Craigslist austin farm garden

Hound's Head Manor

2023.06.07 14:49 kyraaaaaxd Hound's Head Manor

Hound's Head Manor
Hi all, I made this build a year ago and thought I would share! I'm not the best at taking photos, so bare with me 😅
This manor belongs to Actress and Singer, Judith Ward and her husband & writer, Marcus Ward and their two children, Juliet and Matthew.
The Manor consists of 4 bedroom, with Judith and Marcus having their own rooms, a pool house & gym, and a little cottage by the farm for the live-in gardener and Au Pair.
Rumour has it that this power-house couple aren't as united as they post in the press and it isn't just separate bedrooms that indicate this. Some may say the Au-Pair and Marcus spend much of their days together due to Judith always jetting off to the big city....
I hope you guys like it :)
There is CC: HeyHarrie, Felixandre, Ravasheen, Pierisims, Little Dica & Peacemaker. As well as TwistedMexi's BetterBuild Mod
Gallery ID: kyraaaaxd (CC on required)
submitted by kyraaaaaxd to Sims4 [link] [comments]


2023.06.07 14:43 kyraaaaaxd Hound's Head Manor

Hound's Head Manor
Hi all, I made this build a year ago and thought I would share! I'm not the best at taking photos, so bare with me 😅
This manor belongs to Actress and Singer, Judith Ward and her husband, Marcus Ward and their two children, Juliet and Matthew.
The Manor consists of 4 bedroom, with Judith and Marcus having their own rooms, a pool house & gym, and a little cottage by the farm for the live-in gardener and Au Pair.
I hope you guys like it :)
There is CC: HeyHarrie, Felixandre, Ravasheen, Pierisims, Little Dica & Peacemaker. As well as TwistedMexi's BetterBuild Mod
Gallery ID: kyraaaaxd (CC on required)
submitted by kyraaaaaxd to thesims [link] [comments]


2023.06.07 13:10 Asger0599 That's a lot of farming exp right?

That's a lot of farming exp right? submitted by Asger0599 to HypixelSkyblock [link] [comments]


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submitted by FappidyDat to indiegameswap [link] [comments]


2023.06.07 11:19 Willing_4345 Sushi Empire Tycoon Hack Mod Unlimited Cash and Gems iOS & Android

https://peatix.com/use17665049/view

Ready to run your restaurant empire and collect the freshest ingredients to succeed?

Sushi Empire Tycoon is an addictive and engaging mobile game that puts you in charge of your own virtual sushi restaurant. The game's unique idle gameplay mechanics allow you to progress even when you're away from the game, making it the perfect pick-up-and-play experience for busy players.

The main goal is to build up your business empire by serving demanding customers delicious dishes like California rolls, sashimi, or maki rolls and grow by upgrading your restaurant and hiring talented staff members. You'll need to adapt your strategy to manage your working teams, deal with suppliers, and plant your own zero-mile ingredients in your garden to ensure you always have the freshest ingredients for your elaborations. And, of course, you’ll need a boat fleet to catch the best fish in the deep seas!

You'll start small, with just a few basic meals and a simple setup, but as you progress, you'll unlock new recipes, like spicy tuna rolls and dragon rolls. You’ll also be able to customize and decorate your venue with exclusive items which will take your restaurant to the next level.

The game features beautiful graphics and charming animations that bring your restaurant to life. You'll watch as customers sit down to enjoy your dishes, leaving them satisfied and eager to return. As you grow your business, you'll encounter new challenges that will test your management skills. But with each success, you'll feel the satisfaction of seeing your restaurant thrive.

The game is easy to pick up and play, but its deep and challenging gameplay will keep you coming back for more. Sushi Empire Tycoon is a must-play whether you're a fan of idle games, tycoon games, or simply a sushi lover. With its fun storyline, addicting gameplay, and charming graphics, it's sure to be a hit with players of all ages. So why wait? Start building your sushi empire today!

Main Features:

- Casual and strategic gameplay for every player
- Innovative mechanics: farm and fishing management and supply chain.
- More detailed management system
- Dozens of objects to be unlocked and upgraded
- Lots of characters and interactions
- Funny 3d graphics and great animations
- Management of a successful business
- A small living world in miniature
submitted by Willing_4345 to goodtechnews [link] [comments]


2023.06.07 11:04 lechatheureux The Tonpa Kingdoms Part 2 (The Kingdoms of Jangshun and Monyul)

