwrights, cobblers or instrument makers; men with a profound love of wood and leather, who knew the working qualities of every kind of obscure tree growing in their countryside a€“ men who knew when to reach for elm or hickory a€“ as well as for goat, dog or even fish-skins. Jan spoke fondly of his grandmother, who baked bread every week of the year to feed an entire estate a€“ farm hands, livery people, gentry, trainers and hod-carriers alike. Working consciously is the ultimate goal a€“ and that is the legacy youa€™ll find evidently contained within and upon the boards of every book bound by Jan Bohuslav Sobota. The etchings you see here first came to life as illustrations for the wedding anniversary announcements of MA­la and Jaroslav KynA?l. Jan Bohuslav Sobota died on May 2nd of 2012 and this is my remembrance of this fine man who was a friend and mentor to me.A  He was an exceptional bookbinder, teacher and promoter of the book arts, but also an exile who successfully returned home after years abroad. These [drawings of the surrounding mountains] was all taken from the shape of their tops as appeared from the camp on Tuesday 24 of November, 1846. We traveled from these hills the same direction as we had the day before, southwest, making 12 in the morning and 18 in the afternoon, making 30 miles. This morning marched 10 miles and came to these hills where we are now passing southwest direction to find a pass, if possible, for the wagons into another valley.
We continued our course, southeast, until we make 20 miles and camped on another plain between the mountains on a creek in the center of the flats. We have had some beautiful plains to pass over as we have come along, but a lack of water and timber. This morning the whole guard has to go on extra duty because one man run his bayonet in a mule. We traveled until 10 oa€™clock and I got ahead of all the train and stopped and took a picture of the mountains around. There was in the evening, an Indian Chief come in and told us that we was on the right road and that last summer there was one wagon went down where we was calculating to go yesterday.
Accordingly, on Sunday morning the 29th day, all hands was engaged in fixing for a pass to go into the valley. We left one wagon above and yesterday another as we was descending and we are not yet down and out of this hole that is here marked out. On the north is a hollow where water sometimes rises, putting down from the mountain into the river or creek. The weather is rather cool and the clouds are in the west, hovering over the mountains as far as you can see. This chain of hills or mountains runs from 12 miles southwest from here to the northwest, out of sight running northwest. On the sixth day, the camp traveled through the brush for about 12 miles and passed in among the hills and I found a beautiful grove of young timber of ash and a kind of walnut, a little like black walnut and a great variety of other wood or brush which grows on the mountains and in the valleys, good to burn. This place is where the camp passed through into a small valley, where we found an old yard that we understand from one of our guides was built by the man who owned the little town we passed through. One of the Spanish drovers left and went to the Spanish settlement below here a short distance. This is a large valley and we are calculating to descend it northwest until we come to the river Saint Padra. I awoke and told my dream and went to sleep and dreamed that I was called up by the brethren to tell it which I did and told them I thought it was for not keeping the covenants, but use the name of the Lord, their God in vain and it had become common language to curse each other. The bottom land here is about one mile wide, with now and then a scrape of bottom much wider. This day, some of our hunters informed me that they have seen a number of bear tracks and one was the width of his hand and length of his thumb. I understand there is a plenty of wild oxen here among these hills, which is excellent beef.
These bottoms look like the best of soil in these valleys for about one mile wide, some places wider. Where our camp is, a small town called a€?Barnadenoa€™, once owned by a rich man who built it for himself. Last night I took a view of our camping ground and saw that it was like the one we had the night before. This is the mountains east are very high, running south until they come against this camp, then they turn east rounding corner and then turns north as I have laid down on another map down the St.
As curious a thing as I have seen with thorns, is the large prickly pear or water plant or tree, which is often as high as 20 feet, 16 inches over. On the morning of the 18 of December {LNa€™s note: This day was the 32nd birthday of Levia€™s wife, Clarissa Reed Hancock.
These mountains are from the left of the center line, running southeast to northwest and on the other side of the road is mountains that are as high as these on the left.
