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Brit Rock—But Not BowieFowberry Excavation Site 6 submitted by SolarMegalith. Cup with penannulars on Fowberry Excavation Site 6 panel (photo taken on October 2013). Rock Art in Northumberland, England—The largest and most extensively decorated panel in the Fowberry (meaning 'fortification of the foal') Excavation site group is adjacent to the Bronze Age burial cairn. Among the motifs there are cups with multiple penannulars, grooves and a cup with two rings. More on ERA... Fowberry Excavation Site 6 submitted by SolarMegalith. General view of Fowberry Excavation Site 6 panel (photo taken October 2013.) Get your local dose of archeology at the Alexandria Archaeology Museum. ***This post originally appeared on The Megalithic Portal and was republished here with permission.*** The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Ruskie Journalists, Take Note Editors Note: We pulled this article from one of our partner blogs, Providentia. The extent of the censorship and oppression contained in these new laws is of concern to the LGBTQ community, their allies and anyone with a sense of value for human rights and uncensored expression. This is scary stuff, heartbreaking stuff, too. Our love and solidarity goes out to everyone in Russia having to deal with this silencing. Since Russian President Vladimir Putin signed a controversial law earlier in 2013 imposing stiff penalties for anyone convicted of distributing "gay propaganda," the law has generated international outrage and targeted gay and lesbian rights groups across Russia. After the law was upheld by Russia's Supreme Court in October, government censors released revised criteria for any online material that purportedly endangers minors. Russian bloggers are wary of publishing any material that might be branded illegal under the new guidelines published in a report titled, "Criteria of Internet Content Harmful for Children’s Health and Development." The report, which was released Dec. 2, designates any information published online as being "systematically disseminated" and punishes anyone deemed to be releasing "false information." The report reads, in part, that "to qualify information as propaganda, it is necessary to establish that the author of the information wishes to influence public opinion, that the dissemination of the information is of a systematic nature, and that the disseminated information contains false information." According to the federal agency charging with overseeing online content, children and teenagers can have their values influenced by:
Among the things now classified as "gay propaganda" by the Russian government:
As the Sochi Olympics draw closer, the number of arrests over the new law will likely provoke further international condemnation and increasing pressure on Vladimir Putin's government. How the law is applied and who will be targeted remains to be seen. Gay and hurting in DMV? Check out Capital Pride. ***This piece originally appeared on Providentia and was republished here with permission.*** The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Uncovering the Messages from Carpenters Past One of my main passions besides writing is carpentry. Specifically, renovating old houses. I've done projects for myself, for family and for a living. I have come to appreciate the beauty and quality of old houses. Today I found something that I've seen before, and I wanted to share it with others who don't get to see this kind of thing on a regular basis. Something perhaps not everyone knows about the renovation process is that we uncover some really awesome history. Working on old houses means finding artifacts that fell back behind furniture or trim. In one 200-year-old house I found a 130-year-old church program behind a mantle we were temporarily removing. We also found empty liquor bottles behind the plaster and lathe in the ceilings. Plaster guys having too much fun I guess. The more elusive, and therefore more valuable in my eyes, artifacts in old houses are the writings on the walls. I've found drawings from kids under 150 years of wall paper that were only visible when the plaster was wet from my wallpaper scraping. These discoveries are a nice reminder in the middle of a day of hard work that houses are these incredible living museums. Sometimes the drawings are pretty obviously from kids, sometimes they are things like home drawn height charts documenting the growth of a family, and sometimes they are notes left by carpenters and tradesfolk of the past. Today while I was working on a window, my eye caught a drawing on the plaster wall next to me. As I focused my vision, I realized there was not one but several drawings on the wall of the room I'd been working in for a week. The drawings are so faint that they are only visible in a certain light. As you can see, some of these are simply goofy drawings. Two of them are the sort of notations us tradespeople frequently make when working on houses (little sketches, measurements, marking the placement of something, etc.) The date is a little blurry, but to my eye it is marked 1942. A lot of times we end up covering up these old marks when renovating, but I like to take pictures to preserve them for a little while longer. The archeology of houses is something you have to grow to appreciate. Look around if you find yourself in an old house; you never know what you might find. And I'll keep leaving my mark for future discovery. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Jealous of this rust bucket?By Quail Bell Camera Eye QuailBellMagazine.com You never know what you'll find when you go for a winter jaunt in Church Hill. Example 1,345,892 of why Richmond is wonderful and strange. #RVA #Rust #DreamRide
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Elopement for Awesome People |
lawyers_without_rights_flyer.pdf | |
File Size: | 322 kb |
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Sparky's Really Smiling.
Anybody who has lived with animals and observed them closely knows they are individuals with distinct personalities. But to science, that is "anecdotal" information, tainted by emotion—anthropomorphism—and proof of nothing. It’s nice, then, that researchers are now doing scientifically conducted studies of animal personalities.
Virginia Morrell reports on these studies in an article in the February issue of Psychology Today. Morrell points out that until only a few years ago scientists in general ridiculed the notion that nonhuman animals had personalities. When the great primatologist Jane Goodall discussed the individual temperaments and personalities of the chimpanzees she observed, she was criticized for her unscientific approach. Goodall also expressed the belief that chimps experienced—gasp! --emotions. Imagine such a thing!
If you live with a cat or a dog or both, you’re rolling your eyes by now. Of course they have personalities. Of course they feel emotion. (How many of us have seen surviving pets grieve to the point of illness following the death of a companion?) Pets aren’t reflecting what their owners project onto them. Every truly caring pet owner allows an animal to be itself. We can mistreat pets and force them into doing things they don't want to do, into hiding their true natures, but relief from a bad situation will almost always bring a cat's or dog’s natural personality back to the surface.
My two cats couldn’t be more different. Gabriel, an Abyssinian, is forward, friendly toward everyone, a greeter at the door. Emma dashes for cover when the doorbell rings, and although women don’t frighten her the way men do, she’s likely to stay hidden until any intruder departs. Gabriel is compliant about such things as claw-clipping and medication. Emma is a holy terror. Yet they live in the same house and receive equal attention and love. They are what they are, not what we have made them.
