Albuquerque Quotes

Okay, I’ll put someone on it. But you know, the Albuquerque Police Department wasn’t really created to find things out for you.” “Really? That’s weird.

I never went to Albuquerque expecting to find love. I thought it had found me there, followed me home. I never came home expecting to lose love in the space of one brief telephone call. Is it always so short-lived?

Se viveres, um dia serás livre; a pedra do sepulcro é que nunca se levanta.

O amor que ainda não se definiu é como uma melodia do desenho incerto. Deixa o coração a um tempo alegre e perturbado e tem o encanto fugidio e misterioso de uma música ao longe…

I wonder if I don't give too much of myself to writing: I am always half where I am; the other half is feeding the furnace, kick-starting the heat of creativity. I am making love with someone but at the same time I'm noticing how this graceful hand across my belly might just fit in with the memory of lilacs in Albuquerque in 1974.

They cannot see that growth for the sake of growth is a cancerous madness, that Phoenix and Albuquerque will not be better cities to live in when their populations are doubled again and again. They would never understand that an economic system which can only expand or expire must be false to all that is human.

You can be on the right track and still get run over by the 2:40 from Albuquerque.

Ramfis fled the country after Trujillo's death, lived dissolutely off his father's swag, and ended up dying in a car crash of his own devising in 1969; the other car he hit contained the Duchess of Albuquerque, Teresa Beltrán de Lis, who died instantly; Lil'Fuckface went on murdering right to the end.

Her name was Melanie Stryder. She was born in Albuquerque, New Mexico. She was in Los Angeles when the occupation became known to her, and she hid in the wilderness for a few years before finding... Hmmm. Sorry, I'll try that one again later. The body has seen twenty years. She drove to Chicago from..." I shook my head. "There were several stages, not all of them alone. The vehicle was stolen. She was searching for a cousin named Sharon, whom she had reason to hope was still human. She neither found nor contacted anyone before she was spotted. But..." I struggled, fighting against another blank wall. "I think... I can't be sure... I think she left a note... somewhere.

Albuquerque practiced the intimidatory tactics that had made the Franks so feared along the coast of India. Passing vessels were captured and ransacked for provisions. The unfortunate crews had their hands, noses, and ears cut off and were put ashore to announce the terror and majesty of Portugal. The ships were then burned.

Fe is, I could bang on about the desert and the altitude and the light and the silver and turquoise jewelry, but the best thing is just to mention a traffic sign on the freeway from Albuquerque. It says, in large letters, GUSTY WINDS, and in smaller letters MAY EXIST.

Wyn saw the freshly laid railroad tracks, and spotted the spires of San Felipe with its white crosses pointing toward God’s home, and knew he’d finally reached Albuquerque. He glanced behind him at the dead men tied to the horses and sighed. When he turned back around in the saddle, the sight of the church shamed him. Wyn had only brought death here, and doubted these men were bound for where the crosses pointed...

Moonlight I know when the sun is in China because the night shining other-light crawls into my bed. She is moon. Her eyes slit and yellow she is the last one out of a dingy bar in Albuquerque— Fourth Street, or from similar avenues in Hong Kong. Where someone else has also awakened, the night thrown back and asked, 'where is the moon, my lover'? And from here I always answer in my dreaming, 'the last time I saw her was in the arms of another sky'.

You could fill a catalog with all you long for - for him to come back, for a do-over, for a different ending in which not only were you strong and said good-bye but he lived and made a success of his life and decades later you could look back together on your twenties and laugh at all your follies, for his voice on the other end of the phone call, for one more of those Albuquerque nights when it was easy to fall asleep knowing he was just in the next room.

Just says prepaid ticket for Mr. Dirk Gently to Albuquerque, New Mexico, to be collected. Were you not expecting to go to Albuquerque today, sir?” “I was expecting to end up somewhere I didn’t expect, I just wasn’t expecting it to be Albuquerque, that’s all.” “Sounds like it’s an excellent destination for you, Mr. Gently. Enjoy your flight.

From John Vorhaus's character Vic Mirplo in The Albuquerque Turkey: Procrastinate later.

Albuquerque, New Mexico. The Florida Keys. New York City. The North Shore of Lake Superior. A small island close to Seattle. Those

In the A box, type Albuquerque NM. In the B box, type Lupton AZ. Click Get Directions.

Each candidate was to deliver two stool specimens to the Lovelace laboratory in Dixie cups, and days were going by and Conrad had been unable to egest even one, and the staff kept getting after him about it. Finally he managed to produce a single bolus, a mean hard little ball no more than an inch in diameter and shot through with some kind of seeds, whole seeds, undigested. Then he remembered. The first night in Albuquerque he had gone to a Mexican restaurant and eaten a lot of jalapeño peppers. They were jalapeño seeds. Even in the turd world this was a pretty miserable-looking objet. So Conrad tied a red ribbon around the goddamned thing, with a bow and all, and put it in the Dixie cup and delivered it to the lab.

So when I went to see my wife in Albuquerque that day, she said, “Well, where’s all the stuff?” I said, “What stuff?” She said, “Litharge, glycerine, hot dogs, laundry.” I said, “Wait a minute—that was a list?” She said, “Yes.” “That was a code,” I said. “They thought it was a code—litharge, glycerine, etc.” (She wanted litharge and glycerine to make a cement to fix an onyx box.)

we see that it’s only the old numbers game again, the monomania of small and very simple minds in the grip of an obsession. They cannot see that growth for the sake of growth is a cancerous madness, that Phoenix and Albuquerque will not be better cities to live in when their populations are doubled again and again. They would never understand that an economic system which can only expand or expire must be false to all that is human.