Check out part 1 for context
The Tonpa Kingdoms Part 1 (Overview and The Gods) : worldbuilding (reddit.com)
There are 5 connected Kingdoms that have Tonpa as their main religion these are.
Jangshun
A Place of snow-capped Mountains and green Valleys, said to be built upon the ruins of the ancient Jungar people who controlled much of the area of Jangshun and the nearby kingdoms of Monyul and Taishigang.
Very little is known about the Jungar, their ruins are scattered throughout the landscape of Jangshun, and are often characterized by simple stone structures, pottery shards, and other artifacts. Based on these remains, it is believed that the Jungar were a relatively simple society, with a lifestyle that revolved around farming, herding, and other basic activities.
Despite their lack of sophistication, the Jugar are an important part of the history and culture of the region many myths and legends have grown up around them, the people of Jangshun often see the Jungar as a symbol of the enduring spirit of the region, and take pride in the fact that they were able to survive and thrive in a harsh and unforgiving environment. In addition to their physical remains, the Jungar have left a lasting impact on the people of Jangshun in other ways. Their language, customs, and traditions are thought to have influenced the culture of the later kingdom, and many people still feel a strong connection to the Jagun and their way of life.
The Capital of Jangshun is called Druktse, founded by Dragon Priests and the legendary Namgyal dynasty the city is known for its unique architecture, with buildings made of wood and stone, intricately carved and painted with colorful designs and motifs, the streets are narrow and winding, with prayer flags fluttering in the breeze and the sound of temple bells ringing in the air.
At the center of the city is the Royal Palace of Jigme Wangchuk, a majestic building that serves as the residence of the Royal Family, the palace consists of several wings and halls, each with its own specific function. The main hall is the center of political and ceremonial activities, where the king held court and received important guests. The royal family's private quarters were located in a separate wing, with opulent living spaces and lavish decorations.
One of the most impressive features of the palace is the Eagle Tower, a tall structure that houses the elite Eagle Guards, who were responsible for the king's security the tower is covered from top to bottom with intricate carvings of the bird of prey.
The palace is surrounded by lush gardens and fountains, and it is guarded by soldiers in traditional Eagle attire, the Eagle Guards of the palace of Jingme Wangchuk are an elite group of soldiers tasked with protecting the king and the royal family, known for their fearsome reputation and exceptional combat skills, the Eagle Guards are considered one of the most prestigious units in the Jangshun army.
The guards are named after the majestic eagles that inhabit the mountainous regions of Jangshun, and they were trained to emulate the hunting tactics of these birds of prey. They are adept at using the terrain to their advantage, and are particularly skilled at scaling steep cliffs and mountainous terrain to surprise and overwhelm their enemies. In addition to their exceptional combat skills, the Eagle Guards were also known for their loyalty and dedication to the royal family. They undergo rigorous training and were selected based on their physical prowess, intelligence, and character, to become an Eagle Guard, applicants must be graduates of both the School of the Father and School of the Dragon.
The Eagle Guards are outfitted in distinctive uniforms that featured a stylized eagle emblem, and they were armed with a variety of weapons, including bows, spears, and swords. They were also known to use eagle feathers and talons in their armor and equipment, as a nod to the unit's namesake.
Druktse is a hub of cultural and religious activities, with several monasteries and temples located throughout the city.
The most famous of these is the Tashicho Dzong, a stunning fortress monastery that serves as the seat of The Gyelpa (The Duke) the secondary ruler of Druktse and the center of Druk-Ta worship. The dzong is surrounded by high walls and towers, and is accessible through a grand gate that is guarded by soldiers. The interior of the dzong is a maze of courtyards, chapels, and offices, all connected by narrow passageways and staircases.
One of the most impressive features of Tashicho Dzong is its towering central fortress and monastery, which rises above the rest of the complex and can be seen from miles around. This fortress is home to the Dragon Priests and is one of the most important structures in Jangshun. The fortress monastery is also famous for its beautiful architecture and intricate artwork. The walls of the courtyards are adorned with colorful murals and paintings, while the chapels are filled with statues and other religious artifacts. Visitors to Tashicho Dzong can tour the complex and learn about Jangshun history and culture, as well as observe the daily routines of the monks who live and work there. The Monastery is open to the public during certain hours of the day, and visitors are advised to dress modestly and remove their shoes before entering the chapels. Even though the current royal family of Jangshun are connected to The Father, The Dragon holds a special place in Druktse.
The people of Druktse are known for their warm hospitality and their strong sense of community. They celebrate several festivals throughout the year, including the annual Tshechu festival, the 3 Gods Festival which features colorful dances and rituals performed by monks and laypeople.
To the north-east of the Kingdom lies the second biggest city in Jangshun, the city of Lhagyal, often called “The Fire-proof City”
Lhagyal is a mass of stone walls and buildings with precious little wood being used at all, the walls of the city are imposingly high and even the central palace is relatively flat and does not rise above the walls, there are 4 gates made of pure steel and those are the only entrances and exits.
Inside the city walls, the streets are narrow and winding, with tall, tightly packed buildings constructed from rough-hewn stone. The architecture is distinct, with flat roofs and ornate metal doors decorating the doorways and windows, many of the buildings are built into the city's walls, their backs resting against the ancient stones.
There is more to the city than what meets the eye. Beneath the streets lie a labyrinth of tunnels and catacombs, built for both practical and spiritual purposes. Some are used for storage or as escape routes, while others are filled with ancient artifacts and sacred relics. The catacombs are also home to a complex network of underground temples and shrines and busy streets that are home to underground residences and businesses.
Despite its rugged appearance, the city's architecture is a testament to its resilience. It has withstood numerous attempts at invasion over the centuries, including attacks by powerful enemies armed with the latest in siege weaponry. The city's fortifications are a marvel of engineering, designed to withstand even the most devastating attacks and yet, for all its defensive prowess, the city has never lost sight of its cultural heritage.
The most famous instance of this was when the neighbouring Confucian Kingdom of Jinyun attempted to invade Jangshun with its impressive military might, scores of loyal foot-soldiers hardened by decades of conflict and advanced siege technology that included weapons that used fireworks.
The city withstood months of warfare with Lhagyal earning its nickname of “The Fire-proof City” The stone structures withstood the fireworks and the hard rock of the walls withstood the Jinyun catapults, outside the city several guerilla efforts by the Eagle Guards, The Company of the Hand and The White Tigers from Monyul lending their support repelled attempted on-foot invasions by the hardened Jinyun soldiers.
In the south-west of Jangshun, near the borders of Monyul and Taishigang lies the town of Gyalpeling, a place revered by monks and pilgrims alike. Gyalpeling, meaning "Abode of the Victorious" is a small yet vibrant town located in a remote corner of the kingdom. Its strategic location, surrounded by imposing mountains and blessed with fertile lands, has made it a crucial hub for spiritual activities and monastic life. The town is centered around a grand monastery, which serves as the heart and soul of the community. The monastery, known as Samtenling Monastery, is a majestic complex of ornate buildings adorned with colorful murals, fluttering prayer flags, and the sound of chanting monks echoing through the air. It is a revered place of worship and learning, drawing scholars, practitioners, and seekers of wisdom from far and wide. The streets of Gyalpeling are lined with modest housing for monks, adorned with intricate woodcarvings and colorful paintings. The locals, known for their warm hospitality and deep reverence for Tonpa, every activity the townspeople engage in helps the monastery in some way, whether trading, farming or craftsmanship, every resident of Gyalpeling helps out the monastery in some way. The town also boasts natural hot springs, believed to have healing properties, which attract pilgrims and visitors seeking solace and rejuvenation. The pristine rivers and lakes surrounding Gyalpeling add to its enchanting beauty, serving as places for meditation, ritual ablutions, and scenic walks. Gyalpeling is not only a place of spiritual significance, but it also serves as a center of learning, with numerous scriptoria, libraries, and meditation caves where monks engage in intensive study, contemplation, and meditation, prospective monks come from all over the 5 Kingdoms to study in Gyalpeling, as monks educated within its walls are valued in any court of the Tonpa Kingdoms.
One of the most valuable cities in Jangshun isn't far from the capital, a short 1 hour horse ride east of Druktse stands the city of Jangtse, a jewel in the crown of the kingdom. Jangtse, meaning "Silver Peak" in the local tongue, owes its fame and prosperity to the rich veins of silver that run through the nearby mountains, making it a thriving center for mining and trade. At the heart of Jangtse rises a magnificent conical palace, known as Jang Potrang, or the "Silver Palace." The palace, glistening like a beacon atop the tallest hill in the city, is adorned with silver-plated roofs, walls, and pillars, reflecting the sunlight and casting a mesmerizing glow over the surrounding landscape. It serves as the royal residence, where the Count holds court and conducts affairs pertaining to the area between Jangtse and Druktse. The streets of Jangtse are lined with buildings that boast silver-plated facades, creating a surreal and shimmering sight as one walks through the city, often shining gold from reflecting the sunlight, the wealth of the city is evident in the intricate silver filigree work that adorns windows, doors, and rooftops of temples, mansions, and markets alike. The silversmiths of Jangtse are renowned for their craftsmanship, producing exquisite silverware and jewelry that are sought after by collectors and traders from distant lands. The city is a bustling center of commerce, with a vibrant market square where merchants from across the region gather to trade in silver, gemstones, textiles, and other precious goods. The sounds of bartering, laughter, and the clinking of silver coins fill the air.
The Armies of Jangshun are known for their ferocious foot-soldiers, the every-day rank and file soldiers of the Jangshun armies are regarded as the best in the region and are a feared prospect to face on any battlefield.
The soldiers of the army of Jangshun are highly disciplined and skilled in the art of warfare, and are renowned throughout the region for their courage and loyalty. They are trained in a variety of weapons and fighting styles, including archery, swordsmanship, and hand-to-hand combat.
It is said that the success of the army comes from the fact that many men and women who fight in it are from mountainous regions and are conditioned from a young age to move over mountainous land with ease, their armies can easily traverse land that would be impossible for normal armies to travel over, due to the fact that the soldiers know the land.
The army of Jangshun is led by a commander-in-chief, who is appointed by the common foot-soldiers and is responsible for the overall strategy and tactics of the army. Under the commander-in-chief, there are several generals and officers who oversee different units of the army, each with their own specific roles and responsibilities. The soldiers of the army of Jangshun are equipped with a variety of weapons and armor, including shields, helmets, and chainmail. They are also skilled in the use of traditional weapons, such as the da and the gochu, which are types of swords. In addition to their skills in battle, the soldiers of the army of Jangshun are also highly respected for their loyalty and devotion to their ruler and country. They are known for their strong sense of duty and honor, and are willing to lay down their lives in defense of their homeland. The army of Jangshun is often called upon to defend the kingdom against invading forces, and has a long history of successful battles and campaigns. Their reputation for courage and skill has earned them the respect of their neighbors and allies, and they are a source of pride and inspiration for the people of Jangshun.
One of the most famous regiments from Jangshun is the “Wheel of Steel” A heavily armored longsword unit founded by Princess Jamyang Daughter of King Kunga and Sister of King Yangchen of the Yeshe Dynasty after she travelled to Europe and witnessed people fighting in full suits of armor, this was a foreign concept in the areas around her and she implemented the idea with her Father's (And later Brother's) full support they were first deployed in aid of Taishigang who were experiencing an invasion from a nearby Dharmist Kingdom. The longswords cleaved through the invading forces lack of armor and their steel plates deflected blows.
Monyul
Monyul is a land of vast open spaces and stunning natural beauty. The kingdom is home to a proud and fiercely independent people, who have built a rich culture and a strong military tradition, its plains are green and warm during the summer but snow is not uncommon in winter. Dharmaling is the capital city of Monyul and is nestled in the hills, surrounded by winding rivers and vast grasslands. It is a city steeped in tradition and culture, with a rich history that stretches back centuries.
Dharmaling was built as the northern most outpost of the Dharmist Indraprastha Empire but was conquered by Tonpa forces from a tribe that would eventually become known as the Monyul. The city is built around a central marketplace, where merchants from all over the known world come to trade their wares. The marketplace is a bustling hub of activity, filled with the sounds of bargaining and haggling, and the aromas of exotic spices and perfumes.
The Company of the Wind have their main offices in Dharmaling and use the bustling 10 storey wooden building to plan its operations throughout the known world. The streets of Dharmaling are relatively wide due to the constant horse carts that pass through them. The buildings are made of stone and wood, with intricately carved facades and ornate balconies. Many of the houses have flat roofs, which are used as outdoor living spaces during the warmer months. At the heart of the city lies the great monastery of The 3 Gods, unlike in other cities which have separate monasteries for the three Gods, this temple combines them as a display of unity between the three sects. The massive structure dominates the skyline, with its towering walls and intricate carvings. The monastery is home to a community of monks, who dedicate their lives to the study and practice of Tonpa. Surrounding the monastery are the homes of the nobility, who are known for their wealth and power. These grand estates are filled with beautiful gardens and courtyards, and are often adorned with intricate carvings and colorful murals. Outside the city walls, the landscape is dotted with small villages and nomadic encampments. These communities are home to herders and farmers, who make their living tending to the region's yaks and sheep. Despite its remote location, Dharmaling is a city of great importance, both culturally and politically. It is a place of pilgrimage for Monks, Merchants and laypeople from all over the world, and is also a hub of trade and commerce. The people of Dharmaling are proud of their heritage and their way of life, and are fiercely protective of their city and its traditions.
A 30 minute walk to the west of Dharmaling lies the Temple of Tong Thang, the Beehive Temple, as visitors approach the temple, they are greeted by the gentle humming of bees that buzz around the entrance, seemingly inviting them inside, the entrance is adorned with ornate wooden doors intricately carved with depictions of bees in flight, the temple is home to hundreds of bee colonies. The interior of the temple is a marvel of craftsmanship.The walls are adorned with honeycomb patterns carved into the stone, creating a mesmerizing visual display. Soft light filters through small openings in the dome-shaped ceiling, the centerpiece of the temple is a large altar made of honey-colored stone, adorned with intricate carvings of bees and honeycombs, where devotees offer their prayers and offerings. The Temple of Thong Tang is a place of worship dedicated to the reverence of bees and their significance in nature and the cycle of life, every day priests and priestesses of The Mother make their way to the temple to tend to the bees, bringing them water and sliced fruits, every year there is a festival outside the temple where priests and priestesses of Caihong distribute honey gathered from the bees.
Monyul is home to a large lake called Jangchub Tso, the lake is bordered by lush green forests and snow-capped mountains to the south-east, a product of Monyul's border with Taishigang.
On the edge of the lake there is a large city called "Gangri Thang", which is known for its fish markets and skilled boatwrights, nobles from the surrounding Kingdoms often commission boatwrights from Gangri Thang to build grand freshwater barges for them.
Several villages surround the lake, mostly fishing and farming communities, every spring fishermen from these villages make their way to Gangri Thang with hundreds of fish, hoping to hock their catch to fishmongers, tourists and Company of the Wind officers.
The fish they carry is mainly the several species of trout that live in the lake but a few of the lucky ones carry the Golden Mahseer, a gleaming fish variety that is said to be very difficult to catch, although the taste of the fish pales in comparison to the trout, the Golden Mahseer is revered for its scales that give off a vibrant golden glow, these scales are often used in ceremonial dress of the region adoring clothing and jewellery.
The people of Monyul are also skilled artisans, known for their intricate weavings and pottery. The kingdom is home to many workshops and marketplaces, where merchants sell their wares to buyers from all over the region. The people of Monyul are known for their skill at horsemanship, and the kingdom is home to some of the finest cavalry units in the region. The army of Monyul is also composed of archers and spearmen, who are trained in the art of mounted combat and guerrilla warfare.
The most prestigious regiment of Monyul is a cavalry unit called the White Tigers, the horsemasters of the White Tigers are known as the strictest in the Tonpa Kingdoms, if a horse fails a single training drill both the horse and rider are deemed unworthy. The White Tigers main weapon is a thick spear, painted red with a bronze spearhead, it has a heavy counterweight at the back that also doubles as a blunt weapon. Their secondary weapons are a heavy sword and a short bow.
submitted by lechatheureux to worldbuilding [link] [comments]


