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Tuesday, January 23, 2018

Monday, January 22, 2018

Divorce after Weight-Loss Surgery, Here’s Why Physical, Emotional, and Behavioral Changes after Weight Loss affect Marriage



divorce after weight-loss surgery


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Divorce after Weight-Loss Surgery

Have you ever received a gift, beautifully wrapped and attractive to view, only to open it and find that it was not what you thought it might be? The gift perhaps holds a value that will be more accurately determined in retrospect. But initially it is not what you expected. Such is sometimes the case of a marriage after weight-loss surgery. Divorce after weight-loss surgery is not uncommon.
The beautiful hope of a “new you” becomes the reality of a new you, — and something beneath the wrap of who you have become changes the status quo of the marital relationship. According to BariatricTV, 80-85% of patients who were obese prior to or at the time of their marriage will, within two years, divorce after weight-loss surgery. If that seems high, consider that somewhere around half of all marriages in the U.S. end in divorce.
The statistic originated from John Pilcher, MD, FACS, a bariatric surgeon in San Antonio. The original article was “Counseling Bariatric Surgery Patients” by Dan Orzech published in Social Work Today Vol. 5 No. 6 P. 24 and appearing in hitpages. Not everyone agrees with the validity of this statistic. Diana Hamlet-Cox an attorney in San Jose, cautions us that the article does not link to the actual study. “Cited in studies means there should be a link to the studies – if a doctor reports unreferenced statistics, they should not be taken seriously. I cannot find any actual studies (with a possible exception in the 1980s) that substantiate these numbers, nor the significance over the baseline for divorces (in the US, about 50%).” 
It seems while there is debate over the actual statistical rate of divorce after weight-loss surgery, there is agreement that the rate of divorce after weight-loss surgery is high. According to an article published in the Seattle Times, a website concerning weight-loss surgery divorce lists it as one of the possible post-op complications. It goes so far as to call it bariatric divorce.

Weight-Loss Inspires Us to Change that which No Longer Serves Our Highest and Best

In part, the change is more an adjustment of courage or self-esteem. Prior to weight-loss surgery, prior to improved health, prior to enhanced physical attraction, prior to a rise in confidence, in some instance there was a poor marriage. The marital relationship already had not been working for some period of time. So while improvements in the aforementioned areas can enhance an already stable marriage, a marriage that was volatile before the weight-loss surgery may collapse following the procedure.
The spectrum of improvement enjoyed by the weight-loss surgery spouse becomes an impetus for those actions necessary for termination of an already failed marriage. In this instance the gift beneath the wrap is attractive in its’ own right, although unanticipated. Options that were not even considered at one time prior to the “new you” are now part of a menu of decision and change.
…if the weight-loss surgery spouse in a long-term marriage was of normal weight when the marriage began then that relationship is probably in pretty good shape to withstand the changes…

Divorce after Weight-Loss Surgery Changes the Status Quo

Often, both partners in the marriage have shared the problems of overeating and obesity. Then, following weight-loss surgery, the spouse who underwent the procedure suddenly bursts alive. She becomes energized and wants to see and be seen. A one-time introvert and homebody now burns to socialize. She is treated differently by peers and has become more acceptable and generally more attractive to those around her.
At the same time, the spouse did not undergo the weight-loss surgery may be overcome by insecurity. He cannot physically keep up or make adjustments to the new way of eating that has come into his home. He misses the “old life” — a lifestyle that was likely centered around food and eating activities. An already fragile self-esteem becomes worse, thereby negatively influencing the marriage. His partner and lifestyle that once were, are now gone and probably irretrievable.
The status quo changes. Interests and activities change for one spouse while they remain the same for the other. The poor eating habits and resulting obesity that may have been the bond that united the couple is now gone. Relationship counseling before and after weight-loss surgery can help the couple manage through these changes together. Read, “Relationship Issues after Bariatric Surgery.”
If the marriage has transitioned into something that is not satisfactory for one or both partners then divorce after weight-loss surgery may be the inevitable outcome.

Long-Term Marriages Better Withstand Weight-Loss Surgery 

The article “Counseling Bariatric Surgery Patients” published in Social Work Today agrees that the divorce rate after weight-loss surgery is extremely high. However, if the weight-loss surgery spouse in a long-term marriage was of normal weight when the marriage began then that relationship is probably in pretty good shape to withstand the changes following weight-loss surgery.
divorce after weight-loss As for me, I was obese as a kid from about the age of 7 or 8. I then lost a dramatic amount of weight when I was 16 years old and transformed into a beautiful teenage girl — I call this my ugly ducking story. It was way back then that I experienced the wonderment of a “new me.” My self-esteem soared and my personality blossomed. I enjoyed of the attention of the opposite sex, and I was married at 19-years of age.
Years passed, things happened, and the weight piled on and on. Finally I had gastric bypass surgery after 20-years of marriage. But I did not experience this wonderment of a “new me” after my weight-loss surgery. I think that’s because I’d already experienced that phenomena when I was 16-years old. Of course I felt much more attractive and I could physically engage in activities with my husband and daughter that previously had been impossible. But the experience of it all felt as if my body now, finally, matched the thinner person that had been hiding inside ever since the time when I was 16 years old and lost weight. I reclaimed my life and became the woman whom my husband had married.

Happily Ever After Weight-Loss Surgery or Bariatric Divorce

Idealistically, we always want the “and they lived happily ever after” ending. We are conditioned not to accept divorce and strive for a fairytale romance.
…weight-loss surgery can provide you with the courage to get out of a bad relationship.
David Sarwer, an associate professor of psychology at the University of Pennsylvania and member of the American Society for Metabolic & Bariatric Surgery, said that “the surgery can have a positive effect on a solid marriage, but there is a risk that it can tear apart a marriage that is already on the rocks.” If you are in a bad relationship then the newfound esteem and confidence you may achieve after weight-loss surgery can provide you with the courage to get out of a bad relationship. This is not a bad thing for either partner, is it?
The wrap will always be beautiful. Whether the gift beneath the paper is more the stuff of life circumstance or the stuff of dreams come true is dependent upon your perspective. Weight-loss surgery offers a new beginning. The rest is up to you. Life is, after all, what you make of it. 
Living life larger than ever,
My Bariatric Life

