For conversions Deltamarin offers you a wide range of services from feasibility studies for Emission Control Areas (ECA) operations or fuel saving modifications to full EPCM package deliveries.
Check out all the services in Deltamarin’s ship design process.
Looking for a chef to run our the kitchen at our small inn and retreat center. We're located in the U.S. Virgin Islands. We want to hire a chef specializing in plant-based cooking. Varying work schedule cooking for retreats, weddings and special events as well as breakfasts when retreats aren't scheduled and we have hotel guests. Small business. Working in a newly upgraded and very comfortable 260 year old cook house. Come work with us and set the bar high for vegan travel destinations!
Udaipur (Hindi: उदयपुर) also knows as the "city of lakes" is the district head quarters of Udaipur district of the Indian state of Rajasthan. Because of its beautiful lakes & palaces in the lakes, its also called as the "Venice of the east". Its around 400 km from the state capital Jaipur & around 250 km from Ahmedabad.
Another name of Udaipur is Romantic City. This romantic city has a lot nice palaces, havelies, gardens, museums, lakes, temples, forts, festivals & fairs,... hence it attracts a lot of tourists across the globe.
Udaipur has broad guage train connectivity to all major cities like Mumbai, New Delhi, Bengaluru, Ahmedabad, Jaipur, Kolkata, Hyderabad, Chennai,...
Also the famous luxurious train "The Palace on Wheels" makes a scheduled stop here.
Udaipur has an airport which has daily services to Mumbai, New Delhi, Jaipur.
CDPR originally wanted to cut Rebecca from Cyberpunk: Edgerunners, but Studio Trigger declined.
In addition to the protagonist David, Cyberpunk: Edgerunners also brings out other characters with a captivating charm. And one of them was “Rebecca,” which was very popular among the audience.
but even then Originally from CD Projekt Red, the creators of the game There was also an idea of ​​removing Rebecca’s script from the story. He argued that such a “loli” style character might not fit the raw atmosphere of Night City.
“When CD Projekt Red first saw Rebecca’s design, they were like, ‘She’s a loli and loli doesn’t exist in Night City, it doesn’t fit the vibe of Cyberpunk 2077.
Cyberpunk: Edgerunners is now available on Netflix with 10 episodes.
For anyone who likes Rebecca and wants to follow in the character’s footsteps through the game,Find out how to keep her personal gun here.
“Color Coded” is excerpted from Of Color: Essays by Jaswinder Bolina, published by McSweeney’s Books and available June 30, 2020. Preorders are available through the McSweeney’s Store.
Her mouth broke into a sneer before she released me and ran back to a gallery of cackling friends, their laughter chasing me down the lane past the cracked expanse of the tennis courts to the quiet of the comics shop a mile or so away. This wasn’t the worst thing anyone had ever said to me. By twelve, I’d taken plenty of slurs. But this encounter was a total non sequitur, both gratuitous and nonsensical. Gandhi is a name, not an epithet. My family isn’t Hindu; even if we were, I’m not sure how being described as such would be an insult.
To dismiss this episode as an artifact of adolescent daftness would be to ignore the sophistication in the blond girl’s behavior. She deduced my family’s national origin, elaborated upon her deduction by identifying that nation’s foremost religious majority, and further recognized one of its preeminent founding fathers—all from the sight of my face. Impressive for a kid who might otherwise be dismissed as ignorant. She wasn’t ignorant. She was making inferences, some of them quite clever. But she also deliberately ignored any complexity in me, any possibility that I might be someone other than I appeared to be. She took the upper hand by erasing any possibility of sophistication in her target. Ignorance can be forgiven. It was the willfulness of her act that made it deplorable.
I didn’t set out that afternoon thinking how brown I was, how anyone might assault me with that fact. My encounter with the blond girl felt like getting horse-collared. The effect of this kind of diminishment is profound, the ensuing humiliation automatic. It isn’t rooted in shame. I don’t remember regretting myself or wanting to disavow my family and the genetics that made me. I liked who I was. But I felt futile, my embarrassment born of powerlessness. I spent days—years, even—thinking about what I should’ve said, with what ferocity of wit and logic I might have shut her down. But I didn’t shut anybody down. I ran.
I might have escaped her cruelty in the moment, but I internalized my shame over running for a long time after. I told myself I’d do better next time. Next time I’d flank and maneuver. But one next time, early on a college evening in 1997 while I was walking down South Michigan Avenue, a pair of red-faced, middle-aged white men in a Jeep Grand Cherokee slowed to ask if I was a camel fucker. The passenger lunged for my arm and I pulled it away, a frightened child again. Another next time, a few weeks after 9/11, a white guy stopped his pickup truck to block my path through an Ann Arbor crosswalk. He stared me down until I knew I was something other than an MFA student. I shaved my grunge-era-holdover beard the next morning. Another next time, a few years later, a white guy hollered “sand nigger” at me from a car passing so fast I didn’t have time to react. He gave not one shit for my doctorate, for my first book of poems or the next one. I took to wearing headphones everywhere I went. I avoided eye contact with anyone passing. I didn’t realize then, after these and so many other incidents I won’t bother to recount, how invisible I attempted to become.
Still, the TSA sees me. The neighborhood watch sees me. The police see me. Their way of seeing is deemed necessary, not racist but defensible per the procedural-sounding label racial profiling. They’re making inferences. Justifiable inferences, allegedly, but they don’t feel very different from the others I remember, each one founded on incorrect assumptions and active decisions to ignore certain particulars about my identity.  Now such inferences might mistake me for a threat, my selfhood erased by the semiautomatic suspicion that I am something other than an “ordinary” citizen. This kind of suspicion can get a body detained or arrested, can get a body killed. In this context, I feel obliged to demonstrate my normalcy, my loyalty—my docility, even—which is a strange reaction from a person on the receiving end of unprovoked aggressions. I become the victim apologetic.
This isn’t fair, but it turns out the world isn’t as objective as all those college philosophy classes suggested. It values and devalues me, which alters the way I behave and in turn the way I see myself. This is how race comes to affect an entire ontology, how it becomes metaphysical. I possess a version of who I am that feels internally consistent and authentic, but that identity is rejected by others for little more than the bone structure of my face, for a trick of light refracting through the melanin in my epidermis. When you’re affected by this kind of prejudice, it isn’t the individual act that matters. It’s the lesson offered by all such acts taken together, by their sheer pervasiveness and the oppressive regularity with which they afflict people of color around you. 
Firsthand experience of racism is the kind of thing a poet probably ought to write about. But the first time I wrote a poem about it, a white poet lamented that I was merely outing the obvious, only reiterating something he, I, and many readers of poetry already knew was wrong. As notable anti-Semite Ezra Pound declared long ago, the artist’s central task is to make it new. The white poet’s complaint was that, though my poem may have been well-written, even publishable, it hadn’t made racism new.
I don’t altogether disagree—I’ve taken Pound’s dictum to heart as much as any other poet—but we need to be clearer about exactly what new means, whether it refers to innovations of form, of content, or of both. What the white poet missed is that the observation of racial injustice is itself new, that it hasn’t existed in poetry for very long or been explored to anything approaching completion. For those unaffected by racism—or sexism, homophobia, transphobia, or so many other intolerances—maybe every account of victimization blends together. You might be sympathetic to the cause of racial parity, but your disconnection from the actual experience of racial disparity leads you to support the cause without being especially interested in specific accounts of it. You might feel that racism is racism, each particular part of the same continuous subject. You don’t need another poem describing how awful it