2023.06.07 09:20 Nicdutch Going organic and micro farming!

Going organic and micro farming!
After playing Farming Simulator for the past couple of years, I felt that I needed a new challenge. Therefore, I decided to go (almost) fully organic, and to start from the bottom of the ladder which meant micro farming.
That means that I gave myself 200 000 $ loan, that’s it, with which I bought myself two pieces of land (108 000 $), including one that was a property where I would live. I built on that one seven gardens at 2000 $ each and three chicken coop.
With that budget, no way I could afford a tractor. So all I used for the first years of the game was the John Deere Gator 4X2
 which is a BEAST! And all I allowed myself to do is rent the smallest pieces of equipment to work my field.
Going organic also meant that I wouldn’t use any chemical fertilizer on my fields. Only cover crops. It also meant that any fruits, vegetable, honey or eggs I would produce had to be sold immediately, just like in real life. So I built myself a little selling lodge next to my house.
After a couple of years, I was able to repay my loan and buy an extra piece of land. On it, I built two pigsties. Yes, pigsties are not exactly organic, but that was the only way I could collect slurry to fertilize my fields. That’s pretty much the only non-organic thing I allowed myself to do. However, when it came to feeding the pigs, everything had to come from my harvests. In fact, I never allowed myself to sell more than 50 000 L of grain each year. If I had more than that, it meant I was relying too much on machinery.
Money started to come in. So, in the following years, I started to add many more greenhouses, foil tunnels, strawberry fields and I even built myself a pretty big Ă©rabliĂšre (as we say in QuĂ©bec, maple farms for everyone else), always trying to stay as organic as possible. Unfortunately, with every greenhouse mod in FS22, you have to use chemical fertilizer instead of organic (which would cost more), but you don’t get a cash bonus for growing organic foods, so I guess it evens out.
So, after playing more than 275 hours, I’ve pretty much reached my ending point. Especially that I just built my own farming market, which is not only meant to sell what I’m growing, but also to attract tourists. As you can see in the pictures, I have two small pastures, for pigs and for sheeps, a barn for chickens and a playground, just to attract kids and their parents. There’s also a BBQ place when I invite the best Instagram influencers to help my marketing. We’re also selling plants for three times what they’re worth!
So, was this challenge fun? Sure was! It’s a different way of to think the game, where it’s not about buying bigger and bigger equipment, but rather to do more with every little acre you own.
submitted by Nicdutch to farmingsimulator [link] [comments]


2023.06.07 07:18 ThatEndGuy1 Was bored so I made a map of the valley, how does it look?

