Archetypes Term Paper - 3125 Words

Archetypes are constant throughout all times and cultures. You find them in all of the most satisfying literature. An understanding of these forces is one of the most powerful elements in the storyteller’s toolbox. When you grasp the function of the archetype a character expresses, you will know his or her purpose in the story. The trickster embodies the use of mischief and the desire for change. â€Å"He/she cuts big egos down to size and brings heroes and readers down to earth† Vogler says. A trickster brings change by drawing attention to the imbalance or absurdity of a stagnant situation and often provokes laughter. In Shakespeare’s play, Othello, one of the earliest scenes where we see Iago’s power of being a trickster†¦show more content†¦In this scene Iago makes Cassio get drunk and has manipulated Cassio to get into a fight. Othello hears all the noise and comes down from his chambers to see what is going on. Othello sees that his Lieutena nt has been into a fight and is disappointed in Cassio. Because Cassio has gotten into a fight Othello has demoted Cassio as his Lieutenant. Once Iago is alone he addresses his plan in one of his soliloquy: If I can fasten but one cup upon him With that which he hath drunk tonight already, He’ll be as full of quarrel and offense As my young mistress’ dog. Now my sick fool Rodrigo, Whom love hath turned almost the wrong side out, To Desdemona hath tonight caroused Potations pottle- deep; and he’s to watch. (2.3, 49-56) Iago plans to make Cassio drink a lot tonight other than the one drink he had already. Iago wants to make Cassio so drunk that he will get angry, offend some people and eventually start a fight with someone like his mistress’ dog who is probably baring all the time at people and that is what Iago wants Cassio to do to someone. In Iago’s soliloquy he mentions Roderigo as his sick fool and because of his loved to Desdemona his made bad choices. Roderigo has made drinking toasts to Desdemona and him on guard duty. In Welker Given’s book, A Further Study of The Othello: Have we misunderstood Shakespeare’s Moor?, there is a chapter in this book that talks about Iago and Roderigo. In chapter nine ofShow MoreRelatedArchetypes of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof1466 Words   |  6 PagesRichey 1 Katelynn Richey Mr Ricketts AP English Literature and Composition 08 December 2011 Term Paper Carl Jung, an analytical psychologist, stated that â€Å"archetypes are a tendency or instinctive trend in the human unconscious to express certain motifs or themes† (â€Å"Dreams, Health, Yoga, Mind Spirit†). 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He does this by establishing characters of strong- female archetypes that resists a culture made up of systemized gender constructs. In this paper, I will further analyze the construction of Amores Perros in light of Laura Mulvey’s psychoanalytic and feminist theoretical approach. Specifically, by connotatively assessing the scenes of Amores Perros, I

North American And Indian Societies - 927 Words

North American and Indian societies may not have a lot of things in common, but they do have similarities in how their population is separated. India has the caste system and North America has the social class or class system to divide their population. These two systems are similar but they also have their differences. According to, Sociology: The Essentials, caste system is defined as a system of stratification (characterized by low social mobility) in which one’s place in the stratification system is determined by birth. This is also known as an ascribed status. â€Å"This system in found in the traditional Hindu population of India† (Haviland 256). Although it is found in other parts of the world, India is the most well known. The caste system in India is divided into five different levels. â€Å"Each caste possesses a different dharma, which specified spate duties and abilities depending on the caste into which you were born. At the summit was the dharmas of the priestly Brahmin caste, which granted these people control over all spiritual and religious aspects of society, They also possessed the â€Å"sacred power† of the word, and were the only caste permitted to read and write. Next there was the warrior Kshatriya caste, whose dharma was to command the military and to rule the secular world as kings. The merchant Vaishya caste follows in the traditional ranking. The Vaishyas were viewed by some of their betters as a caste of â€Å"thieves who are not called by the name of thief.† ButShow MoreRelatedAmeric The Columbian Exchange1180 Words   |  5 Pagesbetween europeans and natives of the American continents resulted in a vast diffusion of food, livestock, technology, and diseases. This later became known as the Columbian Exchange. 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Black House Chapter Fifteen Free Essays

string(52) " a round coffee table \?\? has also been abandoned\." 15 BY EVENING, the temperature has dropped fifteen degrees as a minor cold front pushes through our little patch of the Coulee Country. There are no thunderstorms, but as the sky tinges toward violet, the fog arrives. It’s born out of the river and rises up the inclined ramp of Chase Street, first obscuring the gutters, then the sidewalks, then blurring the buildings themselves. We will write a custom essay sample on Black House Chapter Fifteen or any similar topic only for you Order Now It cannot completely hide them, as the fogs of spring and winter sometimes do, but the blurring is somehow worse: it steals colors and softens shapes. The fog makes the ordinary look alien. And there’s the smell, the ancient, seagully odor that works deep into your nose and awakens the back part of your brain, the part that is perfectly capable of believing in monsters when the sight lines shorten and the heart is uneasy. On Sumner Street, Debbi Anderson is still working dispatch. Arnold â€Å"the Mad Hungarian† Hrabowski has been sent home without his badge in fact, suspended and feels he must ask his wife a few pointed questions (his belief that he already knows the answers makes him even more heartsick). Debbi is now standing at the window, a cup of coffee in her hand and a puckery little frown on her face. â€Å"Don’t like this,† she says to Bobby Dulac, who is glumly and silently writing reports. â€Å"It reminds me of the Hammer pictures I used to watch on TV back when I was in junior high.† â€Å"Hammer pictures?† Bobby asks, looking up. â€Å"Horror pictures,† she says, looking out into the deepening fog. â€Å"A lot of them were about Dracula. Also Jack the Ripper.† â€Å"I don’t want to hear nothing about Jack the Ripper,† Bobby says. â€Å"You mind me, Debster.† And resumes writing. In the parking lot of the 7-Eleven, Mr. Rajan Patel stands beside his telephone (still crisscrossed by yellow police tape, and when it will be all right again for using, this Mr. Patel could not be telling us). He looks toward downtown, which now seems to rise from a vast bowl of cream. The buildings on Chase Street descend into this bowl. Those at Chase’s lowest point are visible only from the second story up. â€Å"If he is down there,† Mr. Patel says softly, and to no one but himself, â€Å"tonight he will be doing whatever he wants.† He crosses his arms over his chest and shivers. Dale Gilbertson is at home, for a wonder. He plans to have a sit-down dinner with his wife and child even if the world ends because of it. He comes out of his den (where he has spent twenty minutes talking with WSP officer Jeff Black, a conversation in which he has had to exercise all his discipline to keep from shouting), and sees his wife standing at the window and looking out. Her posture is almost exactly the same as Debbi Anderson’s, only she’s got a glass of wine in her hand instead of a cup of coffee. The puckery little frown is identical. â€Å"River fog,† Sarah says dismally. â€Å"Isn’t that ducky. If he’s out there â€Å" Dale points at her. â€Å"Don’t say it. Don’t even think it.† But he knows that neither of them can help thinking about it. The streets of French Landing the foggy streets of French Landing will be deserted right now: no one shopping in the stores, no one idling along the sidewalks, no one in the parks. Especially no children. The parents will be keeping them in. Even on Nailhouse Row, where good parenting is the exception rather than the rule, the parents will be keeping their kids inside. â€Å"I won’t say it,† she allows. â€Å"That much I can do.† â€Å"What’s for dinner?† â€Å"How does chicken pot pie sound?† Ordinarily such a hot dish on a July evening would strike him as an awful choice, but tonight, with the fog coming in, it sounds like just the thing. He steps up behind her, gives her a brief squeeze, and says, â€Å"Great. And earlier would be better.† She turns, disappointed. â€Å"Going back in?† â€Å"I shouldn’t have to, not with Brown and Black rolling the ball â€Å" â€Å"Those pricks,† she says. â€Å"I never liked them.† Dale smiles. He knows that the former Sarah Asbury has never cared much for the way he earns his living, and this makes her furious loyalty all the more touching. And tonight it feels vital, as well. It’s been the most painful day of his career in law enforcement, ending with the suspension of Arnold Hrabowski. Arnie, Dale knows, believes he will be back on duty before long. And the shitty truth is that Arnie may be right. Based on the way things are going, Dale may need even such an exquisite example of ineptitude as the Mad Hungarian. â€Å"Anyway, I shouldn’t have to go back in, but . . .† â€Å"You have a feeling.† â€Å"I do.† â€Å"Good or bad?† She has come to respect her husband’s intuitions, not in the least because of Dale’s intense desire to see Jack Sawyer settled close enough to reach with seven keystrokes instead of eleven. Tonight that looks to her like pardon the pun a pretty good call. â€Å"Both,† Dale says, and then, without explaining or giving Sarah a chance to question further: â€Å"Where’s Dave?† â€Å"At the kitchen table with his crayons.