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cerastes · 4 years ago

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Oh yeah, been a while since we get an update on tabletop things, what's the CAST looking like nowadays?

Life’s WAY too busy for tabletop right this second so not much has changed, but:

“Lisbeth Elstad” (Alias; real name far more mundane)

Wimp that tries to project a strong image.

Would normally be a shopkeeper in any setting, but circumstance has forced her to undertake adventure instead.

REALLY ill suited to being anything except a shopkeeper, but she’s trying.

Extremely intelligent, not wise in the slightest. A genius when it comes to biology, chemistry, physics and medical sciences, but very naive and full of prejudice as a person. She thinks she’s wise and learned, but she’s really not (she is well-traveled, however).

Alchemist; in a world of magic, it’s one of only two things she can knows how to use, but makes up for it by using her extensive knowledge of chemistry and pharmacology to produce facsimiles of magic, since she can’t use it normally. No need to cast Fireball when you can whip up a vial of napalm and throw it at someone.

Ironically, despite being an Alchemist, she hates money, and will give medical treatment basically for free (her rate is usually “enough to buy something to eat at the nearest food stall”) if she sees someone that needs it, especially if they are not human.

Dislikes humans, feels much more at home with non-humans, despite being human herself.

Just like her “magic”, most everything about her is a facsimile of what she thinks a “cool, strong mercenary” should be like. Name, appearance, way of carrying herself, all fake. Her main “spells” are all reference to the Malebolge, Eighth Circle of Hell, where counterfeiters go. She’s pretty self-aware about it all, really.

Chaotic Good. Genuinely good intentions, but is very socially inept and emotionally immature, so her mood tends to fluctuate a lot.

Long dyed blond hair, silver contact lenses, very tall and lanky, like a noodle or a beanstalk. Wears black suits and a black two-headed wolf pelt because she thinks it makes her cool (though the pelt is actually an important item to her), a completely blank white mask because she has a terrible poker face and doesn’t want everyone around her to know when she’s scared shitless (again, wimp), and a large witch hat because that’s just the culture, baby.

19 years old; another older version of her exists (27 years old) used not in tabletop, but for stories, particularly alongside Glock Elf and her gang. Glock Elf begrudgingly considers her a mentor of sorts, but the reverse is true, as the cynical Ms. Elstad has legitimate respect for Glock Elf’s balls to the walls style of life that’s less about making big enormous machinations and more about throwing flying kicks first and asking questions later.

Rasmus Casper Istre

Swindler, but has the brains and brawn to back it up.

Used to be a phony fortune teller, but picked on a target too dangerous one time and had to leg it, this led him to meet the party and embark on adventure, initially just to put food on the table, later, to uncover a larger conspiracy that put the world at risk.

Good at improvising and coming up with creative solutions, though he’ll often let greed guide his hand and end up incurring more risk than he needs to, both to himself and to his allies, if it means scoring a bit more money.

Rogue; An expert with daggers and very intimate bedfellow to fisticuffs. He is not formally trained in any capacity and is entirely self-taught.

Also known as “Rabbit”; the Gods Of The Land awarded him this title for his cunning, speed, and his trademark ability to look harmless right before you fall into his trap.

Despite his crook-like nature, Rasmus has only the deepest respect for ladies and is not interested in courting anyone except the Elven Priestess that won his heart.

As much as it pained him to admit it, he eventually grew so fond of the party that he basically rejected an offer to betray them that would have set him up for life, saying “I never would’ve had to worry about money ever again in my life, which is neat, but I would’ve had to ally myself with the lowest, most unforgivable piece of garbage in this world had I done that, and I’d have to see his face every morning of my life in the mirror”.

Endgame set-up: A powerful hardened Blacklight Dagger with an enchantment that makes it return to the its owner after being thrown, alongside an evil thunderstorm crafted into a gauntlet, which endowed it with incredible lightning powers, and which gave my DM headaches when I looked at the cursed thunderstorm and asked the DM if I could feasibly capture it and forge it into an item with the several scrolls and artifacts we had that, technically allowed for us to at least attempt it. My DM rocks though so he said yes but I treated him to pizza that night.

One time, Rasmus stole the body of a seemingly invincible hero the party managed to kill and preserved it in salt, and then, with his Half-Orc Barbarian party member and friend, strapped him to the front of a Greatshield to make what we dubbed the Hero’s Corpse Shield, which was practically indestructible and impenetrable because of the hero tied to the front of it.

Chaotic Neutral; initially more interested in profit than anything, and later helping out the party simply because they are his sworn brother and sisters, but doesn’t really care too much about doing right or wrong. His involvement is wholly personal.

Very slightly above average height, short brown hair, stubble, green eyes, slim but toned build, mostly wears leather or chainmail, but one time went around in robes with a sun-looking mask for a while when he became the impromptu leader of a cult, in order to avoid getting executed for maximum heresy (the whole hero’s corpse on a shield thing).

In his 20s. The game in which he was my character is over, but we’re seeing if we Season 2 it because we all fucking loved it a lot.

Fargigoth

Newest addition, so not much out yet.

Half-Orc Artificer. Stole a small field cannon that an army was employing during a battle and uses that as his “cauldron” to shoot things out of it. He’s a BIG lad, so he carries the cannon with his hands.

Once stuffed a Fire Elemental’s corpse in the cannon and threw in a bunch of other garbage, resulting in an explosive shotgun blast of debris, shrapnel and hellfire that sent him flying backwards because, it turns out, cannon recoil hits pretty hard.

Good friends with a female Tiefling Paladin party member.

And combined, they can’t unscrew a lightbulb without putting into motion a Metal Gear Solid-esque conspiracy, unintentionally.

#tabletop ocs

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thoughtfullyyoungduck · 5 years ago

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don’t stop turn it up

Summary: hii can u do a losers club x reader where they’re teens and at a party trying to take care of drunk Richie and reader except they’re acting crazy?

warnings: they’re in their first your of college so they’re older then eighteen which is perfectly legal in my country but just for readers from the US: underage drinking

‘I’m hungry, can we go to McDonalds, please’, you whine, draping yourself over Stanley as he huffs, trying to slip from under you.

‘M-m-McDonalds is a half an hour away Y/N, we’ll go next time’, Bill placates, switching places with Stan, wrapping your arms around his neck in a facsimile of a piggy back ride.

‘No I wanna go now’, you drag out, your head lolling forward to rest on Bill’s shoulders. Your stomach grumbles in agreement, and you giggle at the sound it produces.

‘See, my tummy agrees.’

‘We’re not going anywhere except home.’ Stan’s angrily wiping his sleeve with a napkin he found at the bar, the stain a result of Richie spitting the beverage, water that Ben lied was vodka to sober Richie up, at Stan because of a dare. He’s pissed, and rightfully so, but in your highly intoxicated state, all it does is make you chortle.

The end of the first semester in college has arrived, and to celebrate the losers and you agreed to go to a party a classmate set up, far away enough from your campus that there were no regulation to abide by.

Now, you weren’t a heavy drinker by any means. As a sixteen year old your dad let you take a sip from his coffee laced with some sort of alcohol in it, and your taste buds did not like it, the heavy undertones of extreme sweetness soaked in your tongue, so sweet you feared for cavities in your teeth. However, after hearing the stories Richie and Bev animatedly spilled after a night out, you were willing to take a change and find out just what exactly it was that attracted people to drinking alcohol, and you got buzzed.

The music crackled in the air, deafening your eardrum with the most generic pop music, sweating body polluting the air with their bodily smells and inappropriate touches that by all means should make the receiver confining, and you disliked the scene right away and asked to leave within the first hour of you being there.

A drink offered to by Richie loosened you up, and his antics overleaped to you, following his path to act erratically and with no care in the world. After that, the party was a lot of fun. You were definitely a lightweight, as you only drunk two gin tonic’s before flying off the world and into the unknown, the room swirling around you faster and faster, gripping the bar to steady your wobbling legs.

