Inspirational Story of Rule Number 6

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Two prime ministers are sitting in a room discussing affairs of state. Suddenly a man bursts in, apoplectic with fury, shouting and stamping and banging his fist on the desk.The resident prime minister admonishes him: "Peter," he says, "kindly remember Rule Number 6," where upon Peter is instantly restored to complete calm, apologizes, and withdraws. The politicians return to their conversation,only to be interrupted yet again twenty minutes later by an hysterical woman gesticulating wildly, her hair flying. Again the intruder is greeted with the words: "Marie, please remember Rule Number 6." Complete calm descends once more, and she too withdraws with a bow and a apology. When the scene is repeated for a third time, the visiting prime minister addresses his colleague: "My dear friend, I've seen many things in my life, but never anything as remarkable as this. Would you be willing to share with me the secret of Rule Number 6? " "Very simple," replies the resident prime minister. "Rule Number 6 is 'Don't take yourself so goddamn seriously.'" "Ah," says his visitor, "that is a finale rule." After a moment of pondering, he inquires, "And what, may I ask, are the other rules?"
"There aren't any."

Inspirational Story of Rule Number 6

The Final Story of Eugene Lehner

[postlink]http://newbestmotivator.blogspot.com/2009/06/final-story-of-eugene-lehner.html[/postlink]

The Legendary Kolisch Quartet had the singular distinction of playing its entire repertoire from memory, including the impossibly complex modern works of Schoenberg, Webern, Bartok, and Berg. Eugene Lehner was the violist for the quartet in the 1930. Lehner's stories about their remarkable performances often included a hair-raising moment when one player or another had a memory slip. Although he relished the rapport that developed between them without the encumbrance of a music stand, he admits there was hardly a concert in which some mistake did not mar the performance. The alertness, presence, and attention required of the players in every performance is hard to fathom, but in one concert an event occurred that surpassed their ordinary brinkmanship.

In the middle of the slow movement of Beethoven's String Quartet op.95, just before his big solo, Lehener suddenly had an inexplicable memory lapse, in a place where his memory had never failed him before. He literally blacked out. But the audience heard Opus 95 as it was meant to be played, the viola solo sounding in all its richness. Event the first violinist, Rudolph Kolisch, and cellist, Bennar Heifetz, both with their eyes closed and deeply absorbed in the music, were unaware that Lehner had dropped out. The second violinist, Felix Khuner, was playing Lehner's melody, coming in without missing a beat at the viola's designated entrance, the notes perfectly in tune and voiced like a viola on a instrument tuned a fifth higher. Lehner was stunned, and offstage after the performance asked Khuner how he could have possibly known to play. Khuner answered with a shrug:"I could see that your third finger was poised over the wrong string, so I knew you must have forgotten what came next."

The Final Story of Eugene Lehner

Why They Are Not Smiling by Seymour Levine and Robert Levine

[postlink]http://newbestmotivator.blogspot.com/2009/06/why-they-are-not-smiling-by-seymour.html[/postlink]

One of (us) once heard the principal clarinetist of a major American orchestra ask the conductor whether he wanted the notes with dots over them".....short, or like the brass were playing them?" [A dot over a not indicates that it is to be played short.] This rather complex statement, masquerading as a question, conveyed both the musician's lack of respect for the brass players in question, and scorn for the conductor's failure to notice the problem. But to fit the myth of the omniscient conductor, the comment had to be phrased as a question, for how could a musician possibly inform an omniscient being? The myth dictates that a musician can only tap into that well of knowledge, not add to it.

Why They Are Not Smiling by Seymour Levine and Robert Levine

Best Contemplation

[postlink]http://newbestmotivator.blogspot.com/2009/06/best-contemplation.html[/postlink]

Four young men sit by the beside of their dying father. The old man, with his last breath, tells them there is a huge treasure buried in the family fields. The sons crowd around him crying, "Where, where?" but is too late. The day after the funeral and for many days to come, the young men go out with their picks and shovels and turn the soil, digging deeply into the ground from one end of each field to the other. They find nothing and, bitterly disappointed, abandon the search.

The next season the farm has its best harvest ever.

