Colors

I really like Joy Division a lot, and am looking for some other bands - current or otherwise - that have a similar sound to their music. I found something somewhere about a band called "Editors" that is supposed to sound similar, am wondering if anyone has any opinions about that, or any other suggestions?

Thanks!
M.T. - it’s funny you mentioned "She Wants Revenge" - I actually bought their first CD and loved it, and that’s what got me into Joy Division! I did it a little backwards, but it’s cool "discovering" a band that was playing 30 years ago! She Wants Revenge is awesome. I will check out those other ones too -thanks!

I would recommend the above artists as well but I think you should check out websites like www.jango.com. With Jango you can stream music online - you type in the artist of choice and it finds similar artists to what you typed in. Another website i like to use to find new artists is www.spinner.com - I click on the MP3 of the day and just go crazy with my downloading. Some of the artists I like, others not so much however it’s a great way to find new music as most of the artists are not big names.
Anyway, I hope that helps! Good luck

I want to know what makes you just shout for joy, anything?
As soon as i get off my school bus I just shout whatever I can think of out loud no matter who’s around me.

Oh my gosh me too! Right when i get out of school I want to shout for joy… also after my last final before summer… when i left from my last final i literally shouted for joy across the quad and ran to the car….

I know what the caged bird feels, alas!
When the sun is bright on the upland slopes;
When the wind stirs soft through the springing grass,
And the river flows like a stream of glass;
When the first bird sings and the first bud opes,
And the faint perfume from its chalice steals–
I know what the caged bird feels!

I know why the caged bird beats his wing
Till its blood is red on the cruel bars;
For he must fly back to his perch and cling
When he fain would be on the bough a-swing;
And a pain still throbs in the old, old scars
And they pulse again with a keener sting–
I know why he beats his wing!

I know why the caged bird sings, ah me,
When his wing is bruised and his bosom sore,–
When he beats his bars and he would be free;
It is not a carol of joy or glee,
But a prayer that he sends from his heart’s deep core,
But a plea, that upward to Heaven he flings–
I know why the caged bird sings!

abaabcc

It is a rather uncommon one

QUESTIONS
1. What is the turning point in the story? What epiphany does the daughter have? (HINT: how does the daughter feel about her mother at the beginning of he story? What are her feelings at the end of the story?)

2. Are the characters of the mother static, dynamic or developing?

3. Although the story is told in the first person ( from the view of the daughter), readers have access to the way others perceive the mother. How are other people’s perceptions communicated to the reader?

4. What is the major theme of the story? (remember- there can be more than one!)

5. What the setting of the story? (Include where/when it takes place, social conditions, and the tone and mood.)

STORY
The First Day
In an otherwise unremarkable September morning, long before I learned to be ashamed of my mother, she takes my hand and we set off down New Jersey Avenue to begin my very first day of school. I am wearing a checkeredlike blue-and-green cotton dress, and scattered about these colors are bits of yellow and white and brown. My mother has uncharacteristically spent nearly an hour on my hair that morning, plaiting and replaiting so that now my scalp tingles. Whenever I turn my head quickly, my nose fills with the faint smell of Dixie Peach hair grease. The smell is somehow a soothing one now and I will reach for it time- and time again before the morning ends. All the plaits, each with a blue barrette near the tip and each twisted into an uncommon sturdiness, will last until I go to bed that night, something

that has never happened before. My stomach is full of milk and oatmeal sweetened with brown sugar. Like everything else I have on, my pale green slip and underwear are new, the underwear having come three to a plastic package with a little girl on the front who appears to be dancing. Behind my ears, my mother, to stop my whining, has dabbed the stingiest bit of her gardenia perfume, the last present my father gave her before he disappeared into memory. Because I cannot smell it, I have only her word that the perfume is there. I am also wearing yellow socks trimmed with thin lines of black and white around the tops. My shoes are my greatest joy, black patent-leather miracles, and when one is nicked at the toe later that morning in class, my heart will break.

I am carrying a pencil, a pencil sharpener, and a small ten-cent tablet with a black-and-white speckled cover. My mother does not believe that a girl in kindergarten needs such things, so I am taking them only because of my insistent whining aVid because they are presents from our neighbors, Mary Keith and Blondelle Harris. Miss Mary and Miss Blondelle are watching my two younger sisters until my mother returns. The women are as precious to me as my mother and sisters. Out playing one day, I have overheard an older child, speaking to another child, call Miss Mary and Miss Blondelle a word that is brand new to me. This is my mother: When I say the word in fun to one of my sisters, my mother slaps me across the mouth and the word is lost for years and years.

