01.09.2011., četvrtak

Glow Tongue Rings GLOW TONGUE RINGS - WHAT COLORS MEAN ON A MOOD RING - THE MEANING OF ENGAGEMENT RINGS tongue lick or explore with the tongue Sound (a note) distinctly on a wind instrument by interrupting the air flow with the tongue a mobile mass of muscular tissue covered with mucous membrane and located in the oral cavity Lick or caress with the tongue articulate by tonguing, as when playing wind instruments rings An act of causing a bell to sound, or the resonant sound caused by this gymnastic apparatus consisting of a pair of heavy metal circles (usually covered with leather) suspended by ropes; used for gymnastic exercises; "the rings require a strong upper body" Each of a series of resonant or vibrating sounds signaling an incoming telephone call A telephone call (ring) a characteristic sound; "it has the ring of sincerity" (ring) sound loudly and sonorously; "the bells rang" glow emit a steady even light without flames; "The fireflies were glowing and flying about in the garden" Give out steady light without flame Have an intense color and a slight shine freshness: an alert and refreshed state Have a heightened color or a bloom on the skin as a result of warmth or health have a complexion with a strong bright color, such as red or pink; "Her face glowed when she came out of the sauna" glow tongue rings - Glow Glow The first of its kind, Glow is more than a cookbook, more than a health-and-beauty guide - it is a path to a healthy lifestyle. Using the healing properties of whole foods, the author demonstrates how to use them in daily life to achieve an overall, healthy glow. By combining ancient Eastern practices for health with more than 150 delicious, whole-food recipes, and healing face washes, massage oils, cleansers, scrubs and soaks, this book caters to a burgeoning market of consumers interested in whole foods and vegetarianism, but most of all to the readers interested in a more balanced, more natural way of life. 82% (14) Beyond the Crooked Stile CHAPTER 13: BEYOND THE CROOKED STILE It is said that Mother Goose is derived from Frau Holt, or Herodias, the goddess of the witches of northern Europe, who flies at night astride a goose, naked and (even in my childhood imagination) voluptuous in spite of the cold. She flies at the head of the Furious Horde, the Wild Hunt, her raven hair streaming out behind her, her red slitted pupils glowing on Samhain night. To be sure, she flies above the Ridgeway, where the feet of the living and of the dead have passed for millennia; a spirit path if ever there was one. At Bishopstone in Wiltshire, it draws nigh the Icknield Way, the Iron Age road to Norfolk, and between the high road and the low road lie a series of colossal gouges in the chalk which even the tourist guidebooks describe as “another world”. Five miles to the east, the chalk escarpment is rippled by glaciation to form “the Devil’s Step Ladder”, and beyond it the Uffington White Horse, smattered in spring with an interpunction of twayblades and spotted orchids, seems set to leap across the downs. Beneath that is a hill with a flattened top, where St. George purportedly slew the dragon, its blood scouring the grass to the chalk beneath it. There are few landscapes which contain so awe-inspiring an arrangement of sacred objects. The best way for the witch to approach them is from the Ridgeway itself, down one of the many paths that branch from it, and to do so, one must invariably negotiate a stile. Perhaps one day you may meet me at one of them. In times of old, you might have left a crooked sixpence there. Weyland the Smith, whose megalithic forge lies just off the Ridgeway on the route between Uffington and Bishopstone, would certainly have accepted it, provided you did not attempt to fob him off with a lesser coin of copper. The Neolithic long barrow, sentried by four gaunt, pitted sarsen stones, is surrounded by towering beech trees, whose nuts crack underfoot as one approaches, and barn owls screech in the darkness. Come here at the winter solstice, with the rising of the sun, and the shadows shift like ghosts around you. Legend insists that Weyland will shoe your horse; I have a suspicion that he prefers to beat swords and axe-heads upon his forge, for he is not so far removed from the Green Knight, the Holly King who reigns throughout the winter, armed to the teeth in readiness to meet his rival, the Oak, on the occasion of his beheading. His namesake, the Icelandic Volundr, once decapitated a king’s sons by slamming the lid of a treasure chest down upon their necks; later he raped a princess who asked him to mend her ring. The stone at nearby Snivelling Corner was supposedly thrown by Weyland at an incompetent assistant. It is best not to bother him with trifles. But this does not stop wayfarers from leaving behind an assortment of charms, from elaborately woven corn dollies to the Rastafarian wicker man currently on display at the Uffington museum – a practice which dates back at least as far as 1939, when a “Witch’s moon dial”, made from human bone, was deposited there. Mary Chalmers, a woman skilled at curing cows and sheep, who lived at Little Moreton, east of Didcot, was the proud owner of a skull named “Wayland Smithy”, which was sold in a curiosity shop after she died in 1810. Satanic rites at Weyland’s Smithy have even been blamed for a robbery at the thirteenth century church at Compton Beauchamp in 1998, in the course of which the tabernacle was smashed, and the chalice and sacrament stolen – if the churchwarden is to be believed – for nefarious uses at the long barrow. On a morning in early spring, the Smithy is a different place; cowslips sprout from the burial mound, and the beech buds burst with pale, translucent leaves. The resident toad, who lives beneath the beech tree to your right, emerges glass-eyed from his torpor. Everything is waking, except for Weyland himself, who sinks into the earth as the sap rises in the trees. From here, one may turn east, dodging the cagouled walkers, and return to the White Horse and