In the process, Albuquerque was consolidating a revolutionary concept of empire. The Portuguese were always aware of how few they were; many of their early contests were against vastly unequal numbers. They quickly abandoned the notion of occupying large areas of territory. Instead, they evolved as a mantra the concept of flexible sea power tied to the occupation of defendable coastal forts and a network of bases. Supremacy at sea; their technological expertise in fortress building, navigation, cartography, and gunnery; their naval mobility and ability to coordinate operations over vast maritime spaces; the tenacity and continuity of their efforts—an investment over decades in shipbuilding, knowledge acquisition, and human resources—these facilitated a new form of long-range seaborne empire, able to control trade and resources across enormous distances. It gave the Portuguese ambitions with a global dimension.

Back when I was in college, I wrote a short story called “The Albuquerque Door” for a junior year creative writing class. It dealt with several of the same ideas in this book, but with a much smaller cast of characters and on a much less talented level. Needless to say, it didn’t go over well with the instructor’s “literary” tastes, and while I didn’t agree with him on a lot of his points, it left me feeling bad enough about the story that I just filed it away.

They walked to the doors, and she unlocked them. Before she could say anything, I began the show. "Garrett! Oh, my God!" I rushed forward and threw my arms around him. "What happened? Who did this?" "I was mugged." "Do we say mugged in Albuquerque?" He glared at me. "I'm so sorry. I'll take you to the hospital." Disappointment lined the guard's face. But it quickly transformed into confusion. "Wait, I thought you said your name was Reyes. Reyes Farrow." After I gaped at him for an eternity, an eternity in which he struggled to conceal [a] mischievous grin, I turned back to her. "It is. It's Reyes Garrett Farrow. Not Reyes Alexander Farrow." I snorted and waved a dismissive hand. "That's another guy altogether." She wrinkled her forehead in suspicion. "Gotta go," I said, hurrying him along. "Have to get this man to a hospital for multiple stab wounds." "He was stabbed?" she asked with a concerned gasp. "Not yet, but the night is young.

We get frantic in our loving. The distance between Santa Fe and Albuquerque shifts and changes. It is moments; it is years. I am next to you in skin and blood and then I am not. I tremble and grasp at the edges of myself; I let go into you.

They were turning now, panning past the Sandias, the black-green crags and rocky faces, the ribbon of road leading to the white crest. Amina looked down on Albuquerque, the light bouncing off the sprawling tile of houses and pools, the cars running along the highways like busy insects. She imagined all of it gone, undone, erased back to 1968, when the city was nothing but eighty miles of hope huddling in a desert storm. She imagined Kamala on the tarmac, walking toward a life in the desert, her body pulled forward by faith and dirty wind.

But taking my meal outside by the burning juniper in the fireplace with more desert and mountain than I could explore in a lifetime open to view, I was invited to contemplate a far larger world, one which extends into a past and into a future without any limits known to human kind. By taking off my shoes and digging my toes into the sand I made contact with that larger world - an exhilarating feeling which leads to equanimity. Certainly I was still by myself, so to speak - there were no other people around and there still are none - but in the midst of such a grand tableau it was impossible to give full and serious consideration to Albuquerque. All that is human melted with the sky and faded out beyond the mountains and I felt, as I feel - is it a paradox? - that a man can never find or need better companionship than that of himself.

I am nine. We are bored and Karen is dying. We drove to Austin that summer so Sarah's dad- who described Karen as /the great and impossible love/ of his life, who taught us the word /lymphoma/ and then, the concept of the prefix, how it explains where the tumor lives- could say goodbye. The house is a rind spooned out by the onset of death, what's left in the medicine cabinet full of razors & we are hungry & alone & sitting on the living room floor where the light from a naked window slices the hardwood like a melon, brandishes each, individualfuzz on my scabbed calf a field of erect, yellow poppies & we have been alive as girls long enough to know to scowl at this reveal & what better time than now to practice removal. Once, I watched my mother skin a potato in six perfect strokes I remember this as Sarah teaches me to prop up my leg on the side of the tub and runs the blade along my thing, /See?/ she says, /Isn't that so much better?/ Before we left Albuquerque her father warned us, /She will have no hair/ a trait we have just begun to admire except, of course for the hair he is talking about we hold against our necks, that which will get us compliments or scouted in a mall, eventually cut off by our envious sisters while we sleep.

To give you an idea of the sort of place that Santa Fe is, I could bang on about the desert and the altitude and the light and the silver and turquoise jewelry, but the best thing is just to mention a traffic sign on the freeway from Albuquerque. It says, in large letters, GUSTY WINDS, and in smaller letters MAY EXIST.

In high school, in Albuquerque, New Mexico, a bunch of us spent a whole year reading Cicero—De Senectute, on old age; De Amicitia, on friendship. De Senectute, with all its resigned wisdom, I will probably never be capable of living up to or imitating. But De Amicitia I could make a stab at, and could have any time in the last thirty-four years.

The Perea family is of Arabic origin. The surname Perea originates from the Arabic word “Bariya” and denotes a homeland now located in modern-day Jordan. This surname was phonetically changed in Spanish to “Perea,” which commonly happened with Arabic words absorbed into Spanish—including the word “Albuquerque,” the capital city of New Mexico, which derives from Arabic.

