>>> Who invited the atomic bomb?The first atomic bombs were developed in the USA towards the end of World War 11 by a team of scientists under the leadership of Robert Oppenheimer (1904-1967).
Tuesday, December 31, 2013
Nuclear power
>>> Who invited the atomic bomb?The first atomic bombs were developed in the USA towards the end of World War 11 by a team of scientists under the leadership of Robert Oppenheimer (1904-1967).
Monday, December 30, 2013
Let's be happy, everyday...!!!
Everybody likes to be happy. However, real happiness is not derived from victory, rewards or praise.If we want to sustain our happiness we should have a deep concept and understanding of it. Happiness is an essential quality that we should try to maintain in our lives. We all have desires, expectations and bonds.
Welcome to my blog...
Hi friends.......!!!
This is my entry to the world of blogging . I hope to write lot of things in this site ,what I feel valuable to share with you . I am a teenage student and schooling at the moment. I like technology ,world affairs ,arts and music ....a lot of stuff like this.
I will see you with my next post shortly ,please keep visiting my site !
This is my entry to the world of blogging . I hope to write lot of things in this site ,what I feel valuable to share with you . I am a teenage student and schooling at the moment. I like technology ,world affairs ,arts and music ....a lot of stuff like this.
I will see you with my next post shortly ,please keep visiting my site !
Saturday, December 21, 2013
Pasquale nodded
She still hadn’t looked up from the continuity photos. She pointed to the other woman in the photo,
the one with the dark hair, whose arm Dee Moray was holding as she laughed. “She’s actually quite
nice,” she said. “It’s funny.” Dee sighed. She flipped through the other pictures and Pasquale realized
now that in one of them she was standing grimly with two men, one of whom was Richard Burton.
Dee Moray looked back toward the open door of her hotel room. And then she wiped her teary
eyes again. “I guess we’re going to stay here tonight,” she said. “Richard’s awfully tired. He has to go
back to France for one more day of shooting. And then he’s going to come with me to Switzerland and
. . . we’ll see this doctor together and . . . I guess . . . get it taken care of.”
“Yes,” Pasquale said, the words taken care of hanging in the air. “I am glad . . . you are not sick.”
“Thank you, Pasquale. Me, too.” Her eyes became wet. “I’m going to come back and see you
sometime. Is that okay?”
“Yes,” he said, but he didn’t think for a second that he would ever see her again.
“We can hike back up to the bunker, see the paintings again.”
Pasquale just smiled. He concentrated, looking for the words. “The first night, you say something
. . . that we don’t know when our story is start, yes?”
Dee nodded.
“My friend Alvis Bender, the man who write the book you read, he tell me something like this one
time. He say our life is a story. But all stories go in different direction, yes?” He shot a hand out to the
left. “You.” And the other to the right. “Me.” The words didn’t match what he’d hoped to say, but she
nodded as if she understood.
“But sometimes . . . we are like people in a car on a train, go in same direction. Same story.” He
put his hands together. “And I think . . . this is nice, yes?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, and she put her own hands together to show him. “Thank you, Pasquale.” One
of her hands fell to Pasquale’s chest and they both stared at it. Then she pulled it away and Pasquale
turned to leave, summoning every bit of pride in his body to wear on his back like the shield of the
centurion he’d almost become that morning.
“Pasquale!” she called after only a few steps. He turned. And she came down the hallway and
kissed him again, and although it was on the lips this time, it was not at all like the kiss she’d given
him on the patio outside the Hotel Adequate View. That kiss had been the beginning of something, the
moment when it felt like his story was beginning. This was an end, the simple departure of a minor
character—him.
She wiped her eyes. “Here,” she said, and she pressed into his hands one of the Polaroid
photographs of herself and the woman with dark hair. “To remember me by.”
“No. Is yours.”
“I don’t want that one,” she said. “I have these others.”
“One day you will want it.”