Mammals aren’t the only animals with distinct personal natures. Such diverse creatures as octopuses, crabs, fish and insects have demonstrated individual differences in the way they respond to the world. But despite evidence presented occasionally by reputable researchers such as Goodall, scientists were reluctant until recently to admit that nonhumans could possess the same traits we see in our own species. This branch of animal studies didn’t really take off until the late 1990s. Now it’s turning up fascinating information about the other living beings that share our world.
Not surprisingly, researchers have confirmed that humans share many traits with our primate cousins, but some differences have also been found. For example, chimpanzees—who live in families and complex communities as humans do—also possess what is called the “conscientiousness factor,” which involves the ability to plan and to behave in predictable ways that contribute to social order. However, the largely solitary orangutan lacks this trait. Humans differ from all other primates in the way we compete for and display dominance—at least in civilized societies.
Across many different species, researchers have found that an agreeable personality with a low level of neuroticism is directly tied to a strong immune system and a longer life. This is equally true of humans, monkeys, great apes, house cats, and probably demonstrates a genetic link between health and personality. (Yes, we all know mean dogs and nasty humans who have lived into old age, but we're talking majorities and generalities here.)
Now that science has finally recognized the possibility that other animals have personalities, just as humans do, maybe we can move toward a recognition that they also have some of the same rights we have.
Virginia Morrell reports on these studies in an article in the February issue of Psychology Today. Morrell points out that until only a few years ago scientists in general ridiculed the notion that nonhuman animals had personalities. When the great primatologist Jane Goodall discussed the individual temperaments and personalities of the chimpanzees she observed, she was criticized for her unscientific approach. Goodall also expressed the belief that chimps experienced—gasp! --emotions. Imagine such a thing!
If you live with a cat or a dog or both, you’re rolling your eyes by now. Of course they have personalities. Of course they feel emotion. (How many of us have seen surviving pets grieve to the point of illness following the death of a companion?) Pets aren’t reflecting what their owners project onto them. Every truly caring pet owner allows an animal to be itself. We can mistreat pets and force them into doing things they don't want to do, into hiding their true natures, but relief from a bad situation will almost always bring a cat's or dog’s natural personality back to the surface.
My two cats couldn’t be more different. Gabriel, an Abyssinian, is forward, friendly toward everyone, a greeter at the door. Emma dashes for cover when the doorbell rings, and although women don’t frighten her the way men do, she’s likely to stay hidden until any intruder departs. Gabriel is compliant about such things as claw-clipping and medication. Emma is a holy terror. Yet they live in the same house and receive equal attention and love. They are what they are, not what we have made them.
Mammals aren’t the only animals with distinct personal natures. Such diverse creatures as octopuses, crabs, fish and insects have demonstrated individual differences in the way they respond to the world. But despite evidence presented occasionally by reputable researchers such as Goodall, scientists were reluctant until recently to admit that nonhumans could possess the same traits we see in our own species. This branch of animal studies didn’t really take off until the late 1990s. Now it’s turning up fascinating information about the other living beings that share our world.
Not surprisingly, researchers have confirmed that humans share many traits with our primate cousins, but some differences have also been found. For example, chimpanzees—who live in families and complex communities as humans do—also possess what is called the “conscientiousness factor,” which involves the ability to plan and to behave in predictable ways that contribute to social order. However, the largely solitary orangutan lacks this trait. Humans differ from all other primates in the way we compete for and display dominance—at least in civilized societies.
Across many different species, researchers have found that an agreeable personality with a low level of neuroticism is directly tied to a strong immune system and a longer life. This is equally true of humans, monkeys, great apes, house cats, and probably demonstrates a genetic link between health and personality. (Yes, we all know mean dogs and nasty humans who have lived into old age, but we're talking majorities and generalities here.)
Now that science has finally recognized the possibility that other animals have personalities, just as humans do, maybe we can move toward a recognition that they also have some of the same rights we have.
***This piece originally appeared in Poe's Deadly Daughters and was republished here with permission.***
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Family Fun Time in Quail Bell Landia
By The Quail Bell Crew
QuailBellMagazine.com
QuailBellMagazine.com
Dear fledglings,
We might recall us posting about Luna Luna before. It should be no big surprise then that we like them. So we called took our prettiest plume and wrote them a letter. You could call it a proposal—and they accepted. We are proud to announce that Luna Luna is our first official sister publication. What does that mean? Simple: A happy, healthy, equal partnership. We will be reposting select content from their website and they'll be doing the same with ours. We will also be collaborating on special pieces for our lovely readers, coordinating events with each other and doing whatever else we can do to promote quality, inspired and progressive reading material for folks like you.
Watch out, literary and journalism worlds. Our flock just became that much bigger!
Feathery hugs,
The Quail Bell Crew
We might recall us posting about Luna Luna before. It should be no big surprise then that we like them. So we called took our prettiest plume and wrote them a letter. You could call it a proposal—and they accepted. We are proud to announce that Luna Luna is our first official sister publication. What does that mean? Simple: A happy, healthy, equal partnership. We will be reposting select content from their website and they'll be doing the same with ours. We will also be collaborating on special pieces for our lovely readers, coordinating events with each other and doing whatever else we can do to promote quality, inspired and progressive reading material for folks like you.
Watch out, literary and journalism worlds. Our flock just became that much bigger!
Feathery hugs,
The Quail Bell Crew
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Old Dominion Lawmakers Up to Their Tricks Again
By Brainy Bird
QuailBellMagazine.com
QuailBellMagazine.com
Today Virginia legislators returned to Richmond to begin their 2014 business. In fact, they gaveled in the General Assembly session at noon. These are the guys (yes, mostly men) who will be determining our lives if we let them. Last year's session meant plenty of drama in the realm of women's rights. This year, mental health, ethics reform and health care are biggies, but that's not all that's going on. Monitor bills, budgets and more on LIS, the Legislative Information System. It ain't sexy, but it'll keep you informed and give you a heads up for when you should advocate for what.
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The Humble Photo Bug/Rarefied Beauty
By Morgan Barbour
QuailBellMagazine.com
QuailBellMagazine.com
I always find it a bit embarrassing when I tell people what I do for a living. “Model” is hardly what comes to mind when people look at me (with my towering five foot, five-and-a-half inch frame, massive hipster glasses, and aversion to most heels off-set). It’s often offset by inquisitive brow raises and, “Yeah, but what do you really do?” glances when I tell people I’m working on my degree in theatre performance, own my own photography business, and had two short plays produced in the past year. “Okay, those are cute hobbies. But, like, do you have a real job?”