Took me three or four hours but I love the way it looks. Might not be perfect, so any suggestions?
submitted by ThatEndGuy1 to Temecula [link] [comments]


2023.06.07 07:00 BevoBot [6/7/2023] Wednesday's Off Topic Free Talk Thread

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submitted by BevoBot to LonghornNation [link] [comments]


2023.06.07 06:56 xploremore2022 Another “rate my itinerary” post — anything I’m missing or should nix?

Heading to Iceland in 2 weeks and will be there for a week. We are renting a car and plan to spend the first day in Reykjavik and then spend the rest of the time driving the ring road. We did decide against the Golden Circle due to time constraints in the southern region. Also important to note that we are open to flexibility with this schedule and aren’t rigid about making sure we hit all these stops — for example, if we enjoy a certain spot, we may choose to stay there longer and skip something else.
Day 1 —
Day 2 —
Day 3 —
Day 4 —
Day 5 —
Day 6 —
Day 7 —
submitted by xploremore2022 to VisitingIceland [link] [comments]


2023.06.07 06:29 Adorable_Choice_8528 Some photos I took of the gardening section at the 123 Farm Lavender Festival in Cherry Valley, CA.

Some photos I took of the gardening section at the 123 Farm Lavender Festival in Cherry Valley, CA.
Like the title says, I went to the Lavender Festival at 123 farms and wanted to share these photos of their gardening section because the set up and aesthetic was just incredible. The plants were all locally grown and displayed on vintage vanity dressers. They had chandeliers hanging from the trees and of course, twinkly lights everywhere! All of the products in the Flower Shop were all from small businesses therefore they were unique, handmade products that you can only get there.
I highly recommend going if you are ever near Cherry Valley, CA. The festival goes one for a couple of months. I love about 5 minutes away from the farm and actually have a year pass so I frequent this place quite often. đŸ˜ŠđŸŒžđŸŒŒđŸŒ·
submitted by Adorable_Choice_8528 to gardening [link] [comments]


2023.06.07 06:18 Adorable_Choice_8528 More pictures from the Lavender Festival at 123 Farm in Cherry Valley, CA

More pictures from the Lavender Festival at 123 Farm in Cherry Valley, CA
I posted some photos earlier from my day at the 123 Farm Lavender Festival and wanted to share some more!
These pictures are from the gardening section. They were selling flowers and plants that are locally grown. All of the products that were inside the flower shop are also handmade, from small businesses. The whole set up and aesthetic was gorgeous and these pictures don’t even do it justice although I tried to capture it the best I could. đŸ˜ŠđŸŒžđŸŒŒđŸŒ»đŸŒ·
submitted by Adorable_Choice_8528 to cottagecore [link] [comments]


2023.06.07 04:08 United-Swordfish-799 Neighbours putting putrid substance on their garden every night

I’m looking for advice. I live in a rowhouse in the west end with a small back yard — a tiny outdoor space that means a lot to me and my family. We’ve been here for 12 years, and have had the same neighbours on both sides the whole time. We don’t know them well though (language and age differences). The problem with them started a few summers ago. Some evenings we’d step out back and be hit with an absolutely putrid smell
 think port-a-potty on a hot day. Like a farm, but with a smell much worse than your typical manure. Absolutely gag-inducing.
We had no idea what it was at first, but finally one evening we saw one of the family members from that house spreading something from large plastic buckets all over their garden. And that seemed to be the source of the smell. It must be something they’re using to fertilize their garden, but what the hell could it be? I hate confrontation, but realized that the most direct way to deal with it would be to speak with them. I knocked on the door and the family member who answered spoke no English, but when I pointed at the back and plugged my nose he nodded like he knew exactly what I was talking about! The gross smell stopped for a while — that was last summer. I think I had to go back again once or twice and ask them to stop.
Unfortunately they’re back at it again and it’s stronger than ever. Tonight we can’t even have our back windows open — the stench is wafting right in. Here’s what I’m wondering:
Is there anything I can do, other than repeatedly asking them to stop? (and hoping they understand/comply)?
Is there a bylaw that would apply here?
Can I call 311 or any other City service for help?
TIA!
submitted by United-Swordfish-799 to askTO [link] [comments]


2023.06.07 03:58 _TURO_ Pretty happy with how this terraced farm/garden turned out

Pretty happy with how this terraced farm/garden turned out submitted by _TURO_ to valheim [link] [comments]


2023.06.07 03:45 sammytiel Current collection. Any recommendations?

Current collection. Any recommendations? submitted by sammytiel to xbox360 [link] [comments]


2023.06.07 03:20 Personal_Hippo1277 Clio Token Size As Text Size By Tier Comparison [Mega Text Wall For Enjoyers of Scrolling]