Best Contemplation

Short Story for Contemplation

[postlink]http://newbestmotivator.blogspot.com/2009/06/short-story-for-contemplation.html[/postlink]

Strolling along the edge of the sea, a man catches sight of a young woman, who appears to be engaged in a ritual dance. She stoops down, then straightens to her full height, casting her arm out in an arc. Drawing closer, he sees that the beach around her is littered with starfish, and she is throwing them one by one into the sea. He lightly mocks her: "There are stranded starfish as far as the eye can see, for miles up the beach. What difference can saving a few of them possibly make?" Smiling, she bends down and once more tosses a starfish out over the water, saying serenely," It certainly makes a difference to this one."

Short Story for Contemplation

Tucker Dulin Poetry

[postlink]http://newbestmotivator.blogspot.com/2009/06/tucker-dulin-poetry.html[/postlink]
the mask and skin
that I had constructed
to hide within,
by improvising on my own melody as an
encore--unaccompanied. What followed is
something of a blur.I forgot technique,
pretension, tradition, schooling, history--
truly even the audience.
What came from my trombone
I wholly believe, was my own
Voice.
Laughter, smiles,
a frown, weeping
Tuckerspirit
did sing

Tucker Dulin Poetry

Survival and Survival-Thinking

[postlink]http://newbestmotivator.blogspot.com/2009/06/survival-and-survival-thinking.html[/postlink]

Many people's lives are daily jeopardy, and they must and do concentrate on staying alive, as any one of us would if held up on the street or lost at sea. That is not the same as survival-thinking, which is the undiscriminating, ongoing attitude that life is dangerous and that one must put one's energy into looking out for Number One.

True scarcity and scarcity-thinking are different phenomena as well. There are regions of the world where resources are locally scarce, where people lack for their most fundamental needs. However, scarcity-thinking is an attitude as prevalent among the well-heeled as among the down-at-heel, and remains unaltered by a change in circumstances. It is a fatalistic outlook, as profiled by the English economist Thomas Malthus in his 1798 "Essay on the Principle of Population"that predicts that supplies--which appear fixed and limited--will eventually run out. This attitude prompts us to seek to acquire more for ourselves no matter how much we have and to treat others as competitors no matter how little they have. Scarcity-thinking and real scarcity are interactive in thee simple sense that the frenzied accumulation of resources by some leaves others without enough, in a world that has the means to supply the basic needs everyone. They are correlated in that the indiscriminate use of the earth's resources, at a rate faster than the earth can regenerate, leaves the next generation with shrinking reserves.

Survival and Survival-Thinking

It's All Invented

[postlink]http://newbestmotivator.blogspot.com/2009/06/its-all-invented.html[/postlink]

A shoe factory sends two marketing scouts to a region of Africa to study the prospects for expanding business. One sends back a telegram saying.

SITUATION HOPELESS STOP NO ONE WEARS SHOES

The other writes back triumphantly,

GLORIOUS BUSINESS OPPORTUNITY STOP THEY HAVE NO SHOES

It's All Invented

Emily Dickinson Motivation Poetry

[postlink]http://newbestmotivator.blogspot.com/2009/06/emily-dickinson-motivation-poetry.html[/postlink]

I dwell in Possibility--
A fairer House than Prose--
More numerous of Windows--
Superior--for Doors--

Of Chambers as the Cedars--
Impregnable of Eye--
And for an Everlasting Roof--
The Gambrels of the Sky--

Of Visitors--the fairest--
For Occupation--This--
The spreading wide my narrow Hands--
To gather Paradise

Emily Dickinson Motivation Poetry

A Return to Love by Marianne Williamson

[postlink]http://newbestmotivator.blogspot.com/2009/06/return-to-love-by-marianne-williamson.html[/postlink]

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate,
Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure,
It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.
We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, and fabulous--
Actually, who are you not to be?
You are a child of God.
Your playing small doesn't serve the world.
There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people

Won't feel insecure around you.
We were born to make manifest the glory of God within us.
It is not just in some of us: it is in everyone,
And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously
Give other people permission to the same.

A Return to Love by Marianne Williamson

The Monks' Story

[postlink]http://newbestmotivator.blogspot.com/2009/06/monks-story.html[/postlink]

A monastery has fallen on hard time. It was once part of a great order which, as a result of religious persecution in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, lost all it branches. It was decimated to the extent that were only five monks left in the mother house: the Abbot and four others, all of whom were over seventy. Clearly it was a dying order.