Along the western coast of the Sahara desert, about half way between the Canary Islands and the Cape Verde Islands, lays a sand spit called Cape Barba’s. In 1441, ships attached to Estêvão da Gama’s fleet were sent by Prince Henry to explore the coastline south of Cape Barba’s, which, five years earlier, was the farthest point reached by any of Prince Henry’s captains. Although there are some conflicting stories regarding the discoveries of the mid-Atlantic islands, it is safe to assume that in 1501 João da Nova discovered Ascension Island. The desolate island remained deserted until it was rediscovered two years later on Ascension Day by Alfonso de Albuquerque. He was also the first European to discover the Red Sea and the Persian Gulf.

What I Should Have Said There's nothing that says you can't call. I spend the weekdays teaching and moving my children from breakfast to bedtime. What else, I feel like a traitor telling someone else things I can't tell to you. What is it that keeps us together? Fingertip to fingertip, from Santa Fe to Albuquerque? I feel bloated with what I should say and what I don't. We drift and drift, with few storms of heat inbetween the motions. I love you. The words confuse me. Maybe they have become a cushion keeping us in azure sky and in flight not there, not here. We are horses knocked out with tranquilizers sucked into a deep deep sleeping for the comfort and anesthesia death. We are caught between clouds and wet earth and there is no motion either way no life to speak of.

Richard Feynman, an incorrigible practical joker, had his own way of dealing with security regulations. When the censors complained that his wife, Arline, now a patient at a tuberculosis sanatorium in Albuquerque, was sending him letters in code and asked for the code, Feynman explained that he didn’t have the key to it—it was a game he played with his wife to practice his code-breaking.

We were told to be very careful—not to buy our train ticket in Princeton, for example, because Princeton was a very small station, and if everybody bought train tickets to Albuquerque, New Mexico, in Princeton, there would be some suspicions that something was up. And so everybody bought their tickets somewhere else, except me, because I figured if everybody bought their tickets somewhere else…

For Albuquerque, everything was at stake. All the principal figures of the Indian administration were besieged in the Mandovi in the rain, with the shots of the enemy crashing in; the men and their captains cursed him for the lack of food, for his obstinacy, his obsessiveness, his vanity. All he had was his belief in a certain strategic vision, encouraging words, and the severities of discipline. It was perhaps his supreme moment of crisis.

And outside Watts, a dozen more shootings produce a dozen more weeping families that have to struggle stoically through their black grief or that can stand behind microphones and declare their black anger, and the bodies pile higher and higher and higher, and so does the frustration with the impunity 'because,' says the district attorney in St. Louis in Kansas City in Staten Island in Dayton in Gary in Albuquerque in Oakland, 'you can’t indict an algorithm.

Downtown Village was one of the oldest apartment buildings in Albuquerque, rising five stories above the street below. The first four floors housed six small apartments, each just like the one next to it. On the lower levels, the paint was still the hollow green of a hospital emergency room. It remained that way in part because all the elderly people who had settled there since the 1960s detested change--each existing in their small apartments, watching the walls of their rooms outlive their husbands and wives.

Morrison gave a formal briefing in Los Alamos on what he had seen, but he also summarized his report for a local Albuquerque radio station: “We circled finally low over Hiroshima and stared in disbelief. There below was the flat level ground of what had been a city, scorched red. . . . But no hundreds of planes had visited this town during a long night. One bomber and one bomb, had, in the time it takes a rifle bullet to cross the city, turned a city of three hundred thousand into a burning pyre. That was the new thing.

From my experience, CIA cocaine ops were what Charlie Pride4’s tournaments were really all about. Part of the cash generated was laundered through his bank in Dallas, Texas. Pride was tied into the same Savings and Loan scandals that Neil Bush5 had been caught in. Even Bush Jr.’s baseball “bud” Nolan Ryan6 owned a bank associated with CIA black ops. Additionally, the drug running I was involved with was channeled through Albuquerque’s LA Dodger baseball training camp and profits laundered through local Catholic charities. Charlie Pride’s annual Pro-Am Golf Tournaments covered it all.

A shock of light. Unbelievable light. Blood orange swallowing the Albuquerque evening. A pulling in, taking back, reclaiming something stolen. Halfway home from her Saturday-morning lecture, Calliope Santiago drove across the river toward West Mesa and the Sleeping Sisters, ancient cinder-cone volcanoes in the distance marking the stretch of desert where she lived. Only now she could see no farther than two feet ahead of her from the blinding light, the splotches in her eyes bursting like bulbs in an antique camera. She blinked, not sure what she was seeing. She meant to cover her eyes. Meant to shield her sight.