When I was brand new to NovelAi I had no idea how 2048 tokens really looked as text. So for anyone looking at the tiers, trying to decide how many tokens they want for Clio with the new update, I've tokenized Part of The Great Gatsby by Scott Fitzgerald (public domain since 2021).
That way new users can more easily visualize what the AI's maximum context is for each tier. According to the UI Clio uses the NerdStash Tokenizer, as different tokenizers will convert text to tokens their own way.
------------------------
In my younger and more vulnerable years my father gave me some advice that I’ve been turning over in my mind ever since.
“Whenever you feel like criticizing anyone,” he told me, “just remember that all the people in this world haven’t had the advantages that you’ve had.”
He didn’t say any more, but we’ve always been unusually communicative in a reserved way, and I understood that he meant a great deal more than that. In consequence, I’m inclined to reserve all judgements, a habit that has opened up many curious natures to me and also made me the victim of not a few veteran bores. The abnormal mind is quick to detect and attach itself to this quality when it appears in a normal person, and so it came about that in college I was unjustly accused of being a politician, because I was privy to the secret griefs of wild, unknown men. Most of the confidences were unsought—frequently I have feigned sleep, preoccupation, or a hostile levity when I realized by some unmistakable sign that an intimate revelation was quivering on the horizon; for the intimate revelations of young men, or at least the terms in which they express them, are usually plagiaristic and marred by obvious suppressions. Reserving judgements is a matter of infinite hope. I am still a little afraid of missing something if I forget that, as my father snobbishly suggested, and I snobbishly repeat, a sense of the fundamental decencies is parcelled out unequally at birth.
And, after boasting this way of my tolerance, I come to the admission that it has a limit. Conduct may be founded on the hard rock or the wet marshes, but after a certain point I don’t care what it’s founded on. When I came back from the East last autumn I felt that I wanted the world to be in uniform and at a sort of moral attention forever; I wanted no more riotous excursions with privileged glimpses into the human heart. Only Gatsby, the man who gives his name to this book, was exempt from my reaction—Gatsby, who represented everything for which I have an unaffected scorn. If personality is an unbroken series of successful gestures, then there was something gorgeous about him, some heightened sensitivity to the promises of life, as if he were related to one of those intricate machines that register earthquakes ten thousand miles away. This responsiveness had nothing to do with that flabby impressionability which is dignified under the name of the “creative temperament”—it was an extraordinary gift for hope, a romantic readiness such as I have never found in any other person and which it is not likely I shall ever find again. No—Gatsby turned out all right at the end; it is what preyed on Gatsby, what foul dust floated in the wake of his dreams that temporarily closed out my interest in the abortive sorrows and short-winded elations of men.
My family have been prominent, well-to-do people in this Middle Western city for three generations. The Carraways are something of a clan, and we have a tradition that we’re descended from the Dukes of Buccleuch, but the actual founder of my line was my grandfather’s brother, who came here in fifty-one, sent a substitute to the Civil War, and started the wholesale hardware business that my father carries on today.
I never saw this great-uncle, but I’m supposed to look like him—with special reference to the rather hard-boiled painting that hangs in father’s office. I graduated from New Haven in 1915, just a quarter of a century after my father, and a little later I participated in that delayed Teutonic migration known as the Great War. I enjoyed the counter-raid so thoroughly that I came back restless. Instead of being the warm centre of the world, the Middle West now seemed like the ragged edge of the universe—so I decided to go East and learn the bond business. Everybody I knew was in the bond business, so I supposed it could support one more single man. All my aunts and uncles talked it over as if they were choosing a prep school for me, and finally said, “Why—ye-es,” with very grave, hesitant faces. Father agreed to finance me for a year, and after various delays I came East, permanently, I thought, in the spring of twenty-two.
The practical thing was to find rooms in the city, but it was a warm season, and I had just left a country of wide lawns and friendly trees, so when a young man at the office suggested that we take a house together in a commuting town, it sounded like a great idea. He found the house, a weather-beaten cardboard bungalow at eighty a month, but at the last minute the firm ordered him to Washington, and I went out to the country alone. I had a dog—at least I had him for a few days until he ran away—and an old Dodge and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove.
It was lonely for a day or so until one morning some man, more recently arrived than I, stopped me on the road.
“How do you get to West Egg village?” he asked helplessly.
I told him. And as I walked on I was lonely no longer. I was a guide, a pathfinder, an original settler. He had casually conferred on me the freedom of the neighbourhood.
And so with the sunshine and the great bursts of leaves growing on the trees, just as things grow in fast movies, I had that familiar conviction that life was beginning over again with the summer.
There was so much to read, for one thing, and so much fine health to be pulled down out of the young breath-giving air. I bought a dozen volumes on banking and credit and investment securities, and they stood on my shelf in red and gold like new money from the mint, promising to unfold the shining secrets that only Midas and Morgan and Maecenas knew. And I had the high intention of reading many other books besides. I was rather literary in college—one year I wrote a series of very solemn and obvious editorials for the Yale News—and now I was going to bring back all such things into my life and become again that most limited of all specialists, the “well-rounded man.” This isn’t just an epigram—life is much more successfully looked at from a single window, after all.
It was a matter of chance that I should have rented a house in one of the strangest communities in North America. It was on that slender riotous island which extends itself due east of New York—and where there are, among other natural curiosities, two unusual formations of land. Twenty miles from the city a pair of enormous eggs, identical in contour and separated only by a courtesy bay, jut out into the most domesticated body of salt water in the Western hemisphere, the great wet barnyard of Long Island Sound. They are not perfect ovals—like the egg in the Columbus story, they are both crushed flat at the contact end—but their physical resemblance must be a source of perpetual wonder to the gulls that fly overhead. To the wingless a more interesting phenomenon is their dissimilarity in every particular except shape and size.
I lived at West Egg, the—well, the less fashionable of the two, though this is a most superficial tag to express the bizarre and not a little sinister contrast between them. My house was at the very tip of the egg, only fifty yards from the Sound, and squeezed between two huge places that rented for twelve or fifteen thousand a season. The one on my right was a colossal affair by any standard—it was a factual imitation of some Hîtel de Ville in Normandy, with a tower on one side, spanking new under a thin beard of raw ivy, and a marble swimming pool, and more than forty acres of lawn and garden. It was Gatsby’s mansion. Or, rather, as I didn’t know Mr. Gatsby, it was a mansion inhabited by a gentleman of that name. My own house was an eyesore, but it was a small eyesore, and it had been overlooked, so I had a view of the water, a partial view of my neighbour’s lawn, and the consoling proximity of millionaires—all for eighty dollars a month.
Across the courtesy bay the white palaces of fashionable East Egg glittered along the water, and the history of the summer really begins on the evening I drove over there to have dinner with the Tom Buchanans. Daisy was my second cousin once removed, and I’d known Tom in college. And just after the war I spent two days with them in Chicago.
Her husband, among various physical accomplishments, had been one of the most powerful ends that ever played football at New Haven—a national figure in a way, one of those men who reach such an acute limited excellence at twenty-one that everything afterward savours of anticlimax. His family were enormously wealthy—even in college his freedom with money was a matter for reproach—but now he’d left Chicago and come East in a fashion that rather took your breath away: for instance, he’d brought down a string of polo ponies from Lake Forest. It was hard to realize that a man in my own generation was wealthy enough to do that.
Why they came East I don’t know. They had spent a year in France for no particular reason, and then drifted here and there unrestfully wherever people played polo and were rich together. This was a permanent move, said Daisy over the telephone, but I didn’t believe it—I had no sight into Daisy’s heart, but I felt that Tom would drift on forever seeking, a little wistfully, for the dramatic turbulence of some irrecoverable football game.
And so it happened that on a warm windy evening I drove over to East Egg to see two old friends whom I scarcely knew at all. Their house was even more elaborate than I expected, a cheerful red-and-white Georgian Colonial mansion, overlooking the bay. The lawn started at the beach and ran towards the front door for a quarter of a mile, jumping over sundials and brick walks and burning gardens—finally when it reached the house drifting up the side in bright vines as though from the momentum of its run. The front was broken by a line of French windows, glowing now with reflected gold and wide open to the warm windy afternoon, and Tom Buchanan in riding clothes was standing with his legs apart on the front porch.
He had changed since his New Haven years. Now he was a sturdy straw-haired man of thirty, with a rather hard mouth and a supercilious manner. Two shining arrogant eyes had established dominance over his face and gave him the appearance of always leaning aggressively forward. Not even the effeminate swank of his riding clothes could hide the enormous power of that body—he seemed to fill those glistening boots until he strained the top lacing, and you could see a great pack of muscle shifting when his shoulder moved under his thin coat. It was a body capable of enormous leverage—a cruel body.
His speaking voice, a gruff husky tenor, added to the impression of fractiousness he conveyed. There was a touch of paternal contempt in it, even toward people he liked—and there were men at New Haven who had hated his guts.
“Now, don’t think my opinion on these matters is final,” he seemed to say, “just because I’m stronger and more of a man than you are.” We were in the same senior society, and while we were never intimate I always had the impression that he approved of me and wanted me to like him with some harsh, defiant wistfulness of his own.