Saturday, January 20, 2018

ArtOfManliness.com - What a Polar Explorer Discovered From Spending 5 Months in Solitude by Brett and Kate McKay - Though it may be a cliché, as Byrd approached death’s door, he really did see his “whole life pass in review. I realized how wrong my sense of values had been and how I had failed to see that the simple, homely, unpretentious things of life are the most important.” When Byrd thought of the work he had come to the base to do, the data he had gathered, it all seemed like dross in the grand scheme of things. He realized that the real heart of life was back at home with his wife and kids: “At the end only two things really matter to a man, regardless of who he is; and they are the affection and understanding of his family. Anything and everything else he creates are insubstantial; they are ships given over to the mercy of the winds and tides of prejudice. But the family is an everlasting anchorage, a quiet harbor where a man’s ships can be left to swing to the moorings of pride and loyalty.” “The Universe Is a Cosmos, Not a Chaos” Before Byrd got sick, he gained one of his most profound insights, concerning nothing less than the nature of the universe and man’s place within it. In gazing upon the stunning expanse of dark sky, and the awe-inspiring dance of Antarctic auroras across it, Byrd found not only beauty, but a pattern to that beauty. In listening into the silence of solitude, he heard the flow of a well-orchestrated cadence: “Here were the imponderable processes and forces of the cosmos, harmonious and soundless. Harmony, that was it! That was what came out of the silence — a gentle rhythm, the strain of a perfect chord, the music of the spheres, perhaps. It was enough to catch that rhythm, momentarily to be myself a part of it. In that instant I could feel no doubt of man’s oneness with the universe. The conviction came that that rhythm was too orderly, too harmonious, too perfect to be a product of blind chance — that, therefore, there must be purpose in the whole and that man was part of that whole and not an accidental offshoot. It was a feeling that transcended reason; that went to the heart of man’s despair and found it groundless.” From this realization came no detailed proclamation on the nature of God, on theology, on the true faith or the right denomination. Byrd simply reached a deep conviction that the universe was not a random chaos, but a planned cosmos; that “For those who seek it, there is inexhaustible evidence of an all-pervading intelligence.”



| January 15, 2018
A Man's Life



Many know of the epic race in 1910 between Roald Amundsen and Robert Falcon Scott to be the first to reach the South Pole, and the tragic end met by the latter explorer.
Most people have also heard of the heroic leadership of Ernest Shackleton, who managed to save the lives of all of his men when their attempt to traverse Antarctica in 1914 went horribly awry.
Fewer, however, are familiar with another tale of Antarctic adventure, that of the almost five months Rear Admiral Richard E. Byrd spent alone at the bottom of the world in 1934.
While Byrd was one of the most celebrated figures of his time (receiving an unprecedented three ticker tape parades), his fame has slipped beneath that of other polar explorers, perhaps because his adventure was of a strikingly different kind. Rather than involving teams of men, and sweeping treks across land and sea, Byrd didn’t travel with anyone else, or cover any geographic distance at all. Rather, he stayed, by himself, in exactly one place: a tiny shack buried under snow and ice. Yet while Byrd’s journey was not outward but inward, his expedition to the farthest reaches of solitude covered a significant amount of ground, circumscribing the spirit of man and his place in the universe.

Why Byrd Decided to Spend a Season of Solitude at the Bottom of the World


“it is something, I believe, that people beset by the complexities of modern life will understand instinctively. We are caught up in the winds that blow every which way. And in the hullabaloo the thinking man is driven to ponder where he is being blown and to long desperately for some quiet place where he can reason undisturbed and take inventory.” –Richard E. Byrd, Alone
By 1934, the “Heroic Age of Antarctic Exploration” had drawn to a close. Much of the continent had been explored and mapped, and the pole had been attained through “manual” means (dog sled and skis) and ample struggle. As technology progressed, and the Heroic Age became the “Mechanical Age,” more territory was covered with increasing ease, and few polar “firsts” remained.


Byrd was a highly decorated naval officer and aviator; as a military pilot, the third man to fly non-stop over the Atlantic, and a polar explorer, he earned twenty-two citations and special commendations including the Medal of Honor, the Navy Distinguished Service Medal, the Distinguished Flying Cross, the Navy Cross, and the Lifesaving Medal (2X).
Of those that did, Byrd had already bagged the most prominent, acting as navigator on the first flights to reach the North and South Poles.
But as Byrd admits in his riveting, must-read memoir, Alone, despite these accomplishments, and the voluminous ticker tape which followed them, their aftermath still left him feeling a “certain aimlessness.” He not only longed to traverse another fresh frontier and tackle another daring, publicly-recognized challenge, but to address a certain restlessness he felt in his private, personal life — a niggling feeling that “centered on small but increasingly lamentable omissions”:

“For example, books. There was no end to the books that I was forever promising myself to read; but, when it came to reading them, I seemed never to have the time or the patience. With music, too, it was the same way; the love for it — and I suppose the indefinable need — was also there, but not the will or opportunity to interrupt the routine which most of us come to cherish as existence.
This was true of other matters: new ideas, new concepts, and new developments about which I knew little or nothing. It seemed a restricted way to live.”
To address these yearnings, Byrd came up with a plan that aimed to kill two birds with one stone: during the long, dark Antarctic winter, he would man, alone, “the first inland station ever occupied in the world’s southernmost continent.” While the rest of his expedition team remained at the Little America base along the coast of the Ross Ice Shelf, Byrd would set up camp at Bolling Advance Weather Base on Antarctica’s colder, even more barren interior.  
The daring (some would say foolhardy) endeavor had an ostensible scientific purpose — that of making weather and celestial observations and gathering data. But Byrd admitted he “really wanted to go for the experience’s sake” — “to try a more rigorous existence than any I had known.”
The experience would certainly be physically rigorous.
Though Byrd would stay put in a shack buried under the snow, he would emerge through its trap door multiple times a day to take metrological readings, and would still have to survive in “the coldest cold on the face of the earth.” Temperatures would routinely hover around -60 outside and be subzero even inside: it would sometimes be -30 when Byrd arose from his bunk in the morning and the walls and ceiling of the hut would slowly become encased in a layer of ice. Should something go wrong, help was over 100 miles away, across a terrain that would be impossible to traverse in the trough of the Antarctic winter.
The psychological rigor of the experience, however, would be just as intense.
The lonely landscape would not only be cold, but lacking in light; once the sun sets during the Antarctic winter, it doesn’t rise again until the spring, ushering in a “long night as black as that on the dark side of the moon.”
As “perhaps the most isolated human on earth,” no other person, seen or unseen, would exist within a 123-mile radius, and Byrd’s only contact with the outside world would be intermittent radio exchanges he made with the men back at Little America; even in these communications, while Byrd would be able to hear the men at the other end, he would only be able to respond through Morse code. Weeks would go by without him uttering a single word.  
Existing in a “world [he] could span in four strides going one way and in three strides going the other,” Byrd would enjoy no external stimuli beyond his books, his phonograph, and what he could observe in the icy landscape. There would be almost no deviation in his daily routine for months on end; “Change in the sense that we know it, without which life is scarcely tolerable, would be nonexistent.”
Finally, the silence accompanying this solitary sojourn would be “taut and immense” — filled with the kind of “fatal emptiness that comes when an airplane engine cuts out abruptly in flight.”
Yet all these considerations made the plan more compelling to Byrd, not less:

“Out there on the South Polar barrier, in cold and darkness as complete as that of the Pleistocene, I should have time to catch up, to study and think and listen to the phonograph; and, for maybe seven months, remote from all but the simplest distractions, I should be able to live exactly as I chose, obedient to no necessities but those imposed by wind and cold, and to no man’s laws but my own.”
Byrd desired to “know that kind of experience to the full, to be by himself for a while and to taste peace and quiet and solitude long enough to find out how good they really are.”
During his stay at Latitude 80° 08′ South, Byrd got his wish, as well as much more than he bargained for.

