Received: from nobody by stodi.digitalkingdom.org with local (Exim 4.87) (envelope-from ) id 1cjpCG-0008Lo-Sx for lojban-newreal@lojban.org; Fri, 03 Mar 2017 07:32:44 -0800 Received: from [50.30.36.180] (port=41068 helo=mail.strtupbizz.com) by stodi.digitalkingdom.org with esmtp (Exim 4.87) (envelope-from ) id 1cjpCB-0008KE-T2 for lojban@lojban.org; Fri, 03 Mar 2017 07:32:44 -0800 DKIM-Signature: v=1; a=rsa-sha1; c=relaxed/relaxed; s=dkim; d=strtupbizz.com; h=Date:From:To:Subject:MIME-Version:Content-Type:List-Unsubscribe:Message-ID; i=stephanie.wilcoxson@strtupbizz.com; bh=eD0GH52I0+dbrqXhRfoqL0uKiKw=; b=WUcg/+VHx0FeZwrwisxZoRyOu/gS77wsqo0LVLs4o4grERFQL3oZij8nnWht56mrVdjIJ41XgBdI aPvQWhq0Pr8dExMEnbLUhkLz3QCWSEnrBasjRqEMLuOlk4S+dilns0jhtThTPbj6K36yWB1ND4p2 1zkCnP0H009op6uzR7E= DomainKey-Signature: a=rsa-sha1; c=nofws; q=dns; s=dkim; d=strtupbizz.com; b=OP9O1Roq6cTXBK0IuC+wbWCqOXPtmmB/UDUSMlUK3wiV6jx6WCKg53NoyzQF99Ti7JNimBtfIFCk W6CZ6Fp5QD0HUrNHMTm/hQu0HfbUOI5q4oDp7mWNGpi52f3P0eZPzBGLBNDNLVs6dqbfITVLfSUI 18XuD3j4xzYCb7bL9Bk=; Received: by mail.strtupbizz.com id hn6joq0001g0 for ; Fri, 3 Mar 2017 12:20:34 -0500 (envelope-from ) Date: Fri, 3 Mar 2017 12:20:34 -0500 From: "Stephanie Wilcoxson" To: Subject: lojban you've recceived (1) urgent-message 95445791 MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: multipart/alternative; boundary="----=_Part_238_1261189168.1488554717491" X-SMTPAPI: {"category": "20170303-101821-860-389"} List-Unsubscribe: Feedback-ID: 20170303101821860389 Message-ID: <0.0.0.1A.1D2944277B79F18.3BE449@mail.strtupbizz.com> X-Spam-Score: 3.6 (+++) X-Spam_score: 3.6 X-Spam_score_int: 36 X-Spam_bar: +++ X-Spam-Report: Spam detection software, running on the system "stodi.digitalkingdom.org", has NOT identified this incoming email as spam. The original message has been attached to this so you can view it or label similar future email. If you have any questions, see the administrator of that system for details. Content preview: on this island lojban (1) important message This may be your last oppertunity for access and its important you see this [...] Content analysis details: (3.6 points, 5.0 required) pts rule name description ---- ---------------------- -------------------------------------------------- 0.0 URIBL_BLOCKED ADMINISTRATOR NOTICE: The query to URIBL was blocked. See http://wiki.apache.org/spamassassin/DnsBlocklists#dnsbl-block for more information. [URIs: strtupbizz.com] -0.0 SPF_PASS SPF: sender matches SPF record 0.0 HTML_FONT_LOW_CONTRAST BODY: HTML font color similar or identical to background 0.8 MPART_ALT_DIFF BODY: HTML and text parts are different 0.7 MIME_HTML_ONLY BODY: Message only has text/html MIME parts -1.9 BAYES_00 BODY: Bayes spam probability is 0 to 1% [score: 0.0000] 0.0 HTML_MESSAGE BODY: HTML included in message 0.0 MIME_QP_LONG_LINE RAW: Quoted-printable line longer than 76 chars 1.9 RAZOR2_CF_RANGE_E8_51_100 Razor2 gives engine 8 confidence level above 50% [cf: 100] 0.5 RAZOR2_CF_RANGE_51_100 Razor2 gives confidence level above 50% [cf: 100] 0.9 RAZOR2_CHECK Listed in Razor2 (http://razor.sf.net/) -0.1 DKIM_VALID Message has at least one valid DKIM or DK signature 0.1 DKIM_SIGNED Message has a DKIM or DK signature, not necessarily valid -0.1 DKIM_VALID_AU Message has a valid DKIM or DK signature from author's domain 0.8 RDNS_NONE Delivered to internal network by a host with no rDNS 0.0 MIME_HTML_ONLY_MULTI Multipart message only has text/html MIME parts ------=_Part_238_1261189168.1488554717491 Content-Type: text/html; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: quoted-printable =20 =20 on this island=20 =20 =20 =20 lojban (1) important mess= age=20

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=20 make its Wigmore Hall debut, they would play the quintet, and it would be especially for him. In return, he brought to Oxford from the cottage a selection of records he wanted her to learn to love. She sat dead still and listened patiently, with closed eyes and too much concentration, to Chuck Berry. He thought she might dislike Roll Over Beethoven, but she found it hilarious. She tried to find something appreciative to say about each song, but she used words like bouncy or merry or heartfelt, and he knew she was simply being kind. When he suggested that she did not really get rock and roll and there was no reason why she should continue to try, she admitted that what she could not stand was the drumming. When the tunes were so elementary, mostly in simple fourfour time, why this relentless thumping and crashing and clattering to keep time? What was the point, when there was already a rhythm guitar, and often a piano? If the musicians needed to hear the beats, why not get a metronome? What if the Ennismore Quartet took on a drummer? He kissed her and told her she was the squarest person in all of Western civilization. But you love me, she said. Therefore I love you. In early August, when a Turville Heath neighbor fell ill, Edward was offered his parttime job, on a temporary basis, as groundsman at the Turville cricket club. He was to put in twelve hours a week, and he=20



