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10 Essential Tips to Find That Perfect Corporate Gift

Your regarded customers, steadfast clients and stunning representatives are your most significant resource. The correct blessing picked with care and consideration will fortify connections, regardless of whether to remunerate accomplishment or commend achievement. Why settle for a conventional blessing when you can dazzle with the phenomenal?

I have assembled the fundamental tips to locate that corporate blessing.

Simply read on

1) Must Always Select A Quality Gift

As a matter of first importance, you should choose a blessing that you would be glad to put your organization name on. Your client and customers are destined to accept your blessing as an impression of how you view and worth relationship with them.

On the off chance that your initial introduction taking a gander at the blessing, is floating towards it being modest or normally accessible stuff, odds are that they will see precisely the same way.

2) Always and Always Check Corporate Policies

In all honesty, numerous associat…

Substance To My Soul

Every Thought...

Week 27: Crying

One of the most powerful verses in the bible is also its shortest: John 11:35, “He wept.”  What more needs to be said?  But there is so much more, about who and why and what happens next.


07/01:

TWL, Lines 173-184: An Intricate Weep

173 The river's tent is broken; the last fingers of leaf
174 Clutch and sink into the wet bank.  The wind
175 Crosses the brown land, unheard.  The nymphs are
              departed.
176 Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song.
177 The river bears no empty bottles, sandwich papers,
178 Silk handkerchiefs, cardboard boxes, cigarette ends
179 Or other testimony of summer nights.  The nymphs are
              departed.
180 And their friends, the loitering heirs of City directors;
181 Departed, have left no addresses.
182 By the waters of Leman I sat down and wept...
183 Sweet Thames, run softly till I end my song,
184 Sweet Thames, run softly, for I speak not loud or long.

176. SWEET THAMES, RUN SOFTLY:  Eliot: “V. Spenser, Prothalamion.”  See Edmund Spenser, Prothalamion (literally, "before the nuptial chamber") (1596), a double wedding poem attended by river nymphs collecting flowers for the brides:

“Calm was the day, and through the trembling air
Sweet breathing Zephyrus did softly play,
Sweet Thames, run softly, till I end my song...”

Compare note 36, where Zephyrus the wind plays a bit too hard with the Hyacinth Prince, and see note 293 for the different theme of the Thames-daughter nymphs.  The wedding is over now, the nymphs and their friends have emphatically departed (lines 175, 179, 181, and see note 250); the season has turned to autumn and summer’s last remnants have either floated away or sunk into the banks.  As an unheard wind blows (see note 389), the poet turns plaintively to the river (lines 176, 183 and 184).   See note 434 for how these triad observations and pleas will eventually evolve.

182. WEEPING: See Psalm 137:1:

“By the waters of Babylon, there we sat down, yea we wept
...How shall we sing the Lord’s song in a strange land?”

Lac Leman is Lake Geneva, Switzerland, site of Lausanne where Eliot was treated in 1922 for mental exhaustion.  See also note 300.  Compare the lament of a Geneva-conceived monster in Mary Shelley, Frankenstein, or the Modern Prometheus (1818):

“I was a poor, helpless, miserable wretch; I knew, and could distinguish nothing; but, feeling pain invade me on all sides, I sat down and wept.”

For another Geneva scene, see Jean-Jacques Rousseau, Confessions 4 (1782), tr. Angela Scholar (2000):

“The sight of Lake Geneva and its admirable shores has always held a particular charm for me...  I abandoned myself, as I walked ...to thoughts of the sweetest melancholy. ...I was moved to tenderness, I sighed, I wept like a child. How many times, stopping to weep at my leisure, did I not, perched on a boulder, smile to see my tears mingling with the waters.”

For similar mixed emotions, see Dante, Purgatorio 26.142, at note 428: “I am Arnaut, who weep and singing go,” and see Oliver Goldsmith, The Vicar of Wakefield, at note 253: “Her mother ...felt a pleasing distress, and wept.” See also Shakespeare, The Tempest (notes 0.1) 1.2.390, with Prince Ferdinand “sitting on a bank, weeping,” and see Eliot’s variation to this at line 191. See also St. Augustine weeping before his conversion, at note 365.

Biblically, see Isaiah 38:1 (note 0.5), where King Hezekiah weeps after being told to “Set thine house in order” because he is about to die; compare this to line 426.  See also Matthew 26:75 (note 0.5), where Peter “wept bitterly” after the cock crowed (see note 393); and John 11:35 (note 0.5), where Jesus wept after Lazarus died.

For contrast, consider Boredom's eye filled with an unwanted tear in Baudelaire, Au Lecteur (note 76).


