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Window blinds skin. How to make roman shades free. Chenille drape.



Window Blinds Skin





window blinds skin






    window blinds
  • A window blind is a type of window covering which is made with slats of fabric, wood, plastic or metal that adjust by rotating from an open position to a closed position by allowing slats to overlap. A roller blind does not have slats but comprises a single piece of material.





    skin
  • clamber: climb awkwardly, as if by scrambling

  • The thin layer of tissue forming the natural outer covering of the body of a person or animal

  • The skin of a dead animal with or without the fur, used as material for clothing or other items

  • a natural protective body covering and site of the sense of touch; "your skin is the largest organ of your body"

  • A container made from the skin of an animal such as a goat, used for holding liquids

  • an outer surface (usually thin); "the skin of an airplane"











window blinds skin - Skin




Skin


Skin



You don't have to be thin to feel small.
Donnie's life is unraveling. His parents' marriage is falling apart, and his sister is slowly slipping away in the grip of her illness. To top it all off, he accidentally starts a rumor at school that hurts someone he cares about and leaves him an outcast.
So Donnie does the only thing he knows how to do: He tries to fix things, to make everything the way it was before. Before his parents stopped loving each other, before his sister disappeared, before he was alone. But some things are beyond repair, and it will take all Donnie's strength to stop looking back and start moving forward again.










82% (13)





ADDER'S FORK AND BLIND-WORM'S STING




ADDER'S FORK AND BLIND-WORM'S STING





CHAPTER 7:
'ADDER'S FORK AND BLIND-WORM'S STING': THE MAGICAL REPTILE

It was one of those romantic and magical moments which, as one discovers later, it is impossible quite to replicate – but fear not. The cliche will have been subverted by the end of this paragraph. We had spent a blissful, mutually indulgent weekend in a thatched coaching inn, somewhere near to the heart of the Cotswolds. It was sunny beyond expectation, so we walked to the next village, admiring the crazy-eyed chickens which stood, cock-headed on a stone wall, as though expecting something importune, like the hatching of a Cockatrice. We poked around the church, shadowed at every window by suitably pagan yews, and then walked on by some bucolic alley which promised nothing in particular – only an idyll. At one side of it there was a stream, and at the other, another of those Cotswold walls, embedded in an earthen bank. The path led to an archetypal cottage of rough-hewn stone; wicker archways and roses in the garden. Ivy thrust wormlike roots through the crevices in the stone wall, creating dappled arbours suitable for those who dwelt within. This first warm day of spring, they were sluggish, absorbing the rays of the low sun, slow moving with a constant hiss, sliding viscerally through gaps in the stones. There was only one way to approach them: bare-footed, respectful, with wonder, and not fear. The adjoining stream was evidently their larder: here, frogs would conglomerate to mate, oozing frogspawn. The grass snakes would catch them by their toes, and gulp them down alive, so that the croak could still be heard within the gaping gullets. The struggle would continue awhile, within their guts. Later in the year, the grass snakes would feast on tadpoles, diving in the bubbling gushes, and gobbling them on lush grass. Their skins grown old, they would slide through twigs to slough them, their eyes glazed. The snakes live there to this day. We go back to see them sometimes, just for the sake of it.

You may have had any of a number of reactions to the paragraph above. It may have incited fear or disgust; if so, I pity you, and there is little more to be said. Indeed, I am surprised you started reading at all. Or perhaps you will opt for the Freudian interpretation: snakes have no limbs, and the more advanced species do not even possess pelvic girdles – hence they are phallic. Watson wasn’t being romantic at all – he was blinded by his lust, which he was hoping to satisfy behind the hedgerow around the corner. I fear that Freudians are secularised Christians who see a serpent coiled around every tree, and the fruit of the tree of knowledge of good and evil is filled with semen. This is to oversimplify snakes, just as it is to over-exaggerate the difference between eros and agape. The real reason why snakes are intensely romantic creatures for me is that they are entwined with my past; my memories, including the one I have just recalled are all lovingly wrapped in serpentine coils.

Growing up in south-eastern Australia, my first encounters with snakes were characterised by one emotion alone: awe. The first snake I remember encountering (I might have been five) was a red-bellied black snake swimming across a pond. As it emerged, my father turned it gently with his walking stick, and the scales on the underside were like a streak of undulating blood in the tussocky grass. It was not stupendously venomous by Australian standards, but well enough equipped to kill a small child. I remember when an expert herpetologist visited our school, commanding our obedient silence as he milked a sinuous taipan, its venom drooling into a plastic phial as he pinched it behind the jaw. It produces more venom than any other snake in the world; enough to make any health and safety legislator blue in the face. My first death adder was encountered on the road to Forbes, the town in the semi-arid zone of New South Wales which was the centre for the daring exploits of the bushranger Ben Hall – a man who must have met innumerable snakes before his life terminated at the end of a rope. It lay flaccid at the side of the road, seemingly too fat to form coils, and too torpid to move as I crouched to photograph it, half camouflaged against the rust-red earth. The poison glands in its head could have killed ten children of my body mass, and then could have killed ten more, as fast as a man can moisten his mouth after he has spat himself dry. And then there was that delicious moment when I was a teenage volunteer at the R.S.P.C.A, and a worried-looking family brought something bulging like blancmange inside a pillow case. I took one look inside, let out a shout of triumph, and delved within, my arms entwined with loving twists of diamond python. Once, years later, I was wearing him around my neck when I answered the door to some Jehovah’s Witnesses: a more effective repellent of intinerant evangelists has never been discovered.