All this fantastic effort—giant machines, road networks, strip mines, conveyor belt, pipelines, slurry lines, loading towers, railway and electric train, hundred-million-dollar coal-burning power plant; ten thousand miles of high-tension towers and high-voltage power lines; the devastation of the landscape, the destruction of Indian homes and Indian grazing lands, Indian shrines and Indian burial grounds; the poisoning of the last big clean-air reservoir in the forty-eight contiguous United States, the exhaustion of precious water supplies—all that ball-breaking labor and all that backbreaking expense and all that heartbreaking insult to land and sky and human heart, for what? All that for what? Why, to light the lamps of Phoenix suburbs not yet built, to run the air conditioners of San Diego and Los Angeles, to illuminate shopping-center parking lots at two in the morning, to power aluminum plants, magnesium plants, vinyl-chloride factories and copper smelters, to charge the neon tubing that makes the meaning (all the meaning there is) of Las Vegas, Albuquerque, Tucson, Salt Lake City, the amalgamated metropoli of southern California, to keep alive that phosphorescent putrefying glory (all the glory there is left) called Down Town, Night Time, Wonderville, U.S.A. They

All that day we went about stunned – we, the small town of real people behind the corporate logo of a ringed blue planet spinning through starry space. In the studio's Corner Store, in small groups that met on the company streets and in a hundred offices, we pieced our own experiences together with what was coming to light in the media. The suspect: a deranged, 43-year-old drifter who two days earlier had allegedly killed three people in Albuquerque, NM. He had fled to California where for reasons unknown he had been trying to contact actor-producer Michael Landon on the day of the shootings. The employees he had approached had repeatedly turned him away, since Landon had no particular connection with our studio. But just after dark the man had come back to the main gate again. He had walked up to a young actress waiting for her ride after an audition, said "hello" to her and then stepped over to the guardhouse. "I heard a shot and looked up," a secretary who had been passing nearby told me. "I saw Jeren fall and heard him groan. And there was this guy in a gray jacket just standing over him, pointing down at him with a gun. Then he raised the gun and pointed it at the other guard and shot again, and I saw Armando fall out the other side of the guardhouse. For a split second – just because we're at a movie studio – I thought it must be a movie they were filming. But there weren't any lights or cameras, and I realized it was real, and I thought, ‘He's gonna come after us because we saw it!' So I ran. I felt I was running for my life.

that the secret to my implausible, financially self-sufficient adulthood was the same secret that had brought me here: I was invited to do something, and I said yes. It is better to say yes than no. Unless saying yes will hurt you or someone else, say yes. Don’t say no if the invitation is scary. That’s when you should definitely say yes. If a computer company invites you to be in an ad and you’re scared to say yes because (a) it will mess up your pickup schedule at your child’s school and (b) it will push you well past your comfortable limits of fraudulency and change your life forever, take it from me, don’t say no, like I did, and then get lucky only because they asked again. They won’t always ask again. And don’t say no, like I did, to appearing on Breaking Bad because you were afraid to live in Albuquerque for a while, away from your family. Do your work. Do the things you love. Don’t ask permission. The more work you make in the world, the more likely someone will ask you to do some new thing, some bigger thing, or at least some interesting thing. And when they ask, say yes.

SILVER CITY IS NO PLACE FOR AMATEURS I left Colorado Springs the next morning and got back in the fucking car for another day of driving for the Tour of the Gila. I’d never driven in snow before, but I made it to Santa Fe and then Albuquerque in the afternoon, careful to dodge all the tumbleweeds on the highway in New Mexico. I hadn’t known that those existed outside of cartoons. Already exhausted when I got off the interstate, I was surprised when my GPS said “48 miles remaining, 1.5 hours’ drive time”—I was sure that couldn’t be right. Then I saw the steep climbs, bumpy cattle guards, and dangerous descents on the road into Silver City. I drove as fast as I could, sliding my poor car around hairpins in the dark. I made it to the host house, fell asleep, and found two flat tires when I went outside to unpack the car in the morning. They probably weren’t meant for drifting. My luck didn’t improve when the race started. I got a flat tire when I went off the road to dodge a crash, and I chased for over an hour to get back to the field. Between the dry air and altitude, I got a major nosebleed. My car was parked at the base of the finishing climb, and I got there several minutes behind the field, my new white Cannondale and all my clothes covered in blood. The course turned right to go up the climb, and I turned left, climbed into my car, and got the hell out of there. I might have made the time cut, but for the second time in two weeks, I opted to climb in the car instead. I got out of that town like I was about to turn into a pumpkin, and made it back to San Diego nine hours later. If there wasn’t a Pacific Ocean to stop me, I’d have driven another day, just to get farther from Gila.

They reached Albuquerque, Dyson seeing for the first time the deceptively clear air and the red desert beneath still snowy peaks. Feynman bore into town at 70 miles per hour and was immediately arrested for a rapid sequence of traffic violations. The justice of the peace announced that the fine he handed down was a personal record.

I don’t know why I give him a plate. His food expands off his plate onto the table. Rolls, crumbs, chicken legs, bones are all over his placemat. Even my cat eats more neatly.” —Toni, Albuquerque, NM

Although there are some conflicting stories regarding the discoveries of the mid-Atlantic islands, it is safe to assume that in 1501 João da Nova discovered Ascension Island. The desolate island remained deserted until it was rediscovered two years later on Ascension Day by Alfonso de Albuquerque. He was also the first European to discover the Red Sea and the Persian Gulf. The last time I was on Ascension Island I went to “The Pan American Club” which was the Island Pub. There were a few locals drinking at the bar but outside was a donkey looking for something to drink, which the locals gladly provided. It didn’t take much, and after a few bottles of beer the donkey fell down in a drunken stupor. It was the only time in my life that I actually saw a drunken ass! (True story!)

Albuquerque was the Burque, a volatile city-state run by Hispanic land-grant families and water barons.

The morning of the funeral an honor guard from Albuquerque fired the salute; two big flags covered the coffins completely, and it looked as if the people from the village had gathered only to bury the flags.