I do a lot in my life. I have the attention span of a goldfish at times and have this terrible knack for always feeling like I’m never doing enough. I also have a bit of a tendency to choose paths that aren’t always the easiest. When I first began modeling I never thought of it as a career. Like most teenagers (especially girls at my height), it looked to be a passing fad, a hobby that would die out after a few months and leave me with at best a few pretty photos, at worst some embarrassing “couture” poses on some railroad tracks that my mom would show (alongside the baby photos) to prospective romantic interests. What I found instead was not only an intensely gratifying artistic outlet, but a skill that has allowed me to see more of the world than any country-raised girl could hope for, forge delightful friendships, and give me an avenue to hopefully avoid being cast in the role of “waitress” when I head to the big city in a year to pursue my acting career.
The first time I “officially” stepped in front of a camera I was sixteen: fresh out of high school, lanky, and awkward as hell. Up until that point the closest thing I had gotten to a photo shoot was posing for my friend who chronicled a good chunk of 2007/2008 for my friends and me (the vast majority of which captured me with my pink hair, chipped dollar store nail polish and trademark teenage scowl). As you can imagine, I was about as suited to be a model as Kristin Stewart is for a Colgate commercial (because, you know, she’d have to smile and stuff. Incidentally, this might be why I don’t have a career in comedy).
That first photographer managed to capture a lot of uncomfortable grimaces from me, as well as showcasing the unflattering cut of the low-end pleather dress he had me in. “Fabulous, darling!” “You’re a natural!” “Oh yeah, baby, the camera loves you!” Yes. Some photographers really do say that. I think my favorite one was a photographer in LA who kept shouting “Sexy sexy sexy sexy oh yes you know it sexy” over and over like some kind of stuttering fashion battle cry. We spent about five hours on set and by the time we were finished, I was exhausted and pretty over this whole “modeling” thing. Then I got the photos (which were about as fashionable as one could expect from the kind of nerdy shit who thought eighteen credits sounded like fun and was still in remission from a tragic high school goth phase). Lord only knows why, but I looked at those photos, the stuff dreams are made of, for the judgmental world of the internet, and thought, “I want to pursue this.”
That was almost six years ago. I now have a large and successful portfolio under my belt, have paid for a large portion of my college as a model, and have toured much of the United States and parts of the United Kingdom as the result of my work. That’s a plot twist M. Night Shaymalan would be proud of.
I do a lot in my life. I have the attention span of a goldfish at times and have this terrible knack for always feeling like I’m never doing enough. I also have a bit of a tendency to choose paths that aren’t always the easiest. When I first began modeling I never thought of it as a career. Like most teenagers (especially girls at my height), it looked to be a passing fad, a hobby that would die out after a few months and leave me with at best a few pretty photos, at worst some embarrassing “couture” poses on some railroad tracks that my mom would show (alongside the baby photos) to prospective romantic interests. What I found instead was not only an intensely gratifying artistic outlet, but a skill that has allowed me to see more of the world than any country-raised girl could hope for, forge delightful friendships, and give me an avenue to hopefully avoid being cast in the role of “waitress” when I head to the big city in a year to pursue my acting career.
The first time I “officially” stepped in front of a camera I was sixteen: fresh out of high school, lanky, and awkward as hell. Up until that point the closest thing I had gotten to a photo shoot was posing for my friend who chronicled a good chunk of 2007/2008 for my friends and me (the vast majority of which captured me with my pink hair, chipped dollar store nail polish and trademark teenage scowl). As you can imagine, I was about as suited to be a model as Kristin Stewart is for a Colgate commercial (because, you know, she’d have to smile and stuff. Incidentally, this might be why I don’t have a career in comedy).
That first photographer managed to capture a lot of uncomfortable grimaces from me, as well as showcasing the unflattering cut of the low-end pleather dress he had me in. “Fabulous, darling!” “You’re a natural!” “Oh yeah, baby, the camera loves you!” Yes. Some photographers really do say that. I think my favorite one was a photographer in LA who kept shouting “Sexy sexy sexy sexy oh yes you know it sexy” over and over like some kind of stuttering fashion battle cry. We spent about five hours on set and by the time we were finished, I was exhausted and pretty over this whole “modeling” thing. Then I got the photos (which were about as fashionable as one could expect from the kind of nerdy shit who thought eighteen credits sounded like fun and was still in remission from a tragic high school goth phase). Lord only knows why, but I looked at those photos, the stuff dreams are made of, for the judgmental world of the internet, and thought, “I want to pursue this.”
That was almost six years ago. I now have a large and successful portfolio under my belt, have paid for a large portion of my college as a model, and have toured much of the United States and parts of the United Kingdom as the result of my work. That’s a plot twist M. Night Shaymalan would be proud of.
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The Blessed Loss to the Bengals
By Laura Bramble
QuailBellMagazine.com
QuailBellMagazine.com
So the Ravens won't be making the Super Bowl—but a certain B'more bird knows that means she can remain the center of attention. No complaints there! Maybe DMV will care less about sports this season (sadly, not likely.) -CS
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Time to Redecorate Your Cabin!
About this time of year, if not earlier, I tend to get a sweet combination of the 'winter blues' and 'cabin fever.' Too little sunshine, too much cold and being stuck inside add up to make me depressed and antsy. One thing I do to fix this pretty much every year is paint some part of the inside of my house over the winter.
Outdoor chores and tasks aren't always pleasant or even possible in cold temperatures. Most types of paint need it to be 50 degrees or higher when you apply them, so they just won't work in the colder months. But as long as your house is 50 degrees or warmer, and I hope for your sake it is, conditions are right for painting!
Redecorating my space a little bit brightens it up. A fresh coat of paint covers up old smudges and smears, looks and is super clean, and also means you can rearrange all of your pictures and posters. The change of scenery inside is great when the scenery out your window is just grey and blah.
I own my house, so that gives me free reign to do what I want, but you might be in a different circumstance. My advice to you is to check out your lease or agreements before you start slapping paint on the walls. It will probably be more depressing to find out you will not be getting your security deposit back.
One year, I painted the walls of my kitchen pink, and then used stencils and gold spray paint to alternate between kitschy country lovebirds with hearts and an anarchist symbol with a gun.