† At six, young David Gilbertson is enjoying a violent love affair with Crayolas, has gone through two boxes since school let out. Dale and Sarah’s strong hope, expressed even to each other only at night, lying side by side before sleep, is that they may be raising a real artist. The next Norman Rockwell, Sarah said once. Dale who helped Jack Sawyer hang his strange and wonderful pictures has higher hopes for the boy. Too high to express, really, even in the marriage bed after the lights are out. With his own glass of wine in hand, Dale ambles out to the kitchen. â€Å"What you drawing, Dave? What â€Å" He stops. The crayons have been abandoned. The picture a half-finished drawing of what might be either a flying saucer or perhaps just a round coffee table has also been abandoned. You read "Black House Chapter Fifteen" in category "Essay examples" The back door is open. Looking out at the whiteness that hides David’s swing and jungle gym, Dale feels a terrible fear leap up his throat, choking him. All at once he can smell Irma Freneau again, that terrible smell of raw spoiled meat. Any sense that his family lives in a protected, magic circle it may happen to others, but it can never, never happen to us is gone now. What has replaced it is stark certainty: David is gone. The Fisherman has enticed him out of the house and spirited him away into the fog. Dale can see the grin on the Fisherman’s face. He can see the gloved hand it’s yellow covering his son’s mouth but not the bulging, terrified child’s eyes. Into the fog and out of the known world. David. He moves forward across the kitchen on legs that feel boneless as well as nerveless. He puts his wineglass down on the table, the stem landing a-tilt on a crayon, not noticing when it spills and covers David’s half-finished drawing with something that looks horribly like venous blood. He’s out the door, and although he means to yell, his voice comes out in a weak and almost strengthless sigh: â€Å"David? . . . Dave?† For a moment that seems to last a thousand years, there is nothing. Then he hears the soft thud of running feet on damp grass. Blue jeans and a red-striped rugby shirt materialize out of the thickening soup. A moment later he sees his son’s dear, grinning face and mop of yellow hair. â€Å"Dad! Daddy! I was swinging in the fog! It was like being in a cloud!† Dale snatches him up. There is a bad, blinding impulse to slap the kid across the face, to hurt him for scaring his father so. It passes as quickly as it came. He kisses David instead. â€Å"I know,† he says. â€Å"That must have been fun, but it’s time to come in now.† â€Å"Why, Daddy?† â€Å"Because sometimes little boys get lost in the fog,† he says, looking out into the white yard. He can see the patio table, but it is only a ghost; he wouldn’t know what he was looking at if he hadn’t seen it a thousand times. He kisses his son again. â€Å"Sometimes little boys get lost,† he repeats. Oh, we could check in with any number of friends, both old and new. Jack and Fred Marshall have returned from Arden (neither suggested stopping at Gertie’s Kitchen in Centralia when they passed it), and both are now in their otherwise deserted houses. For the balance of the ride back to French Landing, Fred never once let go of his son’s baseball cap, and he has a hand on it even now, as he eats a microwaved TV dinner in his too empty living room and watches Action News Five. Tonight’s news is mostly about Irma Freneau, of course. Fred picks up the remote when they switch from shaky-cam footage of Ed’s Eats to a taped report from the Holiday Trailer Park. The cameraman has focused on one shabby trailer in particular. A few flowers, brave but doomed, straggle in the dust by the stoop, which consists of three boards laid across two cement blocks. â€Å"Here, on the outskirts of French Landing, Irma Freneau’s grieving mother is in seclusion,† says the on-scene correspondent. â€Å"One can only imagine this single mother’s feelings tonight.† The reporter is prettier than Wendell Green but exudes much the same aura of glittering, unhealthy excitement. Fred hits the OFF button on the remote and growls, â€Å"Why can’t you leave the poor woman alone?† He looks down at his chipped beef on toast, but he has lost his appetite. Slowly, he raises Tyler’s hat and puts it on his own head. It doesn’t fit, and Fred for a moment thinks of letting out the plastic band at the back. The idea shocks him. Suppose that was all it took to kill his son? That one simple, deadly modification? The idea strikes him as both ridiculous and utterly inarguable. He supposes that if this keeps up, he’ll soon be as mad as his wife . . . or Sawyer. Trusting Sawyer is as crazy as thinking he might kill his son by changing the size of the boy’s hat . . . and yet he believes in both things. He picks up his fork and begins to eat again, Ty’s Brewers cap sitting on his head like Spanky’s beanie in an old Our Gang one-reeler. Beezer St. Pierre is sitting on his sofa in his underwear, a book open on his lap (it is, in fact, a book of William Blake’s poems) but unread. Bear Girl’s asleep in the other room, and he’s fighting the urge to bop on down to the Sand Bar and score some crank, his old vice, untouched for going on five years now. Since Amy died, he fights this urge every single day, and lately he wins only by reminding himself that he won’t be able to find the Fisherman and punish him as he deserves to be punished if he’s fucked up on devil dust. Henry Leyden is in his studio with a huge pair of Akai headphones on his head, listening to Warren Vach? ¦, John Bunch, and Phil Flanigan dreamboat their way through â€Å"I Remember April.† He can smell the fog even through the walls, and to him it smells like the air at Ed’s Eats. Like bad death, in other words. He’s wondering how Jack made out in good old Ward D at French County Lutheran. And he’s thinking about his wife, who lately (especially since the record hop at Maxton’s, although he doesn’t consciously realize this) seems closer than ever. And unquiet. Yes indeed, all sorts of friends are available for our inspection, but at least one seems to have dropped out of sight. Charles Burnside isn’t in the common room at Maxton’s (where an old episode of Family Ties is currently running on the ancient color TV bolted to the wall), nor in the dining hall, where snacks are available in the early evening, nor in his own room, where the sheets are currently clean (but where the air still smells vaguely of old shit). What about the bathroom? Nope. Thorvald Thorvaldson has stopped in to have a pee and a handwash, but otherwise the place is empty. One oddity: there’s a fuzzy slipper lying on its side in one of the stalls. With its bright black and yellow stripes, it looks like the corpse of a huge dead bumblebee. And yes, it’s the stall second from the left. Burny’s favorite. Should we look for him? Maybe we should. Maybe not knowing exactly where that rascal is makes us uneasy. Let us slip through the fog, then, silent as a dream, down to lower Chase Street. Here is the Nelson Hotel, its ground floor now submerged in river fog, the ocher stripe marking high water of that ancient flood no more than a whisper of color in the fading light. On one side of it is Wisconsin Shoe, now closed for the day. On the other is Lucky’s Tavern, where an old woman with bowlegs (her name is Bertha Van Dusen, if you care) is currently bent over with her hands planted on her large knees, yarking a bellyful of Kingsland Old-Time Lager into the gutter. She makes sounds like a bad driver grinding a manual transmission. In the doorway of the Nelson Hotel itself sits a patient old mongrel, who will wait until Bertha has gone back into the tavern, then slink over to eat the half-digested cocktail franks floating in the beer. From Lucky’s comes the tired, twanging voi ce of the late Dick Curless, Ole Country One-Eye, singing about those Hainesville Woods, where there’s a tombstone every mile. The dog gives a single disinterested growl as we pass him and slip into the Nelson’s lobby, where moth-eaten heads a wolf, a bear, an elk, and an ancient half-bald bison with a single glass eye look at empty sofas, empty chairs, the elevator that hasn’t worked since 1994 or so, and the empty registration desk. (Morty Fine, the clerk, is in the office with his feet propped up on an empty file-cabinet drawer, reading People and picking his nose.) The lobby of the Nelson Hotel always smells of the river it’s in the pores of the place but this evening the smell is heavier than usual. It’s a smell that makes us think of bad ideas, blown investments, forged checks, deteriorating health, stolen office supplies, unpaid alimony, empty promises, skin tumors, lost ambition, abandoned sample cases filled with cheap novelties, dead hope, dead skin, and fallen arches. This is the kind of place you don’t come to unless you’ve been here before and all yo ur other options are pretty much foreclosed. It’s a place where men who left their families two decades before now lie on narrow beds with pee-stained mattresses, coughing and smoking cigarettes. The scuzzy old lounge (where scuzzy old Hoover Dalrymple once held court and knocked heads most every Friday and Saturday night) has been closed by unanimous vote of the town council since early June, when Dale Gilbertson scandalized the local political elite by showing them a video of three traveling strippers who billed themselves as the Anal University Trio, performing a synchronized cucumber routine on the tiny stage (FLPD cameraman: Officer Tom Lund, let’s give him a hand), but the Nelson’s residents still have only to go next door to get a beer; it’s convenient. You pay by the week at the Nelson. You can keep a hot plate in your room, but only by permission and after the cord has been inspected. You can die on a fixed income at the Nelson, and the last soun d you hear could well be the creaking of bedsprings over your head as some other helpless old loser jacks off. Let us rise up the first flight, past the old canvas firehose in its glass box. Turn right at the second-floor landing (past the pay phone with its yellowing OUT OF ORDER sign) and continue to rise. When we reach the third floor, the