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Pam Neiland . 219 Chris St Fairmont Wv * 26554-9397 =20 latticed window of the sitting room to the bottom of the garden, where Florence and his mother sat on the bench, each with a pair of scissors and copies of Life magazine, chatting as they cut up pages. When they came in from school, the girls must have taken Florence to see a neighbor’s newborn donkey, for another view showed all three coming back across the green, arm in arm. A third was of Florence taking a tray of tea out into the garden to his father. Oh yes, he should not doubt it, she was a good person, the best, and that summer all the Mayhews fell in love with Florence. The twins came to Oxford with him and spent the day on the river with Florence and her sister. Marjorie was always asking after Florence, though she could never remember her name, and Lionel Mayhew, in all his worldliness, advised his son to marry that girl before she got away. He conjured these memories of last year, the cottage postcards, the walk under the limes, the Oxford summer, not from a sentimental desire to compound or indulge his sorrow but to dispel it and feel himself in love, and to hold back the advance of an element that initially he did not care to admit, the beginnings of a darkening of mood, a darker reckoning, a trace of poison that even now was branching through his being. Anger. The demon he had kept down earlier when he thought his patience was about to break. How tempting to give in to it, now that he was alone and could let it burn. After such humiliation, his selfrespect demanded it. And=20 though he did not entirely rule out the electric guitar. On that particular afternoon Sonia, the viola player from Florence’s floor, arrived to work on the Mozart quintet. At last they were ready to begin. There was the briefest tightening silence, which may have been scored by Mozart himself. As soon as they started to play, Edward was struck by the sheer volume, and the muscularity of the sound, and the velvety interleaving of the instruments, and for minutes on end he actually enjoyed the musiuntil he lost the thread and became bored in a familiar way with the prim agitation and sameness of it all. Then Florence called a halt and quietly gave notes, and there was a general discussion until they began again. This happened several times, and repetition began to reveal to Edward a discernible sweet melody, and various passing entanglements between the players, and daring swoops and leaps that he came to look out for next time around. Later, on the train home, he was able to tell her with complete honesty that he had been moved by the music, and he even hummed bits to her. Florence was so touched, she made another promisagain, that thrilling solemnity that seemed to double the size of her eyes. When the great day came for the Ennismore to=20 her hair with a scrap of black velvet, she wore black jeans and plimsolls, and a white shirt, through a buttonhole of which she had threaded a rakish dandelion. As they walked toward the cottage she kept tugging on his grassstained arm for another kiss, though of the lightest sort, and for once he happily, or at least calmly, accepted that they would go no further. After she peeled her remaining orange for them to share along the way, her hand was sticky in his. They were innocently thrilled by her clever surprise, and their lives seemed hilarious and free, and the whole weekend lay before them. The memory of that stroll from the cricket ground to the cottage taunted Edward now, a year later, on his wedding night, as he rose from the bed in the semidarkness. He was feeling the pull of contrary emotions and needed to hold on to all his best, his kindest thoughts of her, or else he thought he would fold, he would simply give up. There was a liquid heaviness in his legs as he crossed the room to retrieve his underpants from the floor. He put them on, picked up his trousers and stood for a good while with them dangling from his hand as he stared out the window at the windshrunken trees, darkened now to a continuous graygreen mass. High up was a=20 smoky halfmoon, casting virtually no light. The sound of waves collapsing onto the shore at regular intervals broke in on his thoughts, as though suddenly switched on, and filled him with weariness; the relentless laws and processes of the physical world, of moon and tides, in which he generally took little interest, were not remotely altered by his situation. This overobvious fact was too harsh. How could he get by, alone and unsupported? And how could he go down and face her on the beach, where he guessed she must be? His trousers felt heavy and ridiculous in his hand, these parallel tubes of cloth joined at one end, an arbitrary fashion of recent centuries. Putting them on, it seemed to him, would return him to the social world, to his obligations and to the true measure of his shame. Once dressed, he would have to go and find her. And so he delayed. Like many