Outdoor chores and tasks aren't always pleasant or even possible in cold temperatures. Most types of paint need it to be 50 degrees or higher when you apply them, so they just won't work in the colder months. But as long as your house is 50 degrees or warmer, and I hope for your sake it is, conditions are right for painting!
Redecorating my space a little bit brightens it up. A fresh coat of paint covers up old smudges and smears, looks and is super clean, and also means you can rearrange all of your pictures and posters. The change of scenery inside is great when the scenery out your window is just grey and blah.
I own my house, so that gives me free reign to do what I want, but you might be in a different circumstance. My advice to you is to check out your lease or agreements before you start slapping paint on the walls. It will probably be more depressing to find out you will not be getting your security deposit back.
One year, I painted the walls of my kitchen pink, and then used stencils and gold spray paint to alternate between kitschy country lovebirds with hearts and an anarchist symbol with a gun.
Last year, I painted the ceiling of my upstairs hallway a dark sky blue, and then added a clear coat with silver glitter. After that I used glow in the dark stickers to recreate constellations. The ceiling fan is one I custom painted in zebra stripes. Touch of disco and that ceiling is fabulous!
This year I am repainting my dining room. It had alternating walls of pink and purple, along with a small graffiti mural. I was just tired of how it looked, and decided to freshen up with Morning Sunrise Yellow. Luckily for me, my friend Tammie has been pitching in to help. It is always worth asking your friends if they want to help paint. Music and good conversation can make it go a lot faster, though watch the dancing around with paint on your brush—it can get everywhere.
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Squawk, Squawk and Tweet, Tweet
National Bird Day (which we just missed on Jan. 5) encourages people to spend time learning about or advocating for avian wildlife. While most of us have some kind of appreciation for the winged creatures that poop on our cars, fill the trees with song and steal our Doritos at the beach, most of us don't really know a lot about birds. In recognition of the day, I thought I would write a piece about one of the most mistreated birds in the world—the parrot. A bird that everyone knows and loves, but not many understand.
Parrots are birds made up of 372 species including variations of macaws, parakeets, and cockatoos, and their range covers most of the southern hemisphere of the world. Parrots are highly social, intelligent animals—on par with primates and orcas—and many species live to be up to 80 years old.
The parrot problem is twofold. On the one hand, wild populations are diminishing due to poaching and displacement, and on the other, captive populations are skyrocketing and thousands of these intelligent, emotional birds are being neglected and euthanized.
Eighty years is a long commitment to make to an animal, especially one so unfit for life indoors, and they are thus frequently abandoned. Captive parrots make difficult companions because—get this—they aren't designed to be in captivity. Crazy, right? They are designed for expansive flight, complex social bonds, and communication across forests, so caged birds are LOUD, bummed out, lonely, and smart enough to know that what's happening to them isn't right. They aren't domesticated; they're a wild, non-native species being kept away from their home and everything that is natural to them. They don't want to be your buddy.
We are effectively up to our eyeballs in homeless, sad parrots.
Parrots are birds made up of 372 species including variations of macaws, parakeets, and cockatoos, and their range covers most of the southern hemisphere of the world. Parrots are highly social, intelligent animals—on par with primates and orcas—and many species live to be up to 80 years old.
The parrot problem is twofold. On the one hand, wild populations are diminishing due to poaching and displacement, and on the other, captive populations are skyrocketing and thousands of these intelligent, emotional birds are being neglected and euthanized.
Eighty years is a long commitment to make to an animal, especially one so unfit for life indoors, and they are thus frequently abandoned. Captive parrots make difficult companions because—get this—they aren't designed to be in captivity. Crazy, right? They are designed for expansive flight, complex social bonds, and communication across forests, so caged birds are LOUD, bummed out, lonely, and smart enough to know that what's happening to them isn't right. They aren't domesticated; they're a wild, non-native species being kept away from their home and everything that is natural to them. They don't want to be your buddy.
We are effectively up to our eyeballs in homeless, sad parrots.
One of the ways parrots show their stress in captivity is self-mutilation. I first witnessed this when I was working with a wildlife center in Costa Rica that had taken in some scarlet macaws from the private pet trade. These guys looked like plucked chickens with a just few bright feathers left where they couldn't reach to pull them out. Wings clipped and bodies mutilated, these guys were obviously physically and emotionally destroyed. Even being in their native land, captivity had caused them such damage that complete rehabilitation was very unlikely. Fortunately for them, they have a sanctuary that will care for them, but a lot of birds aren't so lucky and end up abandoned, neglected, or euthanized.
This crisis stems from the fundamentally flawed ideology that wildlife is ours to keep. While parrots are breathtaking, fascinating creatures, they are also autonomous beings with their own culture, behaviors, and needs, and there are ways to appreciate their existence without keeping them locked indoors. To really appreciate someone means to appreciate their natural state of being, and there's nothing natural about our relationship with these birds.
Want to help parrots on National Bird Day? You could donate $5 to a parrot sanctuary (make sure they are accredited by the Global Federation of Animal Sanctuaries) like Foster Parrots. You could share this article and talk to friends about what's happening to parrots. If you've got a rescued parrot or know someone who does, you can share these tips about keeping captive birds as happy as possible. Last but not least, I encourage anyone who wants to learn more to grab a friend and watch the fantastic PBS film, Parrot Confidential, a 2013 documentary about the parrot trade (video posted below.) It's truly eye-opening.
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What I Said at My Grandfather's Memorial
It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, but I’m so glad I did it. This is what I said in front of family and friends earlier today (well, I guess yesterday, when we celebrated his life at the memorial held at his church on Saturday):
Hi, I’m Nikki—one of Pop’s many many many granddaughters, and I just wanted to say a few words because Pop and I had few conversations that made me believe he wanted me to share some things with all of you.
I love my Pop pop. But then, everyone who ever met him pretty much loved him too. He was truly a man of many talents— one of those being the world’s greatest grandpa. He and my grandma both led a life of love and laughter that just permeated into the lives of those around them. And he taught me so many things— from how to make balloon animals, how the five second rule while cooking is not only valid—but can also actually be the secret ingredient, how to play cards and when to know to take the deck or let it pass. But while he taught me a lot of fun things, there were some important lessons in there as well that I will carry with me forever. Like how to always have a smile on your face no matter what and how to love another person completely.