smell of river fog is joined by the smell of chicken soup warming on someone’s hot plate (the cord duly approved either by Morty Fine or George Smith, the day manager). The smell is coming from 307. If we slip through the keyhole (there have never been keycards at the Nelson and never will be), we’ll be in the presence of Andrew Railsback, seventy, balding, scrawny, good-humored. He once sold vacuum cleaners for Electrolux and appliances for Sylvania, but those days are behind him now. These are his golden years. A candidate for Maxton’s, we might think, but Andy Railsback knows that place, and places like it. Not for him, thanks. He’s sociable enough, but he doesn’t want people telling him when to go to bed, when to get up, and when he can have a little nip of Early Times. He has friends in Maxton’s, visits them often, and has from time to time met the sparkling, shallow, predatory eye of our pal Chipper. He has thought on more than one such occasion that Mr. Maxton looks like the sort of fellow who would happily turn the corpses of his graduates into soap if he thought he could turn a buck on it. No, for Andy Railsback, the third floor of the Nelson Hotel is good enough. He has his hot plate; he has his bottle of hooch; he’s got four packs of Bicycles and plays big-picture solitaire on nights when the sandman loses his way. This evening he has made three Lipton Cup-A-Soups, thinking he’ll invite Irving Throneberry in for a bowl and a chat. Maybe afterward they’ll go next door to Lucky’s and grab a beer. He checks the soup, sees it has attained a nice simmer, sniffs the fragrant steam, and nods. He also has saltines, which go well with soup. He leaves the room to make his way upstairs and knock on Irv’s door, but what he sees in the hallway stops him cold. It’s an old man in a shapeless blue robe, walking away from him with suspicious quickness. Beneath the hem of the robe, the stranger’s legs are as white as a carp’s belly and marked with blue snarls of varicose veins. On his left foot is a fuzzy black-and-yellow slipper. His right foot is bare. Although our new friend can’t tell for sure not with the guy’s back to him he doesn’t look like anyone Andy knows. Also, he’s trying doorknobs as he wends his way along the main third-floor hall. He gives each one a single hard, quick shake. Like a turnkey. Or a thief. A fucking thief. Yeah. Although the man is obviously old older than Andy, it looks like and dressed as if for bed, the idea of thievery resonates in Andy’s mind with queer certainty. Even the one bare foot, arguing that the fellow probably didn’t come in off the street, has no power over this strong intuition. Andy opens his mouth to call out something like Can I help you? or Looking for someone? and then changes his mind. He just has this feeling about the guy. It has to do with the fleet way the stranger scurries along as he tries the knobs, but that’s not all of it. Not all of it by any means. It’s a feeling of darkness and danger. There are pockets in the geezer’s robe, Andy can see them, and there might be a weapon in one of them. Thieves don’t always have weapons, but . . . The old guy turns the corner and is gone. Andy stands where he is, considering. If he had a phone in his room, he might call downstairs and alert Morty Fine, but he doesn’t. So, what to do? After a brief interior debate, he tiptoes down the hall to the corner and peeps around. Here is a cul-de-sac with three doors: 312, 313, and, at the very end, 314, the only room in that little appendix which is currently occupied. The man in 314 has been there since the spring, but almost all Andy knows about him is his name: George Potter. Andy has asked both Irv and Hoover Dalrymple about Potter, but Hoover doesn’t know jack-shit and Irv has learned only a little more. â€Å"You must,† Andy objected this conversation took place in late May or early June, around the time the Buckhead Lounge downstairs went dark. â€Å"I seen you in Lucky’s with him, havin’ a beer.† Irv had lifted one bushy eyebrow in that cynical way of his. â€Å"Seen me havin’ a beer with him. What are you?† he’d rasped. â€Å"My fuckin’ wife?† â€Å"I’m just saying. You drink a beer with a man, you have a little conversation â€Å" â€Å"Usually, maybe. Not with him. I sat down, bought a pitcher, and mostly got the dubious pleasure of listenin’ to myself think. I say, ‘What do you think about the Brewers this year?’ and he says, ‘They’ll suck, same as last year. I can get the Cubs at night on my rah-dio ‘ â€Å" â€Å"That the way he said it? Rah-dio?† â€Å"Well, it ain’t the way I say it, is it? You ever heard me say rah-dio? I say radio, same as any normal person. You want to hear this or not?† â€Å"Don’t sound like there’s much to hear.† â€Å"You got that right, buddy. He says, ‘I can get the Cubs at night on my rah-dio, and that’s enough for me. I always went to Wrigley with my dad when I was a kid.’ So I found out he was from Chi, but otherwise, bupkes.† The first thought to pop into Andy’s mind upon glimpsing the fucking thief in the third-floor corridor had been Potter, but Mr. George I-Keep-to-Myself Potter is a tall drink of water, maybe six-four, still with a pretty good head of salt-and-pepper hair. Mr. One-Slipper was shorter than that, hunched over like a toad. (A poison toad, at that is the thought that immediately rises in Andy’s mind.) He’s in there, Andy thinks. Fucking thief’s in Potter’s room, maybe going through Potter’s drawers, looking for a little stash. Fifty or sixty rolled up in the toe of a sock, like I used to do. Or stealing Potter’s radio. His fucking rah-dio. Well, and what was that to him? You passed Potter in the hallway, gave him a civil good morning or good afternoon, and what you got back was an uncivil grunt. Bupkes, in other words. You saw him in Lucky’s, he was drinking alone, far side of the jukebox. Andy guessed you could sit down with him and he’d split a pitcher with you Irv’s little tte-? ¤-tte with the man proved that much but what good was that without a little chin-jaw to go along with it? Why should he, Andrew Railsback, risk the wrath of some poison toad in a bathrobe for the sake of an old grump who wouldn’t give you a yes, no, or maybe? Well . . . Because this is his home, cheesy as it might be, that’s why. Because when you saw some crazy old one-slipper fuck in search of loose cash or the easily lifted rah-dio, you didn’t just turn your back and shuffle away. Because the bad feeling he got from the scurrying old elf (the bad vibe, his grandchildren would have said) was probably nothing but a case of the chickenshits. Because Suddenly Andy Railsback has an intuition that, while not a direct hit, is at least adjacent to the truth. Suppose it is a guy from off the street? Suppose it’s one of the old guys from Maxton Elder Care? It’s not that far away, and he knows for a fact that from time to time an old feller (or old gal) will get mixed up in his (or her) head and wander off the reservation. Under ordinary circumstances that person would be spotted and hauled back long before getting this far downtown kind of hard to miss on the street in an institutional robe and single slipper but this evening the fog has come in and the streets are all but deserted. Look at you, Andy berates himself. Scared half to death of a feller that’s probably got ten years on you and peanut butter for brains. Wandered in here past the empty desk not a chance in the goddamn world Fine’s out front; he’ll be in back reading a magazine or a stroke book and now he’s looking for his room back at Maxton’s, trying every knob on the goddamn corridor, no more idea of where he is than a squirrel on a freeway ramp. Potter’s probably having a beer next door (this, at least, turns out to be true) and left his door unlocked (this, we may be assured, is not). And although he’s still frightened, Andy comes all the way around the corner and walks slowly toward the open door. His heart is beating fast, because half his mind is still convinced the old man is maybe dangerous. There was, after all, that bad feeling he got just from looking at the stranger’s back But he goes. God help him, he does. â€Å"Mister?† he calls when he reaches the open door. â€Å"Hey, mister, I think you got the wrong room. That’s Mr. Potter’s room. Don’t you â€Å" He stops. No sense talking, because the room is empty. How is that possible? Andy steps back and tries the knobs of 312 and 313. Both locked up tight, as he knew they would be. With that ascertained, he steps into George Potter’s room and has a good look around curiosity killed the cat, satisfaction brought him back. Potter’s digs are a little larger than his, but otherwise not much different: it’s a box with a high ceiling (they made places a man could stand up in back in the old days, you had to say that much for them). The single bed is sagging in the middle but neatly made. On the night table is a bottle of pills (these turn out to be an anti-depressant called Zoloft) and a single framed picture of a woman. Andy thinks she took a pretty good whopping with the ugly stick, but Potter must see her differently. He has, after all, put the picture in a place where it’s the first thing he looks at in the morning and the last thing he sees at night. â€Å"Potter?† Andy asks. â€Å"Anyone? Hello?