What Byrd Discovered From Experiencing Five Months of Solitude at Latitude 80° 08’ South 



“Yes, solitude is greater than I anticipated.” –Richard E. Byrd, Alone
While Byrd did not travel far on this expedition, the insights he garnered are in many ways more useful than those brought back from the far-flung treks of traditional explorers. They deal with the issues the everyday man faces — loneliness, isolation, unvarying routine, lack of change — writ large. Byrd’s challenge would be that of finding meaning in the mundane — the same challenge we all face, simply to a lesser degree.
During months of uninterrupted introspection and an intensity of voluntary solitude few humans have ever experienced, Byrd gleaned many insights on these issues. Here are some of the realizations he reached during his solitary sojourn at the bottom of the world:

We Need Less Than We Think



In 1947, Byrd revisited his hut at “Advanced Weather Base,” and picked up and smoked a pipe he had left behind 12 years earlier. 
The overarching theme that runs through Byrd’s experience with solitude, is the way it helped him pare away the superfluous in order to focus on the truly important and meaningful:

“My sense of values is changing, and many things which before were in solution in my mind now seem to be crystallizing. I am better able to tell what in the world is wheat for me and what is chaff.”
As we’ll see, this sifting process would concern Byrd’s more abstract ideas and philosophy. But it would alter his views on material possessions as well.
Adjoining Byrd’s small shack were two snow tunnels that held an ample supply of all the provisions a man might need to survive by himself for half a year: candles, matches, flashlights, batteries, pencils and writing paper, laundry soap, food, etc. Yet beyond these essentials, along with a shelf of books and a box of phonograph records, Byrd had few of the creature comforts, conveniences, and entertainments that fill the abodes of most modern men. He had essentially one set of clothes, one chair, one little stove to cook food.
In taking stock of the distillation his existence had undergone, Byrd reflected:

“Yet, wasn’t this really enough? It occurred to me then that half the confusion in the world comes from not knowing how little we need.”
Being forced to live the simple life, Byrd decided, “was very good for me; I was learning what the philosophers have long been harping on — that a man can live profoundly without masses of things.”

Exercise Preserves Your Sanity

Despite frigid, potentially inertia-creating temperatures, Byrd got in bouts of exercise nearly every single day. (The next time you think it’s just “too cold” to go outside and move your body, remember this journal entry of Byrd’s: “It was clear and not too cold [today] — only 41 degrees below zero at noon.”) He felt his daily exercise helped preserve not only his physical health, but his mental health as well.
In the mornings, while the water for his tea heated up, Byrd would lie upon his bunk and do fifteen different stretching exercises. “The silence during these first few minutes of the day is always depressing,” he wrote in his journal, and “My exercises help to snap me out of this.”
Byrd also took 1-2 hour walks outside each day (which included doing a dozen different exercises along the way, like knee bends). These jaunts provided him with exercise, fresh air, and a change of scenery, as well as a great deal of mental repose and elevation:

“The last half of the walk is the best part of the day, the time when I am most nearly at peace with myself and circumstances. Thoughts of life and the nature of things flow smoothly, so smoothly and so naturally as to create an illusion that one is swimming harmoniously in the broad current of the cosmos. During this hour I undergo a sort of intellectual levitation, although my thinking is usually on earthy, practical matters.” 

Much of Our Behavior is Externally Conditioned


“A man had no need of the world here — certainly not the world of commonplace manners and accustomed security.”
The longer Byrd spent isolated from the everyday world, the more he noticed the trappings of civilization falling away, and how “A life alone makes the need for external demonstration almost disappear”:

“Solitude is an excellent laboratory in which to observe the extent to which manners and habits are conditioned by others. My tables manners are atrocious — in this respect I’ve slipped back hundreds of years; in fact, I have no manners whatsoever.”
Byrd even observed that something like swearing, often assumed to be indulged in for one’s own benefit, was in fact largely performative:

“Now I seldom cuss, although at first I was quick to open fire at everything that trued my patience. Attending to the electrical circuit on the anemometer pole is no less cold than it was in the beginning; but I work in soundless torment, knowing that the night is vast and profanity can shock no one but myself.”
Byrd’s hair grew long and shaggy (he preferred to keep it that way, as it kept his neck warm). His nose became red and bulbous and his cheeks blistered from being nipped by hundreds of frostbites. Yet his increasingly barbarous and disheveled look did not bother him in the least, as he “decided that a man without women around him is a man without vanity.”
He shaved his beard “only because I have found that a beard is an infernal nuisance outside on the account of its tendency to ice up from the breath and freeze the face.” He did take a bath each evening, keeping himself quite clean, but he performed this ritual, he notes, not out of a sense of etiquette, but simply because it felt good and kept him comfortable. “How I look is no longer of the least importance,” he wrote in his journal, “all that matters is how I feel.”
Byrd found the process of reverting back to a more basic, “primitive” state interesting and instructive, musing, “I seem to remember reading in Epicurus that a man living alone lives the life of a wolf.”
It’s not that Byrd discovered that manners and other externally conditioned behaviors have no point and kept living like an uncultured barbarian after leaving Latitude 80° 08’ South; on the contrary, once back in the States, he returned to comporting himself as an officer and a gentleman. But he never forgot that civilization is an externally conditioned patina on a rawer way of life, and that much of how we act is a form of theater — a very useful form, but theater nonetheless.

