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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…

I Have Heard The Key

Every Thought...

Week 46: Responding To The Muses

On a cold November morning in the middle of Indiana, hours from home with my kids half awake in the car, before dawn broke the dark, thousands of ancient muses passed overhead and took to the fields.


11/11: 

TWL, Lines 411-417: Thunder To The Demons


411 DA
412 Dayadhvam: I have heard the key
413 Turn in the door once and turn once only
414 We think of the key, each in his prison
415 Thinking of the key, each confirms a prison
416 Only at nightfall, aethereal rumours
417 Revive for a moment a broken Coriolanus

412. THE PRISON KEY: Eliot: “Cf. Inferno, XXXIII, 46: ‘ed io sentii chiavar l'uscio di sotto all'orribile torre.’ Also F. H. Bradley, Appearance and Reality, p. 346. ‘My external sensations are no less private to myself than are my thoughts or my feelings. In either case my experience falls within my own circle, a circle closed on the outside; and, with all its elements alike, every sphere is opaque to the others which surround it... In brief, regarded as an existence which appears in a soul, the whole world for each is peculiar and private to that soul.’”

See Dante, Inferno (note 0.2) 33.46-47:

“And I heard locking up the under door
Of the horrible tower.”

SOLIPSISM: F. H. Bradley was Eliot’s professor at Oxford, and his book, Appearance and Reality (1893) was the basis of Eliot’s doctoral thesis in 1916. Bradley advanced the philosophy of solipsism, suggesting that only one’s mind exists with certainty and everything outside the mind is questionable. Eliot, and modernist literature in general, refuted this, arguing instead that the world, like thunder, speaks to us all.

THUNDER’S SECOND DISCIPLINE: The concepts of “datta” and “dayadhvam” go even further, telling the poet to give back and sympathize with the world.  See note 400:  Dayadhvam means “Sympathize,” what the demons understood in hearing “Da.”

417. A BROKEN CORIOLANUS: See Shakespeare, Coriolanus (0.1) 3.3.125-126, where Coriolanus speaks after being banished from Rome:

“And here remain with your uncertainty.
Let every feeble rumour shake your hearts!”

THE OBJECTIVE CORRELATIVE THEORY, a literary criticism theory advanced by Eliot and his “new critic” peers, asserts that a literary work needs explicit, relatable elements to express itself and evoke emotions in its audience.  By this theory, Eliot proclaimed Coriolanus a better tragedy than the more solipsistic Hamlet (note 4).  See Eliot, The Sacred Wood; Essays on Poetry and Criticism: Hamlet and His Problems (1920), and see Eliot’s objection to Bradley’s solipsism at note 412.  But see note 432 for Eliot’s awareness of emotions beyond explanation.


11/12:

Cran


Rattling and piercing, the cran cries out
A rolling, trilling, gregarious shout
Ambiguously pitched: high, guttural, deep;
Cross the purr of a cat with the bleating of sheep,
Or the chirping of dolphins with mutant brass,
Each note multiplied by the numbers that pass:
A song hard to score and beyond all compare,
yet musically pleasantly strange to the ear:
    Kewrr, k-r-r-r-ooo, garooo-a-a-a,
    Kewrr, kkewrooh, kar-r-r-r-o-o-o.
   
They parachute down with an open stance
On to crowded fields where they dance their dance
In the midst of rivals and mates and unmated
With movements so strange, uncouth, unabated,
The march of the oldest living birds:
They match their songs, escaping words,
With the moves of long-traditioned lovers
Who bond for life and call out to each other:
    Kewrr, k-r-r-r-ooo, garooo-a-a-a,
    Kewrr, kkewrooh, kar-r-r-r-o-o-o.

Greater brown preacherbird shypoke sandhills
Of old, mistaken for whooping juveniles,
Fooling us all that they’re naturally brown;
They’re actually grey with a tinge of ground
From the marshland mud they smear on their feathers,
Just part of the primitive fun whenever
Big, vulgar red-headed birds get together,
And that red they wear on their featherless foreheads
Will flare to the world and expand when excited:
    Kewrr, kkewrooh, kar-r-r-r-o-o-o.