† He is suddenly overcome with a sense of someone standing behind him and whirls around, lips drawn back from his dentures in a grinning snarl that is half a cringe. One hand comes up to shield his face from the blow he is suddenly certain will fall . . . only there’s no one there. Is he lurking behind the corner at the end of this short addendum to the main corridor? No. Andy saw the stranger go scurrying around that corner. No way he could have gotten behind him again . . . unless he crawled along the ceiling like some kind of fly . . . Andy looks up there, knowing he’s being absurd, giving in to the whim-whams big time, but there’s no one here to see him, so what the hey? And nothing for him to see overhead, either. Just an ordinary tin ceiling, now yellowed by age and decades of cigar and cigarette smoke. The radio oh, excuse me all to hell, rah-dio is sitting on the win-dowsill, unmolested. Damn fine one, too, a Bose, the kind Paul Harvey always talks about on his noon show. Beyond it, on the other side of the dirty glass, is the fire escape. Ah-hah! Andy thinks, and hurries across to the window. One look at the turned thumb lock and his triumphant expression fades. He peers out just the same, and sees a short stretch of wet black iron descending into the fog. No blue robe, no scaly bald pate. Of course not. The knob shaker didn’t go out that way unless he had some magic trick to move the window’s inside thumb lock back into place once he was on the fire escape landing. Andy turns, stands where he is a moment, thinking, then drops to his knees and looks under the bed. What he sees is an old tin ashtray with an unopened pack of Pall Malls and a Kingsland Old-Time Lager disposable lighter in it. Nothing else except dust kittens. He puts his hand on the coverlet preparatory to standing up, and his eyes fix on the closet door. It’s standing ajar. â€Å"There,† Andy breathes, almost too low for his own ears to hear. He gets up and crosses to the closet door. The fog may or may not come in on little cat feet, as Carl Sandburg said, but that is certainly how Andy Railsback moves across George Potter’s room. His heart is beating hard again, hard enough to start the prominent vein in the center of his forehead pulsing. The man he saw is in the closet. Logic demands it. Intuition screams it. And if the doorknob shaker’s just a confused old soul who wandered into the Nelson Hotel out of the fog, why hasn’t he spoken to Andy? Why has he concealed himself ? Because he may be old but he’s not confused, that’s why. No more confused than Andy is himself. The doorknob shaker’s a fucking thief, and he’s in the closet. He’s maybe holding a knife that he has taken from the pocket of his tatty old robe. Maybe a coat hanger that he’s unwound and turned into a weapon. Maybe he’s just standing there in the dark, eyes wide, fingers hooked into cl aws. Andy no longer cares. You can scare him, you bet he’s a retired salesman, not Superman but if you load enough tension on top of fright you turn it into anger, same as enough pressure turns coal into a diamond. And right now Andy is more pissed off than scared. He closes his fingers around the cool glass knob of the closet door. He squeezes down on it. He takes one breath . . . a second . . . steeling himself, getting ready . . . psyching himself up, the grandkids would say . . . one more breath, just for good luck, and . . . With a low, stressful sound half growl and half howl Andy yanks the closet door wide, setting off a chatter of hangers. He crouches, hands up in fists, looking like some ancient sparring partner from the Gym Time Forgot. â€Å"Come outta there, you fucking â€Å" No one there. Four shirts, one jacket, two ties, and three pairs of pants hanging like dead skin. A battered old suitcase that looks as if it has been kicked through every Greyhound Bus terminal in North America. Nothing else. Not a goddamn th But there is. There’s something on the floor beneath the shirts. Several somethings. Almost half a dozen somethings. At first Andy Rails-back either doesn’t understand what he’s seeing or doesn’t want to understand. Then it gets through to him, imprints itself on his mind and memory like a hoofprint, and he tries to scream. He can’t. He tries again and nothing comes out but a rusty wheeze from lungs that feel no larger than old prune skins. He tries to turn around and can’t do that, either. He is sure George Potter is coming, and if Potter finds him here, Andy’s life will end. He has seen something George Potter can never allow him to talk about. But he can’t turn. Can’t scream. Can’t take his eyes from the secret in George Potter’s closet. Can’t move. Because of the fog, nearly full dark has arrived in French Landing unnaturally early; it’s barely six-thirty. The blurry yellow lights of Maxton Elder Care look like the lights of a cruise ship lying becalmed at sea. In Daisy wing, home of the wonderful Alice Weathers and the far less wonderful Charles Burnside, Pete Wexler and Butch Yerxa have both gone home for the day. A broad-shouldered, peroxide blonde named Vera Hutchinson is now on the desk. In front of her is a book entitled E-Z Minute Crosswords. She is currently puzzling over 6 Across: Garfield, for example. Six letters, first is F, third is L, sixth is E. She hates these tricky ones. There’s the swoosh of a bathroom door opening. She looks up and sees Charles Burnside come shuffling out of the men’s in his blue robe and a pair of yellow-and-black striped slippers that look like great fuzzy bumblebees. She recognizes them at once. â€Å"Charlie?† she asks, putting her pencil in her crossword book and closing it. Charlie just goes shuffling along, jaw hanging down, a long runner of drool also hanging down. But he has an unpleasant half grin on his face that Vera doesn’t care for. This one may have lost most of his marbles, but the few left in his head are mean marbles. Sometimes she knows that Charlie Burnside genuinely doesn’t hear her when she speaks (or doesn’t understand her), but she’s positive that sometimes he just pretends not to understand. She has an idea this is one of the latter times. â€Å"Charlie, what are you doing wearing Elmer’s bee slippers? You know his great-granddaughter gave those to him.† The old man Burny to us, Charlie to Vera just goes shuffling along, in a direction that will eventually take him back to D18. Assuming he stays on course, that is. â€Å"Charlie, stop.† Charlie stops. He stands at the head of Daisy’s corridor like a machine that has been turned off. His jaw hangs. The string of drool snaps, and all at once there’s a little wet spot on the linoleum beside one of those absurd but amusing slippers. Vera gets up, goes to him, kneels down before him. If she knew what we know, she’d probably be a lot less willing to put her defenseless white neck within reach of those hanging hands, which are twisted by arthritis but still powerful. But of course she does not. She grasps the left bee slipper. â€Å"Lift,† she says. Charles Burnside lifts his right foot. â€Å"Oh, quit being such a turkey,† she says. â€Å"Other one.† Burny lifts his left foot a little, just enough for her to get the slipper off. â€Å"Now the right one.† Unseen by Vera, who is looking at his feet, Burny pulls his penis from the fly of his loose pajama pants and pretends to piss on Vera’s bowed head. His grin widens. At the same time, he lifts his right foot and she removes the other slipper. When she looks back up, Burny’s wrinkled old tool is back where it belongs. He considered baptizing her, he really did, but he has created almost enough mischief for one evening. One more little chore and he’ll be off to the land of dreamy dreams. He’s an old monster now. He needs his rest. â€Å"All right,† Vera says. â€Å"Want to tell me why one of these is dirtier than the other?† No answer. She hasn’t really expected one. â€Å"Okay, beautiful. Back to your room or down to the common room, if you want. There’s microwave popcorn and Jell-O pops tonight, I think. They’re showing The Sound of Music. I’ll see that these slippers get back to where they belong, and you taking them will be our little secret. Take them again and I’ll have to report you, though. Capisce?† Burny just stands there, vacant . . . but with that nasty little grin lifting his wrinkled old chops. And that light in his eyes. He capisces, all right. â€Å"Go on,† Vera says. â€Å"And you better not have dropped a load on the floor in there, you old buzzard.† Again she expects no reply, but this time she gets one. Burny’s voice is low but perfectly clear. â€Å"Keep a civil tongue, you fat bitch, or I’ll eat it right out of your head.† She recoils as if slapped. Burny stands there with his hands dangling and that little grin on his face. â€Å"Get out of here,† she says. â€Å"Or I really will report you.† And a great lot of good that would do. Charlie is one of Maxton’s cash cows, and Vera knows it. Charlie recommences his slow walk (Pete Wexler has dubbed this particular gait the Old Fucks’ Shuffle), now in his bare feet. Then he turns back. The bleary lamps of his eyes regard her. â€Å"The word you’re looking for is feline. Garfield’s a feline. Got it? Stupid cow.† With that he continues his trip down the corridor. Vera stands where she is, looking at him with her own jaw hanging. She has forgotten all about her crossword puzzle. In his room, Burny lies down on his bed and slips his hands into the small of his back. From there down he aches like a bugger. Later he will buzz for the fat old bitch, get her to bring him an ibuprofen. For now, though, he has to stay sharp. One more little trick still to do. â€Å"Found you, Potter,† he murmurs. â€Å"Good . . . old . . . Potsie.† Burny hadn’t been shaking doorknobs at all (not that Andy Railsback will ever know this). He had been feeling for the fellow who diddled him out of a sweet little Chicago housing deal back in the late seventies. South Side, home of the White Sox. Blacktown, in other words. Lots of federal money in that one, and several bushels of Illinois dough as well. Enough skim available to last for years, more angles than on a baseball field, but George â€Å"Go Fuck Your Mother† Potter had gotten there first, cash had changed hands beneath the proverbial table, and Charles Burn-side (or perhaps then he’d still been Carl Bierstone; it’s hard to remember) had been out in the cold. But Burny has kept track of the thief for lo these many years. (Well, not Burny himself, actually, but as we must by now have realized, this is a man with powerful friends.) Old Potsie what his friends called him in the days when he still had a few declared bankruptcy in La Riviere back in the nineties, and lost most of what he still had hidden away during the Great Dot-Com Wreck of Double Aught. But that’s not good enough for Burny. Potsie requires further punishment, and the coincidence of that particular fuckhead washing up in this particular fuckhole of a town is just too good to pass up. Burny’s principal motive a brainless desire to keep stirring the pot, to make sure bad goes to worse hasn’t changed, but this will serve that purpose, too. So he traveled to the Nelson, doing so in a way Jack understands and Judy Marshall has intuited, homing in on Potsie’s room like some ancient bat. And when he sensed Andy Railsback behind him, he was of course delighted. Railsback will save him having to make another anonymous call, and Burny is, in truth, getting tired of doing all their work for them. Now, back in his room, all comfy-cozy (except for the arthritis, that is), he turns his mind away from George Potter, and begins to Summon. Looking up into the dark, Charles Burnside’s eyes begin to glow in a distinctly unsettling way. â€Å"Gorg,† he says. â€Å"Gorg t’eelee. Dinnit a abbalah. Samman Tansy. Samman a montah a Irma. Dinnit a abbalah, Gorg. Dinnit a Ram Abbalah.