vivid memories, his recollection of strolling toward Turville Heath with Florence created a penumbra of oblivion around it. They must have arrived at the cottage to find his mother alonhis father and the girls would have still been at school. Marjorie Mayhew was usually flustered by a strange face, but Edward retained no impression of introducing Florence, or of how she responded to the crammed and squalid rooms, and the stench of drains, always at its worst in summer, that drifted in from the kitchen. He had only snatches of memories of the afternoon, certain views, like old postcards. One was through the smeared,=20 told him that one day it would happen, she had made up her mind: the Ennismore Quartet would perform here, play beautifully and triumph. He loved her for the solemnity of her promise. He kissed her, and then he jumped down into the auditorium and stood three rows back, dead center, and vowed that whatever happened, he would be here on that day, in this very seat, 9C, and he would lead the applause and the bravos at the end. When the rehearsal began, Edward sat quietly in a corner of the bare room in a state of profound happiness. He was discovering that being in love was not a steady state, but a matter of fresh surges or waves, and he was experiencing one now. The cellist, clearly disconcerted by Florence’s new friend, was a pudding of a fellow with a stammer and a terrible skin condition, and Edward was able to feel sorry for him and generously forgive his slavish fixation on Florence, for he too could not keep his eyes off her. She was in a state of trancelike contentment as she settled down to work with her friends. She put on her headband, and Edward, waiting for the session to begin, fell into a reverie, not only about with Florence but marriage, and family, and the daughter they might have. Surely it was a mark of his maturity to contemplate such things. Perhaps it was just a respectable variation of an old dream of being loved by more than one girl. She would have her mother’s beauty and seriousness, and lovely straight back, and was sure to play an instrumenthe violin, probably,=20 their early love, when they went slowly, arm in arm, back up the glorious avenue, walking in the center of the lane to take full possession. Now that it was inevitable, the prospect of her encounter with his mother and the cottage no longer seemed important. The shadows the lime trees cast were so deep they appeared bluish black in the brilliant light, and the heath was thick with fresh grasses and wildflowers. He showed off his knowledge of their country names and even found, by luck, by the roadside, a clump of Chiltern gentians. They picked just one. They saw a yellowhammer, a green finch, and then a sparrowhawk flashed by, cutting a narrow angle around a blackthorn tree. She did not know the names even of common birds like these, but she said she was determined to learn. She was exultant from the beauty of her walk and the clever route she had chosen, leaving the Stonor Valley to go along the narrow farm track into lonely Bix Bottom, past the ruined ivycovered church of St. James, up the wooded slopes to the common at Maidensgrove, where she discovered an immense expanse of wildflowers, then through the beech woods to Pishill Bank, where a little brickandflint church and its churchyard were poised so beautifully on the side of the hill. As she described each placand he knew them all so welhe imagined her there, on her own, walking toward him for hours, stopping only to frown at her map. All for him. What a gift! And he had never seen her so happy, or so pretty. She had tied back=20 could do them whenever he wanted. He liked to leave the cottage in the early morning, before even his father was awake, and saunter through the noise of birdsong down the limetree avenue to the grounds as if he owned the place. During his first week he prepared the pitch for the local derby, the big game against Stonor. He cut the grass, hauled the roller and helped a carpenter who came up from Hambleden to build and paint a new sightscreen. Whenever he was not working or needed around the house, he headed straight for Oxford, not only because he longed to see Florence, but also because he wanted to forestall the visit she was bound to make to meet his family. He did not know what she and his mother would think of each other, or how Florence would react to the filth and disorder of the cottage. He thought he needed time to prepare both women, but as it turned out, it was not necessary; crossing the grounds one hot early Friday afternoon, he found Florence waiting for him in the shadow of the pavilion. She knew his hours, and had taken an early train and walked from Henley toward the Stonor Valley, with a oneinchtothemile map in her hand and a couple of oranges in a canvas satchel. For half an hour she had been watching him as he marked out the far boundary. Loving him from a distance, she said when they kissed. That was one of the exquisite moments of=20 3D""/ ------=_Part_238_1261189168.1488554717491--