All the way down New Jersey Avenue, the sidewalks are teeming with children. In my neighborhood, I have many friends, but I see none of them as my mother and I walk. We cross New York Avenue, we cross Pierce Street, and we cross L and K, and still I see no one who knows my name. At I Street, between New Jersey Avenue and Third Street, we enter Seaton Elementary School, a timeworn, sadfaced building across the street from my mother’s church, Mt. Carmel Baptist.

Just inside the front door, women out of the advertisements in Ebony are greeting other parents and children. The woman who greets us has pearls thick as jumbo marbles that come down almost to her navel, and she acts as if she had known me all my life, touching my shoulder, cupping her hand under my chin. She is enveloped in a perfume that I only know is not gardenia. When, in answer to her question, my mother tells her that we live at 1227 New Jersey Avenue, the woman first seems to be picturing in her head where we live. Then she shakes her head and says that we are at the wrong school, that we should be at Walker-Jones.

My mother shakes her head vigorously. ”I want her to go here,” 5 my mother says. ”If I’da wanted her someplace else, I’da took her there.” The woman continues to act as if she has known me all my life, but she tells my mother that we live beyond the area that Seaton

serves. My mother is not convinced and for several more minutes she questions the woman about why I cannot attend Seaton. For as many Sundays as I can remember, perhaps even Sundays when I was in her womb, my mother has pointed across I Street to Seaton as we come and go to Mt. Carmel. ”You gonna go there and learn about the whole world.” But one of the guardians of that place is saying no, and no again. I am learning this about my mother: The higher up on the scale of respectability a person is—and teachers are rather
are rather high up in her eyes—the less she is liable to let them push her around. But finally, I see in her eyes the closing gate, and she takes my hand and we leave the building. On the steps, she stops as people move past us on either side.

”Mama, I can’t go to school?”

She says nothing at first, then takes my hand again and we are down the steps quickly and nearing New Jersey Avenue before I can blink. This is my mother: She says, ”One monkey don’t stop no show.”

Walker-Jones is a larger, newer school and I immediately like it because of that. But it is not across the street from my mother’s church, her rock, one of her connections to God, and I sense her doubts as she absently rubs her thumb over the back of her hand. We find our way to the crowded auditorium where gray metal chairs are set up in the middle of the room. Along the wall to the left are tables and other chairs. Every chair seems occupied by a child or adult. Somewhere in the room a child is crying, a cry that r
that rises above the buzz-talk of so many people. Strewn about the floor are dozens and dozens of pieces of white paper, and people are walking over them without any thought of picking them up. And seeing this lack of concern, I am all of a sudden afraid.

”Is this where they register for school?” my mother asks a woman at one of the tables.

The woman looks up slowly as if she has heard this question once too often. She nods. She is tiny, almost as small as the girl standing beside her. The woman’s hair is set in a mass of curlers and all of those curlers are made of paper money, here a dollar bill, there a five-dollar bill. The girl’s hair is arrayed in curls, but some of them are beginning to droop and this makes me happy. On the table beside the woman’s pocketbook is a large notebook, worthy of someone in high school, and looking at me looking at the notebook, the girl places her hand possessively on it. In her other hand she holds several pencils with thick crowns of additional
erasers.

”These the forms you gotta use?” my mother asks the woman, picking up a few pieces of the paper from the table. ”Is this what you have to fill out?”

The woman tells her yes, but that she need fill out only one.

”I see,” my mother says, looking about the room. Then: ”Would ifou help me with this form? That is, if you don’t mind.” I The woman asks my mother what she means. | ”This form. Would you mind help in me fill it out?” \ The woman still seems not to understand.

i ”1 can’t read it. I don’t know how to read or write, and I’m askin you to help me.” My mother looks at me, then looks away. I know almost all of her looks, but this one is brand new to me. ”Would you help me, then?”
The woman says Why sure, and suddenly she appears happier, so much more satisfied with everything. She finishes the form for her daughter and my mother and I step aside to wait for her. We find two chairs nearby and sit. My mother is now diseased, according to the girl’s eyes, and until the moment her mother takes her and the form to the front of the auditorium, the girl never stops looking at my mother. I stare back at her. ”Don’t stare,” my mother says to me. ”You know better than that.”