Britain











[Imperfectly]




[Imperfectly]





Am i happy with myself? No, not really. Is anyone? I think the answer might actually be "yes," although i think those people are few and far between. I envy them. Those people who are completely comfortable in their own skin. But not as much as i envy the perfect skins that so many other people seem to walk around in. I think what i mean is that, most of the time, i'd rather LOOK perfect and not feel that i do, than to look my regular everyday imperfect but FEEL okay about it. God. How fucked up is that? Thanks for nothing, society.

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ANYWAY. This is for TOTW's "Love your body." Good luck with that.
Also? October is Breast Cancer Awareness Month. So find a pretty girl and squeeze her boobies. It may just save her life.

154/365









window blinds skin








window blinds skin




Lost Memory of Skin






The acclaimed author of The Sweet Hereafter and Rule of the Bone returns with a provocative new novel that illuminates the shadowed edges of contemporary American culture with startling and unforgettable results
Suspended in a strangely modern-day version of limbo, the young man at the center of Russell Banks’s uncompromising and morally complex new novel must create a life for himself in the wake of incarceration. Known in his new identity only as the Kid, and on probation after doing time for a liaison with an underage girl, he is shackled to a GPS monitoring device and forbidden to live within 2,500 feet of anywhere children might gather. With nowhere else to go, the Kid takes up residence under a south Florida causeway, in a makeshift encampment with other convicted sex offenders.
Barely beyond childhood himself, the Kid, despite his crime, is in many ways an innocent, trapped by impulses and foolish choices he himself struggles to comprehend. Enter the Professor, a man who has built his own life on secrets and lies. A university sociologist of enormous size and intellect, he finds in the Kid the perfect subject for his research on homelessness and recidivism among convicted sex offenders. The two men forge a tentative partnership, the Kid remaining wary of the Professor’s motives even as he accepts the counsel and financial assistance of the older man.
When the camp beneath the causeway is raided by the police, and later, when a hurricane all but destroys the settlement, the Professor tries to help the Kid in practical matters while trying to teach his young charge new ways of looking at, and understanding, what he has done. But when the Professor’s past resurfaces and threatens to destroy his carefully constructed world, the balance in the two men’s relationship shifts.
Suddenly, the Kid must reconsider everything he has come to believe, and choose what course of action to take when faced with a new kind of moral decision.
Long one of our most acute and insightful novelists, Russell Banks often examines the indistinct boundaries between our intentions and actions. A mature and masterful work of contemporary fiction from one of our most accomplished storytellers, Lost Memory of Skin unfolds in language both powerful and beautifully lyrical, show-casing Banks at his most compelling, his reckless sense of humor and intense empathy at full bore.
The perfect convergence of writer and subject, Lost Memory of Skin probes the zeitgeist of a troubled society where zero tolerance has erased any hope of subtlety and compassion—a society where isolating the offender has perhaps created a new kind of victim.

Amazon Best Books of the Month, October 2011: In Lost Memory of Skin, Russell Banks plays peek-a-boo with the reader lifting each corner just enough to wonder at what may lie underneath. When we meet the Kid, he is grappling with his public status as a convicted sex offender, living under a Florida causeway with other men whom society finds “both despicable and impossible to remove and thus by most people simply wished out of existence.” Enter the Professor, with his genius IQ and massive physical presence, eager to prove that men like the Kid have been shaped by social forces and are capable of change. The pair seem diametrically opposed yet share a “profound sense of isolation, of difference and solitude…,” held hostage by their secrets in this morally complex and thought-provoking story of illusions and blurry truths in a novel that that hums with electricity from beginning to end. --Seira Wilson

The acclaimed author of The Sweet Hereafter and Rule of the Bone returns with a provocative new novel that illuminates the shadowed edges of contemporary American culture with startling and unforgettable results
Suspended in a strangely modern-day version of limbo, the young man at the center of Russell Banks’s uncompromising and morally complex new novel must create a life for himself in the wake of incarceration. Known in his new identity only as the Kid, and on probation after doing time for a liaison with an underage girl, he is shackled to a GPS monitoring device and forbidden to live within 2,500 feet of anywhere children might gather. With nowhere else to go, the Kid takes up residence under a south Florida causeway, in a makeshift encampment with other convicted sex offenders.
Barely beyond childhood himself, the Kid, despite his crime, is in many ways an innocent, trapped by impulses and foolish choices he himself struggles to comprehend. Enter the Professor, a man who has built his own life on secrets and lies. A university sociologist of enormous size and intellect, he finds in the Kid the perfect subject for his research on homelessness and recidivism among convicted sex offenders. The two men forge a tentative partnership, the Kid remaining wary of the Professor’s motives even as he accepts the counsel and financial assistance of the older man.
When the camp beneath the causeway is raided by the police, and later, when a hurricane all but destroys the settlement, the Professor tries to help the Kid in practical matters while trying to teach his young charge new ways of looking at, and understanding, what he has done. But when the Professor’s past resurfaces and threatens to destroy his carefully constructed world, the balance in the two men’s relationship shifts.
Suddenly, the Kid must reconsider everything he has come to believe, and choose what course of action to take when faced with a new kind of moral decision.
Long one of our most acute and insightful novelists, Russell Banks often examines the indistinct boundaries between our intentions and actions. A mature and masterful work of contemporary fiction from one of our most accomplished storytellers, Lost Memory of Skin unfolds in language both powerful and beautifully lyrical, show-casing Banks at his most compelling, his reckless sense of humor and intense empathy at full bore.
The perfect convergence of writer and subject, Lost Memory of Skin probes the zeitgeist of a troubled society where zero tolerance has erased any hope of subtlety and compassion—a society where isolating the offender has perhaps created a new kind of victim.










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