Some of my fondest memories are when my grandma would leave the room and he’d whisper to me and my brother, “I just love your grandma. I don’t know what I’d do without her” or “Your grandmother is so beautiful, I just couldn’t wait to marry her.” But of course, he and her both together would loudly say to anyone that when it came to each other, “I could have done worse.”
“I could have done worse.”
It’s a simple, funny phrase that when I was younger, I didn’t get it. But now that I’m older and married myself and after more than 20 years of hearing it repeated over and over during dinners and holidays and card games, I think I’m beginning to understand. And I hear it in my head all the time.
When I get in a little disagreement with my husband, instead of getting angry, I stop and think. “I could have done worse.” And then I appreciate my husband.
When I’m bored or aggravated at work and wish I had any other any other job, I stop and think, “I could have done worse.” And then I appreciate my job.
If it’s one thing I learned from Pop, it’s that no matter what, I am always and completely blessed because I have a family who loves me, a God who takes care of me, and because really…I could have done worse. It’s selfish to complain and blessings are meant to be appreciated. He lived his life that way and because of him, I want to as well.
My grandfather, hand-in-hand with my grandmother, lived a life of serving others with love and joy—an example to all who knew him. And Pop, whether it was through his work at the church serving others, cooking meals for men in motion or snacks for VBS, giving a smile to someone through clowning or card playing, and so much more— he left a legacy behind him. A legacy of what Christ’s love here on earth really looked like. A legacy that can be and will be still carried out by all of us today. And we owe it to Pop, to take those lessons we learned through his time here on earth and apply them to our own lives.
About two years ago, I found an organization online that granted wishes for elderly people and I thought it would be something perfect to submit Pop for. However, I had a problem—I had no idea what his wish would be. So one day, while playing cards with him I nonchalantly leaned over and asked him: “Pop. If you could have ANYTHING in the world, what would be your one wish?” He of course muttered something about not having a wish because he had everything he could possibly need right here, but after a round or two, he paused and looked at me and said, “Nicole, my one wish is for my children and grandchildren to come to have a personal relationship with the Lord Jesus Christ.”
That was his one wish, and it wasn’t even about himself.
I don’t know where anyone’s heart is except my own, but I do know that its times like these where we are faced with a prime example of what the end looks like, that we are given the opportunity to look into ourselves and examine our own hearts and our relationship with the Lord. Pop’s one wish is to see us all together again someday, and if there’s one thing I’m more certain of than ever before—it’s that because of salvation through Jesus Christ, we do have that opportunity to be together with him again in Heaven. I encourage everyone, whether you’re family or friend, young or old, to really take a moment to think about that. Not just for Pop, but for yourself.
Pop lived a life of happiness and service because of his relationship with Jesus Christ. And I know we’ll see him again someday, because if there’s one person I know who followed Jesus the best that he could do and with unshakeable joy in all circumstances, it was Pop Pop.
Pop was many things. A great man. A loving husband and father. A dedicated servant. The best Italian cook on the planet. And a hysterical clown. But when it came to grandfathers, I could have done worse. But I also couldn’t have done any better either.
Thank you Pop Pop. My life was changed because of how you lived yours.
I love my Pop pop. But then, everyone who ever met him pretty much loved him too. He was truly a man of many talents— one of those being the world’s greatest grandpa. He and my grandma both led a life of love and laughter that just permeated into the lives of those around them. And he taught me so many things— from how to make balloon animals, how the five second rule while cooking is not only valid—but can also actually be the secret ingredient, how to play cards and when to know to take the deck or let it pass. But while he taught me a lot of fun things, there were some important lessons in there as well that I will carry with me forever. Like how to always have a smile on your face no matter what and how to love another person completely.
Some of my fondest memories are when my grandma would leave the room and he’d whisper to me and my brother, “I just love your grandma. I don’t know what I’d do without her” or “Your grandmother is so beautiful, I just couldn’t wait to marry her.” But of course, he and her both together would loudly say to anyone that when it came to each other, “I could have done worse.”
“I could have done worse.”
It’s a simple, funny phrase that when I was younger, I didn’t get it. But now that I’m older and married myself and after more than 20 years of hearing it repeated over and over during dinners and holidays and card games, I think I’m beginning to understand. And I hear it in my head all the time.
When I get in a little disagreement with my husband, instead of getting angry, I stop and think. “I could have done worse.” And then I appreciate my husband.
When I’m bored or aggravated at work and wish I had any other any other job, I stop and think, “I could have done worse.” And then I appreciate my job.
If it’s one thing I learned from Pop, it’s that no matter what, I am always and completely blessed because I have a family who loves me, a God who takes care of me, and because really…I could have done worse. It’s selfish to complain and blessings are meant to be appreciated. He lived his life that way and because of him, I want to as well.
My grandfather, hand-in-hand with my grandmother, lived a life of serving others with love and joy—an example to all who knew him. And Pop, whether it was through his work at the church serving others, cooking meals for men in motion or snacks for VBS, giving a smile to someone through clowning or card playing, and so much more— he left a legacy behind him. A legacy of what Christ’s love here on earth really looked like. A legacy that can be and will be still carried out by all of us today. And we owe it to Pop, to take those lessons we learned through his time here on earth and apply them to our own lives.
About two years ago, I found an organization online that granted wishes for elderly people and I thought it would be something perfect to submit Pop for. However, I had a problem—I had no idea what his wish would be. So one day, while playing cards with him I nonchalantly leaned over and asked him: “Pop. If you could have ANYTHING in the world, what would be your one wish?” He of course muttered something about not having a wish because he had everything he could possibly need right here, but after a round or two, he paused and looked at me and said, “Nicole, my one wish is for my children and grandchildren to come to have a personal relationship with the Lord Jesus Christ.”
That was his one wish, and it wasn’t even about himself.
I don’t know where anyone’s heart is except my own, but I do know that its times like these where we are faced with a prime example of what the end looks like, that we are given the opportunity to look into ourselves and examine our own hearts and our relationship with the Lord. Pop’s one wish is to see us all together again someday, and if there’s one thing I’m more certain of than ever before—it’s that because of salvation through Jesus Christ, we do have that opportunity to be together with him again in Heaven. I encourage everyone, whether you’re family or friend, young or old, to really take a moment to think about that. Not just for Pop, but for yourself.