† Gorg. Gorg, come. Serve the abbalah. Find Tansy. Find the mother of Irma. Serve the abbalah, Gorg. Serve the Crimson King. Burny’s eyes slip closed. He goes to sleep with a smile on his face. And beneath their wrinkled lids, his eyes continue to glow like hooded lamps. Morty Fine, the night manager of the Nelson Hotel, is half-asleep over his magazine when Andy Railsback comes bursting in, startling him so badly that Morty almost tumbles out of his chair. His magazine falls to the floor with a flat slap. â€Å"Jesus Christ, Andy, you almost gave me a heart attack!† Morty cries. â€Å"You ever hear of knocking, or at least clearing your goddam throat?† Andy takes no notice, and Morty realizes the old fella is as white as a sheet. Maybe he’s the one having the heart attack. It wouldn’t be the first time one occurred in the Nelson. â€Å"You gotta call the police,† Andy says. â€Å"They’re horrible. Dear Jesus, Morty, they’re the most horrible pictures I ever saw . . . Polaroids . . . and oh man, I thought he was going to come back in . . . come back in any second . . . but at first I was just froze, and I . . . I . . .† â€Å"Slow down,† Morty says, concerned. â€Å"What are you talking about?† Andy takes a deep breath and makes a visible effort to get himself under control. â€Å"Have you seen Potter?† he asks. â€Å"The guy in 314?† â€Å"Nope,† Morty says, â€Å"but most nights he’s in Lucky’s around this time, having a few beers and maybe a hamburger. Although why anybody would eat anything in that place, I don’t know.† Then, perhaps associating one ptomaine palace with another: â€Å"Hey, have you heard what the cops found out at Ed’s Eats? Trevor Gordon was by and he said â€Å" â€Å"Never mind.† Andy sits in the chair on the other side of the desk and stares at Morty with wet, terrified eyes. â€Å"Call the police. Do it right now. Tell them that the Fisherman is a man named George Potter, and he lives on the third floor of the Nelson Hotel.† Andy’s face tightens in a hard grimace, then relaxes again. â€Å"Right down the hall from yours truly.† â€Å"Potter? You’re dreaming, Andy. That guy’s nothing but a retired builder. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.† â€Å"I don’t know about flies, but he hurt the hell out of some little kids. I seen the Polaroids he took of them. They’re in his closet. They’re the worst things you ever saw.† Then Andy does something that amazes Morty and convinces him that this isn’t a joke, and probably not just a mistake, either: Andy Railsback begins to cry. Tansy Freneau, a.k.a. Irma Freneau’s grieving mother, is not actually grieving yet. She knows she should be, but grief has been deferred. Right now she feels as if she is floating in a cloud of warm bright wool. The doctor (Pat Skarda’s associate, Norma Whitestone) gave her five milligrams of lorazepam four or five hours ago, but that’s only the start. The Holiday Trailer Park, where Tansy and Irma have lived since Cubby Freneau took off for Green Bay in ninety-eight, is handy to the Sand Bar, and she has a part-time â€Å"thing† going with Lester Moon, one of the bartenders. The Thunder Five has dubbed Lester Moon â€Å"Stinky Cheese† for some reason, but Tansy unfailingly calls him Lester, which he appreciates almost as much as the occasional boozy grapple in Tansy’s bedroom or out back of the Bar, where there’s a mattress (and a black light) in the storeroom. Around five this evening, Lester ran over with a quart of coffee brandy an d four hundred milligrams of OxyContin, all considerately crushed and ready for snorting. Tansy has done half a dozen lines already, and she is cruising. Looking over old pictures of Irma and just . . . you know . . . cruising. What a pretty baby she was, Tansy thinks, unaware that not far away, a horrified hotel clerk is looking at a very different picture of her pretty baby, a nightmare Polaroid he will never be able to forget. It is a picture Tansy herself will never have to look at, suggesting that perhaps there is a God in heaven. She turns a page (GOLDEN MEMORIES has been stamped on the front of her scrapbook), and here are Tansy and Irma at the Mississippi Electrix company picnic, back when Irma was four and Mississippi Electrix was still a year away from bankruptcy and everything was more or less all right. In the photo, Irma is wading with a bunch of other tykes, her laughing face smeared with chocolate ice cream. Looking fixedly at this snapshot, Tansy reaches for her glass of coffee brandy and takes a small sip. And suddenly, from nowhere (or the place from which all our more ominous and unconnected thoughts float out into the light of our regard), she finds herself remembering that stupid Edgar Allan Poe poem they had to memorize in the ninth grade. She hasn’t thought of it in years and has no reason to now, but the words of the opening stanza rise effortlessly and perfectly in her mind. Looking at Irma, she recites them aloud in a toneless, pauseless voice that no doubt would have caused Mrs. Normandie to clutch her stringy white hair and groan. Tansy’s recitation doesn’t affect us that way; instead it gives us a deep and abiding chill. It is like listening to a poetry reading given by a corpse. â€Å"Once upon a mih’nigh’ dreary while I ponnered weak ‘n’ weary over many a quaint ‘n’ curris volume of forgotten lore while I nodded nearly nappin’ sun’ly there came a tappin’ as of someone gen’ly rappin’ rappin’ at my chamber door â€Å" At this precise moment there comes a soft rapping at the cheap fiber-board door of Tansy Freneau’s Airstream. She looks up, eyes floating, lips pursed and glossed with coffee brandy. â€Å"Les’ser? Is that you?† It might be, she supposes. Not the TV people, at least she hopes not. She wouldn’t talk to the TV people, sent them packing. She knows, in some deep and sadly cunning part of her mind, that they would lull her and comfort her only to make her look stupid in the glare of their lights, the way that the people on the Jerry Springer Show always end up looking stupid. No answer . . . and then it comes again. Tap. Tap-tap. â€Å"‘Tis some visitor,† she says, getting up. It’s like getting up in a dream. â€Å"‘Tis some visitor, I murmured, tappin’ at my chamber door, only this ‘n’ nothin’ more.† Tap. Tap-tap. Not like curled knuckles. It’s a thinner sound than that. A sound like a single fingernail. Or a beak. She crosses the room in her haze of drugs and brandy, bare feet whispering on carpet that was once nubbly and is now balding: the ex-mother. She opens the door onto this foggy summer evening and sees nothing, because she’s looking too high. Then something on the welcome mat rustles. Something, some black thing, is looking up at her with bright, inquiring eyes. It’s a raven, omigod it’s Poe’s raven, come to pay her a visit. â€Å"Jesus, I’m trippin’,† Tansy says, and runs her hands through her thin hair. â€Å"Jesus!† repeats the crow on the welcome mat. And then, chipper as a chickadee: â€Å"Gorg!† If asked, Tansy would have said she was too stoned to be frightened, but this is apparently not so, because she gives out a disconcerted little cry and takes a step backward. The crow hops briskly across the doorsill and strides onto the faded purple carpet, still looking up at her with its bright eyes. Its feathers glisten with condensed drops of mist. It bops on past her, then pauses to preen and fluff. It looks around as if to ask, How’m I doin’, sweetheart? â€Å"Go away,† Tansy says. â€Å"I don’t know what the fuck you are, or if you’re here at all, but â€Å" â€Å"Gorg!† the crow insists, then spreads its wings and fleets across the trailer’s living room, a charred fleck burnt off the back of the night. Tansy screams and cringes, instinctively shielding her face, but Gorg doesn’t come near her. It alights on the table beside her bottle, there not being any bust of Pallas handy. Tansy thinks: It got disoriented in the fog, that’s all. It could even be rabid, or have that Key Lime disease, whatever you call it. I ought to go in the kitchen and get the broom. Shoo it out before it shits around . . . But the kitchen is too far. In her current state, the kitchen seems hundreds of miles away, somewhere in the vicinity of Colorado Springs. And there’s probably no crow here at all. Thinking of that goddamn poem has caused her to hallucinate, that’s all . . . that, and losing her daughter. For the first time the pain gets through the haze, and Tansy winces from its cruel and wiry heat. She remembers the little hands that sometimes pressed so tidily against the sides of her neck. The cries in the night, summoning her from sleep. The smell of her, fresh from the bath. â€Å"Her name was Irma!† she suddenly shouts at the figment standing so boldly beside the brandy bottle. â€Å"Irma, not fucking Lenore, what kind of stupid name is Lenore? Let’s hear you say Irma!† â€Å"Irma!† the visitor croaks obediently, stunning her to silence. And its eyes. Ah! Its glittering eyes draw her, like the eyes of the Ancient Mariner in that other poem she was supposed to learn but never did. â€Å"Irma-Irma-Irma-Irma â€Å" â€Å"Stop it!† She doesn’t want to hear it after all. She was wrong. Her daughter’s name out of that alien throat is foul, insupportable. She wants to put her hands over her ears and can’t. They’re too heavy. Her hands have joined the stove and the refrigerator (miserable half-busted thing) in Colorado Springs. All she can do is look into those glittering black eyes. It preens for her, ruffling its ebony sateen feathers. They make a loathsome little scuttering noise all up and down its back and she thinks, â€Å"Prophet!