Deep in the woods surrounding the monastery was a little hut that the rabbi from a nearby town occasionally used fora hermitage. One day, it occurred to the Abbot to visit the hermitage to see if the rabbi could offer any advice that might save the monastery. The rabbi welcomed the Abbot and commiserated. "I know how it is," he said,"the spirit has gone out of people.Almost no one comes to the synagogue anymore." So the old Rabbi and the old Abbot wept together, and they read parts of the Torah and spoke quietly of deep things.

The time came when the Abbot had to leave. They embraced. "It has been wonderful being with you," said the Abbot,"but I have failed in my purpose for coming. Have you no piece of advice that might save the monastery?" No, I am sorry," the Rabbi responded,"I have no advice to give. The only thing I can tell you is that the Messiah is one of you."

When the other monks heard the Rabbi's words, they wondered what possible significance they might have. "The Messiah is one of us? One of us, here, at the monastery? Do you suppose he meant the Abbot? Of course--it must be the Abbot, who has been our leader for so long. On the other hand, he might have meant Brother Thomas, who is certainly a holy man. Or could he have meant Brother Elrod, who is so crotchery? But then Elrod is very wise. Surely, he could not have meant Brother Philip--he's too passive. But then, magically, he's always there when you need him. Of course he didn't mean me--yet supposing he did? Oh Lord, not met! I couldn't mean that much to you, could I ?"

As they contemplated in this manner, the old monks began to treat each other with extraordinary respect, on the off chance that one of them might be the Messiah, they began to treat themselves with extraordinary respect.

Because the forest in which it was situated was beautiful,people occasionally came to visit the monastery, to picnic or to wander along the old paths, most of which led to the dilapidated chapel. They sensed the aura of extraordinary respect that surrounded the five old monks, permeating the atmosphere. They began to come more frequently, bringing their friends, and their friends brought friends. Some of the younger men who come to visit began to engage in conversation with the monks. After a while, one asked if he might join. Then another, and another. Within a few years, the monastery became once again a thriving order, and--thanks to the Rabbi's gift--a vibrant, authentic community of light and love for the whole realm.

The Monks' Story

High Spirits in Sao Paolo

[postlink]http://newbestmotivator.blogspot.com/2009/06/high-spirits-in-sao-paolo.html[/postlink]

On our 1997 tour to Brazil, the New England Conservatory Youth Philharmonic gave its first big public concert in the Teatro Municipal in Sao Paolo after three exhausting days of rehearsing, sightseeing, and touring. The house was filed to capacity. The enthusiasm of the warm-hearted, passionate Brazilian audience was overwhelming. Brazilian national television filmed the event and, afterward, projected it on a ten-foot screen in the forever so the kids could see themselves. They were high as kites. Now the problem was to calm them so they could get to sleep and be fresh for the concert the following day. It was after midnight when we returned to the hotel.

The next morning I received an angry note from a guest saying he had been woken by a group of noisy musicians. Several other guests had been disturbed as well, the hotel staff informed us. Four students were found on the roof after 3 A.M., and four others were picked up in an unsavory part of town in the early hours of the morning by the security squad of our sponsor, BankBoston.

The next day, the orchestra was to play not one but two concerts, an outdoor event at 6 P.M. in front of fifteen thousand people, and an indoor performance at 9 P.M. of Mahler's technically and emotionally draining Fifth Symphony. The chaperones swung into action and demanded that I read the students the riot act. They wanted me to remind the kids that they had signed a contract prior to setting out on the tour forbidding them the consume alcohol or break curfew.

Roz and I consulted on the telephone, from Brazil to Boston, and addressed the problem, as we always do, with the question, "What distinction shall we make here that will bring possibility to the situation?" A broken contract points to the dualism of good and bad, and leads into the downward spiral, so we looked for another framework in which the consider the young people's behavior. I realized that while the rules for the tour had been carefully set up in contract form, I had never formally discussed with the kids their purpose for being in the Brazil, beyond giving concerts. Purpose, commitment, and vision are distinctions that radiate possibility. We decided that I should hold a conversation about vision with the group, as a framework for addressing the late-night events.