07/02:

Another Summer, Long Ago

July begins like June: the summer pace
Still fresh, the early dawn still kissed with dew
And wedding bells still ringing in my ears,
Which makes me all the wearier when
Sunlight begins to burn by 8 a.m.,
And all the kisses evaporate before
I’m out the door (with ringing in my ears).

My morning coffee pushes me along
A path of obligations to be met,
And on one corner of my desk is you
Being held by me, romantically:
It was another summer, long ago,
We danced the dance of newlyweds in love,
And in this frame we’ll dance a thousand years...

July continues batting. August waits
On deck, taking some sweltering practice swings
While April, May and June all take their leads;
They will be running with the pitch:
Two outs, three balls, two strikes, and two runs down
In the bottom of the ninth, playing at home.
All set, the pitch – and everybody cheers!

My second coffee, sugared up between
Sweet reveries imagining July
In terms beyond a life that’s otherwise
Decaffeinated, pushes me
To meet my obligations, nothing more.
Hot liquid on a hot day only works
To shift a body through its lower gears.

The day grows long.  Sweat trickles down my face,
Cool dew replaced with hot salinity,
And as it rolls my energy dissolves.
The summer pace turns casual.
Somewhere around the early afternoon
My thoughts of June, and you, begin to change:
the freshness fades, the ringing disappears.

Yet I would hold you even as your sun
Beats down on me all of these thousand years,
As you steal my coffee’s edge, and as we dance
In silence on our wedding day;
As August comes to bat, still one run down,
And as the runners take their two-out leads
I’ll stand up and resound the nervous cheers.


07/03:

Dicta-Poem

You can write about
a despondent woman wanting
to give up on life. But
leave out the names.
Tell them about her
problems, her woes...
Tell them how she
wasted a whole day just
crying her eyes out
apparently for no reason
at all. And then the next
morning she started
panicking because she
had to study for her finals

You’re not really
writing this, are you?

...now I’m afraid to speak.


07/04:

A Novel Without A Hero: Trailer

“Maybe a story is better without any hero,” scrawled Ernest Hemingway in an early manuscript of The Sun Also Rises. He was well into a story in which his narrator, his omnipresent point of view, was a man who was made sexually dysfunctional from a war wound; at this point heroism, though it might have been difficult, still could have been reached by circumvention. But a line of thought had been running through Hemingway’s head and was already woven into the novel, and perhaps he already had in mind the epigraph to this thread: an opening passage from the book of Ecclesiastes...

"Listen, Jake. . . Don’t you ever get the feeling that all your life is going by and you’re not taking advantage of it? Do you realize you’ve lived nearly half the time you have to live already?"

"Yes, every once in a while."

"Do you know that in about thirty-five years more we’ll be dead?"

"What the hell, Robert,” I said. “What the hell?”

"I’m serious."

”It’s one thing I don’t worry about,” I said.

"You ought to."

"I’ve had plenty to worry about one time or another. I’m through worrying."


07/05:

Out In The Cold - Part 1

July 5, 1990

My throat started scratching a little on Sunday, and by Monday night it was a full-fledged energy-draining cold. Summer colds are the worst. Maybe it was poor judgment, but I went to school, to bible study, to work on Tuesday. The next day was the Fourth of July, a day off, and I figured I could endure until then.

On the morning of the Fourth I was feeling a little better. The Koehns were coming over, and it was to be another family social thing. I was still drained, so I wasn’t looking forward to a long afternoon and I wasn’t really hungry either, but I’d be polite about it.  I kept to myself for the rest of the morning and into the afternoon, and then the doorbell rang.  I opened the door for the Koehns. “Come on in,” I said, then went up the five stairs to our kitchen, where Mom was standing.

“Jon,” she said, “is it all right if you eat in the kitchen?”

I didn’t understand at first, then —of course, it was because of my cold. “Fine,” I said. “I’ll just go downstairs, in front of the TV.” After that I kept completely to myself until the Koehns left, which they did four hours later.

For the rest of the day I still avoided the family, but while I was in the kitchen, later in the evening, Mom called from the living room. “Jon, I’m sorry.” “It’s all right,” I said, but really I didn’t want to talk about it.

That was yesterday. Before I move on to today’s episode, I should explain why I was moody about being quarantined. After all, it was reasonable that I should stay away from Don and Josh. They have fewer white blood cells because of their chemotherapy, so they are more susceptible to and more in danger of the cold virus. And I shouldn’t be selfish, but yesterday, before the Koehns came, the potential problem hadn’t really occurred to me. It was certainly my ignorance, I’ll admit, and when Mom brought it up I think I realized immediately that she was right. But I wasn’t going to sit in the kitchen, apart from the family but still in view. I didn’t mean to offend by this decision, and I think if Mom had told me a few minutes before the Koehns came, there might have been a little less drama. I still wouldn’t have sat in the kitchen —a question of dignity, I guess —but maybe I could have got Mom to understand. As it was, while my cold and my standoffishness was offending, I appeared, and was, offended.

