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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…

Tolling Reminiscent Bells...

Every Thought...

Week 41: Modern Times

Call this a delayed reaction, sparked a month late by the timing of annotations.  For fifteen years we have paused on the day of 9/11, remembering what we cannot forget, forgetting sometimes that the story has not ended.

10/07:

  TWL, lines 367-385:  Falling Towers

  367 What is that sound high in the air
  368 Murmur of maternal lamentation
  369 Who are those hooded hordes swarming
  370 Over endless plains, stumbling in cracked earth
  371 Ringed by the flat horizon only
  372 What is the city over the mountains
  373 Cracks and reforms and bursts in the violet air
  374 Falling towers
  375 Jerusalem Athens Alexandria
  376 Vienna London
  377 Unreal

  378 A woman drew her long black hair out tight
  379 And fiddled whisper music on those strings
  380 And bats with baby faces in the violet light
  381 Whistled, and beat their wings
  382 And crawled head downward down a blackened wall
  383 And upside down in air were towers
  384 Tolling reminiscent bells, that kept the hours
  385 And voices singing out of empty cisterns and exhausted wells.

  367. A DRUNKEN HYMN: Eliot: “Cf. Hermann Hesse, Blick ins Chaos: Schon ist halb Europa, schon ist zumindest der halbe Osten Europas auf dem Wege zum Chaos, fährt betrunken im heiligen Wahn am Abgrund entlang und singt dazu, singt betrunken und hymnisch wie Dmitri Karamasoff sang. Ueber diese Lieder lacht der Bürger beleidigt, der Heilige und Seher hört sie mit Tränen.”

  See Hesse, A Glimpse of Chaos (note 298), with reference to Dostoevsky, The Brothers Karamazov (note 248):

  “Already half Europe, at all events half Eastern Europe, is on the road to Chaos. In a state of drunken illusion she is reeling into the abyss and, as she reels, she sings a drunken hymn such as Dmitri Karamazov sang. The insulted citizen laughs that song to scorn, the saint and seer hear it with tears.”

  Compare St. Augustine’s point of conversion, leaving behind influences of drunkenness and lust, at note 307.

  Meanwhile, the incognizance of lines 366 and 367 continues at lines 369 and 372. Compare lines 54-56, where Madame Sosostris could not find the Hanged Man (which Eliot associated with the hooded figure of Christ (see note 46 and line 364)) and saw only “crowds (now hooded hordes) of people, walking round in a ring.”

  374. FALLING TOWERS: The unreal city (see note 60), previously seen at dawn and at noon (see lines 61 and 208), is now in Tiresias’s violet hour (see lines 215 and 220 and note 380); it is also a city at war with bombs bursting, planes whistling and towers falling.

  Towers will appear throughout section five, and while the only towers mentioned previously were white with pealing bells (line 289), they are now falling (line 374), upside down in air (line 383), horrible (note 412) and destroyed (line 430). Compare the tale of the Tower of Babel reaching vainly to God, at Genesis 11:4-9:

  “And they said, Go to, let us build us a city and a tower, whose top may reach unto heaven; and let us make us a name, lest we be scattered abroad upon the face of the whole earth. And the LORD came down to see the city and the tower, which the children of men [built].... And the LORD said, Behold, the people ...have all one language; and this they begin to do: and now nothing will be restrained from them, which they have imagined to do. Go to, let us go down, and there confound their language, that they may not understand one another's speech. So the LORD scattered them abroad from thence upon the face of all the earth: and they left off to build the city. Therefore is the name of it called Babel; because the LORD did there confound the language of all the earth...”

  376. FALLING CITIES: London is now placed in context with Jerusalem, Athens, Alexandria and Vienna, all centers of empires and cultural hubs for their time, but here they are cracking, falling apart and reforming into something unreal.  Babylon (note 209) and Carthage (note 307) may be added to this list.  See also Joyce’s Dublin at note 111.

  378. THE LONG-HAIRED WOMAN, fiddling whisper music on her hair, can be compared to the hyacinth girl, found with “arms full, and ...hair wet” (line 38); the woman on talking walls whose “hair / Spread out in fiery points / Glowed into words” (line 108); the woman who walked the street with “hair down” (line 133); and the woman who “smoothes her hair with automatic hand, / And puts a record on the gramophone” (line 255). See also hair’s tie to fertility in both Frazer, The Golden Bough 3:5.6, and Weston, From Ritual to Romance 4.