There Is Peace and Power in a Daily Routine


“From the beginning I had recognized that an orderly, harmonious routine was the only lasting defense against my special circumstances.”
While Byrd discovered that a life lived in solitude offered many consolations, he was also very cognizant of its challenges. Mainly, that of being stalked by the incessant specter of desperate loneliness — a loneliness Byrd found “too big” to take “casually.” “I must not dwell on it,” he realized. “Otherwise I am undone.”
To keep the melancholy of isolation at bay, Byrd set about creating a busy, but orderly daily routine for himself. This was not an easy task, he admits, for he describes himself as “a somewhat casual person, governed by moods as often as by necessities.” Nonetheless, during his stay at Advance Base this “most unsystematic of mortals endeavored to be systematic,” as he saw the creation of set habits as vital to preserving his psychic equilibrium.  
The keys of Byrd’s daily routine were two-fold.
First, he filled each day with maintenance jobs, always giving himself about an hour to work on each task. Regardless of whether he finished the job or not, once the sixty minutes were up, he turned to the next task, resolving to take up any unfinished work the next day. “In that way,” he explains, “I was able to show a little progress each day on all the important jobs, and at the same time keep from becoming bored with any one. This was a way of bringing variety into an existence.” As he further reflected, by keeping a schedule in this way:

“It brought me an extraordinary sense of command over myself and simultaneously freighted my simplest doings with significance. Without that or an equivalent, the days would have been without purpose; and without purpose they would have ended, as such days always end, in disintegration.”
The second key to the efficacy of Byrd’s daily routine, was keeping his mind off the past and focused on the present. He determined to “extract every ounce of diversion and creativeness inherent in my immediate surroundings” by experimenting “with new schemes for increasing the content of the hours.”
In practical terms, this meant challenging himself to do his tasks a little better each day, thereby keeping his focus on positive improvement:

“I tried to cook more rapidly, take weather and auroral observations more expertly, and do routine things systematically. Full mastery of the impinging moment was my goal. I lengthened my walks and did more reading, and kept my thoughts upon an impersonal plane. In other words, I tried resolutely to attend to my business.”
Extracting more content from his hours also meant trying to make the most of the few diversions he had at his disposal. For example, even though he took his daily walks in different directions from his hut, no matter which way he headed the landscape was pretty much exactly the same — a stretch of white, icy homogeneity to the horizon. “Yet,” Byrd notes, “I could, with a little imagination, make every walk seem different.” As he ambled, he would imagine strolling around his hometown of Boston, or retracing the epic journey that Marco Polo took (which he was then reading about in a book), or even exploring what life was like during the Ice Age. “There was no need for the paths ever becoming a rut.”
When it comes to passing through a challenging, largely unvarying season of life, Byrd observed, one must be able to find worlds within worlds; “The ones who survive with a measure of happiness are those who can live profoundly off their intellectual resources, as hibernating animals live off their fat.”

Don’t Worry About What You Can’t Control


“why, I asked myself, weary the mind with small reproaches? Sufficient unto the day was the evil.”
Byrd’s only connection to the outside world was a radio he used to communicate with the men back at Little America. But he found that listening to these dispatches often made him feel more anxious, rather than less.
This was especially true when the men back at base shared an item of national or global news. For example, after “Curiosity tempted [Byrd] to ask Little America how the stock market was going,” he realized the query “was a ghastly mistake.” The glum news (this was during the Great Depression), put him in a state of dejection; before leaving the States, Byrd had invested some funds in the hopes of making some money and defraying the expedition’s costs. Now much of that money had evaporated, and he could only sit idly at the bottom of the world, consumed by the impotent feeling of not being able to do a damn thing about it.
“I can in no earthly way alter the situation,” Byrd eventually concluded. “Worry, therefore, is needless.”
He would thereafter take the same Stoic approach to the dispatches he received from Little America, “clos[ing] off [his] mind to the bothersome details of the world” and concentrating only on that which he could control:

“The few world news items which [were] read to me seemed almost as meaningless as they might to a Martian. My world was insulated against the shocks running through distant economies. Advance Base was geared to different laws. On getting up in the morning, it was enough for me to say to myself: Today is the day to change the barograph sheet, or Today is the day to fill the stove tank.”
One might observe, while Byrd couldn’t do anything about global events from his shack in Antarctica, he couldn’t have done anything had he been back home either. Begging an important question for all: Is there any reason to keep up with the news?

There Is No Peace, No Beauty, No Joy, Without Struggle

There were times during Byrd’s experience that were positively thrilling. Read just a few of the ways he exults in the sublimity of solitude and “the sheer excitement of silence”:

“I realize at this moment more than ever before how much I have been wanting something like this. I must confess feeling a tremendous exhilaration.”
“I came to understand what Thoreau meant when he said, ‘My body is all sentient.’ There were moments when I felt more alive than at any other time in my life. Freed from materialistic distractions, my senses sharpened in new directions, and the random or commonplace affairs of the sky and the earth and the spirit, which ordinarily I would have ignored if I had noticed them at all, became exciting and portentous.”
“This was a grand period; I was conscious only of a mind utterly at peace, a mind adrift upon the smooth, romantic tides of imagination, like a ship responding to the strength and purpose in the enveloping medium. A man’s moments of serenity are few, but a few will sustain him a lifetime. I found my measure of inward peace then; the stately echoes lasted a long time. For the world then was like poetry — that poetry which is ‘emotion remembered in tranquility.’”
“all this was mine: the stars, the constellations, even the earth as it turned on its axis. If great inward peace and exhilaration can exist together, then this, I decided . . . was what should possess the senses.”
“my thoughts seem to come together more smoothly than ever before.”
Yet these moments of elevation did not come without effort, without sacrifice. They were not made possible despite of the difficult, inhospitable conditions of Byrd’s sojourn, but because of them. His reflections upon seeing a stunning display of colors splash across the Antarctic sky, apply just as readily to everything else he experienced on his solo expedition:

“This has been a beautiful day. Although the sky was almost cloudless, an impalpable haze hung in the air, doubtless from falling crystals. In midafternoon it disappeared, and the Barrier to the north flooded with a rare pink light, pastel in its delicacy. The horizon line was a long slash of crimson, brighter than blood; and over this welled a straw-yellow ocean whose shores were the boundless blue of the night. I watched the sky a long time, concluding that such beauty was reserved for distant, dangerous places, and that nature has good reason for exacting her own special sacrifices from those determined to witness them. An intimation of my isolation seeped into my mood; this cold but lively afterglow was my compensation for the loss of the sun whose warmth and light were enriching the world beyond the horizon.”
Byrd could not have seen such sights without traveling to the bottom of the world. He could not have gleaned any soul-expanding insights, without also battling soul-crushing loneliness. There cannot be any sweet without the bitter.
Byrd went looking for, and found, a sense of peace, but, he hastened to explain, the “peace I describe is not passive. It must be won”:

“Real peace comes from struggle that involves such things as effort, discipline, enthusiasm. This is also the way to strength. An inactive peace may lead to sensuality and flabbiness, which are discordant. It is often necessary to fight to lessen discord. This is the paradox.”