the hill fort that rears above it, listening for the cronks of ravens on the way. Alternatively, one may descend towards the Vale, seeking Hardwell Camp, another fort which lies forgotten, brooding in a hazel coppice. Or one may turn up one’s collar and head westwards down the Ridgeway, towards Russley Downs and Bishopstone. If you would come with me now, you will take this route. No, do not look up yet to admire the scenery, and if you tarry until the autumn, do not be distracted by the berries of sloe, spindle, bryony and woody nightshade. Look down at the Ridgeway itself. You are walking on prehistory, for surely the Roman road must have been pre-dated in these parts by a pathway joining the White Horse to the Smithy. More than that; you are walking on the palaeontological past, for the chalk of the Ridgeway is composed of the microscopic remains of Palaeozoic sea creatures. The round A little ritual on the summit of Mt. Olympus and memories of a fateful day on the Matterhorn. I had brought one beer and, sitting up there, contemplating the wonderful moment, I rolled it in my hand; and in a precious moment of not thinking I set it on the rock and left it there. It is a little gesture I sometimes do since I once climbed the Matterhorn long time ago. I occasionally leave little gifts on high mountain tops for the next unknown lucky idiot like myself who risks his/her wonderful life to come up there and wonders: what fool has forgotten this here, great, I take it and enjoy it. A little gesture, perhaps to myself; maybe a little melodramatic and theatrical, but no one knows… >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> Again, for those who really want to read so much: here is an excerpt of a long story about this: -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- … Probably two hours had passed, the glow of dawn had spread out over the snow peaks, I had just labored up a steep chimney and was panting and sweating, when I suddenly saw the soles of two boots, only inches in front of my face. I was just heaving up my body, resting on my elbows, and feeling with my toes for a foothold, when I saw these boots, almost touching them with my nose. The sight is forever printed into my memory – the barely worn profile of the soles, the yellow tags between the heel and the sole, I even remember the word VIBRAM printed on them. One boot was pointing upward, the other lay strangely inwardly tilted. I immediately knew that something awful must be connected to these boots, something that called for all the attention I had, but I also knew that my precarious body position needed total attention first. So I carefully completed my move, burning the image of these boots into my brain, and then, when my fingers felt the reliable shape of the next handhold and my knee found rest on a ledge, I let my vision quickly sweep beyond the boots and see the body connected to them. He lay there in a way that left not the slightest doubt that he was dead. His head and his face were badly damaged, the rain had washed off most of the blood but it looked terrible. One arm lay awkwardly twisted and his rain jacket was torn; one leg was obviously broken and lay like a separate thing in his pants. I knelt down beside him. My heart was chilled to ice. I looked around and up; he was lying on a fairly wide ledge, directly under an 80-foot narrow vertical chimney; it all looked like he had fallen down from there. A figure-eight rappelling device was clipped to his harness. Had he fallen while trying to rappel down this chimney? He must have been moved from where he had actually fallen. There was no rope or other equipment. I sat for a few minutes – my heart racing and my mouth dry – and then it all started to make sense: This poor fellow had fallen sometime the evening before when his party came down the mountain in this awful weather. Something must have gone terribly wrong when they rappelled in this storm. His partners must have left him because he was dead and descended on down to the hut to notify the mountain rescue. That was all the noise I heard in the night. And the party behind me was the rescue team on their way to recover the body. – Now it all fell into place – That’s why they didn’t want me to pass! (They swore at me when I soloed past them). I put on my rain gear because I started to shiver, and I sat there in silence and let my mind gradually calm down. I felt my panicked aversion to look at him closely. But then I touched him, and through my tears I finally was able to really see him, his mangled face with meaningless expression, his half-closed eyes, his unshaved cheeks. I felt sick with grief. It didn’t take long for the rescue guys to arrive. Some made obvious smirking remarks when they saw me sitting there, miserable and sick, but one touched my shoulder in a compassionate gesture when he stepped around me. They put the man into a body bag. Only now did I notice, in a quick last glance, how young he was, not more than 20, with black curly hair. And I remember seeing his name – Claudio – written with felt-pen on his harness. They talked on the radio for a while and prepared a rope system to lower him down the cliff to a larger ledge. I remember sitting there and weighing the option to turn around. Such drastic demonstration of what can happen up there in the mountains at any time has to be processed. The old friend fear cast his black shadow over my mind. This dark force that permeates the whole body like a fever and pulls it down like gravity. This friend, with whom I can never argue, who has saved my life many times over, but who has also made it miserable so many times. Did this horrible demonstration really change anything? Did I get any new information? Or did I only confuse information wit Similar posts: plus size engagement ring antique engagement rings emerald black opal engagement ring wedding rings vintage bottom belly ring jewelry nose ring engagement rings without stone mother of pearl engagement rings solid steel rings

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