Summoned to the auditorium, the diffident young players sat as far as possible, their teenage bodies in various postures of exhaustion and protest. Every face, innocent or malfeasant, reflected that they were about to receive a well=deserved dressing down. "Last night after the concert," I began, "a woman came to me and told me with absolute honesty that the two hours she spent listening to Mahler's Fifth Symphony had been the most beautiful two hours of her entire life. You gave a great performance last night, and she was not the only one moved and changed by it. "Their faces looked blank for a moment, as though they could not hear these words that were so unexpected. After a pause, I went on, "What else did you come here to offer the Brazilian people?"

One by one, from various parts of the hall, came answers to the question: We came to show them the best of America! That great music is a way of communicating friendship and love. We came to show respect for Brazil! That teenagers can make great music! That music can be fun! That we are happy to be here! By now the answers were coming from all corners, and the faces were lit up with joy.

When Exuberance and ease were palpable throughout the room, I said, "Of course, if you'd given a terrible concert last night,you probably would have all come home and gone straight to bed. It was precisely your exhilaration at having participated with so many people in great music-making the resulted in four kids being in the roof. It's just surprising that they didn't float any higher on sheer energy! But does waking the hotel guests at night represent the gift we wanted to bring the Brazilian people? Obviously not. We got off track. You have to know where the track is to get back on, and you've all just expressed that beautifully."

Two of the kids volunteered to write letters of apology to those who had been disturbed at the hotel, and others thought of additional ways to brighten our image with the people of Sao Paolo. No one felt blamed or made wrong. We left the auditorium with everyone in high spirits, ready to give two invigorating concerts.

Just as I was leaving the hall, one of the chaperones said, "But you didn't punish anybody!" And then he added as an after-thought, "Though, I don't suppose they would be in the mood to give another great Mahler performance if you had, and, really, I don't think we will have to worry about them again."

High Spirits in Sao Paolo

I HAVE A DREAM

[postlink]http://newbestmotivator.blogspot.com/2009/06/i-have-dream.html[/postlink]

We are simply seeking to bring into full realization the American dream-a dream yet unfulfilled. A dream of equality of opportunity, of privilege and property widely distributed; a dream of a land where men no longer argue that the color of a man's skin determines the content of his character, the dream of a land where every man will respect the dignity and worth of human personality.

--DR. MARTIN LUTHER KING, JR.,
July 19, 1962

I HAVE A DREAM

Lighting a Spark

[postlink]http://newbestmotivator.blogspot.com/2009/06/lighting-spark.html[/postlink]

One of my most vivid childhood memories is of my father, dressed in a three-piece suit, leaving on the overnight train to Glasgow. I asked my mother how long he would be gone, and she assured me I would see him the next evening. "Your father has some things he wants to discuss with a gentleman in Glasgow. They will have breakfast in the Glasgow Railway Station, and then he will take the next train back to London."

"Is it a special friend of his?" I asked, but was told that the gentleman was no one I knew, and someone with whom my father had only a brief acquaintance. This puzzled me. I think I was about eight or nine at the time. Later I asked him why he had not used the telephone. Adopting the stance in which he gave life lessons-eyebrows raised, eyes shining, and, I believe, index finger pointing, my father said,"Certain things in life are better done in person."

This train journey and my father's lesson seemed mysterious and wonderful to me as a child, and took hold in my imagination. In 1981, when I was asked to lead a tour of the New England Conservatory Symphony Orchestra to the Evian Festival on Lake Geneva, I finally found and application for this long-held memory.

The organizer of the festival suggested that I try to engage the world's greatest cellist, Mstislav Rostropovich, to play the cello concerto that Henri Dutilleux had written specially for him. As Rostropovich and I were acquaintances, I called his assistant in Washington in October, mentioned the date in April, and asked whether "Slava" would be available. The assistant with markedly disdainful air,said, "Are you referring to this coming April? Mister Rostropovich is booked all the way through 1984. There is no possible chance he could consider this." I then asked if I might call Slava directly, as I thought his deep love of the music of Henri Dutilleux might prompt his interest. Madame's response was no more pleasant than before, but she finally allowed that Mr. Rostropovich would be in on Wednesday morning at ten, if I wished to telephone him.