Richie was no better off, but he had chugged significantly more beers and booze than you had. The two of you took on the role of comedy relief of all the losers, the dances you performed appalling and off beat, or the moment you forgot to take the cap of before guzzling down your next liquid, only to be terminated by the lid, comedy gold.

The little shits also exploited your state to extract all the secret you harbored from them, the time in fifth grade when you accidently wet yourself no longer confidential, but that was okay, because these people were your best friends and for all you cared they could understand you inside and out, and you still wouldn’t feel intimidated by it.

‘Come on’, Bill grinds, hoisting you half over his shoulders. ‘We should get g-g-oing.’

‘I don’t want to’, you complain, levitating your legs off the ground so all your weight land on Bill who, not prepared for this, loosing his footing and pitches to the ground. It’s thanks to Mike’s quick reflexes and his core muscles strength that stops your downfall, towing the both of you up.

‘Be careful Y/N.’

‘You’re not my mother’, you say, sticking out your tongue in Mike’s direction, though your blurry eyesight makes it harder to pinpoint his exact location.

The alcohol is thrumming through your veins, transforming every word and sentences into the funniest things you’ve ever heard, so overly warm as the liquor builds momentum and stuffs your head full of cotton.

‘They’re both going to be so fucking hangover after this.’ Eddie sounds heated, fretting over Richie who smiles to him as if he’s seen the gates of heaven for the very first time. How those two manage to keep the way they’re in love with each other under wraps, you’ll never know.

‘Oh shucks Eds, I guess I’ll have to let your mom down then huh? Shame, she was really looking forward to another one of our escapades.’

‘Shut up asshole, that doesn’t even make any sense.’

‘It doesn’t’? Richie asks genuinely confused, scratching the top of his head.

You cackle with laughter, untangling from Bill and mike in order to sink down onto your knees and then your back, the soft carpet softening the spot designated for you to lay on.

The party is still in full swing, a few people making out in the far end of your eye sight, while others gyrating too fast for your mind to keep up. The colorful lights spin over the ceiling, a magnificent lightshow for only to see. You’re getting tired, but the night as brought noting but wonderful things and you don’t want it to end just yet.

Richie ducks up out of nowhere, cushioning his head on your stomach and gazing at the same light you are. ‘My bodies has never released endorphins so fast before, not even after seeing Eddie,’ Richie blanks out, mind reeling with the implications of what he confessed. After a moment of truthfulness between the two of you he concludes that everyone is able to hear him, so he adds, ‘’s mom’, Richie awes, his hand outstretching to feel the light, as if that’s in any way possible. Regardless of whether or not it was meant as a joke, you begin to howl in joy, the giggles beginning to cramp up your belly.

Stan’s face appears in front of the lights, bend over at an uncomfortable angle to force eye contact. ‘Get up’, he states coolly, not even offering his hand to help you do so.

Rolling his eyes, Eddie takes Richie’s hand, wrenching Richie up and maneuvering him with his arm around Eddie’s shoulder, distributing Richie’s weight.

Ben is the one to aid you, stealing himself after seeing what happened to Bill. The sudden movement cramps your stomach up in a not so pleasant way, the blood rushing back to your face, forcing the bile back.

‘Do not’, Stan’s tone sharp is as the edge of a knife, ‘throw up on me or so help you I will kill you in the most horrendous way possible.’ Richie laughs like a drain, doubling over and clapping on his knee in pure hilarity.

‘Same goes for you’, Eddie confirms, jabbing his elbow in Richie’s stomach. The movement shoves Richie off balance, his arms fluttering in the air birdlike to regain his balance.

‘Is it a bird? Is it a plane? No it’s Richie fucking Tozier’, you cantillate off pitch, egging him on.

‘Fear not, for Super Richie’s swooping in to save the day’, he recites in his best Christopher Reese impression, surprisingly well done. ‘What do you say Eds? You wanna be the Lois Lane to my superman?

‘I’m not some fucking damsel in distress Richard.’

‘But you’d let me kiss you?’

‘Yeah Eddie you mmph.’ Beverly’s hand bites of your phrase, the unspoken words formulating and preventing a train wreck waiting to happen. The meaning of why goes unclear to you, lost in the haze of foggy interpretations of incentives picked up by your senses.

In retaliation, you lick Bev’s palm, and she retracts her hand, but not without chuckling about it first. ‘Can I please do one more dance on the table? Please? I’ll even let Mike stop me from falling over this time, just please?’ You pout, bottom lip sticking out, begging wordlessly.

‘No, the uber is right in front and we need to leave n-n-now,’ Bill states resolutely, no room for disagreements or debates, your best interests at heart.

‘Alright fine’, you complain, though you tear up at the sight of all of your friends present around you, all in their element and perfect in their own way. Are you looking forward to going home? No. But if the others do, you’ll blissfully follow them, for they are your happiness. You shouldn’t have started thinking that, because the alcohol made you twice as emotional.

‘Are you crying right now?’

‘I’m sorry, I just love you all so much,’ you slobber a kiss over at the two people loitering around you, first Stan ,with a kiss to half of his cheek and ear, the coordination letting you down big time, and then Mike, who unlike Stan happily receives the affection.

‘We love you too’, Ben emphasizes, spooked as a girl walks past him and trips over her own to feet. ‘But I want to leave now.’

Mike throws you around in a fireman position, bracketing your legs so you don’t tumble over the other side. With a whistle, you sag down Mike’s back, giddy with it, seeing the world from a different perspective now.

‘Wow, Stan’s upside down’, you claim fully believing it, and that breaks the last of Stan’s resistance, the edges of his lip twisting up in amusement and a crow galming the room.

Personally the most amusing thing of going out, Stan think to himself, is the reaction to the mind-numbing ache a hangover conjures, as he finds out in the morning.

#richie tozier #richie tozier imagine #Richie x Eddie #sort off #it's hinted at #the loser club imagines #the losers x reader #My writing #it imagines #I swear I'm working on the other request too #one I'll upload tonight

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thecoroutfitters · 7 years ago

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Written by R. Ann Parris on The Prepper Journal.

There are lots of ways to produce food, herbs, and medicines, whether we have small properties with just a patio or deck, or large acreage. Our growing options increase all over again with some simple things like freebie pickup shipping pallets, bottles, old furniture, totes, and bricks.

The ability to make use of vertical space can not only increase our productivity per square foot, but in some cases also make gardening easier on the back and knees.

Pro’s & Con’s

With a few notable exceptions, most vertical growing options share drawbacks and benefits. You have to build something, and you have to supply dirt. You also typically have to water more often and provide more fertilizer. However, it eliminates the need for a tiller. It also allows us to make use of limited space with narrow footprints.

In some cases they also provide mobility. Instead of working and amending lousy, compacted yards, and then leaving them behind when we move, we can stack our containers inside lawn bags and take them with us. We don’t have to truly start from scratch at our new home.

That mobility also applies to the learning curve of gardens. It’s a whole lot easier to move some boards and jugs, gutters, buckets or totes of dirt than it is to fill wheelbarrows with a shovel and then shovel again to refill elsewhere if we discover the spot that seemed perfect ahead of spring planting is far too shady come summertime leaf-out. (To say nothing of moving CMU or timbers after a season or two.)

Mobility applies to us as humans, too, although differently. As we age or collect injuries, caring for conventional and even low ground-level beds can become problematic. Bending, lifting, and kneeling can turn even favored pastimes into painful chores. Being able to sit and reach out at hip and rib level or work standing up braced on a cane, crutch, or walker allows us to remain productive even when we can’t handle the heavy lifting of even a dooryard garden.

Big Lifts

Even a “mini” hugelkulture bed can triple growing space in a footprint full-sized hugel beds that stand 4-6’ tall can quadruple grow space. They also have some benefits over the shallow containers we commonly see in vertical gardens. They hold moisture well, and as the internal wood cores and lighter branches, leaves, and straw used in construction break down, they essentially generate both moisture and their own fertilizer.