They are Grus canadensis, with six subspecies
Of mares, roans and colts making sedges and sieges
As G.c. Canadian, Cuban and Greater,
And Florida, Ole Mississippi, and Lesser.
At 10,000 miles a year, 30 an hour
They flap six foot wings beating silence and power
With slow strokes down and quick strokes up, in time
To an ancient cadenced rhyme:
    Kewrr, k-r-r-r-ooo, garooo-a-a-a,
    Kewrr, kkewrooh, kar-r-r-r-o-o-o.
   
Eternity lives in the Sandhill Crane,
A reminder that all generations remain
In song and dance and spirit the same
Through the ages, by every intimate name
That echoes across the valley, relating
The spirit of God and resonating
From crane to crane and throughout creation.
All souls cry out, with variation:
    Kewrr, k-r-r-r-ooo, garooo-a-a-a,
    Kewrr, kkewrooh, kar-r-r-r-o-o-o.


11/13: 

Justified

From far out in the center of a naked lake
The loon's cry rose.
It was the cry of someone who owns very little.
— Robert Bly

 
Justified: battling the paunch, racing
‘gainst the clock, basking in the sun, standing
in the rain, fighting for my sanity,
seeking peace of mind, staying on the path,
looking down the road, holding onto youth,
clinging to the earth, breathing in the air,
catching my breath, seeing the world, facing
my mortality, celebrating God,
heeding a call, needing time, struggling
with reality, dreaming of a day,
taking an account, feeding a desire
to sharpen senses, to revive my soul,
to stop somewhere a dozen miles away
and hear the distant cry of a common loon.


11/14:

Motivation: Muses Of The Run


It is a reflection of life, this run through fennel fields.  We run alone, we run in crowds.  We need an inner drive, we need encouragement.  We balance focus and diversions.  We endure for the sake of endurance and we rest when we need to rest.  We set big goals dependent upon little goals and then adjust, and sometimes we advance in ways we don’t expect.  We know we are mortal bit we live as we can and give all that we have.  We know, too, that all we have is a gift: every breath, every trail, every step of the way.  And in the end, if we live right and appreciate life’s goodness to the fullest we will be able to lift our arms up, feel the joy and declare the victory, knowing our ultimate calling is complete.
 
That’s some moleskin philosophy for you, with a touch of pocketbook religion and the seasoning of Lucian revision.  Ecclesiastes’ Preacher, whom I have cited earlier, is my muse for the old testament wisdom, and for that extra dose of testimony —and let me call it a testimony of faith, not religion: what I soulfully believe, not what I may dogmatically adhere to— my muse is, with some more of that Lucian spin, the apostle Paul.  Paul may have had more heavenly goals and a higher calling when he wrote to the Philippians, but it doesn’t take much to imagine he had the influence of Philippides to inspire him:


Not that I have secured it already, not yet reached my goal, but I am still pursuing it in an attempt to take hold of the prize...  I do not reckon myself as having taken hold of it; I can only say that forgetting all that lied behind me, and straining forward to what lies in front, I am racing towards the finishing-point to win the prize of God’s heavenly call...

—Philippians 3:12-14 (New Jerusalem Bible)


11/15:

Inspiration: The Paramuses


These are the first of my aerobic muses: the Preacher for wisdom, Paul for the calling, Philippides for the adventure and Lucian for the retelling.  There are others, too,  paramuses standing for a variety of inspirations, including some whom I have already given nods to: Robert Browning for the poetry, Pierre de Coubertin for the spectacle, Kendall Scherr for the antitheticals, my de facto running club, even Anheuser Busch for a sense of perspective; and others not yet mentioned: Dennis Kimetto, Chicago Marathon record holder, for the perfection of pace; Johnny A. Kelley, a Boston Marathon pioneer, for being forever young; and all those affected by the 2013 Boston bombing —victims and families, citizens and supporters, runners and cheerers-on— whose Boston Strong spirit would not be stopped.
 