  380. THE VIOLET HOUR, previously introduced at lines 215 and 220 as the evening hour at the end of the workday (see note 221), also alludes to the liturgical color of repentance and baptism; see Brooks (note 330).  See also note 68 and Luke* 23:44 for the noon darkness that fell over the earth on Good Friday.  Elsewhere, violet or purple, appearing here as light, describes air (line 373), sails (note 77) and trenches (note 331).  See also Shakespeare, Hamlet 4.5.177 (Ophelia’s violets withered when her father died) and 5.1.229 (Laertes wishing violets would spring from Ophelia’s grave).  See also the “violet and purple morn” in Whitman, Memories  12.  Violet also relates to Phoenicia, the “land of purple”; see note 312.

  BATS WITH BABY FACES: See Pierre Leyris, Poémes, 1910-1930, 155 (1947), relating this passage to Hieronymus Bosch paintings, perhaps alluding to the baby faced bat in Bosch, Hell (1504).





 

  Hieronymus Bosch, Hell (detail) (1504)






  382. CRAWLING DOWN A WALL: See Bram Stoker, Dracula 3 (1897): “I saw the whole man... begin to crawl down the castle wall over the dreadful abyss, face down, with his cloak spreading out around him like great wings.”

  384. TOLLING BELLS: See note 291 for the peal of bells in general, and see line 67, “where St. Mary Woolnoth kept the hours.” See also Whitman, Memories 6:

  “With the tolling tolling bells’ perpetual clang.”

  385. VOICES ...OUT OF EMPTY CISTERNS recalls the “children’s voices in the dome” at line 202.  See also Jeremiah 2:13,14:

  “For my people have committed two evils; they have forsaken me the fountain of living waters, and hewed them out cisterns, broken cisterns, that can hold no water. ...The young lions roared upon him, and yelled, and they made his land waste...”


10/08:

  Sealed

  To put face to feathery form, the nation...   

  An eagle, on the wing and rising to
  the sky, a field prevailing azure, blue
  revealed by golden glory breaking through
  the argent ring of clouds aligned anew
  above the bird: a halo made of stars
  now taking place and rank among the powers,
  the power of peace before the power of wars,
  all sovereignties reordered after ours,
  a nation reckoned by a blazing sun:
  and thus our fate is sealed, all battles won.

 The eagle tips the balance towards peace:
  its dexter talon rightly won’t release
  the olive branch; and peaceward does it face
  forever to its honorable embrace,
  and yet the raptor holds its arrows fast
  within its eastward talon to avast
  what sinister designs may come to pass;
  it clings this bundle, ready to the last
  to stave all threats before they are begun
  and thus our fate is sealed, all battles won.

  Behold the eagle’s shield, the chief and pale
  held front and center by their own avail,
  the two most honored ordinaries hailed
  to mark the great escutcheon unassailed,
  a symbol for the way the eagle rules:
  the azure chief a congress for the whole
  above a pale of stripes, argent and gules
  kept closely unified: so speaks the scroll
  of our perpetual creed: “Of many, one,”
  and thus our fate is sealed, all battles won.
 
  Within the eagle’s beak this Latin pun
  becomes our purpose and criterion,
  our everlasting oath beneath the sun:
  E pluribus, of many, unum, one,
  and thus our fate is sealed, all battles won.


10/09:

  Silence

  Silence is an empty peace;
  Violence is a pointless war.
 
  No one ever dies for silence,
  No one ever wins with violence,
  But there is peace worth fighting for
  As there are wars that fires may cease.
 
  Fires that blaze leave deathly silence,
  None to claim the spoils of violence
  And the pointlessness increases
  When the battlefield releases
  No one to pick up the pieces,
  No one to put up the score,
  No one fighting anymore.
 
  No one wins an empty war.


10/10:

  Beyond Speech and Silence

  from Walled Gardens

  How can one describe God?
  What wins the argument?
 
  Speech is limited to comparison,
  Silence is sworn to dereliction,
  Reason travels far to reach amazement,
  Zeal arrives at self-enrichment,
  Imagination cannot find the truth, and
  Understanding turns to vanity.
  The prophets are confused by God,
  the saints are stupefied.
 
  God is the mind’s desire
  and master of the soul,
  the devotee’s commitment,
  the disciple’s goal,
  but all of this is beyond where reason goes,
  exists above existence, acts
  without regard to the usual bounds:
  There is no “in” or “out”, “how” or “why”.
 

10/11:

  In Progress

  As argument tries to take over,
  What is being taken?
  Everything, it seems,
  Yet nothing more than this:
  You cannot take what you do not want.
  I cannot have what is never mine.
  My hope remains.
  Your faith is your own to find.

  As argument tries to win the day,
  What is there to lose?
  Nothing, it seems,
  Yet everything comes down to this:
  Your victory and my defeat,
  Or my win to your loss,
  Is the death of the conversation
  And the end of us.

  As argument tries to make its point,
  Who gets the final word?
  What is there left to say?