Pop lived a life of happiness and service because of his relationship with Jesus Christ. And I know we’ll see him again someday, because if there’s one person I know who followed Jesus the best that he could do and with unshakeable joy in all circumstances, it was Pop Pop.
Pop was many things. A great man. A loving husband and father. A dedicated servant. The best Italian cook on the planet. And a hysterical clown. But when it came to grandfathers, I could have done worse. But I also couldn’t have done any better either.
Thank you Pop Pop. My life was changed because of how you lived yours.
***This piece originally appeared in Mrs. Healthy Ever After and was re-published with permission.***
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Why Sucky is Crappy
By Shawn Everett Jones
QuailBellMagazine.com
QuailBellMagazine.com
I remember when the movie Reality Bites came out. No one ever said “bites." Everyone said “sucks." We all knew it meant 'reality sucks” and the production company must have been afraid or censored or self-conscious. That's why they called the film Reality Bites instead of Reality Sucks. I mean, yeah, biting is crappy. The movie title, as an expression though, never caught on. No one I knew ever did say “bites” before or after that film came out. I don't know why, because bites, ouch, now that is the worst, right? That really is crappy.
But why did the filmmakers have a problem with “sucks”? Because I don't know how many people are conscious of the meanings and implications of the word “suck," at least on a daily basis. There is even a popular bumper sticker that states, “Mean people suck." That is the worst problem with the word. That it could work its way into a popular positive expression. Yes, mean people are crappy, but also, ignorant people are crappy, too.
So, let's examine the word. "Sucks" means the worst, the lowest, the least desired occurrence. If something sucks, it is the pits, it is terrible, it is the crappiest!
But literally, to suck is to suck dick. When something sucks, something is sucking a dick. It is used to state that the worst thing one could do is suck a dick. Sometimes “blows” can be substituted for “sucks,” but although they literally mean different actions, they both colloquially mean the exact same thing—and it ain't “bites." It is a derogatory word directly related to a dominate male oppressive culture. It stealthily creeps in and bashes women and gay people for no reason, out of nowhere, in broad daylight. It is one of those sneaky expressions that comes up everywhere. It comes up at work or at family gatherings where you wonder whether you should even bother correcting and informing the linguistic culprit. Your friends say the word obliviously because it has just weaseled its way into our everyday vocabulary.
Now, I wonder, how is sucking that bad of a thing? Many people all over the world love to suck dick. Many women and men (and everyone who enjoys a place in between those gender extremes) throughout the ages have taken pleasure in the sensation, taste and exhilarating activity of sucking dick. Don't most males, at least, enjoy a good dick sucking? Even those of a heterosexual persuation? So what makes it a bad thing? Again, that perceived "bad" is connected to homophobia and disrespect of women.
I remember as a child, classmates would use “gay” or “faggot” or “girl” or “sissy” as the ultimate put-downs. For a young male, those were the worst things you could be called. Such is the way with women being described as “bitch” or “slut” by males. It is a tool of aggressive dominance because only bitches, sluts and faggots suck dick. To this strain of straight males, sucking dick implies something they would not engage in, something that would make them less than masculine, not part of the team, and—more importantly—something of shame that would put them down to the level of the lowest-of-the-low.
I admit though, I have caught myself saying “that sucks." And it always makes me feel crappy when I later realize I said it. It is one of those words that we can say without thinking because it is a such an oft-used slang expression. To my dismay, sometimes I just hear it slip out of my mouth. I wish I could remind my tongue, wake up my brain and speak with conscious thought. While I am not one for honoring most American customs, I guess I would count this as my New Year's resolution: to avoid saying "sucks." Even more, you may have noticed throughout this piece that I have used the word "crappy" to replace "sucky." My proposal is to start calling things "crappy." There is a certain nomenclature that my group of friends shares. A Danville nomenclature. When something sucks, we call it "crappy." Sometimes you may hear, "Oh, man, that sucks." But usually, it's, "Oh, man, that's crappy." As far as this group is concerned, it is not about awareness as much as it is a funny way to express that something is terrible. But it works well. Things are crappy—not sucky. Not only is that a better state of mind for the world, it's fun. Crap is gender-neutral.
So, let's examine the word. "Sucks" means the worst, the lowest, the least desired occurrence. If something sucks, it is the pits, it is terrible, it is the crappiest!
But literally, to suck is to suck dick. When something sucks, something is sucking a dick. It is used to state that the worst thing one could do is suck a dick. Sometimes “blows” can be substituted for “sucks,” but although they literally mean different actions, they both colloquially mean the exact same thing—and it ain't “bites." It is a derogatory word directly related to a dominate male oppressive culture. It stealthily creeps in and bashes women and gay people for no reason, out of nowhere, in broad daylight. It is one of those sneaky expressions that comes up everywhere. It comes up at work or at family gatherings where you wonder whether you should even bother correcting and informing the linguistic culprit. Your friends say the word obliviously because it has just weaseled its way into our everyday vocabulary.
Now, I wonder, how is sucking that bad of a thing? Many people all over the world love to suck dick. Many women and men (and everyone who enjoys a place in between those gender extremes) throughout the ages have taken pleasure in the sensation, taste and exhilarating activity of sucking dick. Don't most males, at least, enjoy a good dick sucking? Even those of a heterosexual persuation? So what makes it a bad thing? Again, that perceived "bad" is connected to homophobia and disrespect of women.
I remember as a child, classmates would use “gay” or “faggot” or “girl” or “sissy” as the ultimate put-downs. For a young male, those were the worst things you could be called. Such is the way with women being described as “bitch” or “slut” by males. It is a tool of aggressive dominance because only bitches, sluts and faggots suck dick. To this strain of straight males, sucking dick implies something they would not engage in, something that would make them less than masculine, not part of the team, and—more importantly—something of shame that would put them down to the level of the lowest-of-the-low.
I admit though, I have caught myself saying “that sucks." And it always makes me feel crappy when I later realize I said it. It is one of those words that we can say without thinking because it is a such an oft-used slang expression. To my dismay, sometimes I just hear it slip out of my mouth. I wish I could remind my tongue, wake up my brain and speak with conscious thought. While I am not one for honoring most American customs, I guess I would count this as my New Year's resolution: to avoid saying "sucks." Even more, you may have noticed throughout this piece that I have used the word "crappy" to replace "sucky." My proposal is to start calling things "crappy." There is a certain nomenclature that my group of friends shares. A Danville nomenclature. When something sucks, we call it "crappy." Sometimes you may hear, "Oh, man, that sucks." But usually, it's, "Oh, man, that's crappy." As far as this group is concerned, it is not about awareness as much as it is a funny way to express that something is terrible. But it works well. Things are crappy—not sucky. Not only is that a better state of mind for the world, it's fun. Crap is gender-neutral.