Anyway, Mom said she was sorry, five or six hours later, and I said it was all right.

Until today. I was feeling a little better when I went down for breakfast. I had the kitchen to myself. I was reading the paper and had just finished my bowl of cereal when Mom came in and said, “Jon, I meant it about you staying away from people. Will you please leave the room?” And I was offended all over again. I blew up. I swore, I breathed offensive germs in her face. She kicked me, slapped my face, told me to go to my room, no, get out of the house. And I said, okay, I would. But what was she sorry about yesterday, I wondered. She was sorry for being brash, she said. She wasn’t sorry for wanting me away from those who didn’t have a cold. Understandable, but still I argued. “I didn’t ask for the cold,” I said. “And nobody in this house asked for cancer,” she said. No, that’s true, and with that she rendered me speechless.

I went upstairs, packed my overnight bag. But I had a response for her, bubbling within me. “They didn’t ask for cancer, and they didn’t have to ask for the love and respect they’ve been given. I’ve just got a measly cold, so I suppose I shouldn’t expect very much love or respect at all. And you sure are delivering it proportionately.” Of course I was being very selfish, but as I drove off to find a motel I considered that I wasn’t screaming for love, just a little respect, enough to eat breakfast and read the paper in the kitchen alone. Didn’t she originally say the kitchen was my confinement anyway? I was still steaming, several hours later.

I’m in the cheap motel right now, for tonight and maybe for tomorrow. Maybe this is for the best. I will recover here and I won’t be contagious, and I might get some long needed rest. And I’ll have time to think and catch up on school work, and maybe I’ll even write a story.

God, it’s foolish of me to ever have to ask you for humility. It is always there for the taking, and I might have simply accepted it a dozen times in these last two days, but each time I would not let go of my pride. Even now, I could return home, apologize and go quietly up to my room until I got better. But I’d probably screw it up if I tried to do that. Help me God to humbly accept whatever you give me. Forgive me for passing up the chances. And see me through.


  07/06:

The Underground Man

Dostoevsky Final (Russian 141, 11/30/90, Prof. Rubchak)

The general aim of the Underground Man, if not simply to be aimless, was to try to break away from socially imposed rules and chains. Plot was just another restriction, like the system of twice two, it chained the author to something systematically straightforward. He would be locked on a limited course on which his story would depend too much on sequence and consequence, on multiplier and product.

The Underground Man wanted to defiantly break away from such straight thought patterns because they, like everything else he protested, stood as a threat to his freedom. In fact, in his grasp for freedom, he rebelled against all of the conventional parameters of a normally structured “novel.” Diction is squeezed between an explanatory page-one footnote and a parenthetical closing comment. Thought often becomes contradictory and is never really conclusive. Characters, beyond the anti-hero himself, do not appear for half the book. Conflict is primarily between the writer and the reader, even as the writer is continually unstable and the reader’s existence is denied outright. And the setting through part one is a constricting coffin of an apartment, a “funk-hole” of surreality.

And ultimately, the Underground Man had to reject plot, because it is the most formally limiting of literary structures. Whereas the other parameters are primarily passive and abstract, plot is necessarily active and concrete according to the laws of time and space. The Underground Man did not want to exist for such activity. “What do I care for the laws of nature and arithmetic?” he asked rhetorically. “As though such stone walls were really the same thing as peace of mind.”

In conclusion, there is no plot because that was not the purpose of there being a “story.” “An author writes something to please ‘everybody,’” considered the Underground Man. But ‘everybody’s’ pleasure is only another “golden dream,” and besides, he was simply “imagining an audience” anyway.


07/07:

Moleskin 3.9: Other Stories

There is more to being alive than any one chapter can speak of, and reducing life to lines on pages only makes me consider the stories upon stories I am leaving out. Maybe these are lesser tales, justifiably diminished, easily set aside. I could, for example, talk about my baseball card collection, inspired by cousin Jim and subsidized by pop bottle returns; or my extracurricular reading, against parental reservations, of Peter Benchley’s Jaws; or the cultural awareness stirred daily from living in a Jewish neighborhood; and just as quickly I would have to remember how the cards were set aside by a succession of other collections; how I got more from reading Twain in school that year; and how that old neighborhood is now predominantly Hindu and Muslim. Still, these are things to talk about, part of my history, moments in my life, substance to my soul. Every episode adds to how I am alive today. And I could go on and on...

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I have assembled the fundamental tips to locate that corporate blessing.

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