Another woman out of the Ebony ads takes the woman’s child away. Now, the woman says upon returning, let’s see what we can do for you two.
My mother answers the questions the woman reads off the form. They start with my last name, and then on to the first and middle names. This is school, 1 think. This is going to school. My mother slowly enunciates each word of my name. This is my mother: As the questions go on, she takes from her pocketbook document after document, as if they will support my right to attend school, as if she has been saving them up for just this moment. Indeed, she takes out more papers than I have ever seen her do in other places: my birth certificate, my baptismal record, a doctor’s letter concerning my bout with chicken pox, rent receipts, records of immunization, a letter about our public assistance payments, even her marriage license—every single paper that has anything even remotely to do with my five-year-old life. Few of the papers are needed here, but it does not matter and my mother continues to pull out the documents with the purposefulness of a magician pulling out a long string of scarves.
My mother presents the form to a woman sitting in front of the stage, and the woman looks at it and writes something on a white card, which she gives to my mother. Before long, the woman who has taken the girl with the drooping curls appears from behind us, speaks to the sitting woman, and introduces herself to my mother and me. She’s to be my teacher, she tells my mother. My mother stares.

We go into the hall, where my mother kneels down to me. Her lips are quivering. ”I’ll be back to pick you up at twelve o’clock. I don’t want you to go nowhere. You just wait right here. And listen to every word she say.” I touch her lips and press them together. It is an old, old game between us. She puts my hand down at my side, which is not part of the game. She stands and looks a second at the teacher, then she turns and walks away. I see where she has darned one of her socks the night before. Her shoes make loud sounds in the hall.
She passes through the doors and I can still hear the loud sounds of her shoes. And even when the teacher turns me toward the classrooms and I hear what must be the singing and talking of all the children in the world, I can still hear my mother’s footsteps above it all.

nice

I’ve been trying to find this score for about a year. I don’t care if I have to pay for it or not, I just want it. Thanks!

so what is your question?

In the photocopy someone gave me from the book "Blessing or Curse," the author listed that contacting the dead as demonic. Also, I read in "Joy Unspeakable" by JI Packer, that we should never lift experience or what we think the Holy Spirit tells us over what is written in the Bible. The three of the Godhead each having three divisions? No, The Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost are three, not nine. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pQKCMl2XzTs.

In the photocopy, the author also states that playing hypnotic music is demonic. There are many preachers who do that. For example, it’s usually played at communion in many church services. The music in this sermon is an example: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w3jo0ULekn8&feature=related. At least that’s what I believe to be hypnotic music. I used to use that kind of music to help me go to sleep and stay asleep through the racket of noisy neighbors. Those of you familiar with my condition can see why I experimented to find a treatment since what I have is beyond medical science and religion.

Another time, he places a curse on people who question his ministry: Hear David Wilkerson speak: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yN8y5o272zo. See the referred to footage: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ry1SHI7mkQA.

Another time, he makes false prophecies: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fg-fyrNwOG0. They play the audio, but not the video — that’s suspicious. I wonder if Hinn really made those predictions about Castro and the homosexuals.

You’ll know them by their fruit — look how he lives: http://ca.netlog.com/go/explore/videos/videoid=551880. And if that sounds made up, here’s a video interview: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D2tSlXq2wz4.

What does God have to say about all this? His scripture is clear. Here’s the sermon answering the issue of falling down while under hypnosis, demonic attack and the real thing: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DhiDfD1S5ww. A quote Tim Conway referred to was this: here’s the footage of Hinn talking about taking a machine gun to people: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6Zv5yBV6bRU. and what he said before that statement here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2becyRCK6LU&NR=1.

First, you need to draw a line between "worship" and "follow".
Then, you have followers - who mainly feel he is led by the Spirit.
While each person believes a little differently, those who are involved in Spirit-led practice feel certain leaders are as well … a bit like Catholics believe about their Pope.
Still, most followers will readily admit the leaders are human and given to error.
Why they believe what that believe is something you can’t copy - and so, can’t understand.
It is probably better that they believe something - after all, we can’t all be intelligent enough to walk without supposed, imagined, real but needed guidance.
Once a person is broken enough times, they reach for something stronger.
Thus Hinn - or Graham - or any number of our exalted gurus serve as a conduit to answers … not as the answers themselves.
Since all the people can’t be right all the time, let them believe as they will so long as it leads to a better walk.

I recently posted a question asking which book you would recommend that i read and study for my senior paper. i have narrowed it down some but would still appreciate feedback! here is what i have it narrowed down to:

The Kite Runner - Khaled Hosseini
Babbitt - Sinclair Lewis
The Grapes of Wrath - John Steinbeck
Moby Dick - Herman Melville
Obasan - Joy Kogawa
Jane Eyre - Charlotte Bronte

any suggestions on which i should pick?
I have to study one of these books over the next three months and then write a term paper about it.