We talked for a few minutes on the sunny porch.
“I’ve got a nice place here,” he said, his eyes flashing about restlessly.
Turning me around by one arm, he moved a broad flat hand along the front vista, including in its sweep a sunken Italian garden, a half acre of deep, pungent roses, and a snub-nosed motorboat that bumped the tide offshore.
“It belonged to Demaine, the oil man.” He turned me around again, politely and abruptly. “We’ll go inside.”
We walked through a high hallway into a bright rosy-coloured space, fragilely bound into the house by French windows at either end. The windows were ajar and gleaming white against the fresh grass outside that seemed to grow a little way into the house. A breeze blew through the room, blew curtains in at one end and out the other like pale flags, twisting them up toward the frosted wedding-cake of the ceiling, and then rippled over the wine-coloured rug, making a shadow on it as wind does on the sea.
The only completely stationary object in the room was an enormous couch on which two young women were buoyed up as though upon an anchored balloon. They were both in white, and their dresses were rippling and fluttering as if they had just been blown back in after a short flight around the house. I must have stood for a few moments listening to the whip and snap of the curtains and the groan of a picture on the wall. Then there was a boom as Tom Buchanan shut the rear windows and the caught wind died out about the room, and the curtains and the rugs and the two young women ballooned slowly to the floor.
The younger of the two was a stranger to me. She was extended full length at her end of the divan, completely motionless, and with her chin raised a little, as if she were balancing something on it which was quite likely to fall. If she saw me out of the corner of her eyes she gave no hint of it—indeed, I was almost surprised into murmuring an apology for having disturbed her by coming in.
The other girl, Daisy, made an attempt to rise—she leaned slightly forward with a conscientious expression—then she laughed, an absurd, charming little laugh, and I laughed too and came forward into the room.
“I’m p-paralysed with happiness.”
She
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laughed again, as if she said something very witty, and held my hand for a moment, looking up into my face, promising that there was no one in the world she so much wanted to see. That was a way she had. She hinted in a murmur that the surname of the balancing girl was Baker. (I’ve heard it said that Daisy’s murmur was only to make people lean toward her; an irrelevant criticism that made it no less charming.)
At any rate, Miss Baker’s lips fluttered, she nodded at me almost imperceptibly, and then quickly tipped her head back again—the object she was balancing had obviously tottered a little and given her something of a fright. Again a sort of apology arose to my lips. Almost any exhibition of complete self-sufficiency draws a stunned tribute from me.
I looked back at my cousin, who began to ask me questions in her low, thrilling voice. It was the kind of voice that the ear follows up and down, as if each speech is an arrangement of notes that will never be played again. Her face was sad and lovely with bright things in it, bright eyes and a bright passionate mouth, but there was an excitement in her voice that men who had cared for her found difficult to forget: a singing compulsion, a whispered “Listen,” a promise that she had done gay, exciting things just a while since and that there were gay, exciting things hovering in the next hour.
I told her how I had stopped off in Chicago for a day on my way East, and how a dozen people had sent their love through me.
“Do they miss me?” she cried ecstatically.
“The whole town is desolate. All the cars have the left rear wheel painted black as a mourning wreath, and there’s a persistent wail all night along the north shore.”
“How gorgeous! Let’s go back, Tom. Tomorrow!” Then she added irrelevantly: “You ought to see the baby.”
“I’d like to.”
“She’s asleep. She’s three years old. Haven’t you ever seen her?”
“Never.”
“Well, you ought to see her. She’s—”
Tom Buchanan, who had been hovering restlessly about the room, stopped and rested his hand on my shoulder.
“What you doing, Nick?”
“I’m a bond man.”
“Who with?”
I told him.
“Never heard of them,” he remarked decisively.
This annoyed me.
“You will,” I answered shortly. “You will if you stay in the East.”
“Oh, I’ll stay in the East, don’t you worry,” he said, glancing at Daisy and then back at me, as if he were alert for something more. “I’d be a God damned fool to live anywhere else.”
At this point Miss Baker said: “Absolutely!” with such suddenness that I started—it was the first word she had uttered since I came into the room. Evidently it surprised her as much as it did me, for she yawned and with a series of rapid, deft movements stood up into the room.
“I’m stiff,” she complained, “I’ve been lying on that sofa for as long as I can remember.”
“Don’t look at me,” Daisy retorted, “I’ve been trying to get you to New York all afternoon.”
“No, thanks,” said Miss Baker to the four cocktails just in from the pantry. “I’m absolutely in training.”
Her host looked at her incredulously.
“You are!” He took down his drink as if it were a drop in the bottom of a glass. “How you ever get anything done is beyond me.”
I looked at Miss Baker, wondering what it was she “got done.” I enjoyed looking at her. She was a slender, small-breasted girl, with an erect carriage, which she accentuated by throwing her body backward at the shoulders like a young cadet. Her grey sun-strained eyes looked back at me with polite reciprocal curiosity out of a wan, charming, discontented face. It occurred to me now that I had seen her, or a picture of her, somewhere before.
“You live in West Egg,” she remarked contemptuously. “I know somebody there.”
“I don’t know a single—”
“You must know Gatsby.”
“Gatsby?” demanded Daisy. “What Gatsby?”
Before I could reply that he was my neighbour dinner was announced; wedging his tense arm imperatively under mine, Tom Buchanan compelled me from the room as though he were moving a checker to another square.
Slenderly, languidly, their hands set lightly on their hips, the two young women preceded us out on to a rosy-coloured porch, open toward the sunset, where four candles flickered on the table in the diminished wind.
“Why candles?” objected Daisy, frowning. She snapped them out with her fingers. “In two weeks it’ll be the longest day in the year.” She looked at us all radiantly. “Do you always watch for the longest day of the year and then miss it? I always watch for the longest day in the year and then miss it.”
“We ought to plan something,” yawned Miss Baker, sitting down at the table as if she were getting into bed.
“All right,” said Daisy. “What’ll we plan?” She turned to me helplessly: “What do people plan?”
Before I could answer her eyes fastened with an awed expression on her little finger.
“Look!” she complained; “I hurt it.”
We all looked—the knuckle was black and blue.
“You did it, Tom,” she said accusingly. “I know you didn’t mean to, but you did do it. That’s what I get for marrying a brute of a man, a great, big, hulking physical specimen of a—”
“I hate that word ‘hulking,’ ” objected Tom crossly, “even in kidding.”
“Hulking,” insisted Daisy.
Sometimes she and Miss Baker talked at once, unobtrusively and with a bantering inconsequence that was never quite chatter, that was as cool as their white dresses and their impersonal eyes in the absence of all desire. They were here, and they accepted Tom and me, making only a polite pleasant effort to entertain or to be entertained. They knew that presently dinner would be over and a little later the evening too would be over and casually put away. It was sharply different from the West, where an evening was hurried from phase to phase towards its close, in a continually disappointed anticipation or else in sheer nervous dread of the moment itself.
“You make me feel uncivilized, Daisy,” I confessed on my second glass of corky but rather impressive claret. “Can’t you talk about crops or something?”
I meant nothing in particular by this remark, but it was taken up in an unexpected way.
“Civilization’s going to pieces,” broke out Tom violently. “I’ve gotten to be a terrible pessimist about things. Have you read The Rise of the Coloured Empires by this man Goddard?”
“Why, no,” I answered, rather surprised by his tone.
“Well, it’s a fine book, and everybody ought to read it. The idea is if we don’t look out the white race will be—will be utterly submerged. It’s all scientific stuff; it’s been proved.”
“Tom’s getting very profound,” said Daisy, with an expression of unthoughtful sadness. “He reads deep books with long words in them. What was that word we—”
“Well, these books are all scientific,” insisted Tom, glancing at her impatiently. “This fellow has worked out the whole thing. It’s up to us, who are the dominant race, to watch out or these other races will have control of things.”
“We’ve got to beat them down,” whispered Daisy, winking ferociously toward the fervent sun.
“You ought to live in California—” began Miss Baker, but Tom interrupted her by shifting heavily in his chair.
“This idea is that we’re Nordics. I am, and you are, and you are, and—” After an infinitesimal hesitation he included Daisy with a slight nod, and she winked at me again. “—And we’ve produced all the things that go to make civilization—oh, science and art, and all that. Do you see?”
There was something pathetic in his concentration, as if his complacency, more acute than of old, was not enough to him any more. When, almost immediately, the telephone rang inside and the butler left the porch Daisy seized upon the momentary interruption and leaned towards me.
“I’ll tell you a family secret,” she whispered enthusiastically. “It’s about the butler’s nose. Do you want to hear about the butler’s nose?”
“That’s why I came over tonight.”
“Well, he wasn’t always a butler; he used to be the silver polisher for some people in New York that had a silver service for two hundred people. He had to polish it from morning till night, until finally it began to affect his nose—”
“Things went from bad to worse,” suggested Miss Baker.
“Yes. Things went from bad to worse, until finally he had to give up his position.”
For a moment the last sunshine fell with romantic affection upon her glowing face; her voice compelled me forward breathlessly as I listened—then the glow faded, each light deserting her with lingering regret, like children leaving a pleasant street at dusk.
The butler came back and murmured something close to Tom’s ear, whereupon Tom frowned, pushed back his chair, and without a word went inside. As if his absence quickened something within her, Daisy leaned forward again, her voice glowing and singing.
“I love to see you at my table, Nick. You remind me of a—of a rose, an absolute rose. Doesn’t he?” She turned to Miss Baker for confirmation: “An absolute rose?”
This was untrue. I am not even faintly like a rose. She was only extemporizing, but a stirring warmth flowed from her, as if her heart was trying to come out to you concealed in one of those breathless, thrilling words. Then suddenly she threw her napkin on the table and excused herself and went into the house.