The Only Thing That Ultimately Matters Is Family

While Byrd enjoyed two healthy, insight-filled months of solitude, thereafter conditions at Advance Weather Base unfortunately took a near-fatal turn, and cut short Byrd’s sojourn there.
Something went afoul with the stove he used to heat his hut, so that it began to leak carbon monoxide into his tiny living space. If he turned off the stove at night, however, he would freeze. So he was forced to alternate between shutting it off and cracking open the door for fresh air during the day, and letting it run while he slept. Unsurprisingly Byrd became deathly ill and could barely function, a fact he hid from the men at Little America for two months, not wanting them to risk their lives by launching a rescue mission after him.  
Though it may be a cliché, as Byrd approached death’s door, he really did see his “whole life pass in review. I realized how wrong my sense of values had been and how I had failed to see that the simple, homely, unpretentious things of life are the most important.”
When Byrd thought of the work he had come to the base to do, the data he had gathered, it all seemed like dross in the grand scheme of things. He realized that the real heart of life was back at home with his wife and kids:

“At the end only two things really matter to a man, regardless of who he is; and they are the affection and understanding of his family. Anything and everything else he creates are insubstantial; they are ships given over to the mercy of the winds and tides of prejudice. But the family is an everlasting anchorage, a quiet harbor where a man’s ships can be left to swing to the moorings of pride and loyalty.”

“The Universe Is a Cosmos, Not a Chaos”

Before Byrd got sick, he gained one of his most profound insights, concerning nothing less than the nature of the universe and man’s place within it.
In gazing upon the stunning expanse of dark sky, and the awe-inspiring dance of Antarctic auroras across it, Byrd found not only beauty, but a pattern to that beauty. In listening into the silence of solitude, he heard the flow of a well-orchestrated cadence:

“Here were the imponderable processes and forces of the cosmos, harmonious and soundless. Harmony, that was it! That was what came out of the silence — a gentle rhythm, the strain of a perfect chord, the music of the spheres, perhaps.
It was enough to catch that rhythm, momentarily to be myself a part of it. In that instant I could feel no doubt of man’s oneness with the universe. The conviction came that that rhythm was too orderly, too harmonious, too perfect to be a product of blind chance — that, therefore, there must be purpose in the whole and that man was part of that whole and not an accidental offshoot. It was a feeling that transcended reason; that went to the heart of man’s despair and found it groundless.”
From this realization came no detailed proclamation on the nature of God, on theology, on the true faith or the right denomination. Byrd simply reached a deep conviction that the universe was not a random chaos, but a planned cosmos; that “For those who seek it, there is inexhaustible evidence of an all-pervading intelligence.”

Conclusion: Commence Your Own Expedition Into Solitude



“Part of me remained forever at Latitude 80 08’ South: what survived of my youth, my vanity, perhaps, and certainly my skepticism. On the other hand, I did take away something that I had not fully possessed before: appreciation of the sheer beauty and miracle of being alive, and a humble set of values. . . . Civilization has not altered my ideas. I live more simply now, and with more peace.”
If you plunged into a prolonged period of solitude and silence, away from every besetting distraction, what would happen to your mind? What insights would you discover? Would they be the same as Byrd’s? Different?
While most of us will never experience a state of silent solitude of the prolonged, all-encompassing kind inhabited by Richard E. Byrd, we can all find more pockets of it in our daily lives. We can all shut off the noise for a few moments, and glimpse more clearly those ideas and revelations that ever edge towards consciousness, only to be pushed away by another distraction.
We can all take our own solitary sojourn; we can all explore the deeper dimensions of silence; we can all discover fresh realizations by journeying to a different latitude of soul.
Last updated: January 17, 2018

Friday, January 19, 2018

Lana Del Rey - Once Upon A Dream (Music Video)

I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream I know you, that look in your eyes is so familiar a gleam And I know it's true that visions are seldom all they seem But if I know you, I know what you'll do You'll love me at once, the way you did once upon a dream Ah-ah, ah-ah, ah-aah mmh Ah-ah, ah-ah, ah-aah mmh, mmh-mmh, mmh-mmh But if I know you, I know what you'll do You'll love me at once The way you did once upon a dream I know you, I walked with you once upon a dream I know you, that gleam in your eyes is so familiar a gleam And I know it's true that visions are seldom all they seem But if I know you, I know what you'll do You'll love me at once, the way you did once upon a dream

Lana Del Rey - Summertime Sadness

Kiss me hard before you go Summertime sadness I just wanted you to know That, baby, you're the best I got my red dress on tonight Dancing in the dark in the pale moonlight Done my hair up real big beauty queen style High heels off, I'm feeling alive Oh, my God, I feel it in the air Telephone wires above are sizzling like a snare Honey, I'm on fire, I feel it everywhere Nothing scares me anymore (1, 2, 3, 4) Kiss me hard before you go Summertime sadness I just wanted you to know That, baby, you're the best I got that summertime, summertime sadness S-s-summertime, summertime sadness Got that summertime, summertime sadness Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh I'm feelin' electric tonight Cruising down the coast goin' 'bout 99 Got my bad baby by my heavenly side I know if I go, I'll die happy tonight Oh, my God, I feel it in the air Telephone wires above are sizzling like a snare Honey, I'm on fire, I feel it everywhere Nothing scares me anymore (1, 2, 3, 4) Kiss me hard before you go Summertime sadness I just wanted you to know That, baby, you're the best I got that summertime, summertime sadness S-s-summertime, summertime sadness Got that summertime, summertime sadness Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh Think I'll miss you forever Like the stars miss the sun in the morning sky Later's better than never Even if you're gone I'm gonna drive (drive, drive) I got that summertime, summertime sadness S-s-summertime, summertime sadness Got that summertime, summertime sadness Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh Kiss me hard before you go Summertime sadness I just wanted you to know That, baby, you're the best I got that summertime, summertime sadness S-s-summertime, summertime sadness Got that summertime, summertime sadness Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh

Chris Isaak - Wicked Game (1989) Movie [Wild At Heart] 1990




New Yorker - Cultural Comment - Vanishing of Freedom and Fun from the Internet by Jia Tolentino ... media consumption is controlled these days by centralized tech platforms—Facebook, Twitter—whose algorithms favor what is viral, newsy, reactionary, easily decontextualized, and of general appeal.

Cultural Comment

The End of the Awl and the Vanishing of Freedom and Fun from the Internet

“If in five years I’m just watching NFL-endorsed ESPN clips through a syndication deal with a messaging app . . . and ‘publications’ are just content agencies that solve temporary optimization issues for much larger platforms, what will have been the point of the last twenty years of creating things for the web?” That same month, Balk wrote a post called “My Advice to Young People,” which included Balk’s Law (“Everything you hate about the Internet is actually everything you hate about people”), Balk’s Second Law (“The worst thing is knowing what everyone thinks about everything”), and Balk’s Third Law (“If you think the Internet is terrible now, just wait a while”). 