However, they are pretty much permanent structures. They’ll break down over time, shrinking, and we can absolutely take them apart and transport that fertile compost and soil elsewhere when we’re done, but it’s not as easy as dumping some of the soil from a bucket or tote, or even as easy as bailing a stock tank into heavy-duty bags and moving it.

We can replicate the self-feeding and moisture retention of hugel beds using some commonly available, inexpensive elements. With or without log cores or heavy branches, they have similar lowered daily/weekly maintenance needs. They also still offer the ablity to work upwards of the ground and greatly increase our planting area per square foot.

Using scrap lumber or wooden pallets, we can form squares or slope-sided pyramids filled with lawn and tree cuttings, household composting material, and some soil and compost plugs or layers. We can add in tubes and hoses for water, and wire, basket weave, PVC or ABS tubes with holes similar to African keyhole gardens that we’ll add household composting materials to as the season passes.

The downside to wooden materials is that they have a limited lifespan. With treated and thick lumber it can be years in cooler climates, but a single pallet that’s inundated constantly is only going to last a couple years in Deep South or tropical humidity.

That means we need to plot our yards for enough space to rebuild them every few years, or we need to plan to continually reinforce them from the outside year by year – which means they’re going to “grow” outward as we go, but by inches at a time.

Another option are the wide variety of grow towers. They can be purchased or DIY builds as stackable units or single-drum units with planting holes. We can set those up for in-situ composting tubes as well. The steel and plastic or – if we choose – clay or ceramic pots will last longer than lumber and have the potential to be moved around a property or to a new property if we need to.

Pyramid beds, pyramid towers, stair-step beds, and spiral beds are also examples of ways we can increase our square footage in small-scale gardening by working upwards in tiers, the square footage of VISIBLE dirt is the same, but the square footage that plants on each tier are using actually extends UNDER the tier above as well due to shape/depth. By using sturdy construction materials like brick, metal, plastic, or block, they’ll last nearly forever and being smaller, we can relocate them if we need to. Even using untreated wood timbers, they’ll last longer than the hugel facsimiles just because there’s not as much weight pressing outward on them.

We can get equal or greater pyramid tower effects – increased planting space in a decreased footprint of our property – from steepled and angled shipping pallet beds. A salvaged picnic table and collected juice and water jugs can also be arranged into a very productive pyramid.

Using the smaller containers, we do go back to the original drawback of many vertical garden expansions: They’ll likely need fertilized more than a ground-plane bed, and they lack capacity to hold much water, especially in relation to the biomass they’re going to support. With vertical pallets especially, we also have to plan ahead with watering, just like barrel planters or grow towers.

If they’re only a couple of tiers high we may be able to soak them as we would any pots, containers, or shallow conventional beds. In most cases we’re going to have to lay in hose or something to act as a funnel or olla irrigation on each tier to ensure that the bottom doesn’t dry out while the top ends up soaked.

Even so, it’s a handy way to get 2-8 times the growing space out of the square footage they occupy, and in many cases they can travel with us to continue easing the back strain of growing some groceries.

Production Capability

There is one caveat to the containers and small pocket or trench spaces most usually associated with vertical gardens: They’re for veggies, not staples.

There are peppers, cherry and grape tomatoes, and others that are adapted or adaptable to hanging pots and relatively small planters, and we have some larger options like shipping pallets, buckets, and hanging bags that can handle them. There are the cube and pyramid types and the hugel beds and approximations that can handle larger melons. We also now have several dwarf sweet corn with full-sized cobs specifically for container gardens, although they’re less applicable to small-container vertical garden methods.

Wheat, griding corn, barley, peas, and dry beans in enough quantity to affect our meals really just don’t work well in most container garden setups and it’s hard to get them enough root and growing space to make them viable for vertical methods.

Even so, there’s value there, and the low footprint required of vertical growing methods is actually a major bonus. We can use very little square footage to produce our nutrient-rich and flavorful veggies, very efficiently many times, saving our horizontal planes for livestock, play/training space, orchards, or crops that do work better by plot, not plant.

Integrating Livestock

Vertical methods can be used in conjunction with livestock, especially small livestock. The benefits include more than just finding enough space for both a small veg garden and compact livestock. Those benefits scale and apply to people with elbow room and acreage as well.

Even more than green roofs, vertical gardens can also offer shading for those rabbits or hens – especially helpful in hot climates to keep rabbits breeding productively and lower heat stress. We might also arrange planters to help guard the lower edges of coops and hutches from predators that would dig or reach through them, or where they’ll increase the insulation and buffer winter winds. One easy way to accomplish that, is to line our existing fencing with vertical pallet gardens.

We can source pallets and leave them as-is for as long as we like, and when we have time and supplies, turn those predator and weather barriers into veggie and herb production. While some contortionists and taller livestock will be able to reach around the tops of fences, losses are limited for most and we can simply tailor our pallet gardens so the tops are water catchment or for them.

While pallets have the most applications, we can use any of the tower or hanging-container methods in conjunction with our livestock fences. If they’re spaced tight or boards are arranged between them, it’ll limit “predation” by our adorable stock. Chickens, especially, will be able to reach their necks well past chain link and cattle wire.

Those gardens can be done inside the coop, hutch or run, too, protected by mesh that allows free feeding but prevents livestock from eating plants all the way to the roots. Essentially, it’s just creating graze boxes, although in this case we don’t have to worry about making sure the plants can tolerate the “heat” of raw manure.

In the case of waterfowl and smaller goats, we can hang crops for us over their reach, but chickens will hop and reach, and by the time it’s out of a standard goat’s reach, we’d have to hook hanging baskets down for harvest and maintenance. However, we can add more productive space to our fence lines with any livestock by turning to shrubs, trees, and vines.

Depending on the type fencing we have, they’ll munch one side until it’s out of reach and we may need to put a barrier up to protect tender starts and smaller vines they can reach through and over the tops of fences. It’s silvopasture – most commonly timber and fodder trees in acres of pasture, but easily manageable even in very small yards and totally applicable for everything in between.

Growing Up, Not Out

Expanding our growing methods to the vertical plane has a lot of advantages not only for preppers in limited space, but also those looking for ease. In some cases, it can also be incredibly helpful for those just starting out, figuring out new properties, and trying to save money. Even for those with acreage, using vertical methods for veggies or greens can help keep those close at hand for harvest and care, as well as create less exposure to predators or livestock.

The narrow footprint also makes vertical gardens valuable for those trying to maintain a lower profile with their survival crops. The efficient use of floorplan means they can be stashed very close to the house, tucked into nooks and crannies, and even used inside, keeping them out of future potential thieves.

There’s a vertical garden method that can help just about any prepper, beginner or old hand, tiny apartment to six-digit acreage. Many can be done inexpensively and with minimal labor, tools, or soil and amendment purchases. With all the options, pretty much all of us can start increasing our food production or make at least some of that production a little easier from the labor aspect.

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ratherhavetheblues · 5 years ago

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INGMAR BERGMAN’S ‘THE TOUCH’ “Can I do something for you?”

We live in a time when there are many who bid to confound the orthodox. Great gobs of rebels roam the town, threatening to install jurisdictions putting an end to the easy days for what is left of a mainstream. Our entertainments, for instance, smack of concussion. All these game-changers never doubt that their look and ways are destined to happily rule.

There is the possibility, however, that all of that critique will slip back to the defaults of religion and science (and their minions of humanism). It’s one thing to feel that something very important is not in play. It’s quite another thing, it seems to me, to define and embrace what that elusive phenomenon is.

One remarkable effort in that area is the output of the films of Ingmar Bergman (1919-2007). The latter’s career was not without renown and homage. But looking for responses, in such a direction as we’ve mentioned, have not found cogent takers amidst film enthusiasts.