In my mind's eye saw my father, dressed in his three-piece suit, leaving for the train station. Wednesday morning, early, I was at the airport, catching a plane from Boston to Washington. Just before ten o'clock, I walked into Slava's office. His assistant was quite taken aback and visibly irritated, but she announced my presence and showed me into the room were Slava worked. The maestro remembered having given me a cello lesson as part of a master class at Oxford,many years before, and greeted me with his traditional enveloping hug. We settled on the sofa, and began to talk about his beloved friend,the genius composer Henri Dutilleux.

Slava became completely animated, his face shining, as he described the nature of Dutilleux's genius and his unique voice in modern music. Suddenly he asked me when the performance was to take place. I gave him the date. He looked in his diary and said, "I can do it, if it's all right to have just one rehearsal in the afternoon before the concert, though I will have to leave immediately after the concert to make a rehearsal the following morning in Geneva." This was no means a rational or practical decision for Slava; it came from his passion. And it involved a huge risk for even a very fine student orchestra to perform an unfamiliar, wildly difficult concerto after just one rehearsal with the soloist. But at least each of us had accomplice in our folly. I left no more than twenty minutes after I had arrived, murmuring, "He'll do it" to the appalled assistant.

The plane that carried me home from Washington at noon that day was the same one I had taken here, with the same crew in attendance. Recognizing me, a flight attendant asked, "Didn't you just arrive here with us on the eight o'clock?" And I had the pleasure of repeating my father's words: "Certain things in life are better done in person." Because I was so excited that Slava had agreed to performing with us, I told the flight attendant the whole story. And, knowing that Slava was the beloved and famous conductor of the National Symphony Orchestra of Washington, the steward announced over the loudspeaker that I had come down to the nation's capital for an hour entice Rostropovich to play with our New England Conservatory Orchestra and Rostropovich had agreed.

Lighting a Spark

Streets of Pearl and Gold by Carolyn Kizer

[postlink]http://newbestmotivator.blogspot.com/2009/06/streets-of-pearl-and-gold-by-carolyn.html[/postlink]

Within, walls white as canvas stretched to stain;
A tabula rasa clean as a stripped bed.
The painter's order: jars and brushes neat,
Harmoniously fixed, like palette clots.
Here, perilous in this secret nest, he paces,
Naked and fierce, dressed only in his paint;
His place condemned,pinched nearer by the beast,
The lover streaked with motley, seeing white,
Would cuff the ball and hammer with his fist
But hides instead, frowns, grappling with art:
Waves and flames and clouds and wounds and rags.
While I sit careless on the bed; I float
Posing as Venus in a pearly boat.
How wide we dream! His picturing and mine,
As the light glitters, deepening our breath
Until we sink for pearl through profound seas,
Swimming before the funeral of the earth.



Outside, the buildings kneel as if yielding up
To the levelers their infirm confessions:
No rats or roaches in the wainscot
Nor the old staled odors of man's functioning
But that they were chalice of our history,
And this, a pastoral Dutch village. Here
In a black-shuttered tavern, clarks and squires
In linsey-woolsey, plotted revolution!

Yea, the streets were steep with mud and dung
From which we raised ourselves a dwelling-place,
On sober frames affixed a frontispiece.
Later, these first buildings failed in form
When they admitted to their broken cells
Child-sweat and chilblain, women laboring
Hook-shouldered, early deformed by the machine:
A house of light become a cave of pain.

Now cornice, fretwork, sagging pediment,
Outliving purity and sin, each warrant signed,
Tell more than Bowery faces of our fate.
The stain is mortal on their livid meat,
Emptier than this periled wood and stone.
A lover carved here, priding in his skill,
Above the old eye-levels, garland, gargoyle,
In the time of the artisan, when our land was small.



Sun dust. Noon is noiseless. Stink of fish
From Fulton, all the produce gone by ten
Save for squashed jelly, viscid scales
Rusting and iridescent. Seasoning sprinkled
On the cooked street.

A wino crawls onto a briny tray,
Lies down in inches of left-over sea.
Curling, crustacean-red, he dozes
his non-death away.

Nearby, the pier where we watch trawlers:
Mending their nets, men sweat,look up, scowl, smile;
Held still a moment, beetles caught in crystal.
The Rivers is brown jelly in the sun.

Between the air and water flies the Bridge:
The twang of her long azure strings.....
Below us, grass grows over boards and water;
AMERICA, THE DEAD IN CHRIST RISE FIRST
On bulkheads scrawled unevenly, fuzzing chalk
Xs in rows, the childlike mark of love.