Blogging, that much-maligned pastime, is gradually but surely disappearing from the Internet, and so, consequently, is a lot of online freedom and fun. Before I came to The New Yorker, my only professional writing experience was at blogs, places where a piece like this one, about disappearing blogs, would’ve been either eighty-five words or three thousand, and the lede would have been abrupt and vividly unprofessional, like a friend grabbing you by the collar at a bar. The image above the text would be some low-cost visual joke—a screenshot, or a cheesy stock photo—and the editing would’ve been as intimate and odd as a tarot-card reading, or nearly nonexistent, or maybe both. Blogs were a one-man-band situation: if you were a blog editor, as I was, you were also a blogger, and many other things besides, so you would spend your days not just writing and editing pieces but formatting and tagging them, finding art, scheduling and publishing, posting everything on social media yourself.
Blogs are necessarily idiosyncratic, entirely about sensibility: they can only be run by workhorses who are creative enough to amuse themselves and distinct enough to hook an audience, and they tend to publish like-minded writers, who work more on the principle of personal obsession than pay. The result is editorial latitude to be obscure and silly and particular, but the finances are increasingly hard to sustain; media consumption is controlled these days by centralized tech platforms—Facebook, Twitter—whose algorithms favor what is viral, newsy, reactionary, easily decontextualized, and of general appeal. In 2015, Grantland, an ESPN venture with bloggy intimacy, was shuttered. In 2016, the indie women’s blog the Toast folded for lack of a financial future, as did Gawker, which had scaled up, had become ambitious, and then got sued into the ground. At the end of 2017, the local news site Gothamist and seven of its city-centered affiliates were shut down shortly after the staff unionized, and on Tuesday, the beloved, uncategorizable blog the Awl announced that it, along with its sister site, the Hairpin, would cease operations at the end of the month.
The Awl was founded, in 2009, by Choire Sicha and Alex Balk, who, along with the publisher David Cho, had been laid off by Radar Online the year before. Balk and Sicha were also Gawker alumni, and they picked “Be Less Stupid” as the Awl’s tagline; the deadpan tone of that phrase also showed up in their favored headline style: “Book Good,” “Man Gets Job.” In 2010, the Awl brought on Edith Zimmerman as the founder of the Hairpin, a women’s Web site that quickly established a niche in the eccentric and absurd. “You know how having cocktails at a friend’s house can sometimes be more fun than the Big Party you go to afterward?” Zimmerman wrote on the site’s About page, explaining her editorial point of view. Both sites became known as intentionally modest showcases, like Joseph Cornell boxes for writers—places where outsiders and the unpracticed could find something that is becoming more and more elusive: a smart, sympathetic, loyal audience, and an opportunity to sound exactly like themselves.
The sites avoided much of the news cycle, covering subjects like classic Hollywood, the Baby-Sitters Club, “Negroni Season,” giving birth to rabbits, the McRib, and the moon. (That rabbit piece was written by Carrie Frye, who for years, as the managing editor, was the real backbone of the Awl.) The Awl ran a poetry series that included Patricia Lockwood’s “Rape Joke” and a heroic crown of sonnets called “The Wrestler’s Book of Saints.” Seven years ago, Heather Havrilesky—whose “Ask Polly”advice column, now at New York, began at the Awl—wrote a joke post imagining Donald Trump in the Oval Office. In 2014, John Herrman, now at the Times, started writing a tech-criticism series that predicted the future with chilling accuracy: a November column assessed journalism as “handicapped” by objectivity and facts within the scheme of Facebook’s algorithm, and envisioned “dog-whistling from the News Feed” dominating “the Facebook election” of 2016. Since 2012, the Awl has been running a series of daily New York City weather reviews by Tom Scocca—an oblique catalogue-memoir written in slush and sunlight.
In 2012, I was a year out of the Peace Corps, in an M.F.A. program in Ann Arbor, and I read the Hairpin and the Awl every day. With essentially no experience writing anything for public consumption, I pitched the Hairpin a series of interviews with adult virgins. When Jane Marie, Zimmerman’s co-editor, wrote back, I was over the moon. For a year, I wrote for free. (The size of the Awl network’s budget had obvious downsides. One enormous upside is that the editors had little excuse or inclination to refuse a random beginner his or her shot.) In 2013, Emma Carmichael took over from Zimmerman and, without ever having met me, offered me an editing position out of the blue. It was my first job in media, and it felt like an obsessive, ad-hoc hobby: one of us would post every forty-five minutes, and each day we’d run two or three short features. The site looked terrible, but it was sort of nice, like being in a friend’s unchanged high-school bedroom. Sometimes I’d be scrolling through the back end of the site, trying to register a new writer, and newly famous names—Amy Schumer!—would jump out at me.
Sicha is now the editor of the Times’s Style section, and dozens of Awl contributors ended up with jobs at more stable media outlets, or with book deals: Jay Caspian Kang, Dave Bry, Mary H. K. Choi, Dan Kois, Reggie Ugwu, Michelle Dean, Nicole Cliffe, Anne Helen Petersen, Rachel Monroe, Vinson Cunningham, Jazmine Hughes, Mallory Ortberg, to name just a few. Many, many others were able to write something they had always wanted to write and wouldn’t have been able to publish anywhere else. Balk and Sicha often advised people to take their best pitches to real magazines first, to see if they could get paid better; they would also, unlike most editors on the Internet, caution writers against selling themselves out.
In 2010, David Carr observed, in a piece about the Awl for the Times, that the idea of a “little digital boutique flies in the face of all manner of conventional wisdom, chief of which is that scale is all that matters in an era of commoditized advertising sales.” Nonetheless, the Awl’s focus on voice and sensibility seemed, at the time, to be working, even financially. That year’s revenue would surpass two hundred thousand dollars, Carr reported, and the site would never have to turn giant profits for investors, because it had none. The owners “just have to eat,” he wrote.
In February, 2015, Herrman, who, along with Matt Buchanan, inherited the editorship from Sicha and Balk, lamented the migration of the Internet onto tech platforms and apps. (Herrman and Buchanan were succeeded, in 2016, by Silvia Killingsworth.) “If in five years I’m just watching NFL-endorsed ESPN clips through a syndication deal with a messaging app . . . and ‘publications’ are just content agencies that solve temporary optimization issues for much larger platforms, what will have been the point of the last twenty years of creating things for the web?” That same month, Balk wrote a post called “My Advice to Young People,” which included Balk’s Law (“Everything you hate about the Internet is actually everything you hate about people”), Balk’s Second Law (“The worst thing is knowing what everyone thinks about everything”), and Balk’s Third Law (“If you think the Internet is terrible now, just wait a while”). “The moment you were just in was as good as it got,” he wrote. “The stuff you shake your head about now will seem like ... Shakespeare in 2016.”