There was a quite unique showdown, as to this silence—within the trilogy of three extremely violent films, namely, Hour of the Wolf (1968), Shame (1968) and The Passion of Anna (1969)—which embedded itself on the heels of the production of Shame and the overtaking of The Passion of Anna, namely, The Rite (1969), with its remarkable emphasis upon deploying the motions of hands and fingers to open the elements which have been imprisoned for so many centuries. The Rite was a prototype, and yet a rich study of the vagaries of depending upon exotic and flawed rebels. A subsequent film, having more completely delivered the imperative of taking upon one’s self to find the riches of sensibility, namely, The Touch (1971), our film today, runs a gamut for all to see, while being doubly ignored within its drama and being known to the world as the worst film Bergman ever created.

The Rite would be validly recognized as an avant-garde film, drawing upon Theatre of the Absurd, particularly, Eugene Ionesco’s Rhinoceros (1960), and Jean Genet’s The Balcony (1958). (In The Passion of Anna, Samuel Beckett’s, Waiting for Godot [1954], rides pretty high.) And although, in The Touch, a protagonist does reprise Rhinoceros (1960), nearly, all the viewers believe Bergman has produced a soap opera. Soaps galore, there are; but what you don’t want to get suckered with, as to the tedious narrative of “unique David,” the American archaeologist and his “ardent” student, Karin, finding small-town Sweden far from enough, is that Bergman would waste time on a vehicle of domesticity.

Start with the title. Our helmsman, as good as it gets for theatrical dialogue, has put the viewer’s feet into an absurdist fire which might deliver not only a drastic migration but a wise one. Humankind on earth, being what it is, however, another resource becomes paramount. The forces of anxiety, in which Bergman excelled, becoming, as viewer ignorance piled up, demanded a more visceral presentation of cinematography, in hopes that a more powerful physicality would cotton on to the communications. Not that inventive cinematography had not already been deployed in films twenty years before, but now requiring a sort of shock treatment to catapult the attention to something very different. At the era where Bergman was now intent upon radical disclosure, he was blessed with a cameraman, namely, Sven Nykvist (1922-2006) who, along with Bergman’s drive to the uncanny, constituted a long parade of optical strangeness at the infrastructure of our film on tap. Not only would Nykvist fit the bill as to unearth incisive visual mood, but he and Bergman coincided in their range of history and priorities in significant ways. They were born in Sweden about the same time—right after World War I—and their parents were intensely involved with the clergy. Nykvist seldom saw his parents, who were based in Africa as missionaries; and Bergman was far from tolerant toward his pious parents. Coming of age during World War II, they both found film work under the Axis powers—Bergman’s first screenplay being produced in 1944, and Nykvist doing cinematography in Italy. Bergman’s ambiguity about Hollywood would be a long-term collision with the Jewish owners of the heyday of American filmic drama. On casting his male protagonist for this blow-out of a movie, he chose the hyper-Semitic, Elliot Gould. Why? Because wordy self-promotion and desperate virtuousness are the farthest contrasts needed to elicit real lucidity, a lucidity of touch. On casting his other two protagonists—long-term Bergman stalwarts, Bibi Andersson and Max von Sydow—there was their recent outings, in The Passion of Anna, bemusing and troubling. The Andersson role finds her married to an internationally renowned architect, tasteful, sensitive and cynical to the self-serving portal to nihilism. At a dinner party, Andersson, named Eva, is asked if she believes in God. Her reply is to ask of her husband, “Do I believe in God, Elis?” The von Sydow role is that of a passive artisan being pushed around by a pathological brute of a wife. Now it’s Bibi, once again asking for direction, in the person of Karin; and Max, a sensitive physician in the person of Andreas—also his name in The Passion of Anna—left shattered and angry.

The outset, as always by Bergman, is elegant and primordially engaging. Karin parks at a hospital, and the lush foliage reflects upon her windshield, a trademark more calming than thrilling. But now we do have a major figure, despite her having died a few minutes before, and Karin enters this stage as an extra, more distracted than touched. The blur of the coat room during the rush of the emergency upstages her emotionally pat mission. While the doctor assures, “It was very peaceful”—she strangely distancing by way of, “May I go in”—we know by the inflected sensibility that she and her mother were not very peaceful together. Karin slowly walks toward the bed, and then there is a cut to her mother, her eyes open and showing a calm, handsome visage. Then a close-up of the lady’s hands and fingers. The inertia stages a rally of sorts in the form of her handsome portable clock and its showing 5 to 3. (A playful, dialectical hope in the midst of possibly carrying on to a sort of dance, a roundelay consisting of two opposing forces reaching a synthesis, a special truth.) Then a glass of water, half-full, on a table, along with a wristwatch and jewelry. Her daughter comes to the bed, sits rather gingerly on an edge and then she holds her mother’s hand. She touches her cheek, her forehead and her hair. A nurse suggests, “But perhaps you’d like to take the wedding rings now…” She closes her mother’s eyes with her fingers. She suddenly, in a sort of panic, kisses her. The tone, the touch coming across, in this, amounts to more a formality than compassion. She quits the room as if having escaped from a chore. (At the end of the film, Karin will cancel an affair on the basis of duty to her husband and children, who by that time hate her. In a flashback the now deceased is visiting her daughter’s family. Her mood, her body language, emits of not being welcome, a somewhat annoying foreigner. Karin and Andreas cherish their garden, but the love becomes eclipsed by its technology and show of advantage. During a slideshow, Andreas, losing control of the jist, blurts out, “That’s my mother-in-law, she’s dead.”) Back at the hospital, the camera lingers on the mother. A field of light nuance presents. A pan down to her hands, and a delicate embroidery.

The nurse delivers the jewelry in the corridor, without eye-contact. Karin begins to make some formality pertaining to the attentions of the recent patient. “Mother was…” The busy nurse cuts her off with a dry, “You’re welcome.” On the way out she cries for many reasons. A cut to her hands and fingers, caressing the jewelry. By the time she had placed the two rings on her finger, in a dark exit, there were loud footsteps approaching. The newcomer turns on the light, disclosing his very overweight presence, having arrived as if an oncoming rhinoceros. In fact, Bergman, now intent upon the ins and outs of avant-garde endeavor, nails him as a version of Ionesco’s Rhinoceros, a figure of anger and destruction and soft self-pity, becoming a wake-up delivered toward myopic bourgeois carelessness. His hard eyes become soft. “Can I do something for you?” She tells him to leave her alone. He races along with, “Oh, I’m sorry,” now in the register of the nurse.

They meet again, but their faring means nothing. We have reached a home of the dead—soap opera style. All we can do is notice that there is so much more trailing them. Nykvist, come on in!

It turns out that our “reckless lovers,” supposed paragons of the new and the deeper, generate a sea of emotions, going nowhere for them, but going somewhere for us. Their first extensive meeting is on the ramparts of an ancient fortification, more than inert in seemingly overwhelming the river far back in the scene. As they perform their walkabout in a world of ancient stones a slight view of that sea appears, a portion of the kinetic. A ship in the distance. The known and the not wanting to know more. While this encounter mounts quiet motion wasted, the new man, bizarre as a troupe of pornographic superstars in the film twinning this film, has become a mysterious, unearthly monarch to Karin. She brings that David to her almost palatial home one sunny weekend, in hopes that her passion for gardening could meld somehow with her treachery. “We work in the garden every spare minute. Andreas adds, “Our garden is actually our pride.” Then she goes on, “Oh, you must come here in the spring or early summer… We’re both very fond of flowers and trees as you can see.” The many blossoms and trees in view surely reach a facsimile of magic. But, when delivering their understanding of the boon, all of their fund of majesty, disinterestedness, rapidly withers. This feast running to famine puts, for the one and only time, an entry to Karin’s sense of more than one magician. David delivers the routine praise, and she therewith lets her hobbyist priority take over. “And all winter we dream about what we’re going to do next summer.” Andreas is called away on the phone by his medical duties and, when David iterates, “Everything in the garden is lovely,” she touches upon a major challenge: “You know it’s very difficult to talk about that kind of thing.” Her malaise at that crucial point, instead of initiating a hard and solitary investigation, finds her leaning on a flashy but weak savior. On to a “confession,” from the guest, “I suppose it’s hardly the thing to tell you, but I fell in love with you…” (The little judge, in The Rite, comes to a confessional to supplement his generally solitary researches. He comes to grief in consulting a mob of useless nihilists. The two, pledging love here, do stand as looking for a change. But not a brave change. Bravery being a rare instance, where so much is obsolete, or at least hugely overrated.) A glowing Karin rises to, “Please have some raspberries.” Bergman’s raspberries being a broad hit. Moreover, a feeble dialectic leans upon what should be fluent. A grey, skinny candle near the window; yellow roses unfocused. The great lover, saying, “No, no, no, I couldn’t eat anything more. I’m stuffed…”