Retreat to darkness, two dark flights away!
Tin ceilings, thinly blue: pale rippling.
All afternoon the water undulates..............

The sky is silent. For the wino in the tray.
He has not moved, or died.

We rouse in the opal twilight, open eyes:
Dust, a marble crust ground underfoot;
Splintering sills crumble, frame the street
Laid like a whip across the backs of blasted lots
Near rubble mountains raised by dying men.

Bits of the old town lean on the August air,
Wait blindly for the X of the builder-killers,
Their multitudinous eyes taped out.

Racks of white crosses fenestrate the night,
Before the two hairs cross in the last bomb-sight.


And who are we, for whom our country cares?
America makes crosses of us all.
Each artist in his fortress: boiling oil
A weapon still. Seething across his canvases, a fury
Flung over white, ripped out: the X in paint.



Art is this marveling fury of spurned love.
Caughr in this present, impatient of histories,
Even your own, while you mourn what vanishes.
Who endures, rootless? But our roots are strewn
On every pavement, smashed or drowned in brine.

Observe the world with desperate affection;
Snatch up your brush to catch it, fix it all
On canvases which, stacked against a wall,
Dozen on dozen, are crumbling unseen.
Paint out the day and you will keep the time:

Exhaust fumes, and a building's trembling dist,
Fish entrails, wine-reek, attic waste,
The shapes below the names on billboard signs,
And-what the bums find early-paint the dirt
Which we all come to: paint the old dirt sleep.

So stamp your canvas with the X of loss,
Art mutilated, stained with abuse and rage.
But mark it also as the cross of love
Who hold this woman-flesh, touch it alive,
As I try to keep us, here upon the page.

Streets of Pearl and Gold by Carolyn Kizer

You are a Winner!

[postlink]http://newbestmotivator.blogspot.com/2009/06/you-are-winner.html[/postlink]

Contest are one of the best ways to get people exited and involved. In their best form, they also have a purpose. For example, you might ask people to submit their ideas for improvements, or for a conference theme, or to name the company newsletter. Whatever the purpose, be sure that the more involved a person gets, the more chances he or she has to win. It's pay for performances wrapped in fun. Each entry earns another ticket into the seep stakes, and at a certain point in time (it could be a one-time contest or a recurring one, such as quarterly or monthly) all entries are closed and a winner or winners are dawn.

As in any such effort, the manner in which the winner is selected and announced is as important as the contest itself. Be sure to make it an event (maybe a lunch or at some other all-employee gathering); if that's not possible, at least show chase the winner (s) in some very fun, visible way. You want nonparticipants to feel that they have missed out on something in order to increase the likelihood of their participation in future contest.

The key objectives are employee involvement and enthusiasm. Another advantage to contests is that they can be kept fresh with-out a lot of effort. You can change the theme or thrust as often as you like, which keeps the contests (and your employees) from becoming stale. It could be a reward for cross-selling, upselling, referral of business or recruits, safety records, attendance records, product knowledge, or anything of high importance that is worth emphasizing at the moment.

You can also change the reward. In fact, you should. The more variety in the rewards, the more relevant to individuals and the more desirable they become. Ideally, winners should be able to choose their own award (see "Get the Point [s]"). In any event, if there is a single type of award, be sure that it has universal appeal (like time off, money, etc.)

You are a Winner!

How to Keep the Money: A Financial Planning

[postlink]http://newbestmotivator.blogspot.com/2009/06/how-to-keep-money-financial-planning.html[/postlink]

As compensation and benefits plans get more flexible and more complicated, it becomes more and more difficult for people to make educated decision on matters that effect their financial well-being and that of their families.

Many executives with deferred compensation plans, stock options, and other perks are given free financial planning, and have been for years. With more and more complicated and ever-changing compensation and benefits concepts now reaching almost every level of the organization, and with tax laws and investment vehicles constantly changing, why not help all your people maximize the value of their package by giving everyone professional financial advice?

There are many professional advisers who will provide these consultations at reduced group rates in the hope that they will expand their own client portfolio, generate new business, create goodwill, and get referrals for new business.

This advice idea can extend beyond the company compensation and benefit plan. With more people than ever playing the stock and taking charge of their own investments and retirement planning, these kinds of services are indispensable.