† said I, â€Å"thing of evil! prophet still, if bird or devil!† Certainty fills her heart like cold water. â€Å"What do you know?† she asks. â€Å"Why did you come?† â€Å"Know!† croaks the Crow Gorg, nodding its beak briskly up and down. â€Å"Come!† And does it wink? Good God, does it wink at her? â€Å"Who killed her?† Tansy Freneau whispers. â€Å"Who killed my pretty baby?† The crow’s eyes fix her, turn her into a bug on a pin. Slowly, feeling more in a dream than ever (but this is happening, on some level she understands that perfectly), she crosses to the table. Still the crow watches her, still the crow draws her on. Night’s Plutonian shore, she thinks. Night’s Plutonian fuckin’ shore. â€Å"Who? Tell me what you know!† The crow looks up at her with its bright black eyes. Its beak opens and closes, revealing a wet red interior in tiny peeks. â€Å"Tansy!† it croaks. â€Å"Come!† The strength runs out of her legs, and she drops to her knees, biting her tongue and making it bleed. Crimson drops splatter her U of W sweatshirt. Now her face is on a level with the bird’s face. She can see one of its wings brushing up and down, sensuously, on the glass side of the coffee-brandy bottle. The smell of Gorg is dust and heaped dead flies and ancient urns of buried spice. Its eyes are shining black portholes looking into some other world. Hell, perhaps. Or Sheol. â€Å"Who?† she whispers. Gorg stretches its black and rustling neck until its black beak is actually in the cup of her ear. It begins to whisper, and eventually Tansy Freneau begins to nod. The light of sanity has left her eyes. And when will it return? Oh, I think we all know the answer to that one. Can you say â€Å"Nevermore†? How to cite Black House Chapter Fifteen, Essay examples

Project Delivery System for Construction Project- myassignmenthelp

Question: Discuss about theProject Delivery System for Construction Project. Answer: Evaluation, Revision, Finalisation Presentation of PDS Evaluation of the delivery system against project objectives The objectives which was developed during the starting of the project were: To provide and analysis of the existing condition in which the Wivenhoe Dam is present. To provide to this development of this report a suitable project delivery system which is related to the same project. To provide an analysis of the positive usefulness of the chosen project delivery system for the project. To provide a preparation of the project delivery system and then to get it approved by the supervisor of the project To provide a preparation of the final designing of the project delivery system which is to be based on the requirements of the Wivenhoe Dam up gradation of the project Based on the above discussed objectives the project delivery system was to be developed and the selected methodology that was selected is the Design Bid Build methodology. The selected project delivery system for the Wivenhoe Dam, Design Bid Build methodology has been the best customary method that has been followed by many of the construction businesses across the world. The related callings has also used the method for the delivery of different projects. Many owners and project development associations and contractors in high populated area has been known to be the users of the Design Bid Build project methodology. The Design Bid Build project methodology has some of the best conventional sense and viewpoints of the working method of the project. The method is one of the best known project delivery system that has been use by many of the contractors and users around the world. Many of the construction project organizers still use this method in their projects for the delivery of th e best quality project. Even though there are different options which can be used in place of this method which are better in lots of ways but if the time line of the project is more or less equal to 40 to 50 years in time then the contractors generally prefer to use the design bid build method for the completion of their project. The project methodology when applied to the project is able to meet all the required acquirement system methods and necessities and is often found to be of irreconcilable situation in the process of the working method of the project delivery system. It has been found to be likewise to be able to accommodate the professional and the business connections which are to be met by the project owners during the course of the implementation of the project. During the course of implementation of the project procedure the Architects Consulting Engineers (AE) make the working document of the working illustration of the determination of the items and the legal binding documents based on the working procedure of the project are compiled into a single document termed as Contract Document (CD). With the help of the counsels of the project the owner uses the finished relevant document is used to get suitable offers and bids from the contractors who would be willing to complete the project on behalf of the owner of the project. The contracts are in the form of temporary contractual basis. Before the bidding can start the AE prepares a conceptual design of the project which is to be followed by the contractor for the completion of the project. The design is termed as schematic diagram. The next phase is the design development of the project which comprises of the designing of the project plan and then to get it cleared and reviewed by the owners of the project. During the process of the construction phases the AE has to regularly work on the owners program management to make the working procedure of the process to be ahead of the timeline of the proje ct completion procedure. The AE works for the auditing of the project, and make advanced calculations and installments to make the necessary changes in the project and in turn make the things known to the project manager and the owners as the counselor of the project. The use of this project methods also in a procedure makes the owner of the project powerless when compared to the contractors of the project starts to claim changes and innovation in the project system. Any extra cost that may be incurred by the project development procedure has to be agreed by the owner as he has no other choice. The problem with the use of the method of project construction methods and management procedure is the forcing of the owners to make required changes in order to incorporate the decrease in the delivery time system and the efficient use of the cost of the project method. The most important concept for a large project is the effective use of time for the delivery of the project on the deadline which needs to be ordered out before the acquisition of the cost of the project. However it has been found that the best possible method for the completion of the project is to implement the use of the known knowledge to improve the project methodology. The project has been developed keeping in mind the best project delivery system along with the use of proper risk management unit. For the correct implementation of the delivery system the owner has to first contact the best architect for the project who would be able to meet the cost. The next process would be to design the legal document of the project which would be used for the acquisition of the contractors using the bid. The legal document should be designed in such a way so that the contractors are not able to implement much changes in the working procedure of the project implementation. During the implementation of the final phase of the project the owner must look after the working of the project on site. Many a times it has been seen that the project owners leave the project on the shoulders of the contractor. This makes the project owner to lose the grasp of the working of the project. Thus the owner should always look after the working procedure of the project. Another re ason for the use of the design bid build is that the long deadline of the project would be harmful for a single contractor to complete. The business case studies were studied before proceeding with the project. All the risks that might be associated with the development of the project had been considered before the development of the project. Review of the feedback received The feedback of the project delivery system can be said to be the most helpful for the project procure. A professional insight and help helps anyone in producing the best quality project during the development. The feedback highlights the drawbacks which can be checked and again skillfully implemented into the project procedure. Implementation of such drawbacks would help the project in becoming of a higher quality. The feedback should be collected from different sources as well as during every step of the project implementation. This would help in making the project to change according to the requirement as well as the insights which are being provided by the learned men. Revision and adjustment of the optimal delivery system For the completion of the working procedure of the project it was important for the owner to understand carefully the requirement which the project was to deliver along with the objectives which were set forward during the initial phase of the project implementation. The delivery system which was chosen for the completion of the project was the design bid build. The method has been chosen for the project as the project is of a large scale project and the duration is very long. Also because the project is of government related the method is the best option for the owners. The first phase of the project would be to obtain the best contractor the owner can hire. This step is vital as the contractor would be the architect of the project. The designing of the project is the main development phase of the project. For making the project delivery system of the optimal procedure it is important to