10/12:

  Dreams From September

  September 26, 1990

  Quick dream (I should give this more time): Dan and I are in my car, Dan is driving.  We are stopped and backed up by several cars at the corner of Prospect and Touhy; we are south of the intersection.  I take the opportunity to jump out of the car to quickly run an errand in one of the Prospect shops.  I have some film to turn in and some old record albums I want to sell.  There is a one-stop shop that can take care of both of my needs.

  I turn in the film quickly, but they have to assess the record albums one at a time, and there are about fifteen of them.  I wonder if it will take too long, but I decide Dan will have the sense to pull the car over to the side if the light turns green.

  The shopkeeper looks at the albums.  They are worth 5¢ ...15¢ ...10¢ ...etc., depending on the newness, popularity, size —all the obvious factors.  The total comes to $1.75.  It’s too small an amount, really, but I am ready to concede, wanting to collect the money and get out of the shop quickly.  But then the shopkeeper convinces me that I ought to hold off on selling them until they increase in value.  As a consolation he gives me a punch card which, when filled, will allow me to redeem a given number of records at a higher price.

  I leave the shop ...and outside I find my car sitting sideways, perpendicular to Prospect Avenue with its nose in the middle of the right hand lane and its rear almost right up against the parked cars on the side of the street.  Traffic is slowed down even more now, as cars have to drive around mine now.  Dan is asleep in the passenger seat.  I go over to the driver’s side —and it is crushed, beyond just a scrape, bashed in all along the side.  I am able to open the door and I determine the car will be driveable, but Dan still doesn’t wake up.

 I shout, in a panic.  Dan wakes up groggily and continues to be only half awake for the rest of the dream...  The cops come... We look the car over... I calm down a little... and Dan goes back to sleep.

  Approximately September, 2013

  He stood outside a Shell station in the warm part of fall, wearing scuffed black leather, studded and chained, heavy calf-high boots, fat dark glasses and a nervousness that made me look away.  I didn’t notice his hair, except that it must have completed the grey-black head-to-toe theme he had going, not goth or Johnny Cash but relic all the same. And I didn’t see if he was smoking a cigarette, either, but he had all the gestures: one hand always going to his mouth, a jitteriness about him and a general haziness.  I wasn’t close enough to smell him, but there was no point.  He seemed to be waiting for someone or something, adding to the nervousness, but he stayed close to the side of the building as though what he wanted was right there.  Maybe he just wanted to be noticed.  I imagined him getting up in the morning, putting the whole costume on one piece at a time in front of a mirror, trying to look cool, but that wouldn’t explain why he was here, standing on the alley side of a gas station.  Everything about him was out of alignment: he wore biker gear but there wasn’t a bike around; he might have been waiting for a bus, bu this wasn’t on a bus route.  He looked like there should have been a pay phone next to him and he was waiting for it to ring, except that they took out all the pay phones years ago.  He might have been waiting for someone to come out of the bathroom, or waiting for his turn, except that this particular Shell station didn’t have a side-entrance john. There was an air pump with a few loops of hose next to him, but this was probably just a coincidence, signifying nothing.

  All of this I gathered in a glance, before the nervousness turned me away.

  Inside, the attendant was a chubby faced hispanic named Alexa, according to her name tag.  She was on the afternoon shift, the same shift for enough years to know all the regulars or at least what they wanted.  I never bought gas here, too expensive, but this was a regular stop of mine for a pop on the way home, to get me through the rush hour.  One 20 oz. Diet Coke with one Grandma’s oatmeal cookie pack.  Neither the caffeine or the sugar are good for me but I will not begrudge the routine and I’m sure I spend much less here than most.  Alexa spends more time dispensing cigarettes and lottery tickets than she does my $2.61.  But she knows me, knows my purchase, and we exchange one verison or another of how do you do.  One day I’ll stop for a moment, if there’s no line behind me, and ask her what she thinks of the weather, but even if this ever happens it will probably not go further.  She has customers to attend, I have a forty five minute drive ahead of me and we live in different worlds.


10/13:

  Moleskin 5.4: Backyard River

  And then my family moved, and I moved.  Homes seven, eight and nine were those transitional places between the drainage ditch and the Des Plaines River into which it dumped: the townhome, the apartment, the stepdad’s parent’s home: places I wanted to romanticize as being in the big city and not so far away from the old Chicago River and the great Lake Michigan, but homes I tend to remember and realize in more cynical shades. Our prior dwellings had never been big or glamorous, and we had lived in an urban apartment and even a trailer home before, but I missed the Buffalo River parsonage and everything about it: the neighbors, the space around us, the sense of “us” living in one place, one family with a river in our back yard, just down the hill.

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