How to Keep the Money: A Financial Planning

Free Consultation for Free Best Motivation for You

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TELL US ABOUT YOUR PROBLEM I WILL GIVE YOU A FREE CONSULTATION WITH FREE BEST MOTIVATION FOR YOUR LIFE. SEND YOUR LETTER TO: hangjaya99@gmail.com

Free Consultation for Free Best Motivation for You

On Rising from the Dead by Carolyn Kizer

[postlink]http://newbestmotivator.blogspot.com/2009/06/on-rising-from-dead-by-carolyn-kizer.html[/postlink]

Saturday noon: the morning of the mind
Moves through a mist to breakfast: damp from sleep,
Rustic and rude, the partial self comes down
To face a frozen summer, self-imposed;
Then, as the numb shades lift, becomes aware
Of its other half, buried overhead,
A corpse in twisted sheets, a foggy portrait
Smudged in the bathroom mirror-elegies
Sung on the nerves of a pillow-muffled phone
Nobody's home at home, the house announces.
And the head nods, nobody's home in here.
The bird of dawning silent all day long,
Nobody's home to nobody abroad:
As cars curve past the house, taking themselves
For airings, while the drivers doze within;
Anonymous dogs chivvy the ghosts of cats
Safely locked in the basement. Apples nod
Their hard green heads, lost in a blur of leaves.

Last night, in the hot house, the self sang
Its oneness, in reflection of a love.
Now the cold fragments rise, remembering;
As feudal lieges move for a missing King
Shattered on plains of sleep, they summon armies:
The midget fingers, elbows, eyes and toes,
To patch again the china egg. And horses,
Masculine cavalry og the will, prance, pull
The egg, in cobweb harness, up the hill.

So the self trots upstairs, and reunites
With its lost half, by towelling off the mirror.
Reluctantly, the self confronts the self
Ripped, untimely, from its naked bed,
The winding sheets tossed down the laundry chute.
The room's aroma: whiskey and ripe fruit
Stale with fulfillment, while picked flowers curl
Their lips, like suicides in backish water,
Soiled Ophelias, whom no breath can fulfill.

Still, air the rooms! though fruit and flowers cry,
"leave light, leave air to buds! Beyond bloom,
Who cares?" Get thee to compost heap.
Renew, the self preys to decay. Renew!
And buckles on its shell to meet the day,
Puts off the fantasy these rooms recall,
Of apple-chasing godnesses, a King
Raining his arrows in the laden trees
That, weaponless, drop their pears in sticky grass;

Goes out-of-doors, to its owan daylight domain
Where, pomegranate red, a mole on the lawn
Shriecks to the person from its several parts:
A Dionysus, dismembered by the cats
In a community of sharing: "Here! You keep
The head. I lov a bloody leg!"
They must have sung in harmony, dragging, limbs
About the yard; then left the god unburied,
The raw material of a ritual.

Last night this purring priesthood was caressed
Before the cellar lock-up: smelling gamey,
The smoke from incense-fires in their fun;
Dark-jawed from feasting, they had toyed with Kings'
Tossed organs, skinless as the summer moon!
So self and mole shared midnight, and the twain
Lay sundered on their fields. What rose again
To mend its wounds by fading Saturday?
A solar King, a subterranean mole?

Or both? Did severed parts personify
The Prince of Darkness and the Prince of Light?
Kicking, meanwhile, this body from the lawn,
Interring bits below the apple tree
Where the foot turns loose earth around the roots
And tamps it down. But nostrils of the cats
May raise the dad. So be it. What's a grave
But plunder, to a gardener? Or priest
Rooting up bones of martyrs for display.

The other body takes itself to bed,
Buries itself in sheets as thin as soil,
Dreams of the elevation of the Host:
Mole in a silver chalice; kneels to sup
The blood of the dying, resurrected soul.
But there leaping in the chancel aisle;
Stale altar flowers toss their heads, and burst
In an orgy of bloom: Communion Sunday,
With Dionysus, singing from the Cross!

On Rising from the Dead by Carolyn Kizer

Sir Market

[postlink]http://newbestmotivator.blogspot.com/2009/06/sir-market.html[/postlink]

SIR MARKET, when he faints, does not faint alone. A bomb exploded at the Stock Exchange in Jakarta in the middle of September 2000.Broken glass, holes in the walls, more than ten dead. There was no long wailing for the dead and wounded. Stronger were the cries, "My God ! Sir Market has been hit".