This land that we have passed between here and town is baron, desolate waste and nothing grows here and it looks like the best of land, a plenty of wood here, fires. North, half mile from the road to the foot on the right of this center line as I was facing the mountain, I took this map. I then looked and I stood at the right hand of him and expected he would say something, but did not. I remembered a dream I had before, which was this: I saw him all alone and said I, a€?There is my fathera€? and got him by the hand and said, a€?Bless me, O my father. These mountains are those that are on the right hand and is about the same distance and height of those on the left. Along our last days travel, which is the 21 day and I am now in camp, in the borders of the Pema town or on the east side of town.
This, the 22 day of December, on Tuesday morning, we left our first camping ground on the Hely and went down this river 8 miles to the Pemo village and pitched our tents. On the 24th day, I got in conversation with one of our guides and showed him my map of Hely River and the Colorado, Salt and Francisco. Marched at 10 oa€™clock from our camp and the maricopers and raveled southwest by west 8 miles, then by the end of the mountains four miles southwest then west, far enough to make 18 miles and camped on the desert on the left hand side of some hills. This is Christmas Day and yesterday there was watermelon brought in camp for sale and they was good melons, too. I saw the Chief last night and he said that he knew who we was and some time he meant to go and see the Mormons in California.
In one hollow or gully, it is said that this valley is the best of any and that here is a good place for raising any kind of grain, also anything of the fruit kind, and by the looks of the land here, it seems that a nation might be fed here as in Egypt, by watering the land which might be easily done. Early in the morning, the old doctor came to one tent where some had been boiling beans and asked, a€?What is this?a€? a€?Beans and corn.a€? was the answer.
This day I had a talk with Brother Dikes and traveled about 2 miles with him, in which time he told me that he had wanted some conversation for some time and would be glad if I would give him some council and then said that there was considerable feelings existing against him in the Battalion and he would like to do right and that he considered that I was the one to come to get council.
I told him I already had that laid to me and I had had a put down for it when there never had been any cause for it and if I should give any council, it would be said again that I sought power and authority and I had concluded not to give any council to any officer, lest it should cause further jealousy. And then he said that he could clear himself of the charges that was against him and that he had defied any man to prove either Eclyseastacle or Military Law against him, for he had kept them both and when he got to the Church things he thought would be differently represented and would not appear as bad as many suppose and then asked me if I did not think that he had better be independent and do the thing strictly according to law. This day we traveled ten miles and come to the river northwest, then turned west by north and went ten miles further and being 18 miles over the best kind of land.
James Pace has now brought in a petrified bone which he wished was in the Church, which must have an enormous large animal, about 9 inches across one end, four inches the other way.
We came to the top of the hill and the mountains presented a sight and I stopped and drew the shape of them. This day made 7 miles over the hill, down on the flats near the bank of the river near a mountain which many ascended and viewed the country and I could see the winding Hely for a long distance.
While passing along down the bottoms today, I saw another prickly body of the pear or appears to be a species of the same, in another form here.
I tell the brethren to wait until they can have a hearing before the authorities of he Church and to be as patient as possible. But, thank God we have served 6 months, save eleven days and we will try to heave it as good soldiers, although our shoes are worn out, our torn clothes are all almost gone, the skins of beavers are used for moccasins. Took a northwest course for four miles and turned around a mountain and in two miles further west, I took the shape of the end of the long mountains seen a long way back. Here the river has a bend and the valleys are not so wide as they are above, and sometimes to be narrow down below here, which is a southwest course from here and looks like the worst of going. These hills was seen west of northwest a long ways back and sometimes the peak that is above, was west. After we had turned around here, we had to pass through the bottoms, the thickest kind of brush and small cane and cottonwood or poplar, willow and many other kinds of small brush. I have now got in camp and the course we traveled from the bluffs was a northwest course for about two miles and began to bear a little around towards the west and now we are going west and I take some peaks that I can just see on the top of a hill or mountain as we are on the bottoms. We traveled through sand and over gravel, course and fine, until we made 12 miles and camped on the bank of the Colorado.