Maybe we should stay another night," said Amelia... Rick nodded. "You're right. Sounds good to me." He then winked at her and said with a teasing glint in his eyes, "We can both sleep in this bed to save money." He then patted the space beside him. Amelia laughed and shook her head. "In your dreams!" Rick chuckled. "Yeah. In my dreams is right.

It was dusk when Rick led Amelia and Sam toward the Old Town plaza. "Come with me. You're going to love this." Amelia could hear music in the distance. She recognized the delicate strumming of a few guitars and the faint sound of singing. As they approached the plaza, Amelia could see four men playing and singing folk songs. It was beautiful. The music was coming straight from their soul and it held her spellbound. She stood in awe and watched, loving every note that drifted toward her. "Come here," said Rick as he motioned toward some benches. "Let's sit down." After the three of them got comfortable, Rick put his arm around Amelia's shoulders. "If you think this is beautiful, wait until Christmas. They have Luminarias and sing Christmas songs in both English and Spanish.

In sum, the Northeast was forming through practices that shaped its cartography through the persistent struggle against drought; violent measures against messianic movements and banditry; and political adjustments by elites to ensure the preservation of their privileges. But

The Portuguese word saudade has no direct English translation; applied to a range of human experience it conveys longing, nostalgia, homesickness, the desire for something that was. The central feeling is lack or loss. It is a personal sentiment of one who perceives that she is losing important pieces of herself, or the places that made her who she is. But it can also be a collective sentiment, affecting a community that loses its spatial or temporal referents, a social class that loses its position of power to history.

It was with this book, according to Lins do Rego, that “the Northeast discovered itself as a fatherland (o Nordeste se descobriu como patria).” In its preface, Freyre affirmed that it was “an investigation into northeastern life; the life of five states whose individual destinies have merged into one and whose roots have thoroughly intertwined over the last hundred years.” This hundred years was also, coincidentally, the age of the Diário de Pernambuco as well as of Recife’s law school.

1960s—enshrined the Northeast as the most representative example of Brazil’s problems with hunger, poverty, subdevelopment, alienation, and despair. Accepting without question the spatial existence of the Northeast, these “leftist” works ultimately reinforced a series of images and enunciations of the region that had emerged through the discourse of the droughts by the end of the nineteenth century. They combined the idea of the Northeast as victim, as a place of ruin (product of droughts), with the idea of the Northeast as poor and wretched (product of entrenched oligarchies), adding to the mixture a jarring dose of stern Marxist topicality and aestheticized realism

So,” said Toby, as he topped off a large castle, “did you hear about the dying man named Al who wanted a city named after him?” “No,” I replied, smiling. “Well, this guy Al knows he hasn’t got much time left, so he says to his friend, ‘Promise me they’ll name a city after me.’ And his friend says, ‘I promise, Al.’ And Al says, ‘Will it be big?’ and the friend says, ‘Sure will, Al,’ and Al says, ‘Will it be pretty?’ and the friend says, ‘Count on it, Al.’” “They named a city Al?” I interrupted. Toby grinned and went right on. “And Al says, ‘And you promise it’ll be named after me?’ and the friend says, ‘You betcha, Mr. Buquerque.’ Get it?” said Toby. “The guy’s name was Al Buquerque? Albuquerque? As in New Mexico?

This part of New Mexico was so much greener than Albuquerque, and I could see clear changes in vegetation as we gained altitude,

Sarah Skoterro, in Albuquerque, a veteran of thirty years as a drug counselor, remembered the meth years ago was a party drug. Then, she said, “around 2009, 2010, there was a real shift—a new kind of product. I would do assessments with people struggling for five years with meth who would say ‘This kind of meth is a very different thing.’ ” Skoterro watched people with families, houses, and good-paying jobs quickly lose everything. “They’re out of their house, lost their relationship, their job, they’re walking around at three in the morning, at a bus stop, blisters on their feet. They are a completely different person.” As I talked with people across the country, it occurred to me that P2P meth that created delusional, paranoid, erratic people living on the street must have some effect on police shootings. Police shootings were all over the news by then and a focus of national attention. Albuquerque police, it turns out, had studied meth’s connection to officer-involved fatal shootings, in which blood samples of the deceased could be taken. For years, the city’s meth supply was locally made, in houses, in small quantities. When P2P meth began to arrive in 2009, those meth houses faded. Since 2011, Mexican crystal meth has owned the market with quantities that drove the price from $14,000 per pound down to $2,200 at its lowest. City emergency rooms and the police Crisis Intervention Team, which handles mental illness calls, have been inundated ever since with people with symptoms of schizophrenia, often meth-induced, said Lt. Matt Dietzel, a CIT supervisor. “Meth is so much more common now,” Dietzel told me. “We’re seeing the worst outcomes more often.” In

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One final possibility should be mentioned from the perspective of military activity on the Utah ranch. Recent allegations have surfaced that the Air Force Office of Special Investigations (AFOSI) engaged in several deception and disinformation operations in the 1970s, the 1980s and (presumably) in the 1990s. Many of these operations involved the simulation of “UFOs,” the manufacture of bogus evidence indicative of “extraterrestrial visitation” designed to conceal classified military technology or simply to lead investigators astray. In 2005, retired AFOSI special agent Richard Doty broke his silence to publicly acknowledge being involved in several of these “alien visitation” operations, the most famous being the disinformation campaign to persuade Albuquerque physicist Paul Bennewitz that an alien base existed in Dulce, New Mexico. The operation is described in detail in Greg Bishop’s book Project Beta: The Story of Paul Bennewitz, National Security, and the Creation of a Modern UFO Myth.