Personally, I’d be more inclined to go for the Kite Runner. It’s a brilliant book and probably the one out of the list that most relates to current events and contemporary society. Babbitt is wonderful for its satire of American Culture though, and is a strong contender.

You’d probably find lots of stuff to write about for these two, and could add your own perspective on it

I’ve always avoided the Bronte Sisters like the plague. It may just be a male thing but I’ve never been able to tolerate their writing. I can read Austen even if I don’t particularly like it.

… it was written few days before Liverpool vs Milan CL final… if anyone has 10 minutes to read everything can answer the question (I doubt anyone will) I really agree with this guy too….. ”As a sport, I have to admit football isn’t a big deal. Too many people are following a ball, too little ending of this commune effort. It also takes about 2 hours… And then, what’s its magic??? How was it possible to become the "king of sports" ??? The answer is simple but also painful. THE FANS. The people. Why painful? Because from this fact it will "die". Now everybody (bankers, good fellows, family guys, women, babies, unborn children) are wanting to go to the "show". I go crazy when I hear this: "show". Haven’t the circus, theater, opera, handball, basketball, formula 1, Disneyland etc. been enough???

Why do you want to take our last joy? The last place where you can come and feel free? free to swear, free to spit, free to talk aloud, to drink with your friends, to live an adventure in an away trip.
Does everything has to be like you want it??? To sit on a chair, clap your hands, and maybe also to wear the right kind of perfume. To be unable to scream because next to you there is a 9 year old girl. To be unable to swear because a woman on high heals can’t accept the rudeness. Do I really have to sell my house just to participate at a world cup? A ticket for a match has became so important that they have to write your name, address and 5th degree relatives on it. To be forced to seat on a warm chair, to drink Pepsi and eat hot-dog. Is it possible to confuse the interior of a stadium with a mall?”…..

Do you like what football is becoming, a ‘’show” for rich people that, like the guy said, care about football like we care about Eurosong???

Mj it seems that i have already seen the light regard what you have posted!1 Yes i support Manchester United, Its my home city and its in my blood, that is something that will never go away. BUT in 2005 my club was taken away from me by greedy American investors who have brought nothing but a bottomless pit of debt to what was before the richest club in the world. I for 1 am not helping to repay the debt that is not mine and should never have been put upon the club.

Therefore i no longer go to Old Trafford but choose to watch non-league(amateur) football instead. and to be honest its like rolling back 20-25 years in terms of the way football is supported!!!

Nice post have a star!!

Many people always look for happiness-but if you stay and do nothing, do you have the peace and joy from Jesus in you?

Yes, received it when I was born again. But like gerty points out, it’s a ongoing growing process.

And is my paragraph form right?

Winter

As Earth continues its journey, rotating and revolving around the sun, the southern hemisphere tilts more towards the sun and the northern hemisphere away from it. Bangladesh is transformed into a winter wonderland. Although winter is like no other season, expressing freedom and joy, but it also brings in its wake pain, suffering and anguish. While most people, after a long year of work, enjoy sound sleep and cuddle up safely in warm cozy beds, some unfortunate ones have a hard time finding shelter and food and surviving the extreme weather. They have to hold on to dear life. When winter is at its most unpleasant, some jobs demand people to be outside. Farmers, for example, have no other choice but to go out into their fields and take care of their crops and look after their animals, no matter what. Cold, foggy nights are silent and dark. Therefore, everything seems to be very peaceful. I am able to be with my self and soul. The cold makes me shiver a lot, but unusually, this make me feel more alive! Winter breaks the monotony of existence with a touch of variety. Winter is the season of celebrations, where we celebrate Christmas and experience its incomparable joy, forget our regrets and start a new chapter of our lives in the New Year. It all is just so wonderful! Waking up early in morning’s can be very difficult, but the sweet aroma of my grandmother’s homemade pitha/ sweet is just irresistible. When it is very cold, laziness overtakes. It seems that there is nothing much to do except sleep in bed below layers of quilts and blankets. Sometimes we catch a cold and have to suffer from fever and discomfort because of which most may dislike the season, but winter is truly a wonderful time. Winter transforms Bangladesh in all aspects. Winter is merely that different season when everything changed amazingly.
im 10 years old….

I wish I knew your age group ,you seem an intelligent person but English is not your best subject ,you write as a scientist would write, facts coming first without the descriptions of a language student, try reading quality literature,like dickens, shakespeare,