maintain the working procedure of the project according to the time line that had been developed for the project. Apart from this the main criteria which should be followed is that the owner of the project should always keep in mind to check with the working procedure of the project and to keep in touch with the architect and the contractor of the project. This would help to keep an overall insight on the project and thus would be help in keeping the project on the correct time line. Documentation of the optimal delivery system The procedure which has been followed to be made into a better optimal delivery system. The process involves the owner of the project to follow the working procedure of the project. This would make the contractors and the workers to maintain he regular documentation of the working procedure of the project. The documentation is to be shared with the owners and the contractors to let them know about the working procedure of the project and to keep in touch of the procedure the project development. The documents would also help in the later stage of the project completion to compile the whole project into a single document easily. The completed document would serve as the documentation of the project procedure and the time line followed by the contractors. Guidelines for the implementation of the delivery system For the correct implementation of the delivery system the owner has to first contact the best architect for the project who would be able to meet the cost. The next process would be to design the legal document of the project which would be used for the acquisition of the contractors using the bid. The legal document should be designed in such a way so that the contractors are not able to implement much changes in the working procedure of the project implementation. During the implementation of the final phase of the project the owner must look after the working of the project on site. Many a times it has been seen that the project owners leave the project on the shoulders of the contractor. This makes the project owner to lose the grasp of the working of the project. Thus the owner should always look after the working procedure of the project. Another reason for the use of the design bid build is that the long deadline of the project would be harmful for a single contractor to compl ete. If the project is implemented in the design bid build then the owner would be able to provide contract to other companies as well. This would mean that two or more number of contractors can work on the project at a single given time or the other scenario is that two or more contractors can work on the project consecutively. This would reduce the stress on a single contractor of the project. Other considerations Based on the project delivery system it can be said that the project has followed by the method of the design bid build and also the complete follow-up of the project objectives which helped in the completion of the project and the best quality project delivery to the owner. The major problem which could have been faced during the development of the project was to keep in mind the location of the creation of the dam and the mythical flood control mechanism and of the cost estimation as well. Being such a large project it is important for the owner and the contractor to keep the cost of the project to a minimum as possible. Though due to lack of the potential project delivery systems used for the completion of the project many difficulties were faced during the completion of the project. References Azari, R., Kim, Y. W., Ballard, G., Cho, S. K. (2014). Starting from scratch: a new project delivery paradigm. InConstruction Research Congress 2014: Construction in a Global Network(pp. 2276-2285). Davis, A. (2016). A civil engineering feasibility study on a sustainable pumped hydroelectricity plant at Wivenhoe. El Asmar, M., Hanna, A. S., Loh, W. Y. (2013). Quantifying performance for the integrated project delivery system as compared to established delivery systems.Journal of Construction Engineering and Management,139(11), 04013012. Espada, R. J., Apan, A., McDougall, K. (2015). Vulnerability assessment and interdependency analysis of critical infrastructures for climate adaptation and flood mitigation.International Journal of Disaster Resilience in the Built Environment,6(3), 313-346. Francom, T., Asmar, M. E., Ariaratnam, S. T. (2014). Using alternative project delivery methods to enhance the cost performance of trenchless construction projects. InConstruction Research Congress 2014: Construction in a Global Network(pp. 1219-1228). Giachino, J., Cecil, M., Husselbee, B., Matthews, C. (2016). Alternative Project Delivery: Construction Management at Risk, Design-Build and Public-Private Partnerships.Proceedings of the Water Environment Federation,2016(1), 1214-1224. Kibert, C. J. (2016).Sustainable construction: green building design and delivery. John Wiley Sons. King, D. C., Ginger, J., Williams, S., Cottrell, A., Gurtner, Y., Leitch, C., ... Ewin, C. (2013).Planning, building and insuring: Adaptation of built environment to climate change induced increased intensity of natural hazards. Gold Coast: National Climate Change Adaptation Research Facility. Kovvuri, P. R. R., Sawhney, A., Ahuja, R., Sreekumar, A. (2016). Efficient Project Delivery Using Lean Principles-An Indian Case Study.Journal of The Institution of Engineers (India): Series A,97(1), 19-26. Lee, A., Nawi, M. N. M., Azman, M. N. A., Kamar, K. A. M. (2014). Fragmentation issue in Malaysian industrialised building system (IBS) projects.Journal of Engineering Science Technology (JESTEC),9(1), 97-106. Leigh, C., Watkinson, A., A. Burford, M. (2015). Effects of extreme inflows on the water quality and phytoplankton of seven reservoirs in subtropical Australia.Inland Waters,5(3), 240-252. McMahon, G. (2016). The implications of guidelines and standards allowing overtopping of dams by very large floods. In11th International Symposium on Ecohydraulics (ISE 2016)(p. 536). Engineers Australia. Nawi, M. N. M., Haron, A. T., Hamid, Z. A., Kamar, K. A. M., Baharuddin, Y. (2014). Improving Integrated Practice through Building Information Modeling-Integrated Project Delivery (BIM-IPD) for Malaysian Industrialised Building System (IBS) Construction Projects.Malaysia Construction Research Journal (MCRJ),15(2), 29-38. Pisaniello, J. D., Tingey-Holyoak, J. L. (2017). How to achieve best-practice integrated land-use and safety assurance policy for hazardous on-farm water storage.Land Use Policy,62, 268-279. Toombes, L. (2014). How far can you push a HEC-RAS model and other conundrumsa Nam Theun 2 case study. InISHS 2014-Hydraulic Structures and Society-Engineering Challenges and Extremes: Proceedings of the 5th IAHR International Symposium on Hydraulic Structures(pp. 1-8). The University of Queensland. White, S., Turner, A., Chong, J., Dickinson, M., Cooley, H., Donnelly, K. (2016). Managing drought: Learning from Australia.

My Experience in the Mission Trip Essays - Myanmar, World

My Experience in the Mission Trip When I first heard about the mission trip, I was so excited. As I was thinking about it at home, I related it to my ambition to be Paediatrician. I love working with children and I believe this could help me in my relationship with children. After much thought, I chose to join the mission trip to Myanmar. I took part in this mission trip because I had a feeling that the children in Myanmar needed help and most importantly they needed to know the gospel. I have learned something new but important instead of saying the children are disable we should use the term "differently able." On the first day, w e went to 3 different blind centres: Yangon Education Centre for the Blind to minister to the blind students. The blind students are mainly children and youth. Here, we help the children to prepare sandwiches for lunch. Aye Myittra Centre to minister to the children and a hand full of youth that differently able. Is a day care and a preschool for children. What amazes me is that both the centre were started by people who are blind. Even though, they were not in a perfect condition they did not give up and answered God's call to reach out to these differently able children. The last centre is specially for youth that were blind. They were taught to make mat and duster so that they can support the centre. With the help and training taught to the children and youth at least can experience hope for a better future. On the 3 rd day, we went on a ferry ride to Dallah . It was a fun experience, we got to travelled to a small town by trishaw. We went to three different Community Centre in Dallah . Pastor Thomas brought us to two other centres by truck. In all the places that we ministered , we s a ng our theme song " Emanualla " in Myanmar Language. We will also share our Gospel story and end with salvation prayer. We will also give out some gifts to the children like stationaries, lollipop and buns. And the children and youth would be so happy and excited to receive the gifts. We also got to visit the famous Bogyoke Market where you can buy some nice local souvenirs. We got our Myanmar traditional costume to wear for the Sunday service that we attended. On Sunday we went for service, Madam Sarah introduced the whole team some parents shared their powerful testimonies and we presented the Myanmar Song " Emanualla ." After my mother preach, we pray for the congregation and many wanted to be prayed for. So the whole team went around praying for people. It was a wonderful experience seeing even the children wanted to be prayed for too. In the evening Madam Sarah shared in Tamil and the people were blessed and encourage by it. The condition of the centre are quite rundown and they need lots of help to make the centre better for the children. The people in charge also need money to support themselves and the centre. We donated some money, fans, chairs and lyonium mat to the centre. I've learned many valuable lesson s throughout the mission trip. I've learnt that we should be thankful with whatever we have and help people who are less fortunate.