The father of the Altair was H. Edward Roberts of Albuquerque, New Mexico,

Even for Albuquerque, this is pretty Albuquerque.

A powerful characteristic of andragogy, the teaching of adults, is the transparency of processes. Adults thrive in educational environments that are overt regarding why and how things are being done.

A romantic dinner with knowledge and learning! What a gathering! If education is seen not as a means to an end, but as an end in itself, as a wholesome process, the endeavor of guessing the future becomes futile. – How so? – Because education will not glance exclusively at the future, but also at the present. Education would then be aimed entirely at making life, the present everyday life, a delight. It would, then, make no sense to talk about efficiency in education in the same way there’s no efficiency in a romantic dinner or a rollercoaster ride.

Education, as I see it, is the delightful process of developing skills and knowledge in which time becomes secondary and efficiency would only instrumentalize this wholesome endeavor. Education is life itself and an ongoing process that should never end. It bears its fruit both in the present and in the future.

Aristotle says that virtues are found in the midpoint between two vices. Apparently, our two vices here would be following the syllabus blindly on one side, and, on the other side, following all and every student’s whims to design the course and lessons. After all, students are not the specialists and hired our, I mean, your services trusting you’d make the best decisions for them. – I understand. So, in this sense, a good lesson is one where the learning is relevant to students while also abiding by the course’s goals and objectives. Easier said than done, isn’t it?

They cannot see that growth for the sake of growth is a cancerous madness, that Phoenix and Albuquerque will not be better cities to live in when their populations are doubled again and again. They would never understand that an economic system which can only expand or expire must be false to all that is human. So much by way of futile digression: the pattern is fixed and protest alone will not halt the iron glacier moving upon us.

Now Where Do You Find Customers? When novice entrepreneurs search for opportunities, they too often look beyond their Zone of Influence. They think the action is happening somewhere else, in some other location or industry. But seasoned entrepreneurs almost always find and create opportunities within the context of who they are, what they know, and especially who they know. In each of the examples above, the business validation process begins with potential customers in the entrepreneur’s orbit. Actual people with names. Tribes you belong to or are interested in, most of whom are already self-organized online. People you know how to reach, today. Though it’s rarely a part of their official origin stories, the biggest companies in the world—even the viral apps now worth billions—started through personal networks and real human connections. Mark Zuckerberg started Facebook in a weekend by emailing friends to use it. Version 1 did well, validating it. And Microsoft started with Bill Gates building software for a guy in Albuquerque. He had a CUSTOMER FIRST. In the beginning, founders should reach out to their friends, their former colleagues, their communities. You may think your business is unique, but trust me, it’s not. Every successful business can start this way. For example, Anahita loves her dogs and wanted healthier snacks for them. She started taking her homemade organic dog treats to her local dog park. She would sell out every time. A year later she now has a store called the Barkery, a dog bakery. Before you even think about picking a business idea, make sure you have easy access to the people you want to help. An easy way to do this is to think about where you have easy access to a targeted group of people whom you really want to help—like, say, new moms in Austin, cyclists, freelance writers, and taco obsessives (like me!). CHALLENGE Top three groups. Let’s write out your top three groups to target. Who do you have easy access to that you’d be EXCITED to help? This can be your neighbors, colleagues, religious friends, golf buddies, cooking friends, etc. The better you understand your target group, the better you can speak to them. The more specifically you can speak to their problems, the better and easier you can sell (or test products). Note how this process prioritizes communication with people, through starting (taking the first iteration of your solution straight to customers) and asking (engaging them in a conversation to determine how your solution can best fix their problem). Business creation should always be a conversation! Nearly every impulse we have is to be tight with our ideas by doing more research, going off alone to build the perfect product—anything and everything to avoid the discomfort of asking for money. This is the validation shortcut. You have to learn to fight through this impulse. It won’t be easy, but it’ll be worth it.

Segurança do Paciente é um arcabouço de atividades organizadas que cria culturas, processos, procedimentos, comportamentos, tecnologias e ambientes no cuidado de saúde, e que de forma coerente e sustentável, reduzem riscos, reduzem a ocorrência de dano evitável, tornam o erro menos provável e reduzem seu impacto quando ele ocorre”.

As falhas na comunicação entre os profissionais de saúde e desses com pacientes e familiares têm sido apontadas na literatura científica sobre o tema da Segurança do Paciente como uma das causas mais importantes para a ocorrência de eventos adversos no cuidado de saúde.

fundamental a inclusão da empatia como estratégia essencial no cuidado de saúde:

não é o dinheiro, o sucesso, ou a fama o que mais faz bem às pessoas, mas o tempo que elas passam com os amigos e a família

Nem deixarão meus versos esquecidos Aqueles que nos Reinos lá da Aurora Se fizeram por armas tão subidos, Vossa bandeira sempre vencedora: Um Pacheco fortíssimo e os temidos Almeidas, por quem sempre o Tejo chora, Albuquerque terríbil, Castro forte, E outros em quem poder não teve a morte.

There were some low moments out there on the road tonight—abandonment and what’s the point?—but then I pulled in a radio station from Albuquerque playing historical rap and breakdance circa 1982. Kurtis Blow and disco synthesizers made me feel like I could drive all night.