Miss Baker and I exchanged a short glance consciously devoid of meaning. I was about to speak when she sat up alertly and said “Sh!” in a warning voice. A subdued impassioned murmur was audible in the room beyond, and Miss Baker leaned forward unashamed, trying to hear. The murmur trembled on the verge of coherence, sank down, mounted excitedly, and then ceased altogether.
“This Mr. Gatsby you spoke of is my neighbour—” I began.
“Don’t talk. I want to hear what happens.”
“Is something happening?” I inquired innocently.
“You mean to say you don’t know?” said Miss Baker, honestly surprised. “I thought everybody knew.”
“I don’t.”
“Why—” she said hesitantly. “Tom’s got some woman in New York.”
“Got some woman?” I repeated blankly.
Miss Baker nodded.
“She might have the decency not to telephone him at dinner time. Don’t you think?”
Almost before I had grasped her meaning there was the flutter of a dress and the crunch of leather boots, and Tom and Daisy were back at the table.
“It couldn’t be helped!” cried Daisy with tense gaiety.
She sat down, glanced searchingly at Miss Baker and then at me, and continued: “I looked outdoors for a minute, and it’s very romantic outdoors. There’s a bird on the lawn that I think must be a nightingale come over on the Cunard or White Star Line. He’s singing away—” Her voice sang: “It’s romantic, isn’t it, Tom?”
“Very romantic,” he said, and then miserably to me: “If it’s light enough after dinner, I want to take you down to the stables.”
The telephone rang inside, startlingly, and as Daisy shook her head decisively at Tom the subject of the stables, in fact all subjects, vanished into air. Among the broken fragments of the last five minutes at table I remember the candles being lit again, pointlessly, and I was conscious of wanting to look squarely at everyone, and yet to avoid all eyes. I couldn’t guess what Daisy and Tom were thinking, but I doubt if even Miss Baker, who seemed to have mastered a certain hardy scepticism, was able utterly to put this fifth guest’s shrill metallic urgency out of mind. To a certain temperament the situation might have seemed intriguing—my own instinct was to telephone immediately for the police.
The horses, needless to say, were not mentioned again. Tom and Miss Baker, with several feet of twilight between them, strolled back into the library, as if to a vigil beside a perfectly tangible body, while, trying to look pleasantly interested and a little deaf, I followed Daisy around a chain of connecting verandas to the porch in front. In its deep gloom we sat down side by side on a wicker settee.
Daisy took her face in her hands as if feeling its lovely shape, and her eyes moved gradually out into the velvet dusk. I saw that turbulent emotions possessed her, so I asked what I thought would be some sedative questions about her little girl.
“We don’t know each other very well, Nick,” she said suddenly. “Even if we are cousins. You didn’t come to my wedding.”
“I wasn’t back from the war.”
“That’s true.” She hesitated. “Well, I’ve had a very bad time, Nick, and I’m pretty cynical about everything.”
Evidently she had reason to be. I waited but she
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didn’t say any more, and after a moment I returned rather feebly to the subject of her daughter.
“I suppose she talks, and—eats, and everything.”
“Oh, yes.” She looked at me absently. “Listen, Nick; let me tell you what I said when she was born. Would you like to hear?”
“Very much.”
“It’ll show you how I’ve gotten to feel about—things. Well, she was less than an hour old and Tom was God knows where. I woke up out of the ether with an utterly abandoned feeling, and asked the nurse right away if it was a boy or a girl. She told me it was a girl, and so I turned my head away and wept. ‘All right,’ I said, ‘I’m glad it’s a girl. And I hope she’ll be a fool—that’s the best thing a girl can be in this world, a beautiful little fool.’
“You see I think everything’s terrible anyhow,” she went on in a convinced way. “Everybody thinks so—the most advanced people. And I know. I’ve been everywhere and seen everything and done everything.” Her eyes flashed around her in a defiant way, rather like Tom’s, and she laughed with thrilling scorn. “Sophisticated—God, I’m sophisticated!”
The instant her voice broke off, ceasing to compel my attention, my belief, I felt the basic insincerity of what she had said. It made me uneasy, as though the whole evening had been a trick of some sort to exact a contributory emotion from me. I waited, and sure enough, in a moment she looked at me with an absolute smirk on her lovely face, as if she had asserted her membership in a rather distinguished secret society to which she and Tom belonged.
Inside, the crimson room bloomed with light. Tom and Miss Baker sat at either end of the long couch and she read aloud to him from the Saturday Evening Post—the words, murmurous and uninflected, running together in a soothing tune. The lamplight, bright on his boots and dull on the autumn-leaf yellow of her hair, glinted along the paper as she turned a page with a flutter of slender muscles in her arms.
When we came in she held us silent for a moment with a lifted hand.
“To be continued,” she said, tossing the magazine on the table, “in our very next issue.”
Her body asserted itself with a restless movement of her knee, and she stood up.
“Ten o’clock,” she remarked, apparently finding the time on the ceiling. “Time for this good girl to go to bed.”
“Jordan’s going to play in the tournament tomorrow,” explained Daisy, “over at Westchester.”
“Oh—you’re Jordan Baker.”
I knew now why her face was familiar—its pleasing contemptuous expression had looked out at me from many rotogravure pictures of the sporting life at Asheville and Hot Springs and Palm Beach. I had heard some story of her too, a critical, unpleasant story, but what it was I had forgotten long ago.
“Good night,” she said softly. “Wake me at eight, won’t you.”
“If you’ll get up.”
“I will. Good night, Mr. Carraway. See you anon.”
“Of course you will,” confirmed Daisy. “In fact I think I’ll arrange a marriage. Come over often, Nick, and I’ll sort of—oh—fling you together. You know—lock you up accidentally in linen closets and push you out to sea in a boat, and all that sort of thing—”
“Good night,” called Miss Baker from the stairs. “I haven’t heard a word.”
“She’s a nice girl,” said Tom after a moment. “They oughtn’t to let her run around the country this way.”
“Who oughtn’t to?” inquired Daisy coldly.
“Her family.”
“Her family is one aunt about a thousand years old. Besides, Nick’s going to look after her, aren’t you, Nick? She’s going to spend lots of weekends out here this summer. I think the home influence will be very good for her.”
Daisy and Tom looked at each other for a moment in silence.
“Is she from New York?” I asked quickly.
“From Louisville. Our white girlhood was passed together there. Our beautiful white—”
“Did you give Nick a little heart to heart talk on the veranda?” demanded Tom suddenly.
“Did I?” She looked at me. “I can’t seem to remember, but I think we talked about the Nordic race. Yes, I’m sure we did. It sort of crept up on us and first thing you know—”
“Don’t believe everything you hear, Nick,” he advised me.
I said lightly that I had heard nothing at all, and a few minutes later I got up to go home. They came to the door with me and stood side by side in a cheerful square of light. As I started my motor Daisy peremptorily called: “Wait!”
“I forgot to ask you something, and it’s important. We heard you were engaged to a girl out West.”
“That’s right,” corroborated Tom kindly. “We heard that you were engaged.”
“It’s a libel. I’m too poor.”
“But we heard it,” insisted Daisy, surprising me by opening up again in a flower-like way. “We heard it from three people, so it must be true.”
Of course I knew what they were referring to, but I wasn’t even vaguely engaged. The fact that gossip had published the banns was one of the reasons I had come East. You can’t stop going with an old friend on account of rumours, and on the other hand I had no intention of being rumoured into marriage.
Their interest rather touched me and made them less remotely rich—nevertheless, I was confused and a little disgusted as I drove away. It seemed to me that the thing for Daisy to do was to rush out of the house, child in arms—but apparently there were no such intentions in her head. As for Tom, the fact that he “had some woman in New York” was really less surprising than that he had been depressed by a book. Something was making him nibble at the edge of stale ideas as if his sturdy physical egotism no longer nourished his peremptory heart.
Already it was deep summer on roadhouse roofs and in front of wayside garages, where new red petrol-pumps sat out in pools of light, and when I reached my estate at West Egg I ran the car under its shed and sat for a while on an abandoned grass roller in the yard. The wind had blown off, leaving a loud, bright night, with wings beating in the trees and a persistent organ sound as the full bellows of the earth blew the frogs full of life. The silhouette of a moving cat wavered across the moonlight, and, turning my head to watch it, I saw that I was not alone—fifty feet away a figure had emerged from the shadow of my neighbour’s mansion and was standing with his hands in his pockets regarding the silver pepper of the stars. Something in his leisurely movements and the secure position of his feet upon the lawn suggested that it was Mr. Gatsby himself, come out to determine what share was his of our local heavens.
I decided to call to him. Miss Baker had mentioned him at dinner, and that would do for an introduction. But I didn’t call to him, for he gave a sudden intimation that he was content to be alone—he stretched out his arms toward the dark water in a curious way, and, far as I was from him, I could have sworn he was trembling. Involuntarily I glanced seaward—and distinguished nothing except a single green light, minute and far away, that might have been the end of a dock. When I looked once more for Gatsby he had vanished, and I was alone again in the unquiet darkness.
II
About halfway between West Egg and New York the motor road hastily joins the railroad and runs beside it for a quarter of a mile, so as to shrink away from a certain desolate area of land. This is a valley of ashes—a fantastic farm where ashes grow like wheat into ridges and hills and grotesque gardens; where ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and rising smoke and, finally, with a transcendent effort, of ash-grey men, who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air. Occasionally a line of grey cars crawls along an invisible track, gives out a ghastly creak, and comes to rest, and immediately the ash-grey men swarm up with leaden spades and stir up an impenetrable cloud, which screens their obscure operations from your sight.
But above the grey land and the spasms of bleak dust which drift endlessly over it, you perceive, after a moment, the eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg. The eyes of Doctor T. J. Eckleburg are blue and gigantic—their retinas are one yard high. They look out of no face, but, instead, from a pair of enormous yellow spectacles which pass over a nonexistent nose. Evidently some wild wag of an oculist set them there to
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submitted by Personal_Hippo1277 to NovelAi [link] [comments]