Andreas having settled the phone emergency, he takes up an undisclosed earlier conversation, pertaining to David, of a mysterious wooden sculpture of the Madonna, hidden in a long-forgotten chink in a small minor church in the vicinity where he was carrying out one of his archaeological duties and loves. The two technicians find easy-going pleasure therein, and David actually musters a sense of singularity about how the craft and care had come to such a resting place. But Andreas cuts short the “mystery,” with, “Would you like a whisky?” and then it’s off to the less than interesting slideshow and the carelessly addressed deceased—another locked away treasure. The medic trots out some blossom highlights—one being an orchid named “insectaria.” “It attracts the interest of the fly.” (David being an incubus curiosity to Karin’s fly.) The jiggling show, being something else, unnoticed. “Are you sure David is interested?” she cautions. Another hit to the easy-wise, is the portrait of their donkey. “It died two weeks after this photo was taken…” Long before the mother-in-law’s death, there she is, onscreen (as having noted), sharply different from that of the others, in being seriously poised and reflective. That touch being, arguably, all this film seriously amounts to. (“Uh, she’s also dead,” speaks volumes about this family, and also the newcomer-insect he’s found to be jagged to his liking.) Scotch helping along, the visiting pedant blurts out, “Have you a picture of your wife nude… I would like to see a picture of Karin nude.” Andreas/ Max (having a long history of Bergman films being shocked and embarrassed) laughs it off. But this little bomb marks the end of smooth sailing for that family, left to settle into forces of sensibility apparently without accommodating the beauties of blossoms. The coda of that night is optically and viscerally firming. A close-up reveals a rambling kiss curl for David, Bergman having broached a similar ripple in the film, Dreams (1955). His hands are shown, tightly locked. (“Don’t worry, there won’t be a scandal.”) David refusing Andreas’ offer to drive the Scotch bomb home, the man of the house settles for, “I’d love to see the church.”/ “Yeah,” is all he gets. Before bed, we see a limp dialectic having squelched any mystery: Karin along a wall; a gold lampshade; and, beyond that, the non-magical film screen. An errant prayer. Here’s the night, as they would have it. He declares, “I’m glad he didn’t stay too long.” She asks, “How did you like him?”/ “A damned nice fellow, I thought. But he drank a bit too much, didn’t he?”/ “Did he? I didn’t notice, actually.”/ “Foreigners, you know…”/ “How did you meet?”/ (His friend, Jacobi [a long-term name and desperate signal of trouble in Bergman] directed David to Andreas. The diagnosis given, to her, was a kidney stone. As we will hear later, the “Rhinoceros” had attempted suicide. Andreas’ hands are seen to be tightly held.) In bed, he holds her at her shoulder. His fingers are stock still. Then their hands are locked in profile. A flow of bedding looks as if he has a large flow of mucus.

The preamble of the budding lovers comprises her at home doing domestic chores, with the lightest and most tedious play-list on the radio. She tells her young son, “Let’s get a move on!” She hears staunch church bells at their rendezvous. He would show up with a corn-cob pipe, perhaps imagining being as tough as General MacArthur, but in fact just corny, a ludicrous excuse for getting a move on. Now he’s at left, she at right, and between, a painting at the altar. Making such a trio of magic needs more than corn, girlie sentiment and gloomy piety. The disinterestedness and love, of the presence of the statue on this site, being light years away from our shabby protagonists. David’s flashlight plays over the major figure and a smaller one, as to companionship. Far more than our protagonists will ever know, there is a touch capable in their own hands and fingers to convene a consummation truly astounding. He directs Karin to the subtle smile of the figure. Easy subtle. While there is a world of subtlety to engage. On reaching the façade of the antiquity they come upon a stone figure, a sort of map or warning. A trail, in the manner of a serpent, conspicuously showing a vise or wall. A serene church being only part of the mystery. She returns for a second look of the trail. She runs an ignorant hand over the point of contention. He lifts her hand from the pictograph, simulating the snag. From the depths to the soaps. His hand, lifting hers, describes a knot. He rushes a finger over her palm. A logo on the cuff of her shirt is a pussycat.

There are many moments of Andreas’ career and Karin’s matrimony. They mean little here, beyond the ironies of their distractions. He, once again, on the phone at home: “I think so, too. But the symptoms are kind of vague, don’t you think? If only she wasn’t so damned hysterical. It might be just nerves.” She tells him, on the subject of her adolescent daughter, Marie, “She’s going out with some friends tonight. Mind that she’s home by midnight.” Then Karin, about to invade for the first time, the supposed lair of the vague and the perfect, changes clothes many times, perhaps a habit of Marie. The hurricane of bourgeois seductions finds, beyond hysteria, a policy of simplicity, namely, an old woolen number. (The judge, in The Rite, also hoping to strike the perfect tone in face of questionable priorities, frequently changes his clothes due to a medical weakness. Woolens speak to the issue of desperate Anna, in her film, The Passion of Anna, where sheep become butchered.) Karin’s apologetic gambit when being late here, “It’s one-way streets all the way from where we are,” becomes an unintentional disclosure of deadly childishness. Her one-way involves ticking off his one and dying plant and his filthy apartment. But then, perhaps not so out of the blue, the rendezvous begins to sound like a Hollywood charmer. “You’re nervous, David.”/ “Yes, I’m nervous. My pulse must be 690. Aren’t you nervous?”

Whereas the “exotic” mob, in The Rite, were truly pathological mercenaries, David, as now revealed, is a humanitarian softy with an animus toward the likes of Andreas—modern, technically conversive and rather cold. That he doubles as a rhinoceros—a primeval poster boy—has fooled Karin into thinking that heights are just around the corner. (A lovely touch of dramatic irony occurs with David, having been working abroad, arriving on the same night Andreas was staging a gala at the end of a medical conference. Karin skips out of the techies, only to confront her “something else,” being dressed and coiffed exactly like the medics at play. Eventually he’ll tell her that his ideal is attaining an assistant professorship at a rural university. “We could live a settled life on your conditions.”)

With so much bilious churning to the fore, their supposed breakaway is a redundancy, a screwball farce. He asks, “What should we talk about now?” She suggests, “Shall we take our clothes off and go to bed and see what happens?… But we must close the curtains. I’m shy.”/ “Oh, so am I!” he assures. Karin’s one-way nude becomes a study of quirkiness so lost as to be a sort of sign of a plague. “I want you to look at me first. I’m 34. You can see that in my face, especially around the eyes. I have a scar here on my stomach. I’ve had two children, and Anders [their boy] was very big, you know. My breasts were nicer before… I’m not an experienced mistress, etc.” David, in this blizzard, feels, “I’m afraid I can’t today.” This somehow brings her to the point of duplicity. “I’ve no idea why I’ve come here to you… I don’t even know if I’m in love with you.”