And now, in 2018, the economics of online publishing are running everyone off the map. I sometimes think, with some regretful wonder and gratitude, about an Awl chat-room conversation that took place in 2013. Some annoying mini-scandal had transpired on the Internet, and everyone else who worked for the little network—they all had years of experience on me—was typing out lively scenarios of what they would do if our online infrastructure magically burned down. Sitting in my little blue house in Ann Arbor, I kept quiet for a while, and then typed something like, “Aww guys, no, the Internet is great.” I meant it, though the sentiment now feels as distant as preschool. Reading the Awl and the Hairpin, and then working with the people that ran them, had actually convinced me that the Internet was silly, fun, generative, and honest. They all knew otherwise, but they staved off the inevitable for a good long while.
This post was updated to include Carrie Frye’s role at the Awl.

  • Jia Tolentino is a staff writer at The New Yorker.
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Thursday, January 18, 2018

ReMoved | Short Film | PART 1

Sesame Street: Johnny Cash Sings Nasty Dan

Lana Del Rey - Summertime Sadness - Kiss me hard before you go Summertime sadness I just wanted you to know That, baby, you're the best I got my red dress on tonight Dancing in the dark in the pale moonlight Done my hair up real big beauty queen style High heels off, I'm feeling alive Oh, my God, I feel it in the air Telephone wires above are sizzling like a snare Honey, I'm on fire, I feel it everywhere Nothing scares me anymore (1, 2, 3, 4) Kiss me hard before you go Summertime sadness I just wanted you to know That, baby, you're the best I got that summertime, summertime sadness S-s-summertime, summertime sadness Got that summertime, summertime sadness Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh I'm feelin' electric tonight Cruising down the coast goin' 'bout 99 Got my bad baby by my heavenly side I know if I go, I'll die happy tonight Oh, my God, I feel it in the air Telephone wires above are sizzling like a snare Honey, I'm on fire, I feel it everywhere Nothing scares me anymore (1, 2, 3, 4) Kiss me hard before you go Summertime sadness I just wanted you to know That, baby, you're the best I got that summertime, summertime sadness S-s-summertime, summertime sadness Got that summertime, summertime sadness Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh Think I'll miss you forever Like the stars miss the sun in the morning sky Later's better than never Even if you're gone I'm gonna drive (drive, drive) I got that summertime, summertime sadness S-s-summertime, summertime sadness Got that summertime, summertime sadness Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh Kiss me hard before you go Summertime sadness I just wanted you to know That, baby, you're the best I got that summertime, summertime sadness S-s-summertime, summertime sadness Got that summertime, summertime sadness Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh

You didint even kissed me before you go 😥😥

Simply Red - Holding Back The Years (Live In Cuba, 2005)

Copy of R.E.M. - Everybody Hurts (Official Music Video) - YouTube2.mp4

Chris Isaak - Wicked Game (1989) Movie [Wild At Heart] 1990 - The world was on fire and no one could save me but you It's strange what desire will make foolish people do I'd never dreamed that I'd meet somebody like you I'd never dreamed that I'd lose somebody like you No I don't want to fall in love (this girl is only gonna break your heart) No I don't want to fall in love (this girl is only gonna break your heart) With you With you (this girl is only gonna break your heart) What a wicked game you played to make me feel this way What a wicked thing to do to let me dream of you What a wicked thing to say you never felt this way What a wicked thing to do to make me dream of you And I don't want to fall in love (this girl is only gonna break your heart) No I don't want to fall in love (this girl is only gonna break your heart) With you The world was on fire and no one could save me but you It's strange what desire will make foolish people do I'd never dreamed that I'd love somebody like you I'd never dreamed that I'd lose somebody like you No I don't want to fall in love (this girl is only gonna break your heart) No I don't want to fall in love (this girl is only gonna break your heart) With you (this girl is only gonna break your heart) With you (this girl is only gonna break your heart) No I...(this girl is only gonna break your heart) (This girl is only gonna break your heart)

Nobody Loves No One

Orange Blossom Ya Sidi Official Clip "Marseille" on Netflix english subtitled - Turkish - Hislerime zarar vermene izin vermeyeceğim Veya hayatımla o kadar çok dua edeceksin Haysiyetimde kalmana izin vermeyeceğim İfade etmek için ucuz bir yol Hislerime zarar vermene izin vermeyeceğim Veya hayatımla o kadar çok dua edeceksin Haysiyetimde kalmana izin vermeyeceğim İfade etmek için ucuz bir yol Sadece benim kalbim Tah Çığlık atarsa Sadece benim kalbim Tah Çığlık atarsa Hayatımızın uzunluğu Hayatımızın uzunluğu Kalbim seni duymayı reddediyor Kalbim seni duymayı reddediyor Kalbim seni duymayı reddediyor Efendim, efendim, bir karar veriyorsunuz efendim Efendim, efendim, bir karar veriyorsunuz efendim Çığlık atarsa Hayatımızın uzunluğu Hayatımızın uzunluğu Kalbim seni duymayı reddediyor Kalbim seni duymayı reddediyor Kalbim seni duymayı reddediyor Efendim, efendim, bir karar veriyorsunuz efendim Efendim, efendim, bir karar veriyorsunuz efendim Efendim, efendim, bir karar veriyorsunuz efendim Efendim, efendim, bir karar veriyorsunuz efendim

Video directed by Netflix Images from the series "Marseille" with Gerard Depardieu, Benoit Magimel, Pailhas . Live images of the Orange Blossom group conducted by Production Base Camp . "Ya Sidi " from the album "Under The Shade of Purple " already available : http://bit.ly/ZtVyN