“I’ll tell you what—when I’m old, if I need to convince people that I was in the movies, I’ll come
get it. Okay?” She squeezed the picture into his hand, then turned and padded back toward her room
and disappeared inside. She closed and latched the door slowly and quietly behind her, like a parent
sneaking from the room of a sleeping child.
Pasquale stared at the door. He had wished for this world of the glamorous Americans, and like a
dream she had come to his hotel, but now the world was back where it belonged, and he wondered if
it would have been better to never have glimpsed what lay behind the door.
Pasquale turned and scuffled up the hall, and down the stairs, past the night clerk and outside, to
where Tomasso leaned against a wall, smoking. His cap was pulled down on his eyes. He showed
Tomasso the photo of Dee and the other woman.
Tomasso looked at it, then shrugged one shoulder. “Bah,” he said. And the two men started back
toward the marina.
12
The Tenth Pass
Recently
Los Angeles, California
Before sunrise, before Guatemalan gardeners, before sharks and Benzes and the gentrification of the
American mind—Claire feels a hand on her hip.
“Don’t, Daryl,” she mutters.
“Who?”
She opens her eyes to a blond-wood desk, a flat-screen television, and the kind of painting they put
in hotel rooms . . . because this is a hotel room.
She’s on her side, and the hand on her hip is coming from behind her. She looks down, sees that
she’s still dressed; at least they didn’t have sex. She rolls over and stares into the big, dewy eyes of
Shane Wheeler. She’s never awakened in a hotel room next to a man she just met, so she’s not quite
sure what one says in this situation. “Hi,” she says.
“Daryl. Is that your boyfriend?”
“He was ten hours ago.”
“The strip-club guy?”
Good memory. “Yeah,” she says. At some point in their drunken sharing last night, she had
explained how Daryl unapologetically watches online porn all day and goes to strip clubs at night and
then laughs when she suggests this might be disrespectful to her. (Hopeless, she recalls describing her
relationship.) Now, as she lies next to Shane, Claire feels a different sort of hopelessness. What’s the
matter with her, going back to this guy’s room? And what to do with her hands now, which not long
ago had been running through Shane’s hair and over various parts of his body? She reaches for her
silenced BlackBerry, takes a data hit: seven A.M., sixty-one degrees, nine new e-mails, two phone
calls, and a simple text message from Daryl: what up—
She glances back over her shoulder at Shane again. His hair seems even more unruly than it did last
night, his sideburns more late-Elvis than alt-hipster. His shirt is off and she can see, on his skinny left
forearm, that damned tattoo, ACT, which she half blames for what happened last night. Only in the
movies does such a moment require a boozy flashback: how Michael had her book rooms at the W for
Shane and Pasquale, how she drove the Italian to the hotel while Shane followed in his rental car,
how Pasquale said he was tired and went to his room, and she apologized to Shane for laughing at his
pitch, how he shrugged it off, but in the way people shrug off something that genuinely bothers them.
How she said, No, I really am sorry, and explained that it wasn’t him—it was her frustration with the
business. How he said he understood and that he felt like celebrating, so they went to the bar and she
bought him a drink and gently reminded him that getting a producer interested was only the first step;
how he bought the next round of drinks (I just made ten grand; I can afford two cocktails) and she
the one after; and how, amid all those drinks, they’d told their stories: first the bland, self-serving
surface story one tells a stranger—family, college, career—and then the truth, the pain of Shane’s
failed marriage and the rejection of his book of short stories; Claire’s seemingly misguided decision
to come out of the cocoon of academia and her anguish over whether to go back in; Shane’s painful
realization that he was milk-fed veal; Claire’s failed quest to make one great film; and then the loud,
laugh-until-you-cry sharing—My boyfriend is a gorgeous zombie who loves strip clubs! and I
actually live in my parents’ basement! —and more drinks came and the commonplace became
revelatory—I like Wilco and I like Wilco, too! and My favorite pizza is Thai and Mine, too!—and
then Shane rolled up the sleeves on his faux-Western shirt, and Claire’s eyes fell on that tattoo ( so
weak for ink), that one word, ACT, and she did—leaned over in the bar and kissed him, and his hand
rose to her cheek while they kissed, such a simple thing, his hand on her face, but something Daryl
never did, and ten minutes later they were in his room, sifting through the minibar for more fuel and
making out like college kids, her giggling at the tickle of his bushy sideburns, him pausing to
compliment her breasts—a sweet, two-hour, kissing, groping, laughing debate over whether or not to
have sex (him: I’m leaning toward Yes ; her: I feel like the swing vote) until . . . they must’ve fallen
asleep.