The next time they meet, David kisses her till her lips bleed, and he rapes her, in a similar way to the rape of Thea by the judge, in the other experimental ball of fire, The Rite, chasing most of the viewers out of contention, while subsequent fireworks get down to smaller bits of delight. A short time before, she had, in the course of Andreas’ leaving town for a conference, found herself behind a light grey transparent curtain as she waved to him leaving from the carport. In her profile as she moved along the window, the curtain became animated, a ripple effect came to life, whereby she became active in an uncanny way, at a volume too weak to matter. In The Rite, Thea provides a credo of startling dynamics, only to provocatively turn her back on it. Now it’s Karin’s turn, having never been exposed to anything but domesticity. Heavy feeling, but merely destructivity, on tap. She attempts a rational experience. “What just happened? Don’t you think you were very childish?” (Childish [and more] when she comes to realize, on encountering his sister, that his story, about his Jewish family all killed by the Nazis [but him], is a fabrication. Advantage, and not a trace of disinterestedness.) His apologia runs as follows: “I don’t know what to do with my churned-up feelings. Isn’t it absurd? After all, I’m grown up.” (Even beyond the absurd.) The four candles behind them, obviously lacking the real deal of three. At the medical reception congress, six candles blaze. Overkill. Karin is a model of being in her element. Other elements are stillborn. On leaving there, for the supposed truth, an adolescent quarrel flares up. She tells him she’s a little tipsy from the zone of chemistry. Viewing herself in a mirror she lifts up her hands and her fingers are playful. He, on the other hand, proceeds to trash the apartment, rhino-style. As things get even worse, she’s heard to remark, “No one has ever struck me.” Impetuous Americans, right? Before the standard American movie redemption on the staircase, he ploughs into, “I hate that goddamn Andreas, that fucking, hypocritical idiot. He can go to hell!” (Here we could mention that his sister in London, while debunking the family war crisis, does float the idea that she and David are doomed by an incurable disease. What we do see from her is a lot of alcohol and cigarettes.) Karin places her hand and fingers over his obviously stupid mouth. Back at the love nest, a little bird is seen quickly passing by their window.

Back home with Andreas, their chess game shows her between two dim lights. Another arrangement features a small fireplace. Their son comes by and berates the film being played by him. “Just a lot of romance.” Andreas notices the split lip. She remarks, “Could it maybe be vitamin deficiency?” (That little ironic joke has a serious side, pertaining to comprehensive resilience. At this juncture of making waves amidst slugs, transcending cinema while cherishing its daring, our film—as with the coda of The Rite—must recognize and reveal the reflective imperatives integral to these meta-actions. We have to make the best of these two transcendent demands, in order to appreciate the range of the “vitamin deficiency” of the narratives, past and present, and why they still matter.) Bells are quietly heard. Before going to bed, Andreas does some reading of a favorite Swedish poet. Beyond all reason, could he actually collide with the uncanny? Next day Karin, an unlikely user of such vitamins, reads one of the poems to David, feeling the need of some couth. “I think he’s the best. ‘Wake me to sleep in you/ Wake my words to you/ Light my dead stars nearer you/ Dream me out of my world…/ Give birth to me, leave me/ Kill me near you/ Nearer the hearth of birth/ Take me warmer, take me nearer you.’” (A testament like Thea’s. What’s up?) During a long absence while David is currying advantages for his career, both of them know well that the excitement was bogus. (Nowhere near do there expressions recall the poetry.) A blur of his fingers touching his writing page to her. [Typed and sterile.]. Her report of interest: “We’ve all had colds. I was absolutely streaming…” Followed by, “David, dearest friend I have in the world, can you forgive me for not writing to you for several days. We’ve been spring cleaning…” He writes, “One day I stopped dead in my tracks and said to myself, ‘We’re painfully united!’”

On a brief visit after many months, the flat filthy, and she announcing she’s stopped smoking, her positions in space steal the show. There is a lineup—David to right, she in the middle and a mirror showing her. His preoccupation upon smarts well established; her presences lost. She invites him to lie on the bed with her. She becomes rigid, as if having been shot. He avoids her hungry mouth. She goes on to give him a hair wash, and then Andreas comes by, wanting to talk. With Karin ensconced in the bedroom, like a naughty adolescent, the doctor touches upon people beginning to talk about her cheating. David thinks to be helpful in recommending the cockold appreciate what he remains to have, his work, his children, his plants… Then, the host, garbed in dressing gown rhinoceros grey, rips up some turf with, “You’ve humiliated us both long enough with this ridiculous visit.” The husband replies, “I don’t understand why you’re so aggressive, David. I like you… I liked you at the beginning already, when I took care of you after your attempted suicide.” David’s entitlement-hunger rips up again, with the retort, “It was an accident with that ridiculous gas oven.” Andreas, not as liking the brute nearly as much as he claimed, crushes the wimp with data. “We were never to speak of it,” the born lawyer maintains. Well aware that Karin is on hand, he leaves, holding an advantage of feeble satisfaction. “She has to make up her mind for herself. She hates any form of decision.” Her, “Do you think he knew I was here?” puts her in her place, unequivocally. David’s use now of “touch” reflects how averse he is to the magic of touch. “Wasn’t that touching? That was too goddamn touching…”

Other touching moments prove to stage modest but memorable rallies. The two dwarfs observe that the Madonna is doomed. The specialist tells the seeming dare-devil, “Something peculiar has happened, something no one can explain. Before she was walled over, she was the home of some insect not known today. The larvae have been sleeping inside her in darkness for 500 years. And now they’ve awakened and they’re eating the image away from within.” (Her finale, small, quirky and magnificent.) His finger amidst the insects. Not a rite, but the unintentional makings of a finite true love. He opines that the insects are at least as beautiful as the image itself. He would, of course, discount the touches being integral to this death, and this creativity. Karin looks down. “I’ve lost my footing or whatever it is. I used to be fairly secure in my world.” David mocks, “That’s too bad!” Prefacing her bid to turn things around, she wonders if something is wrong with her. She envisages, “It’s possible to live two lives, becoming into one wise and good life that could benefit other people and make them happy.” (Irony, of course. But the inchoate effort to touch the elements. In that vein, she slams the rhinoceros, not particularly effectively. “I know you are going to leave me, because you hate yourself.”) She takes another look at the frieze on the exterior of the place of love. Next day, dressed in chic black leather, befitting an international power of coherence, she discovers that the indispensable man has left town. She smashes a glass, takes off her gloves and presses her hands into the shards.

When desperation takes over, complication races. She’s pregnant and Andreas, one night, now in separate bedrooms, refuses to help when contractions become extreme. Then, sometime after the birth, David resurfaces to announce that he can’t live without her. They meet in a plant conservatory, where birds of paradise are in great supply, and where neither of them notice. He woos her like a Junior High, a filibuster going nowhere. He bitches like a Junior High on realizing he’ll have to find another sucker. Karen explains, “I feel it’s my duty to stay where I am.” Staying where she is, she’s roundly hated.

And yet, the population being what it is, there’s good times ahead. Marie, the caution, is something else. Before the deep freeze, she joins her mother for a safari to find a new outfit. David, in an orange, woolen jump suit, had stalked them and was rapping on the store window. Marie backs out of that fun. She glares at David, knowing very well that the fix is in. Addressing the girl as if she were a duchess of long ago, the supposed new deal gushes, “Do you mind if I talk to your mother for a minute?” She has no time for that prowler. I like to think she’s about to become like her grandmother, which is to say, like the middle-aged lady arranging a divorce, in the film two years appearing after this (prototype) film, namely, Scenes from a Marriage, where a shallow, bourgeois lawyer, Marianne, cocooned in a mob of that sort, could piddle away a lifetime of schemes and never have a clue, never have love to give and receive.