There is no chance for any landscape here, only on the other side and up stream is a mountain. I thought I would go and see him myself not knowing it was against orders, as I afterwards heard it was. I am now about 8 miles from our last nighta€™s camp and while on my way here I sometimes discovered something on the ground that looked like a red clear stone. Hah-yo-de-yah, is all he scrub that grows here on this desert and no grass and in the aroyohs, muskeet and a few other scrubs. This day traveled northwest by west course until we came to where men was digging a well and found water, but it was poor and but little of it and we was ordered to march on to the next, which was 20 miles ahead.
This day made 18 miles over some hills of sand and the bottoms or flats was gravel and sand. In the hollow, when we got to the top of this hill, we saw that there was no outlet to this valley, nor inlet. Last night, one man catched up with us who had been sent back after a p low that had been left on Hely River by the commissary. Here is a vineyard that looks beautiful and I am told that there have been clusters of grapes that would weigh 14 pounds and that not uncommon.
We put up, making 20 miles this day, by a good creek that would make the best of mill seats, not more than two rods to dam in between the mountains of rocks and there might be a lake formed big enough to water all the country below, but lack of building timber here. It made me think of the storm when Joseph Smith was with us between the two Fishing Rivers, only here we had no thunder. Once I felt it in my heart and although our men, many of them had become basically wicked, He would spare them.
4 miles from last nights camp and in plain sight of the snow top mountain described here, which I took yesterday and soon after I took it, I ascended a hill and looked at the northwest and between the hills down a valley, I saw a wide extended plain and an arm of the big waters, putting up a point of land, running into the sea about northwest. At the northeast mountains covered with snow and here it is hot and all things in bloom, birds singing and all around presents a beautiful sight.
The gesture speaks volumes, beyond even the original intent of the letter, and whether handwritten or typed, it carries a certain emotional impact. These thieves didn't know the computers they'd stolen were from a non-profit group that helps victims of sexual assault.
Seattle Seahawks fullback Derrick Coleman is the NFL's only legally hearing-impaired player, but he heard this little girl's amazing message to him loud and clear.
Every year on the anniversary of his father's death, this man reads one very special letter that reminds him of the lives his father changed forever.
After spending eight years earning the Boy Scouts' highest rank, this Eagle Scout just couldn't in good conscience keep the award, knowing that the organization was openly denying similar opportunities to gays. I do this in protest of the Boy Scouts of America’s policy to deny leadership positions to gay and lesbian adults and membership to young adults who identify as gay.
And the knowledge, wisdom and benefits of Scouting should be available to all young men regardless of their sexual identity. This bone marrow donor saved the life of a total stranger, but his stem cells weren't even his "best gift" to her.
Jim Henson became a part of the lives of millions of children with his creation of "Sesame Street" and "The Muppets." After his untimely death, he tried to leave his own children with something special.


While I will miss spending time with each of you, I'm sure it will be an interesting time for me and I look forward to seeing all of you when you come over. May each of yours be that—having each of you as a child of mine has certainly been one of the good things in my life. This man lost his father to cancer, and when he later uncovered a letter his father had written to him decades before, he remembered just how much his dad loved him.
I am so happy that you were the one that was chosen out of all the people how wanted to adopt me. When a KKK leader asked Alabama not to reopen an investigation into the 1963 bombing of an African-American church, the state's attorney general Bill Baxley had this amazing response. I’ll bet you are surprised that I don’t even have a girlfriend (except you, sweetheart) after two years. In an operation called Czech Kindertransport Winton organized the rescue and safe passage of about 669 Jewish children who were designated for transport to Nazi concentration camps.
That is, we must all agree that no one late-night texts elegantly, or eloquently, or respectably, and that's fine. I really feel that humans should learn discretion on their own and that we should opt for self-reflection over app algorithms, even if this means that mortification after mortification must transpire before our behaviors can actually change.
There they encounter resident trout and bass a€“ even sunfish, chubs and dace, all keyed into the increasingly plentiful and highly nutritious bounty of salmon eggs. Situated 90A km south-west of Prague at the confluence of four rivers, PlzeA? is first recorded in writings from the tenth century. That vision was about innovation and creativity within the context of an historical tradition.