https://itunes.apple.com/fr/album/und... Rejoignez-nous sur Facebook : http://on.fb.me/1ne1G7G © Washi Washa mashsh hsmhlk tudhay mashaeiray 'aw tatasalla bsyrty ktyr I will not allow you to hurt me or humiliate me Je ne vais pas te permettre de me blesser ni de m’humilier مش حسمحلك تبقى كرامتي وسيله رخيصه للتّعبير mashsh hsmhlk tabqaa kramty wasuyilah rakhisah lilttaebir I will not let you play with my dignity Je ne vais pas permettre que tu joues avec ma dignité مش حسمحلك تؤذي مشاعري أو تتسلّى بسيرتي كتير mashsh hsmhlk tudhay mashaeiray 'aw tatasalla bsyrty ktyr I will not allow you to hurt me or humiliate me Je ne vais pas te permettre de me blesser ni de m’humilier مش حسمحلك تبقى كرامتي وسيله رخيصه للتّعبير mashsh hsmhlk tabqaa kramty wasuyilah rakhisah lilttaebir I will not let you play with my dignity Je ne vais pas permettre que tu joues avec ma dignité لو حتّى قلبي تاه لو حتّى يسره خاب لو حتّى قلبي تاه لو حتّى يسره خاب law hatta qalbi tah law hatta yusrih khab law hatta qalbi tah law hatta yusrih khab Although my heart goes astray and calls you, Même si mon coeur s’égare et te réclame, طول ما بنّا حياة طول ما بنّا حياة tawwal ma bunnana hayat tawwal ma bunnana hayat As long as there is a life between us Tant qu’il y a une vie entre nous, قلبي رافض يسمعلك قلبي رافض يسمعلك قلبي رافض يسمعلك qalbuy rafid ysmelk qalbuy rafid ysmelk qalbuy rafid ysmelk he'll despise you (refuse to hear you) il va te dédaigner (refuser de t’entendre) سيدي يا سيدي ، يا سيدي يا سيدي ، تبت يا سيدي سيدي يا سيدي ، يا سيدي يا سيدي ، تبت يا سيدي sayidi ya sayidi , ya sayiduy ya sayidi , tibt ya sayidi sayidi ya sayidi , ya sayiduy ya sayidi , tibt ya sayidi Sidi, Sidi I learned my lesson, Sidi! Sidi, Sidi J’ai appris ma leçon, Sidi! TL note: While in this context "Sidi" could be rendered "my dear" or "my darling", it is a formal title meaning "Sir" or "Master" Note de traduction: Dans ce sens, mon cher. Littéralement monsieur ou maître. لو حتّى يسره خاب طول ما بنّا حياة طول ما بنّا حياة law htta yassarah khab tul ma bnna hayat , tul ma bnna hayat Although my heart goes astray and calls you, Même si mon coeur s’égare et te réclame, as long as there is a life between us, tant qu’il y a une vie entre nous, قلبي رافض يسمعلك قلبي رافض يسمعلك قلبي رافض يسمعلك qalbuy rafid ysmelk qalbuy rafid ysmelk qalbuy rafid ysmelk He'll despise you (refuse to hear you) Il va te dédaigner (refuser de t’entendre) سيدي يا سيدي ، يا سيدي يا سيدي ، تبت يا سيدي سيدي يا سيدي ، يا سيدي يا سيدي ، تبت يا سيدي sayidi ya sayidi , ya sayiduy ya sayidi , tibt ya sayidi sayidi ya sayidi , ya sayiduy ya sayidi , tibt ya sayidi Sidi, Sidi I learned my lesson, Sidi! Sidi, Sidi J’ai appris ma leçon, Sidi! سيدي يا سيدي ، يا سيدي يا سيدي ، تبت يا سيدي sayidi ya sayidi , ya sayiduy ya sayidi , tibt ya sayidi Sidi, Sidi I learned my lesson, Sidi! Sidi, Sidi J’ai appris ma leçon, Sidi! سيدي يا سيدي ، يا سيدي يا سيدي ، تبت يا سيدي sayidi ya sayidi , ya sayiduy ya sayidi , tibt ya sayidi Sidi, Sidi I learned my lesson, Sidi! Sidi, Sidi

Lance's Dark Mood Party Mix Vol 97 (Trip Hop / Downtempo / Electronica /...This was created for promotional purposes (for the artists) and for enjoyment only. I do not monetize any of my mixes that I upload. No profit has ever been made from this channel. If any ads do appear, they are added by YouTube via automatic request of the artist and/or label. Please understand that I have no control over when or how an ad may be displayed in those cases.

1. Elenika - Rainy Day 2. LetHerDive – Steps – 3:48 3. Ogi feel the Beat – Telescopy – 6:53 4. Keno - Deep Water – 11:27 5. Blockhead - Snake Oil(Instrumental) – 15:59 6. HellBlazer - Footfalls Of The Night – 18:18 7. godzTHOUGHT - Luminous(with FLLNDR) – 21:38 8. Printempo - Tired High – 24:45 9. Jon Kennedy - Never Wed An Old Man – 29:26 10. Metronom - Glass Box – 33:44 11. The Laidbackz - Sleigh Ride – 36:46 12. MEDL4 - Everyone Knows – 38:48 13. Billa Qause & Mononome - Primeira Sessa-o – 41:32 14. Blindspot - Reminder(Instrumental) – 45:30 15. Pensees – Murky – 48:10 16. Orange Blossom – Nafsi – 52:59 17. Wax Tailor - I Don't Know – 58:25 18. Amon Tobin - It's a Lovely Night – 1:02:01 19. Niles Philips - Growth Strategies – 1:05:35

Creep - Vintage Postmodern Jukebox Radiohead Cover ft. Haley Reinhart - When you were here before Couldn't look you in the eye You're just like an angel Your skin makes me cry You float like a feather In a beautiful world I wish I was special You're so very special But I'm a creep I'm a weirdo What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here I don't care if it hurts I want to have control I want a perfect body I want a perfect soul I want you to notice when I'm not around You're so very special I wish I was special But I'm a creep I'm a weirdo What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here She's running out again She's running out She runs runs runs Whatever makes you happy Whatever you want You're so very special I wish I was special But I'm a creep I'm a weirdo What the hell am I doing here? I don't belong here I don't belong here

Take Me To Church - Piano / Vocal Hozier Cover ft. Morgan James - Mustapha 1609 - Oh, wearisome condition of humanity, Born under one law, to another bound; Vainly begot, and yet forbidden vanity, Created sick, commanded to be sound. What meaneth nature by these diverse laws? Passion and reason self-division cause. It is the mark or majesty of power To make offences that it may forgive; Nature herself doth her own self deflower, To hate those errors she herself doth give. For how should man think that he may not do, If nature did not fail and punish too? Tyrant to others, to herself unjust, Only commands things difficult and hard, Forbids us all things which it knows is lust, Makes easy pains, unpossible reward. If nature did not take delight in blood, She would have made more easy ways to good. We that are bound by vows and by promotion, With pomp of holy sacrifice and rites, To teach belief in good and still devotion, To preach of heaven's wonders and delights: Yet when each of us in his own heart looks He finds the God there far unlike his books.Fulke Greville, 1st Baron Brooke, de jure 13th Baron Latimer and 5th Baron Willoughby de Brooke (3 October 1554 – 30 September 1628), known before 1621 as Sir Fulke Greville, was a minor Elizabethan poet, dramatist, and statesman.