the one with the dark hair, whose arm Dee Moray was holding as she laughed. “She’s actually quite
nice,” she said. “It’s funny.” Dee sighed. She flipped through the other pictures and Pasquale realized
now that in one of them she was standing grimly with two men, one of whom was Richard Burton.
Dee Moray looked back toward the open door of her hotel room. And then she wiped her teary
eyes again. “I guess we’re going to stay here tonight,” she said. “Richard’s awfully tired. He has to go
back to France for one more day of shooting. And then he’s going to come with me to Switzerland and
. . . we’ll see this doctor together and . . . I guess . . . get it taken care of.”
“Yes,” Pasquale said, the words taken care of hanging in the air. “I am glad . . . you are not sick.”
“Thank you, Pasquale. Me, too.” Her eyes became wet. “I’m going to come back and see you
sometime. Is that okay?”
“Yes,” he said, but he didn’t think for a second that he would ever see her again.
“We can hike back up to the bunker, see the paintings again.”
Pasquale just smiled. He concentrated, looking for the words. “The first night, you say something
. . . that we don’t know when our story is start, yes?”
Dee nodded.
“My friend Alvis Bender, the man who write the book you read, he tell me something like this one
time. He say our life is a story. But all stories go in different direction, yes?” He shot a hand out to the
left. “You.” And the other to the right. “Me.” The words didn’t match what he’d hoped to say, but she
nodded as if she understood.
“But sometimes . . . we are like people in a car on a train, go in same direction. Same story.” He
put his hands together. “And I think . . . this is nice, yes?”
“Oh, yes,” she said, and she put her own hands together to show him. “Thank you, Pasquale.” One
of her hands fell to Pasquale’s chest and they both stared at it. Then she pulled it away and Pasquale
turned to leave, summoning every bit of pride in his body to wear on his back like the shield of the
centurion he’d almost become that morning.
“Pasquale!” she called after only a few steps. He turned. And she came down the hallway and
kissed him again, and although it was on the lips this time, it was not at all like the kiss she’d given
him on the patio outside the Hotel Adequate View. That kiss had been the beginning of something, the
moment when it felt like his story was beginning. This was an end, the simple departure of a minor
character—him.
She wiped her eyes. “Here,” she said, and she pressed into his hands one of the Polaroid
photographs of herself and the woman with dark hair. “To remember me by.”
“No. Is yours.”
“I don’t want that one,” she said. “I have these others.”
“One day you will want it.”
“I’ll tell you what—when I’m old, if I need to convince people that I was in the movies, I’ll come
get it. Okay?” She squeezed the picture into his hand, then turned and padded back toward her room
and disappeared inside. She closed and latched the door slowly and quietly behind her, like a parent
sneaking from the room of a sleeping child.
Pasquale stared at the door. He had wished for this world of the glamorous Americans, and like a
dream she had come to his hotel, but now the world was back where it belonged, and he wondered if
it would have been better to never have glimpsed what lay behind the door.
Pasquale turned and scuffled up the hall, and down the stairs, past the night clerk and outside, to
where Tomasso leaned against a wall, smoking. His cap was pulled down on his eyes. He showed
Tomasso the photo of Dee and the other woman.