The original Muses, the daughters of Zeus, have long served as inspiration for arts and sciences, dance and song, so why not muses for running too?  The traditional realms of these early sisters may not seem to align with a runner’s interests, and even the generic name of muse, inspiring music and museums, conjures more sedentary and leisurely reflections, but consider them one at a time:
 
Calliope, muse of epic poetry: not short sonnet sprints but works that go on and on;
Clio, muse of history: not just what reporters write but the stuff of enduring legends;
Euterpe, muse of lyric poetry: instilling, beyond song, the discipline of meters and pace;
Thalia, muse of the pastoral landscape: leading us through fennels fields and beyond;
Melpomenene, muse of tragedy: bidding us to save some breath for the final finish line;
Terpsichore, muse of dance: demonstrating the beauty of composition and grace;
Erato, muse of romance: the charm more than reality that leads us down the path; Polyhymnia, muse of sacred works: the choir all around us and the harmony between; and Urania, muse of the stars: of all that courses across an endless sky.

Maybe running deserves a category of its own, a tenth Muse devoted to the poetry of the run, but even as I consider this in turns pastoral and epic and choreographed, I don’t mean to diminish the inspirations.  Let each run find its own beat and sustain its own song: no headphones, please!  And let my inspirations be plural and multidimensional, to merge those classical reflections with the para-muses of philosophy and spiritual calling, of adventure and retelling, and, yes, of poetry.

On my way to my first half-marathon, already seven months ago, I wrote my own poem of the run, not inspired by Robert Browning’s Pheidippides, which I had not yet heard, but by Wallace Stevens and Basil Bunting and, again, the writer of Ecclesiastes —and also, of course, by the run itself.  I’d like to say the poem was composed in flashes during my training runs, but it was not; rather, I wrote it in the more reflective, in-between run times, which were, in retrospect, like this journal itself, a key part of my training.


—Fennel, —I grasped it a-tremble
    with dew —whatever it bode...
         ...if I ran hitherto—
   Be sure that the rest of my
        journey, I ran no longer,
             but flew.

—Pheidippides, by Robert Browning, 1879.


11/16:

Thirteen Miles 
(or, Thirteen Ways of Listening to the Run)


A bird flies with
    instinctive purpose,
         but humans run with
    determined will.

  Rivers flow from beginning to end,
       all at once.
           Within every runner
      there is a river.

 The poem of the run
      is one without words,
            won without words:
       the run is the poem,
 
 life’s rhythm exceeding
       the sum of its beats:
           the drum of the run
       becomes the rhyme
 
  all at once:  it's the road
      speaking up to the feet, the heart
           sending will to the legs, the soul
       circulating the blood,

 all at once, the wind of the world
      blowing into the lungs,
           the breath keeping pace
       (keeping pace, keeping pace)...

 The race, says Qoheleth,
       is not to the swift,
            but time and chance
       are not what keep me going.

 ...it's the quiet salt rivers
       that roll off the face,
            like lines of a poem
      within a poem,

 the descant chant
       of muscles in tune
           with the length of the race
       and the time that it takes;

  all at once, it’s the senses:
      the dry lips of thirst,
           the sight of the bend,
      the scent of the breeze,
 
  the feel of the earth
       with the treadmills gone,
            the sound of the air
       without headphones on
 
 and the mind memorizing
      the song, but the song
           defies contemplation
      or singing along:
 
 the song is the run,
      to be learned on the run,
           all will turning to purpose:
       the run is a song.


11/17:

Moleskin 5.8: Brag River



...and an honor roll. To this point I had been a good student, even standout if anyone noticed, but my first report card at Lincoln put me in the top ten percent. The sixth grade system did not hand out the usual A, B, C, D letters and there was no honor role, but in seventh grade, for whatever reason —more students, more serious academics, more trust in our maturity? —we were graded for all to see. And I was proud to find my name on the list, posted prominently on the school’s hallway bulletin board, guarded by glass and enhanced with cabinet lighting: here was the fruit of my labors, a quiet brag to my peers, something to write to my dad about and something to put a smile on the face of my mother —maybe even something for my stepdad to notice.

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