2023.06.07 03:18 TurtleTheTea HELP! I'm trying to load a custom npc I made but got this error message on the wedding day. How do I fix this (I asked in another sub but I feel this one is more appropriate)

HELP! I'm trying to load a custom npc I made but got this error message on the wedding day. How do I fix this (I asked in another sub but I feel this one is more appropriate) submitted by TurtleTheTea to SMAPI [link] [comments]


2023.06.07 03:15 Individual_Fly3178 m4f 30m ohio looking for a relationship

Hi folks, I'm Austin, I'm 30 years old and from SE Ohio. I'm a 6ft tall, dark blonde hair blue eyed easy to get along with guy. I have a stable life, debt free, home owner, great job at a NP helping the disabled. Personality wise I'm calm relaxed and determined, but I've been told I have a childlike innocence sometimes. Hobbies/interests include DIY, gardening, cooking, spending time with family and learning new skills. I'm looking for serious relationship and I'm very mrriage minded and a family of our own. I'm Christian and rather traditional the guy pays for the dates, saves sex for mrriage type and I don't smoke, drink do drugs or have tattoos and would not fair well with someone that is not the same. If you're interested shoot me a message with a little about yourself and we can go from there. Talk to you soon!!! 😁
P.S. Not open to international LDR.
submitted by Individual_Fly3178 to ForeverAloneDating [link] [comments]


2023.06.07 03:03 energybeans Help pls. Should I transplant again?

Help pls. Should I transplant again?
Accidentally transplanted a blooming tomato plant into nitrogen-rich soil(+sprinkle of 5-4-2)....
this was two days ago...also pls can anyone recommend good soil for tomatoes during bloom?
submitted by energybeans to gardening [link] [comments]


2023.06.07 02:13 -Cokeman I tormented a turkey before we ate it when I was 5 because I'm an idiot.

When I was 5-6 years old, my family lived with my grandfather in his farm. He bought a live turkey to butcher, must have been for Christmas or something as thanksgiving isn't really a thing where I grew up. I had slept in the detached house where my family was staying and woke up fairly late when everyone was already in the main house.
I just remember walking outside and seeing this giant bird that was the same size as me at the time, chasing my small family dog around the garden. I was such an absolute idiot of a child I didn't even think about why this bird is even here or where it came from. I just thought it was being mean to our dog so I grabbed a brick and started chasing it around. It was so fast I didn't even get close to it, and it didn't even fly away like I thought it would. It either had its wings clipped or was raised as livestock.
Thinking back, even though I was so young, it all makes me feel so extremely stupid. Little me really thought I was going to scare this thing away and have a story to tell that no one would believe, or catch it and be the hero of my own little story where I saved our dog. Needless to say, that thing could've spanked me in a fight. I'm glad the goose bluff tactic works in nature.
I made that little guy absolutely fear for its life for about an hour until anyone came out and asked what the hell I was doing... I'm ashamed of what I have done. Forgive me, you majestic gobble bird. You were the best poultry; so innocent, so merciful of a child's ignorance. And you deserved better.
submitted by -Cokeman to confession [link] [comments]


2023.06.07 02:09 Lord_Scribe Loving Spoonful has Local Food Stands for Local and Seasonal produce provided at no cost, no question asked, starting tomorrow.

Loving Spoonful has Local Food Stands for Local and Seasonal produce provided at no cost, no question asked, starting tomorrow. submitted by Lord_Scribe to KingstonOntario [link] [comments]


2023.06.07 01:47 Substantial_Toe9009 I want to start a vineyard, but I want council

First of all, I am still new to the concepts on these boards. I'm not trying to grow grapes for commercial winemaking. I've done some research but am at a point where I want to have a conversation first. I would like to learn to make wine in time, maybe not so much commercially. I have always done farming, orchards, blueberries, multiple gardens, etc.., and I've been interested in taking things a step further. I think that growing grapes might be it since it seems like there may be a demand for grapes by people who do make wine, unless I'm mistaken (?)
I have just over 80 acres in one place and looking at 10 acres in another, zone 6. I wanted to grow about 2-3 acres or so of grapes to start with, and I do understand the costs are in the thousands for vine installation. I thought I could start with around 300-400 plants for a few years, see how that goes, do some grafting, and if it is the right fit for me, amend my plans.
But a lot of people talk about getting first-hand experience before trying to do this sort of thing - in a regular vineyard specifically. I highly doubt I can do that, as I work a pretty hardcore tech job I won't be leaving, and I'm a female in my late 30s who doesn't exactly fit the bill of intern laborer. I have the physicality for it, but its clearly not the place I think anyone would trust me to be a good fit for on introductions. I would be interested in working for sure like on weekends to go through the processes and literally be taught the business, but I feel like the general direction towards people wanting to volunteer time or energy with the ulterior motive [of learning for self-sustaining reasons] is not met with enthusiasm or consideration these days.
Additionally, people suggest standard education, like UC Davis Winemaking Courses. That looks to have an exhaustive course on some of the concepts in viticulture that I might need. I wonder how valid that is, though, where I can't just self-study since I already have several degrees. I love learning, but so much that I feel compelled to assemble my own course and utilize the collective knowledge of the internet to fill in the knowledge gaps.
Can someone help guide me a little with my plans and thoughts?
submitted by Substantial_Toe9009 to viticulture [link] [comments]