Businessman, ministers, high official, political activist, IMF and World Bank technocrats were all at once stricken with anxiety: well, for half a day or so. The next morning there they were looking for newspapers and scanning TV screen, scrutinising the graphics from minute to minute: figures plummeting in all portfolios, stock prices falling, the rupiah value shaky. We were in the midst of our dark-told prophecy. Sir Market was in a critical condition.

We were afraid, because for the past three decades Sir Market has been enthroned as an invulnerable and unseen power. If there is a magical hand steering the direction society will take, it is his. If there is a force able to give sign about comi8ng changes and movements of wealth and power, it is he. And it is he who stimulates the economy to grow. He, it seems, who makes history. The state, the administration, bureaucracy--all of them, all those nets will never defeat him. In Indonesia people even measure how good or bad the Cabinet is by it "acceptability to the Market"

But a bomb explodes at the Stock Exchange and we can have different story. That murderous explosion showed that Sir Market--with all his magical power--also needs protection. This protection means nothing unless it arises from something closely connected with bureaucracy: Sir Market needs something with effective organisation, a wide reach, a well-structured way of working, and in a position unaffected by Sir Market himself.,in order to rid us of the curse of bombs, so that terrorist can be caught, documents not be wiped, and so that computers will be secure.The list could be long: a bomb disposal squad, intelligence, armed battalions, security and prison administrators, a bench of attorneys, a group of judges, and maybe a firing squad too. They all have to be put some place where they are not merely commodities.

For Sir Market needs safe space. Eventually, he needs what could be called the bureaucratisation of violence.He cannot survive in an arena of unpredictable destructive violence, like the bomb in the Stock Market. The pirates in the South China Sea who loot the shipping trade, bank robbers in the cities--this type of violence is all the more frightening and destructive because one of its core features is uncertainty.

Indeed, Sir Market is killed at dancing within uncertainty. The Stock Market lives because some stock prices rise, and some fall. Transactions take place because of this. Without fluctuation, speculation cannot move and people are unable to earn more profit. In other words,every day can bring supri9ses. I remember Mark Twain's joke about stocks. October, he said, is a risky month for playing the stock market. This is true too of May, July, September, March,April, November, August, February, June, December, January..................

But within this constant uncertainty people nonetheless still wish to diminish risk. Unpredictable violence must be made to enter the calculation.And so bureaucracy flourishes.

North Italy, 1176. In Legnano, a troop of German warriors living as bandits came to attack and loot the town. But unlike other places,in Legnano the attackers were actually beaten by the citizens who armed themselves and when on the alert. It was the voluntary action.

Then times changed. Defence forces such as this were no longer enough. Citizen-forces like the one at Legnano can only be effective if there is discipline, and if there are ties arising from a sense of common ownership. Yet when trade flourishes, the primary ties within the body of society break apart: there are the poor and the rich, there are bosses and those selling labour. Cities become enfeebled through internal conflict.

And so people are forced to hire the labour of others for their defence, contracts, are made, and the condotierri (from the word condotta for contract) are born. Such contracted forces eventually demand not only individual skill, but also management. The bureaucratisation of violence is bomb, together with those who hold the monopoly of violence: and behold--professional armed forces appear.

Yet at the same time, a society needs, the equipment that organises a state: there are tax offices, courts, those who make rules and regulations; and the power of the guardians of balance.Those who hold the monopoly of violence must yet be able to acquiesce to the citizens who pay taxe sand the costs of that bureaucracy. Guns must have lords.

Therefore, Sir Market should not touch these elements. Commercialisation must stop right here. The army must not be mobilised by those offering the highest wages. A terrible fate will strike a city when Sir Market infiltrates this far, and a state no longer behaves as a state but rather as a kind of black market: the generals offer military service to interested parties wishing to use violence--maybe someone who wants to collect a debt, maybe a casino or brothel owner, maybe an importer of narcotics, or maybe some public figure who bears a grudge.

And in the end, the poor will be unprotected. Precisely like the drivers who killed by the bomb blast at the Stock Market in Jakarta that day:just a few hours after the television had been switched off, the victims were no longer mentioned.

Sir Market