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Buy Your Headstone Here
By Quail Bell Camera Eye
QuailBellMagazine.com
QuailBellMagazine.com
1301 East Market Street in Charlottesville is a teeny lot with a teeny building but LOADS of character. It is the site of W.A. Hartman Memorials, which specializes in B2B masonry, historical monuments and, er, tombstones. Feel free to walk around, but don't you dare trip on a slab of granite. That'll probably bring you some kind of curse.
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Curry Goat
I was born on the 25th of October in 1968. I came quite late in my parents’ lives—for there were already four girls, with the youngest being 12 years older than me.
I grew up much like the only child. What teenage girl wants to play with her infant sister? My memory isn't the best, but what I do remember are like lightning flashes, quick bursts that leave as quickly as they appear. I grab a hold of as many as possible when a strike occurs.
My sisters had children that were my age. We had more of a sibling relationship than anything. As the oldest, I felt it my duty to protect and love my nieces much like an older sister. Now whether they saw me like that, I have never asked, but my love and devotion for them ran deep.
One of my strongest memories of them is of the goat whom we saved from being slaughtered. The goat was for the curry goat served at a yearly reunion my father and his Jamaican family held. Boy, did we put a wrench in that plan. We named the goat “Goatie” and were allowed to keep him as a pet in the barn on my parents' property.
I think of the three of us now, all grown up with a family and children of our own. Unfortunately time has put distance between us, but I know the memories that are contained within us live on in conversations and personal giggle moments, when a flash of memory strikes.
I received a beautiful note from one of my nieces the other day which read “an auntie’s love lasts a lifetime.” It sure does. I am proud of my nieces, my girls. They have grown into amazing women and mothers.
I grew up much like the only child. What teenage girl wants to play with her infant sister? My memory isn't the best, but what I do remember are like lightning flashes, quick bursts that leave as quickly as they appear. I grab a hold of as many as possible when a strike occurs.
My sisters had children that were my age. We had more of a sibling relationship than anything. As the oldest, I felt it my duty to protect and love my nieces much like an older sister. Now whether they saw me like that, I have never asked, but my love and devotion for them ran deep.
One of my strongest memories of them is of the goat whom we saved from being slaughtered. The goat was for the curry goat served at a yearly reunion my father and his Jamaican family held. Boy, did we put a wrench in that plan. We named the goat “Goatie” and were allowed to keep him as a pet in the barn on my parents' property.
I think of the three of us now, all grown up with a family and children of our own. Unfortunately time has put distance between us, but I know the memories that are contained within us live on in conversations and personal giggle moments, when a flash of memory strikes.
I received a beautiful note from one of my nieces the other day which read “an auntie’s love lasts a lifetime.” It sure does. I am proud of my nieces, my girls. They have grown into amazing women and mothers.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Lost Books
By Kristen Rebelo
QuailBellMagazine.com
QuailBellMagazine.com
32, 044. This is the number of books in circulation at my local library that have never been checked out. For years these books have sat statically collecting dust under the flourescent lights of their home, watching and waiting for someone to notice them. With the advance of technology, increase of available information, and notion of instant gratification, there is an eminent threat of tangible books being rendered obsolete. Libraries and private collections that have been growing for centuries will become stagnant testimonies of a past time.
This cataloging of texts is an ongoing process, an attempt to elevate abandoned publications and pay respect to authors who grace us with their research, their words, and their stories. This is a memorial of the lost books.
Issue 1 of 10 memorializes the first 3,542 books of this series in list form and fully catalogs 25. Through the process of this publication, the number of lost books has decreased to 32,019. The books have been handled, meticulously studied, and have traveled across state lines. But most importantly, they have all been read in some form.
Special thanks to VCU librarian Theresa Doherty for making this project possible.
This cataloging of texts is an ongoing process, an attempt to elevate abandoned publications and pay respect to authors who grace us with their research, their words, and their stories. This is a memorial of the lost books.
Issue 1 of 10 memorializes the first 3,542 books of this series in list form and fully catalogs 25. Through the process of this publication, the number of lost books has decreased to 32,019. The books have been handled, meticulously studied, and have traveled across state lines. But most importantly, they have all been read in some form.
Special thanks to VCU librarian Theresa Doherty for making this project possible.
Excerpt: 3 of 25 fully cataloged book spreads
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I Don't Mind the Rain
Post-Christmas, pre-NYE on a sleepy December's day on South Dinwiddie Street in Arlington, Virginia—somewhere "near Shirlington," in the Claremont neighborhood, across from Wakefield High School, in a circa 1940 brick house.
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Custodian of My Mad Heartbeat
Once the luggage was out of the way, the passenger seat of the rental car reclined almost 180 degrees. My body went down with it, twinging tailbone flush and grateful against the bedlike plane, bare feet alighting on the sun-warmed patch of faux leather atop the glove compartment. The headrest was unreachable, crafted for a longer person, but a heavy head will rest wherever it can.
We had run into some traffic earlier in the route, a fender bender that reawakened Jared’s childhood tic of pulling his own curly hair. Each time he braked, his right hand extended upward to twirl and pull, twirl and pull, with each released curl making a soft puck like a lazily served tennis ball.
That was before. Now his hand rested on my bent knee, and his foot impelled the vehicle into the bright blue day. From my cot in the Camry the world seemed to unfold in a strange, converging tunnel. I was horizontal as a luger, seeing neither the road before us nor the farmland around us. The incidental landscape of my gaze included only the soft beige ceiling of the rental car, the constantly and endlessly parting curtain of trees arching over the highway, and the cloudless sky.
As I arranged each limb on the seat, the memory of a doctor appointment earlier in the week waved like a pennant in my mind: the doctor raising the 1/6-scale skeleton so I could see it from the exam table. His fingers prodding the plastic knees just as he’d prodded mine. “Did you feel that?” he had asked after pressing hard on my left shoulder until I felt a tectonic shift.
