Robert Burns Quotes (Author of Poems and Songs)
Macy Gray - I Try (Video Version)
My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here
ON a misty Friday morning, the lobby of the King Thomond Hotel is thronged with people from different countries, snippets of various languages filling the air. All of the residents are getting used to the changeable weather of North Clare, while many are learning a new language. A reality of working in local papers is that you frequently meet people who are happy to tell you what they think, but not to be quoted or have their names used. While generally this is because of a type of shyness, when it comes to the asylum-seekers in Lisdoonvarna — who know very few Clare Champion readers — it is in some cases rooted in a genuine fear of reprisal from those who opposed them on another continent. Despite having come from the Middle East, she was very comfortable with Irish weather.
Here's My Heart
Netflix's gripping, unsettling psychological drama Mindhunter is a show in which two men — FBI agents Holden Ford Jonathan Groff and Bill Tench Holt McCallany — interview dozens of incarcerated serial killers in the s, developing the methodology we now know as criminal profiling. Between the male-dominated Bureau and the so far entirely male interview subjects, the show could easily become a testosterone fest. But it never does, thanks, in part, to its numerous female writers, and in part to Anna Torv's commanding, nuanced performance as Dr. Wendy Carr. A psychology professor hired to bring scientific legitimacy to Ford and Tench's nascent work, Wendy's role is to analyze what serial killers say about themselves and develop insights from there. As was hinted in season one and becomes much clearer in season two, Wendy's unflappable exterior belies a complex inner life: she is gay, and unable to be publicly out in an era where homosexuality had only recently been removed from the DSM as a mental disorder.
Richmond Lattimore ; Achilles to Agamemnon. Sweet Love on high, lead on where shepherds are, Where Time is not, and only dreamers are. Star from of old, the Magi-Kings are dead And a foolish Saxon seeks the manger-bed. O lead me to Jehovah's child Across this dreamland lone and wild, Then will I speak this prayer unsaid, And kiss his little haloed head— "My star and I, we love thee, little child. Then you come crashing in, like the realest thing, Trying my best to understand all that your love can bring.