Synonyms and Antonyms for love-hate | nickchinlund.info
A Love/Hate relationship is usually between two people who deep down love each other. Insted of actually expressing their feelings, they bicker. Sometimes. I love the way the Spanish speak, but it bothers me at the same time. I've looked through and You have a love-hate relationship with Spanish. Synonyms for love-affair at nickchinlund.info with free online thesaurus, antonyms, and Find descriptive alternatives for love-affair. noun love relationship.
So what do you do when your significant other does something that makes you want to hate them? Or when your ex's actions suggest that love left a long time ago, leaving only angst and ugliness. How do you hold yourself with integrity so the blast of hatred doesn't level you and you don't embrace the temptation of retaliation? It takes gentleness and firmness, and a deep-rooted confidence in morality. Seeking to inflict harm on others is never, ever justifiable as a goal.
I'm not advocating passivity. We have to stand up against bad behavior, at all levels, from the bedroom to the boardroom to the presidential campaign. We have to speak out against ugliness, hatred, intolerance, and vicious personal attacks, and we have to do so in a way that normalizes a culture in which such behaviors are not normative.
It is never right if a person you love, or a person you once loved, or even someone else somehow acting on their behalf, attacks you physically, verbally or spreads lies about you. It is always unpleasant and sometime unsafe. If you are in danger, physically or emotionally, you have to get help and take reasonable steps to protect yourself.
If you are not in danger, there are things you can do. Apply mindfulness so you know what's happening as its happening.
Witness your feelings as you experience them, and observe whether they seem to push you across that line, to a place you never ever wanted to go? If so, redirect that energy so you don't feed the perpetrator's hunger for attention and validation.
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- 48 hours of joy-seeking in Santarcangelo
If not, nourish your goodness. Mindfulness is a mental skill that hones attention on current moment experience, and deepens awareness of that focus simultaneously.
It is guided by a moral compass that dedicates the sharpness of mind and acuity of perception to doing good in the world. With compassion, kindness, and empathy, mindfulness is a powerful tool that helps us to know exactly how we feel, here and now, so we can actively contribute to what comes next.
This world is full of loss, and pain, and every imaginable form of suffering. Suggest a correction MORE: Meanwhile, the artists around me quietly kick out against this imbalance of power, photocopying their dissent and giving it away for free.
If I could contribute my own, it would say this: Stop reading and watching this now please: OSA 10 esercizi per nuovi virtuosismi, Claudia Marsicano teaches us a dance to Applause; it is while waving my arms in the air that I feel the first rush of pleasure. It helps that Marsicano has a body of resistance: I like that this aligns me with her, lets me join her club, and for that club to be — finally — cool.
Halfway through, she removes her leotard and stands in bra and pants, and I am almost breathless with admiration. For a moment, the near-daily anxiety that is caused by my own monstrous shape, like living in a suit that belongs to someone else, is suddenly made suffocatingly close, but as Marsicano stands there smiling, I feel it rushing away from me with the same speed and intensity that the rush of pleasure arrived as she led me in a dance to Gaga, just half an hour earlier.
I wish to reject the appearance of the choreographer, Silvia Gribaudi, when she arrives on stage for the curtain call. I understand that the work is hers and I understand her central role in its creation, but the sudden presence of her thin privilege to live for the applause-plause live for the applause-plause is unwelcome. Later that night I will go back to my hotel and google Claudia Marsicano. I find a video of her dancing to The Avalanches and I will watch it 3 or 4 times before I sleep.
I am being polite and respectful. Next door, three conspicuously empty beds are draped in scarves and surrounded by shop-bought houseplants.
I stop myself from laughing by maintaining a wide, fixed smile at all times. I probably look like I am on drugs — a shame not to be really; drugs are the one thing that Club Ecosex desperately needs. There is porn lying around which is kinda cool from a zine-making perspective basically just guy-on-guy photos where one of the silhouettes in each image has been replaced by waterfalls and forests and shit.
Projected on a nearby wall, two nubile young white women with cress on their faces frolick in the same vacant softcore male gaze-y way that cam-girls bounce. I keep saying it like Santa Carlangelo, as if it was in Southern California. There is a recording on my phone of my Italian colleague Giulia saying it for me. She says it so quickly and effortlessly and her accent is so perfect, with little rolled-rrrrrs.
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This is my way of taking up space in Santarcangelo. My fat white body — my fat, white abled-body — is slightly rebellious but mostly not, and within it, my confidence in being understood is perhaps my greatest privilege. As with the Silvia Gribaudi and Claudia Marsicano work of earlier in the evening, I feel uncomfortable attributing the piece just to Uhlich, despite what the programme says; it feels so wholly driven by Turinsky, the rhythms of his wheelchair and the gestures of his disability.
The pair dance to beats created from sounds made by the wheelchair, while a smoke machine fires out the back of it like a stream of disco farts.
Turinsky seems to revel in the opportunities for piss-taking too — the similarities between his own physicality and the movement of ravers, absolutely off their tits, brings a smile.
Through my British eyes, coming from an arts funding culture that still largely tokenises and patronises difference, and kills shared experience by instrumentalising it to death, this feels glorious. Ravemachine assumes non-conformity — assumes no-such-thing-as-conformity — with the result that it inches closer and closer to some kind of end-game of universal generosity. While that may not yet be our reality outside of the performance space, where there are many battles still to be fought, it lets us glimpse something like utopia, something like a hopeful future, if only briefly.
I have a friend, Amber, who has been to most of them, judging by her social feeds. If the publishing industry is to be believed, swimming is a uniquely female pasttime, something undertaken to achieve inner calm and tranquility. I live a couple of miles from Hampstead Ladies Ponds, and yet I have never been there. Despite weeks of feeling sticky, and grimy, and bolted down too tight, I have come to accept that my life in London has no space in it for swimming.
Before I came to Santarcangelo, I ordered a swimsuit online and tried to remember the last time I had owned one. Earlier than that probably.
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Except for two things. I love this work. I have massive, crushing love for it. The story is both extraordinary and heartbreakingly mundane, a desperate wish to make a difference to the world despite seeing hopelessness everywhere. Pietro is glimpsed only accidentally — through reflections or in shadows — but Between Me and P excavates him in layers, like digital archaeology. As he purposefully enters the images he projects, half-dancing like David Byrne in dark glasses and a blank expression, there always remains a slightly bigger, slightly taller version of himself in the shadow — a Pietro-shaped absence, animated only through his brother.
I fucking love it. My swimsuit is all black, with extra black ruching to hide as much of me as possible. I feel like one of the Club Ecosex finger condoms. What are swimming caps even for? My tail is yellow and purple, like a rainbow trout. There is a brief moment of panic as I fear I will not manage to wriggle the waistband over my bum, but jumping into the water gives it the push it needs.
A Thin Line Between Love and Hate | HuffPost Life
There had been manila files on old metal desks, and branded calendars from and were still on the walls. It had looked a bit Punchdrunky, except that it was clear this retro junk had just been left here, rather than especially sourced for the aesthetic. The name of the company was Paglierani. But it turns out that Paglierani make automatic bagging machines, automatic weighing machines, automatic whatever-you-like machines. Rather than make the cars, they make the machines that make the cars.
It is hard to tell how big it is because so much is in darkness, but it is huge and we are high. I imagine throwing a spanner through the window at some labourer who had pissed me off, but it turns my stomach a bit.
This architecture is like a panopticon, bosses like prison guards. Out in another corridor, some other guys have pushed through a wooden panel and found a room full of abandoned paperwork, piled high. I follow them in, at first thinking I am entering some other part of the gig, but it feels pretty well forgotten.
I am not an elegant mermaid.