Tomasso looked at it, then shrugged one shoulder. “Bah,” he said. And the two men started back
toward the marina.
12
The Tenth Pass
Recently
Los Angeles, California
Before sunrise, before Guatemalan gardeners, before sharks and Benzes and the gentrification of the
American mind—Claire feels a hand on her hip.
“Don’t, Daryl,” she mutters.
“Who?”
She opens her eyes to a blond-wood desk, a flat-screen television, and the kind of painting they put
in hotel rooms . . . because this is a hotel room.
She’s on her side, and the hand on her hip is coming from behind her. She looks down, sees that
she’s still dressed; at least they didn’t have sex. She rolls over and stares into the big, dewy eyes of
Shane Wheeler. She’s never awakened in a hotel room next to a man she just met, so she’s not quite
sure what one says in this situation. “Hi,” she says.
“Daryl. Is that your boyfriend?”
“He was ten hours ago.”
“The strip-club guy?”
Good memory. “Yeah,” she says. At some point in their drunken sharing last night, she had
explained how Daryl unapologetically watches online porn all day and goes to strip clubs at night and
then laughs when she suggests this might be disrespectful to her. (Hopeless, she recalls describing her
relationship.) Now, as she lies next to Shane, Claire feels a different sort of hopelessness. What’s the
matter with her, going back to this guy’s room? And what to do with her hands now, which not long
ago had been running through Shane’s hair and over various parts of his body? She reaches for her
silenced BlackBerry, takes a data hit: seven A.M., sixty-one degrees, nine new e-mails, two phone
calls, and a simple text message from Daryl: what up—
She glances back over her shoulder at Shane again. His hair seems even more unruly than it did last
night, his sideburns more late-Elvis than alt-hipster. His shirt is off and she can see, on his skinny left
forearm, that damned tattoo, ACT, which she half blames for what happened last night. Only in the
movies does such a moment require a boozy flashback: how Michael had her book rooms at the W for
Shane and Pasquale, how she drove the Italian to the hotel while Shane followed in his rental car,
how Pasquale said he was tired and went to his room, and she apologized to Shane for laughing at his
pitch, how he shrugged it off, but in the way people shrug off something that genuinely bothers them.
How she said, No, I really am sorry, and explained that it wasn’t him—it was her frustration with the
business. How he said he understood and that he felt like celebrating, so they went to the bar and she
bought him a drink and gently reminded him that getting a producer interested was only the first step;
how he bought the next round of drinks (I just made ten grand; I can afford two cocktails) and she
the one after; and how, amid all those drinks, they’d told their stories: first the bland, self-serving
surface story one tells a stranger—family, college, career—and then the truth, the pain of Shane’s
failed marriage and the rejection of his book of short stories; Claire’s seemingly misguided decision
to come out of the cocoon of academia and her anguish over whether to go back in; Shane’s painful
realization that he was milk-fed veal; Claire’s failed quest to make one great film; and then the loud,
laugh-until-you-cry sharing—My boyfriend is a gorgeous zombie who loves strip clubs! and I
actually live in my parents’ basement! —and more drinks came and the commonplace became
revelatory—I like Wilco and I like Wilco, too! and My favorite pizza is Thai and Mine, too!—and
then Shane rolled up the sleeves on his faux-Western shirt, and Claire’s eyes fell on that tattoo ( so
weak for ink), that one word, ACT, and she did—leaned over in the bar and kissed him, and his hand
rose to her cheek while they kissed, such a simple thing, his hand on her face, but something Daryl
never did, and ten minutes later they were in his room, sifting through the minibar for more fuel and
making out like college kids, her giggling at the tickle of his bushy sideburns, him pausing to
compliment her breasts—a sweet, two-hour, kissing, groping, laughing debate over whether or not to
have sex (him: I’m leaning toward Yes ; her: I feel like the swing vote) until . . . they must’ve fallen
asleep.
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