A Game Changer

The short version of it is, he and a squad of special operations troops flew into a village in southern Afghanistan in two Blackhawks, with a gunship flying support. They were targeting a house where two Taliban leadership guys were hiding out with their bodyguards. They landed, hit the house, there was a short fight there, they killed one man, but they’d caught the Taliban guys while they were sleeping. They controlled and handcuffed the guys they were looking for, and had five of their bodyguards on the floor. Then the village came down on them like a ton of bricks. Instead of just being the two guys with their bodyguards, there were like fifty or sixty Taliban in there. There was no way to haul out the guys they’d arrested—there was nothing they could do but run. They got out by the skin of their teeth.” “What about Carver?” Lucas asked. “Carver was the last guy out of the house. Turns out, the Taliban guys they’d handcuffed were executed. So were the bodyguards, and two of them were kids. Eleven or twelve years old. Armed, you know, but . . . kids.” “Yeah.” “An army investigator recommended that Carver be charged with murder, but it was quashed by the command in Afghanistan—deaths in the course of combat,” Kidd said. “The investigator protested, but he was a career guy, a major, and eventually he shut up.” “Would he talk now? I need something that would open Carver up.” “I don’t think so,” Kidd said. “He’s just made lieutenant colonel. He’s never going to get a star, but if he behaves, he could get his birds before he retires.” “Birds?” “Eagles. He could be promoted to colonel. That’s a nice retirement bump for guys who behave. But, there’s another guy. The second-to-the-last guy out. He’s apparently the one who saw the executions and made the initial report. He’s out of the army now. He lives down in Albuquerque.

We don't need cameras here; we have enough trouble controlling our eyes! I waste my time looking and not seeing. If a camera helped us to see, we would be better off-but it would not be us, seeing. A camera distracts you. It makes you less of a person. Words are even worse; they make birds Ay away, and they make us dizzy with noise. Who can pay attention to the world while someone chatters? The books of the Anglos are as noisy as their planes overhead. My mother says that the books fill up our head with words, and take over our eyes, too. We end up seeing what the words told us about. We stop seeing; the noise of the words takes over. I have a cousin who is a New Hopi; he went to a BIA school, and lived with the Anglos in Albuquerque. He came back to us and said that he doesn't look at the mesa anymore. He doesn't watch the clouds, see them meeting, leaving each other, doing a dance for us. He thinks about them; he talks to himself about them. He wishes his head could be quiet, the way it used to be. Stick with the Anglos, and you have a noisy head!

Because it was a New York Times bestseller that everyone was reading, and I had a chance to get you an autographed copy.” “Whatever.” “Cross is the head of the Albuquerque Door project,” Reggie said. “It’s in danger of being canceled, for a couple of reasons. I need you to evaluate it and show it’s safe and viable so I can get another year of funding for them.” “The Albuquerque Door?” “Yes.” “Well, you’ve piqued my curiosity.

To start with the Altair needed a language out of which to create programs. Gates and Allen called the small Albuquerque, New Mexico, company that made the Altair and promised to supply a language. They chose Basic, originally designed in the 1960s for the sorts of minicomputers made by Digital. Basic (Beginners All-purpose Symbolic Instruction Code) was ideal for short programs and easier to learn than Fortran because its instructions were simpler. The language caught on widely, and its authors, two Dartmouth College professors, asserted no ownership rights over the program, allowing anyone to use or modify it free of charge. Within six weeks, Gates and Allen had written a version of Basic for the Altair and formed a partnership called Microsoft to peddle the program. Allen flew to New Mexico to strike a deal. Soon Microsoft’s Basic sold so well, even at its five-hundred-dollar price, that Gates left Harvard. He never returned. The

Ascension Island Along the western coast of the Sahara desert, about half way between the Canary Islands and the Cape Verde Islands, lies a sand spit called Cape Barbas. In 1441, ships attached to Estêvão da Gama’s fleet were sent by Prince Henry to explore the coastline south of Cape Barbas, which, five years earlier, was the farthest point reached by any of Prince Henry’s captains. Although there are some conflicting stories regarding the discoveries of the mid-Atlantic islands, it is safe to assume that in 1501 João da Nova discovered Ascension Island. The desolate island remained deserted until it was rediscovered two years later on Ascension Day by Alfonso de Albuquerque. He was also the first European to discover the Red Sea and the Persian Gulf. Having been to most of these exotic locations I know that Ascension Island is the very top of a mostly submerged mid-Atlantic mountain. It is part of the mid-ocean ridge which is by far the longest mountain range on earth. As an active fault line it starts north of Iceland becoming the Reykjanes Ridge as it crosses the northern Island Nation and finishes in the Indian Ocean south of the Cape of Good Hope in Africa. Because of this active ridge, South America and Africa are 1,600 miles apart and dovetail each other, spreading apart at an annual rate of about 1 1/8 inches.

The dressy event was a benefit for the Special Olympics, a favorite organization of mine. My first husband worked for the Special Olympics in Albuquerque, and I had once volunteered as a “hugger” at the finish line during one of his events.