This is what youa€™ll see in a Sobota binding a€“ exceptional attention paid to context and relationships, using materials and technical means that do indeed function and last. He knew his work was valuable and documented it fastidiously a€“ confident that it would be last.
There was, however, nothing about his nationalism that demeaned anybody elsea€™s traditions or origins. That smallish incident within the parade of American fringe politics elicited an insanely violent level of suppression. Masaryk a€“ and the cute little girl with a bouquet of flowers, is my mother Eva, at the age of three.
Schmidta€™s income from the federal mint far exceeded anybody elsea€™s in the extended family and supported a network of cars, cottages and rent-controlled flats.
Schmidt, as he preferred to be called, was a man of conservative demeanor who preferred polite and reserved forms of speech and address.
While visiting their unassuming engraver and extending my tourist visa 30 days at a time, I was quietly becoming qualified for life as a counterfeiter a€“ a vocation within which, one is set for life, however it may eventually turn out.
Jan allowed several binders to have their way with it a€“ amo boxes for slipcases with shell casings for hinges and so forth.
This next incarnation of our exhibit in PlzeA? was all just a bit more prosaic and provincial. Is it the binding we consider and exhibit a€“ or is the binding there to conserve a text, which is ultimately the point?
There are also binders to whom everything else is merely the text block, who care little if it is an offset trade edition or a book made by hand. The tales therein recorded reflected the accreted wisdom and wit of a people as they retold them across the highlands in modest log cottages after the harvest was in.
The way of working belongs to the Sobota vision I addressed earlier a€“ the honor and soul to be found in conscientiously made handcrafts. I dona€™t feel that accomplished or ready to assume their mantle and yet with every generation that is what must happen. Gravels, with just the right flow of fresh water running up through stones of the right size are but a tiny portion of the riverbed.A  The salmon must struggle past cities and sewer pipes, farms and irrigation systems, dams and turbines, fishermen and waterfalls a€“ just to reach the streams of their birth.
We passed over the best kind of land I ever saw and came to another creek, putting down from the west into this river large enough to carry a grist mill continually and might be brought onto a overshot wheel as clear as crystal.
I can't believe that a complete stranger would take the time and go through the discomfort of donating their stem cells to me. These first six (almost) years went so fast because I love you and you've been nothing but joy and happiness for me. Just as I told you then there was no real need because I loved you in so many ways so much.
But you can’t help it, darling, nor can I — I don’t understand it, for I have met many girls and very nice ones and I don’t want to remain alone — but in two or three meetings they all seem ashes. In the clip, one of the children, Vera Gissing, embraces Winton and thanks him for saving her life. We, as humans, are allowed the time and space to be reckless with our words, even if doing so makes us want to die the next afternoon when we wake up, groggily pull our phone out from under whichever limb it was wedged and see the (textual) damage we've done.
It's important to take precautions on your own, like deleting toxic numbers (belonging to old flames or, you know, professors) that you're likely to abuse.
This widely beloved stamp was re-issued in 2000 and mother continues to receive philatelic fan mail to this day.
He died the day I was composing a colophon for the Spawned Salmon with words of praise for his lifea€™s work. A love that has nothing to do with each other, for I feel my love for each of you is total and all-encompassing. So, while we are in the business of [disowning] our children, I think I'll take this moment to say goodbye to you. And now it is clearly even more true — you can give me nothing now yet I love you so that you stand in my way of loving anyone else — but I want you to stand there. To talk about late-night texting etiquette is to talk about flimsy sober intentions, so weak they crumble after one whiskey sour and a guy who has the same name as your ex.
And I'm pretty sure I've gotten to the bottom of it: I don't properly express myself during day-to-day life, when my feelings are sober and the sun is still out. The engraving was masterfully done by Schmidta€™s long-dead colleague, Bohumil Heinz (1894-1940). The state security apparatus was surely aware of my presence, but if they kept tabs on me, I never knew.