As this second, and last, test drive of the frontiers of contemporary sensibility, comes to an end, there is, I think, a need to disclose how Bergman’s endeavor dovetails with other investigations. His title, The Touch, emphasizes that a locked away treasure of disinterested loving action calls for us to press open, by a touch, the full dynamic of not only human life, but the cosmos itself. That the forgotten crypt has reached its last phase does not undermine the process of greatness per se. A heart becoming lost forever in such a bid is a heart having delighted in playing a part of mustering the primordial heights. The host, therein, is far from simply delivering a mystical enjoyment. The host, in fact, teems with players, but to a test, a test, as we’ve just revealed, to be nearly completely lost in action. The Swedish Madonna had a career of serenity. Few of us are so lucky. But, on the other hand, where the going is very rough and swift, the pathology of advantage can prompt intensities to the liking of the true. Those truly on the go are equipped for shooting rhinos. Their range is their fortune. There are many masterful hands. A solitary play between immortal and mortal has its validity, as well as its blessings. On that note, however, there is full liberty to carve careers wherein the quick and the dead can be engaged for infinite permutations. Joiners being a doubtful policy, but, as we’ve indicated, rare moments do surface.

#ingmar bergman

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the-fitsquad · 7 years ago

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Knights, Graeme “The Difference Between A Workstation And An Office Desk.” The Difference Between An Office Desk And A Workstation. For Home Office Desk Collection please see our online furniture shop. Furniture Location, an internet furniture shop, offers variety of office furniture to choose from Huge range of office desk including home office, manager desk, study desk etc..

Some office desks provide larger apace such as a printer or other equipment like additional external modem, speakers etc.. Steel and Aluminium Office Desks are also employed by number of offices. Glass top and office desks look very decent and easy to clean.

The most commonly used office desks are made from good quality wood or mixture of wood and glass, such as glass high office desks appear appealing and boost the worth of your workplace. It is dependent upon your need, budget and preference that what type of office desks you want for your workplace. It is thus recommended to pick your office desks with good care.

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This increases positivity in the office space and business will grow at a rapid speed. Preparing a new workplace is an entire task in itself and without filling this up with the ideal supplies and accessories; it won’t reflect your organization in the right way and wouldn’t leave a good im… Employees love it to because they save on commuting costs, they are more comfy, and they’re able to avoid a lot of the workplace politics out of working in an isolated distance.

If you work in an office with other people and you want to keep a supply of snacks and beverages on-site, consider having employees earn their own to discuss. The majority of the time, people initially create their office without any issues, but once you start to run out of materials and supplies, it can be tough to maintain your workplace working. Thus, number one that is pro is ease of accessibility to office computers and workspaces.

My office chair cans move around . Storage needs can be reduced to the size of a powerful server by going digital. Those days are thankfully largely gone with the advent of PACS workstations, and applications systems such as the Candelis PACS system.

PACS appliances include the software and server hardware which you need to use in your mammography workstation in order to store, manage, distribute and watch your digital medical images. New workstations are merely an investment in your employees and their wellbeing, together with the increased productivity it will pay off. As more people recognize the benefits of standing, the requirement for sit workstations has radically improved.

7 Ports USB 2.0 HUB Constructed USB Extra Long Cable is your very useful USB hub cable ,made up of this rather large quality durable cloth, is the ideal companion for laptop or desktop ,the Ideal USB expansion make it mobile to use on the road or in the home. Using computers and laptops also have their limits, in terms of use, and the amount of USB devices that be connected to the computer keyboard. Some laptops and computers. This USB Hub operates at 5V DC and 500mA, it supports in most of the computers or laptops that has Operating System of Windows ME or Windows 2000 or Windows XP or Windows Vista or Windows 7. It’s an additional function of card reader (T-Flash, Micro SD) along with USB Ports.

Employing the online connectivity provided by an ISP, the client program establishes a connection with the company server, which grants entry to the application, after confirmation of password and username. The private network of the company includes a VPN server. In addition to guarantees and support, users are offered by a workplace workstation:

By demanding professionals Preferred, workstation computers are being used in every industry for applications ranging to diagnostics. E-mail to fax, desktop to fax, broadcast fax, and fax to fax through the web. Small Business Integrated Desktop Messaging – E-mail to fax.

Most businesses neglect to factor in the costs of activities such as workers walking to the machine, hoping to utilize it, the faxing process and the employee’s return trip to their workplace. Every time you get a fax, you must retrieve it from the neighborhood fax machine, instead of having it delivered directly to your PC workstation just like any other file. There is a vast selection of sit-stand workstations commercially available, from free-standing electrically controlled to manual setups which can be set on an present desk surface.

Requests to get a medical accommodation, including those to get a sit-stand or standing desk, ought to be called the Office of Human Resources (for staff), the Office of the Dean of Faculty (such as DOF employees), or the Office of Disability Services (for graduate and undergraduate students). Individuals who use computers for extended periods of time can experience discomfort or pain as a result of poor posture, improper adjustment or use of workstation components or other aspects. These differences are quite apparent from the accessories that are available for the gambling laptops and computers.

There are a lot of good reasons for an MBA At the job market, zillions of resumes belonging to the exact same profile inundate the desks of recruiters and the databases of online job portal sites and positioning consultancies. Many businesses offer help desk services that’s an supporter and advice resource that troubleshoots the issues. Computers desks offer flexibility and flexibility in use – they can be remodeled easily depending on the usage.

If it’s a massive network that’s being handled, such as a central banking system or a community service provider a host might be committed to perform the access control capabilities. Majority of the people around the globe are interested how technology works with it. Because of a developing technologies, web server was developed and utilized in companies around the world. Information theft from computers and notebooks is an increasing menace.

It’s complex and difficult to describe, however there are people out there that only work on ways to gain access to computers which they’re not assumed to obtain access too. Learn how to fix the most frequent computer related problems like Windows registry malfunction, slow computer, network server inaccessibility, memory difficulties, hardware difficulties and computer security problems. Office desks are very helpful in enhancing the looks of an office.

Enhance your living room or working space and office with Desks in colors, styles, finishes, and woods. Now imagine that as your desktop, it’s a different picture to that of work or college desks. They became a part of office life, along with was often index and a status symbol of standing inside business or the office.

Many men and women trade a normal computer workstation for the portability of a notebook, but the advantage a laptop provides often relies on the potency of the battery. It’s usually best for the keyboard to be 3-5 inches below the conventional background height of 29 inches; you shouldn’t be reaching up to the computer keyboard. This software enables you to remotely connect.

PC remote access allows users to connect several computers together and control them. If it comes to gaining access to some other computer that you need to get into, the applications used will transmit everything on the computer it’s installed on to the PC you want to link to and command. If you want applications for MAC machines then you can try programs such as Timbuktu computer and Apple desktop out.

After installed, desktop services are all incorporated by operating systems like XP 7, Windows Vista and Server 2008. PC remote control software is a computer program that runs on many operating systems and allows any applications in your PC to be held and triggered to a remote server while being exhibited on a local device. This software comes in 3 versions–DriveClone Free/Workstation/Server.

The Multicast performance in SE can be used to clone 40 network computers at one go. It can also be run from a Live CD and supports manner. That the Ghost has been stopped, it’s time to proceed to other good data migration software. Trust together with the client is 1 thing we’d never compromise on. Go online and check office desks in accordance with your selection.

Charge and do more in less time with Digital Storm customized workstation computers. If you’re working with ERP version, where your data resides in Microsoft SQL Server, data export or table accessibility in reporting is out of the question. You can add accessories such as shelves, file cabinets and hutches that are desktop.

Go to white desk chair to find out more about the home office furniture. Among the most popular furniture pieces for your home office is the computer workstation that is white. There are an increasing number of people working from home today, and this also usually means that they can purchase any home office furniture which they need rather than having to use the one that the corporate direction allocated to them.

1. Workstations in common or high-risk regions ought to be secured down to allow access to specific applications only. When I went to the shop we were not sure if we wanted to buy a desk which can be utilized both for PCs and office work. They are all Dell GX150 PC’s with Pentium 3 CPU’s running at 933Mhz, together with 256MB of ram and 20GB hard disk space each, along with one “server” – a 2.4Ghz Compaq with 512MB of ram and two 500GB hard drives (running Linux, of course, and this is our NAS, print server, firewall/router, and much more).