“Yes, what was that?”
“That was your shoulder going back into the socket. Did you know it was dislocated?”
My eyebrows danced as I attempted to absorb his words.
“I couldn’t get the other shoulder or your hips back. They’re all pretty stuck.”
A mote of bright silver entered the blue space outside the car window. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, curled my legs under me, rolled my body onto its side, and let the momentum roll my anchor-head over. I breathed again, and felt my startled heartbeat begin to slow again. Another breath. The silver mote gleamed as my eyelids parted. Two mylar balloons, strings entwined, had escaped their terrestrial responsibilities. The moment of their freedom, the balloons must have shot upward, but now they hung, ascending so slowly that they could have been two chrome pushpins tacked into a yard of cornflower cotton. The Camry slowed as Jared pumped the brakes and began twirling his hair again. I swung my head forward. When I looked back, the balloons were gone.
“The ligaments in your neck and shoulders are almost entirely eroded,” the doctor had said as I climbed down from the table. “When you feel like your head is too heavy to lift, that’s because it is.”
It is not in Jared’s nature or mine to arrive late for anything. The directions estimated a three-hour drive, and so we left four and a half hours before we were expected. To us, who travel almost exclusively by foot or public transportation, the extra hour and a half left room for any contingency. Being so long out of the driver’s seat, we had forgotten how a fallen branch or a split-second decision on the part of one human being can stretch into hours of frustration for all others on the road.
“It’s a connective tissue disorder,” said the doctor. “Among other things.”
Other things included Chronic Fatigue Syndrome and a faulty autonomic nervous system—custodian of my mad heartbeat—which he compared to a bad driver. Every time you stand up, he had said, your body slams on both the gas and the brake. “When you consider the amount of pain you feel every day," he said, "combined with the amount of effort you have to exert just to remain upright, combined with poor sleep, combined with your autonomic nervous system detonating every few minutes…it’s no wonder you’re tired.”
Sometimes traffic is just traffic, without a precipitating event. The bottleneck dissipated and Jared propelled the car into the open road like a Champagne cork. Before us, the thick green curtain opened, and opened, and opened, never still. To my right, the sky was crisp as a bed sheet, the plainest possible backdrop for the treasures displayed upon it. Now in the jewel-case: a tiny airplane, a futuristic sliver adorned with a contrail plume.
I asked the doctor if I could exercise.
“By all means,” he said, “but do it lying down.”
I know, vaguely, that the arc described by the plane over our planet was larger than the arc of the rental car, glued to the road. I know the plane vastly outpaced us. But from my makeshift bed, with my bones like lead ingots and my gaze funneled upward and out, our car zoomed past the airplane. The rest of the trip was more of the same. Shortly before we reached his friends’ wedding, Jared and I would have our customary pre-event briefing, calculating how long I thought I would be able to stay before I needed to leave and lie down, agreeing on regular check-ins, and wishing we never had to have the conversation at all. We steered toward the horizon, by turns speeding and braking, speeding and braking.
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Exploring Space Between Individuals & the Collective
Artist George Pfau believes zombies are an irresistible cultural force. But while most of us limit our interest to binging on Walking Dead episodes, or perhaps taking part in a Zombie Walk, for Pfau the study of zombies makes up a huge part of his art practice.
His most recent project is the Zombie Index, a website that explores the ever-expanding breadth of possibilities of what a zombie can be.
“Zombies inspire me because they provide a fascinating middle zone between alive and dead, individual and collective, inside and outside,” Pfau explained.
This particular nature of zombies is reflected in the website, which allows visitors to zoom in to focus on individuals, or zoom out to view the group as a whole. The website also features a collection of names of people who inspired the work, as well as network of links embedded inside various pronouns scattered throughout. The drawing itself was made on paper using graphite, ink, acrylic and watercolour paints.
Pfau elaborates on why zombies are worthy of closer examination:
"Zombies span the shambling former-loved-ones on The Walking Dead, to the synchronized dancers of Michael Jackson’s Thriller, to the proletariat rising up against the elite of George Romero’s Land of the Dead, to countless other iterations.
They are labeled: zombies, infected, ghouls, walkers, skels, undead, unliving, deadites, hostiles, stenches, revenants, victims, patients, vectors of contagion, etc. To some they are sub-human others killed for sport, to others they are a race of under-recognized people seeking acceptance and rights.
The zombies in the drawing cover many aspects of this vast category. Emphasis is placed on the amount information needed to portray a humanoid figure, and thus figures range from detailed and recognizable, to iconic stick figures, or from black-and-white outlines to rendered colorful paintings.
I see the word zombie as a constantly mutating entity, defined by its constant use throughout our popular culture. From one film, book, video game, artwork, news report to the next the rules and parameters change."
Explore the zombies for yourself at ZombieIndex.us.
His most recent project is the Zombie Index, a website that explores the ever-expanding breadth of possibilities of what a zombie can be.
“Zombies inspire me because they provide a fascinating middle zone between alive and dead, individual and collective, inside and outside,” Pfau explained.
This particular nature of zombies is reflected in the website, which allows visitors to zoom in to focus on individuals, or zoom out to view the group as a whole. The website also features a collection of names of people who inspired the work, as well as network of links embedded inside various pronouns scattered throughout. The drawing itself was made on paper using graphite, ink, acrylic and watercolour paints.
Pfau elaborates on why zombies are worthy of closer examination:
"Zombies span the shambling former-loved-ones on The Walking Dead, to the synchronized dancers of Michael Jackson’s Thriller, to the proletariat rising up against the elite of George Romero’s Land of the Dead, to countless other iterations.
They are labeled: zombies, infected, ghouls, walkers, skels, undead, unliving, deadites, hostiles, stenches, revenants, victims, patients, vectors of contagion, etc. To some they are sub-human others killed for sport, to others they are a race of under-recognized people seeking acceptance and rights.
The zombies in the drawing cover many aspects of this vast category. Emphasis is placed on the amount information needed to portray a humanoid figure, and thus figures range from detailed and recognizable, to iconic stick figures, or from black-and-white outlines to rendered colorful paintings.
I see the word zombie as a constantly mutating entity, defined by its constant use throughout our popular culture. From one film, book, video game, artwork, news report to the next the rules and parameters change."
Explore the zombies for yourself at ZombieIndex.us.