I now have a fabulous (as the gay put it) grandson to raise, and I don't have time for heartless B-word of a daughter. We started to learn to make clothes together — or learn Chinese — or getting a movie projector. When you habitually keep your emotions bottled up and secret -- I don't like the way he's been treating me, I want to sleep with him, I wish my mom would stop nagging me about grad school applications -- it's more than likely they'll come out when your inhibitions are loosened, and hey, your phone's right there in your bra so why not get it (plus all those feelings) off your chest? Mind you, this was from a guy I'd met on Tinder when researching this handy dating app quiz. I once deleted a guy's number only to find myself, one drunken Friday's eve, overcome with the urge to text him.
Everything is just so wonderful and everybody so creative, but suspending judgment long enough to actually look at some artwork and then giving it a chance isna€™t so bankrupt, is it?
Human body parts are again flying and the Baron is at his best defeating Turks and evading friendly fire from buffoonish generals. Farmers would occasionally find their possessions and take them as souvenirs, unaware that the last Indians still lived in their midst. Damn the cost; ita€™s who we are and the last material vestiges of soulful encounters with our elders a€“ onea€™s whose stories are slipping inexorably away, thinned by each passing year and generation. Their kids were grown and they were by then slipping into that last, reflective phase of life a€“ done competing.
This all may sound silly to you guys, but what the hell, I'm gone—and who can argue with me?
So I went on Twitter and tweeted at him, unknowingly inventing the Booty Tweet, asking him what he was up to.
These scraps turned out to be a deck of medieval playing cards - the second oldest such cards known. A book is so much more than the sum of its parts a€“ and yet each of us tends to have our own bailiwick in which we shine and to which we look first. The next morning, I only noticed I'd done this when I went on Twitter to tweet a New York Times article on the AIDS epidemic in Africa. These plates have been inked and wiped by hand, employing methods that woulda€™ve been familiar to Rembrandt.
I am alone without you and you were the “idea-woman” and general instigator of all our wild adventures. Which means that at the end of the day, when it comes to mortification in the form of regrettable, drunken electronic communication, the only real rule you must stick to is one of self-love and acceptance and humor. They crashed with my wife Jana and me in Kalamazoo, while taking the a€?orientation coursea€?nearby. I can confidently report back to my English reader, that Jan would only grow in stature for you, if you could have fully understood the subtlety of his thoughts in his own maternal tongue. The only thing that concerns me is the number of empty soda cups and tea bottles in your room.
Perhaps right for those who shouldna€™t have sharp objects, for fear of hurting themselves.
That show was purchased whole by Special Collections at Western Michigan University and constitutes the largest collection of Sobota bindings and the most complete archive of my work.
Few people would have cast a second glance at that glued-up mess of moldering old papers before pitching it, nor would they have recognized what they had in hand or known how to restore or sell it. These folks were a profound blessing to a family facing some truly rough sailing a€“ a Godsend.
Schmidt had worked was signed with warm dedications to him and thus worth real money to collectors. He wanted to see the printmaker in me come to full fruition and I wanted to be worthy of his attentions. The family has dwelled within sight of the seats of power, pushing copper plates through a press and outlived the Hapsburg Monarchy, First Republic, Nazis and Communists. The intact packages were still there on their shelves, all duly graded, labeled and priced, awaiting an owner who was never to return.
Back home, their Czech neighbors would have envied them and accused them of theft or worse, but people here seemed to be pleased as punch to see them prosper a€“ genuinely happy for them.
Those items too, kept trickling out the door, until there came a sad, sad day, when the golden eggs were all gone. I know that in the future, however, there will be times when I want to respond and will respond. They bashfully admitted their foolishness and went back to making beautiful books a€“ and their American friends were so relieved to see them regain their sanity. You take time to grieve and then pick yourself up by your bootstraps (by God a€“ get a grip) and get on with it (Rome wasna€™t built in a day you know). StrejA?ek was still working, but it was all coming to an inevitable end, as he grew shaky of hand and hard of seeing. Enriched by my days of being nurtured by Prague, Matkou MA›st (Mother of Cities), I moved on to meet my destiny with art.



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