Free Essays on JetBlue Company Information

JetBlue is a low-fare, low-cost passenger airline that focuses on underserved markets and large metropolitan areas that have high average fares. JetBlue is based at New York City’s John F. Kennedy International Airport and has a west coast base in Long Beach, California near Los Angelas. The airline flies to 18 different cities within New York, California, Florida, Utah, Vermont, Louisiana, Colorado, Nevada, and Washington. Washington, DC and San Juan Puerto Rico are also flight destinations(â€Å"Learn more: fact sheet†, 2002). The fleet consists of 32 Airbus A-320s powered by. This is the only type of airplane that management wishes to use, and 100 more have been ordered for the next six years. All aircraft can hold 162 passengers in leather seats with a television at every seat (â€Å"Learn more: fact sheet†, 2002). Inflight entertainment consists of 24 channels of LiveTV, an in-air satellite system by Direct TV that David Neeleman owns. However, it is not available for the New York to Puerto Rico flight (â€Å"Jet blue: flying†, 2002). JetBlue has also teamed with Crunch Fitness International to create a Crunch Fitness Airplane Yoga Card to relax passengers without leaving their seats (â€Å"Have fun: crunch fitness†, 2002). To cut down on costs, there are no meals served on flights, but there are snacks and drinks. Acquiring a â€Å"paperless† cockpit cuts down on costs and speeds take-off time. Flights are booked online and all travel is ticketless. Those who fly often with JetBlue Airlines have the option to join the trueBlue Flight Gratitude program that is similar to competitor â€Å"frequent flyer miles† but instead uses a point system based on the length of the flight. 100 points equal one free round trip (â€Å"Jetblue: flying†, 2002). Currently, there are 2,361 JetBlue employees. No union workers are employed with this company. Employee benefits range from six types of insurance, 401(k), profit-sharing, a st... Free Essays on JetBlue Company Information Free Essays on JetBlue Company Information JetBlue is a low-fare, low-cost passenger airline that focuses on underserved markets and large metropolitan areas that have high average fares. JetBlue is based at New York City’s John F. Kennedy International Airport and has a west coast base in Long Beach, California near Los Angelas. The airline flies to 18 different cities within New York, California, Florida, Utah, Vermont, Louisiana, Colorado, Nevada, and Washington. Washington, DC and San Juan Puerto Rico are also flight destinations(â€Å"Learn more: fact sheet†, 2002). The fleet consists of 32 Airbus A-320s powered by. This is the only type of airplane that management wishes to use, and 100 more have been ordered for the next six years. All aircraft can hold 162 passengers in leather seats with a television at every seat (â€Å"Learn more: fact sheet†, 2002). Inflight entertainment consists of 24 channels of LiveTV, an in-air satellite system by Direct TV that David Neeleman owns. However, it is not available for the New York to Puerto Rico flight (â€Å"Jet blue: flying†, 2002). JetBlue has also teamed with Crunch Fitness International to create a Crunch Fitness Airplane Yoga Card to relax passengers without leaving their seats (â€Å"Have fun: crunch fitness†, 2002). To cut down on costs, there are no meals served on flights, but there are snacks and drinks. Acquiring a â€Å"paperless† cockpit cuts down on costs and speeds take-off time. Flights are booked online and all travel is ticketless. Those who fly often with JetBlue Airlines have the option to join the trueBlue Flight Gratitude program that is similar to competitor â€Å"frequent flyer miles† but instead uses a point system based on the length of the flight. 100 points equal one free round trip (â€Å"Jetblue: flying†, 2002). Currently, there are 2,361 JetBlue employees. No union workers are employed with this company. Employee benefits range from six types of insurance, 401(k), profit-sharing, a st...

Upside Down in the Middle of Nowhere Book Review

Upside Down in the Middle of Nowhere Book Review In Upside Down in the Middle of Nowhere by Julie T. Lamana, Armani Curtis, a young African-American girl living in the Ninth Ward district of New Orleans, is completely uprooted from her world when Hurricane Katrina rips through her neighborhood. In her search to be reunited with family members, she discovers personal strengths and the real meaning of community. The publisher lists the book for ages 10 and older. Summary of the Story Its late August 2005 and 9-year-old Armani Curtis, looking forward to her birthday weekend, cannot wait to join the double digits club. Nothing, not even the persistent rumors of a storm, can burst Armani’s excitement until she notices her parents’ apprehension. Focusing on her celebration, Armani is disappointed when the other members of her family, including her beloved MeMaw, seem preoccupied with threats of a dangerous storm. When her older brother Georgie tells her the next door neighbors are evacuating, she makes him promise not to tell her parents until after her birthday. Despite their worries and a stormy black sky, Armani’s parents celebrate her tenth birthday with a Bar-B-Q, a delicious buttercream cake with blue frosting, and a brand new puppy which she promptly names Cricket. The celebration is cut short when a neighbor bursts into the backyard telling everyone it’s too late to evacuate and to prepare for a major storm.   Powerful winds begin to blow shattering windows and panic ensue when Georgie notices a rapidly approaching wave of water rolling over everything in its path and heading towards their home. The levee protecting their Ninth Ward neighborhood has broken and there is nowhere to go. The family flees to the attic to save their lives, but their nightmare is just beginning. Trapped in the attic with the floodwaters rising, Armani’s asthmatic baby brother is gasping for air while there are only a few bottles of water between them.  Their crisis grows more distressing as Armani’s brother and then her father, jump into the fast-moving floodwater to capture her birthday puppy. Stranded, the family of refugees must wait for rescue while worrying about the outcome of those family members who jumped into the water. Once on dry land, Armani is left to watch over the younger kids while her mom searches desperately for a clinic to help the sickly baby. Armani realizes it is up to her to keep her small group together amidst the crisis around her. In the process, she discovers how to trust, how to survive, and how to nurture hope in the face of great despair. Author Julie T. Lamana Julie Lamana knows first-hand the destruction brought on by Hurricane Katrina. In 2005 Lamana worked as a literacy aide in a Louisiana school. In the aftermath of the hurricane, she helped displaced children and found in her experiences the seeds to write a story. As a child growing up in a military family, Lamana moved many times and found it difficult to create lasting relationships and thus found comfort in books. Now retired from education, she spends her time writing and is currently at work on her next middle-grade book. Lamana and her family Lamana live in Greenwell Springs, Louisiana.   Recommendation and Review For readers who like survival stories, Upside Down in the Middle of Nowhere is a fearsome read. Real life scenarios based on Julie Lamana’s personal experiences dealing with Hurricane Katrina create the story foundation for those uncertain first few days in the Ninth Ward district of New Orleans, Louisiana.  These experiences provided material for an authentic, emotional story for readers who value accurate detail and realistic characters. The character of Armani Curtis transforms from a self-centered, judgmental child, to a conscientious young girl who learns to accept and trust others. Despite many warnings of the approaching storm, Armani is determined to not let anything take away from her special occasion. Lamana deliberately highlights Armani’s self-centered character (pretty typical of her age) so readers can clearly identify the great emotional changes the hurricane brings about forcing Armani to put aside her childish ways in order to make independent and protective decisions about her younger siblings. Within a matter of days, Armani’s childhood vanishes.  Fear and distrust color her every action, but over time Armani begins to allow others to help her rebuild trust. Like a gathering storm, this story starts out at a leisurely pace gradually building in intensity. A typical day of riding the bus, dealing with bullies, and sitting on the front porch swing with her beloved MeMaw slowly moves into whispered rumors of a gathering storm. Television newscasts, neighbors’ midnight evacuations, and an ever-changing colorful sky take Armani and her family from a birthday celebration to a fight for survival.   A Gentle Warning for Parents Julie Lamana has personal experience with Hurricane Katrina and she witnessed the devastating physical, social, and mental effects of the hurricane. Hence, she gives readers an authentic story where a very young girl must deal with death, disease, and despair. While not graphic in detail, there is no sugarcoating about the dead bodies floating in the water, the mass looting, or desperate â€Å"crazies† that Armani meets as she struggles to make sense of the chaos around her. A worthy book to understand how a natural disaster affects a community and a family, I highly recommend Upside Down in the Middle of Nowhere. Be sure to have a box of tissues close by. (Chronicle Books, 2014. ISBN: 9781452124568)