Using Linux, an individual can resurrect a desktop or notebook with an operating system that is easy to use, and up to date, safe. With our market using its, well, ups and downs recently, you might be thinking “Is now really a good time to consider purchasing a new computer” Software programs that needed robust hardware to run are now moving on to the Internet. At once when our firm was really busy, I bought Dell Precision Workstations.

Most do not, even though some versions of the glass desks employed for offices come with sufficient desk storage. One of these is that glass office desks will often be considerably lighter as compared to metallic or wooden types. 1. Decide if a laptop or a desktop: Being a integrated platform, desktop requires a table that is larger than a notebook!

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victoryliononline · 8 years ago

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Anita Desai: Every once in a while, a short story pursues you

As the writer becomes 80, she reflects on how tales briefly told are currently under wont of returning

I was always a scribbler. As soon as I was coached the alphabet I pent even before I could spell so that I was always persecuting everybody in private households( includes the cook who knew no English) How do you spell live? How do you spell tree, flame, fledgling, fish?( He responded by making me a superb offering on my birthday of an inkwell carved out of soft soapstone, which I unfortunately spoilt by running real ink into that tender, decorative object .) I crowded notebook after notebook sat on a cane stool at my round light-green table and was named, with an understandably resigned sigh, The Writer in the Family.

What was I writing? Consciously, with awareness and meaning, relatively limited. I simply had an implore to make all that is I considered, hear and experienced on paper, in ink. I had little awareness of categories journals were bibles to me, the imposing leather-bound bibles behind the glass on my mothers bookshelves, the shabby, dog-eared paperbacks on my siblings shelves, and the exciting, inviting ones in all their diversification in the bookshop where I devoted my pocket money. I cant remember when I learned to differentiate between the short story and the novel no, actually, I can: it was when I first decided to send a piece out to be published( producing was important, I knew writing had to be in etch if it was to earn its mention ), and it was, of course, of a short section to fit into a magazine or magazine. But I was also always writing at length with the idea of a book, a suitable record, in my thinker, and a part of me concluded short floors to be neglected novels.

But a short story is not a failed fiction any more than a novella is an extended short story. Each has only one altogether different specified of such standards and upshots. Length is one of them, but portions run wildly. As Hortense Calisher mentioned, How long should a short story be? As long as a piece of string. I mean to tie down the allotment with. I like her practical, workmanlike coming, but there is, in addition, the element of possibility. How did one section I pent be brought to an end a short story, another increase, unwrap itself, saunter, digress and crusade on to a track, a road to a further destination novella, or novel?

It is all a matter of instinct, certainly, and expedition a conviction that dawns on one, while one drives, that one has said what one set out to say: there is no need to go further. It may be really one tiny chapter, stumbled on unusually, a glimpse out of a opening, the transgression of light on one object while bypassing another, that opens one pause and for some reason is not forgotten. Why has it stayed in the mind when so many other thoughts, encounters and know-hows have turned into a blur and disappeared? And when one has acquired the responses to that the tale is done. It can come to one swiftly or it may take long, very long, to discover. In the short story, it need not be pursued further. Many scribes have commented on its identity being closer to a rhyme than a novels.

I have written only a few short fibs that have me with that sensation that one craves: Ah, I have done what I set out to do , no more is needed. The legends that constitute my new mustered volume are those that I objective on that note. For the most side, I have taken longer and watched the stone Id flung into the pond procreate ripples that diversify considerably, reverberation on gurgle, arc on arc, struggling to reach the far coast, and pondered: where will this get? How will it end? And that search has turned into a novel.

It is the latter mode that I have mostly espouse. It is the one that renders space both dangerous and forgiving, and lays one open to what may be years of discouragement, gloom, incredulity and segregation while one considers alternatives, makes one tack and then another, sees missteps, redresses them, picks oneself up and strives on, only gradually building up the momentum needed for narrative. But while to participate in so much better that is baffle and exhausting, one may be granted briefly and sporadically that inexplicable breath of breeze that comes up unusually, generate a ruffle, a incite, a ebb that lunges one send and routes one soaring, voyaging, hovering through space and time.

It is the pursuit of that elusive and inexplicable sensation that one attempts in the short story, so different a structure. Instead of those long pulls in which a novelist becomes stranded, the short-story columnist must launch forth on what is a high-wire behave, refusing to look back or down into the abyss, running the length of it at a sprint so as not to lose balance: rapid, quick before you fall! You may go back and start all over again, or change sentences and places, but that initial suggest must maintain its necessity from beginning to end.

Lightning that lampoons the light,

Brief even as bright. Percy Bysshe Shelley

In this, the short story is the more challenging shape as I realised when I had the temerity to coach the the time of writing of it to students who came to the creation of fiction as ended apprentices, simply because it was easier to fit into the room of a class, a call that length of cord again. But it was the awfully brevity and limited of the word that required talent, learning and understanding to make it labor, ie, to compose the desired effect.

But every once in a while, when completing that frenetic dash of the short story, even after this is the case in print, one finds it wont “lets get going” of one. It haunts one or, rather, one follows it because there is more to be said, more to be probed into, detected and disclosed. So every once in a while I have found, times and year later, a short story written long ago insisting on becoming a novel.

It is the experience I had when I wrote the short story The Accompanist. I detected then that I had put on paper all I knew very little about that minor figure of the melodic life, the musician in the background, barely detected, all tending being given to the maestro, the soloist. Was he content for it to be so?

Was he or not? There was so much in the life and exertion of that overlooked creator, and I wrote the novel In Custody to give him his due, although I changed the two personas into a poet and student. And again, eventually still, into the novella Translator Translated . One of my earliest short-lived narratives, Scholar and Gypsy, eventually carried on a whole new life as the romance Journey to Ithaca , something I did not even know until a book pointed out the development of the theme: the difference between the specific characteristics who appears the world is all we need and the specific characteristics for whom the world is limited; beyond it there surely lies more. The sought for that other world physical or spiritual that impels them on their tour, had carried on from the short story into the novel as a cartoon might lead to a draw. This subterranean element rising to the surface astonished me, I had not been is cognizant of that development.

Each form requires a different situate of cleverness, even cloths as an creator might necessity pencil or pen and ink, or watercolours or lubricants for one slog or another. Brevity and concision will do for one, while the other involves skepticism, mystery, mistake and staman. If one writes both, which affords the greater enjoyment? Now one , now the other that is the only answer.

The Complete Stories by Anita Desai issued by Penguin. To seek a facsimile for 14.44( RRP 16.99) go to bookshop.theguardian.com or call 0330 333 6846. Free UK p& p over 10, online fiats exclusively. Phone says min p& p of 1.99.

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victoryliononline · 8 years ago

Text

Anita Desai: Every once in a while, a short story pursues you

As the writer becomes 80, she reflects on how tales briefly told are currently under wont of returning

Lightning that lampoons the light,

Brief even as bright. Percy Bysshe Shelley

Read more: https :// www.theguardian.com/ volumes/ 2017/ jul/ 08/ anita-desai-short-story-writers-novelist-8 0-tales

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victoryliononline · 8 years ago

Text

Anita Desai: Every once in a while, a short story pursues you

As the writer becomes 80, she reflects on how tales briefly told are currently under wont of returning

Lightning that lampoons the light, Brief even as bright. Percy Bysshe Shelley

Read more: https :// www.theguardian.com/ volumes/ 2017/ jul/ 08/ anita-desai-short-story-writers-novelist-8 0-tales

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victoryliononline · 8 years ago

Text

Anita Desai: Every once in a while, a short story pursues you

As the writer becomes 80, she reflects on how tales briefly told are currently under wont of returning

Lightning that lampoons the light, Brief even as bright. Percy Bysshe Shelley

Read more: https :// www.theguardian.com/ volumes/ 2017/ jul/ 08/ anita-desai-short-story-writers-novelist-8 0-tales

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