When I called Nona Aguilar, author of The New No-Pill, No-Risk Birth Control (Simon & Schuster, 1986), I described my frustration that I was not acceptable to the training program at the Albuquerque clinic. “Well,” she said, respectfully, “I agree with that policy.” I leaned back in my chair. “Okay,” I said. “I don’t understand this. Please explain.” “Properly used,” she began, “sex is about emotional and psychological union. In our culture, artificial birth control—which feminists have strongly advocated—has made sex a recreational activity. Sex certainly can be recreational, but its potential is to be transcendent. Sex is the life-bearing force of humankind. When lovemaking is recreational, it’s a little like being color-blind during sunset over the Grand Canyon. Union becomes harder to experience, and that’s a loss.” With

STEPPED OUT our front door into the frigid, Albuquerque night. The crisp air, tinged with the scent of woodsmoke, flushed through my lungs, and the stars winked distantly in the deep cobalt sky. It was three thirty a.m., way too early to be awake. A

ABOUT THE AUTHOR Born in Ciechanów, Poland, Ania Ahlborn is also the author of the supernatural thrillers Seed and The Neighbors. She earned a bachelor’s degree in English from the University of New Mexico, enjoys gourmet cooking, baking, drawing, traveling, movies, and exploring the darkest depths of the human (and sometimes inhuman) condition. She lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico,

Transparent tubes divided Phil’s blood into shades of red, fading to straw colored plasma. I watched his fluid swirl past his shoulders and disappear into machines. He offered himself to blood banks all over the city, his plasma rushed to hospitals where it would circulate through other people’s bodies. The map of my love’s tapped arteries would look like a bloodshot eye over the city of Albuquerque. His blood bought us dinner. I dreamed he was my mother, and I nursed his arm. I wrote a poem about it, how I suckled his arm dry like a sore teat.

door into the frigid, Albuquerque night. The crisp air, tinged with the scent of woodsmoke, flushed through my lungs, and the stars winked distantly in the deep cobalt sky. It was three thirty a.m.,

Pouco antes de se envolver com Julio, Emilia decidiu que dali pra frente só follaría, treparia, como os espanhóis, não faria mais amor com ninguém, não deitaria nem transaria com mais ninguém, muito menos foderia ou fuderia. Este é um problema chileno, disse Emilia, então, a Julio, com uma desenvoltura que só lhe nascia na escuridão, e em voz bem baixa, naturalmente: Este é um problema dos jovens chilenos, somos jovens demais para fazer amor, e no Chile se você não faz amor só pode foder ou fuder, mas eu não gostaria de fuder nem de foder com você, preferiria que nós trepássemos, como na Espanha. Mas na época Emilia não conhecia a Espanha. Anos mais tarde moraria em Madri, cidade onde treparia bastante, mas não mais com Julio, e sim, fundamentalmente, com Javier Martínez e com Ángel García Atienza e com Julián Albuquerque e até, mas só uma vez, e um pouco forçada, com Karolina Kopeć, sua amiga polonesa. Mas naquela noite, naquela segunda noite, Julio se transformou no segundo parceiro sexual da vida de Emilia, ou, como dizem as mães e as psicólogas com certa hipocrisia, no segundo homem de Emilia, que passou, por sua vez, a ser o primeiro relacionamento sério de Julio. Julio fugia dos relacionamentos sérios, não se escondia das mulheres, mas da seriedade, pois sabia que a seriedade era tanto ou mais perigosa que as mulheres. Julio sabia que estava condenado à seriedade, e tentava, obstinadamente, torcer seu destino sério, passar o tempo na estoica espera daquele espantoso e inevitável dia em que a seriedade chegaria para se instalar para sempre na sua vida

Cabral’s poetry, as with Guimarães Rosa’s prose, constituted a critical reply to the relations of determination that existed in regionalist literature between material poverty and cultural poverty. Both writers attempted to show that material poverty could be accompanied by cultural riches, and that, while in a world characterized by contradiction and mixture not everything could be resolved in synthesis, the resulting tension could be fruitful for popular knowledge and resistance.

I’ve had affairs before but never like this - I need a reason to leave my wife,” Shimansky said, desperately appealing to me. “Won't you wife be annoyed?" I asked. “Probably. No doubt. She usually is…” he said. “That's very complicated. Even worse, what if your wife forgives you…? What then? You going to stay with her and keep doing the other one…?” From: "The Sundial Salesman.

Can anyone be arrested for being such an asshole as him? Should they pass a law, legislate for just such things, make it a criminal offense you could be detained for being such an asshole? But then most of the world's men would be behind bars serving life term sentences, without parole.

As far as I could tell his problems with his wife were pretty typical, they’d run out of things to say to one another. And the things they did think up to say were pretty unkind and shit. Their life and marriage sounded as if it consisted of him gradually removing their most impressive moments and then rearranging them in a mutually one-sided fashion so that every moment with her was torture.

I wouldn't say I hate my job and hate my life. But if I'd to choose it'd be a pretty fine line and so indiscernible I easily wander over the border between the two and back again without ever being fully aware of the transgression.

Even if she was only just 17, sometimes a woman can be so busy they forget to have a sense of humour and can't remember even how beautiful they used to feel and all that remains is the marching band smile of several serious but invisible injuries.

A LIGHT RAIN fell across Tokyo. I looked out the window over the dull, grey landscape of TV aerials poking into the sky and out over the smoking, smouldering remains of the city in the distance looking much like an old, ugly industrial painting with its thick dirty, smudged colours.

You're mother's a whore." "She is," I’d agreed but my father, he'd mistook my conforming opinion as a question because he'd said: "She is, son, I'm sorry.” I knew by the time I was 3 my mother was getting around. The only difference between a prostitute and my mother was my mother didn't usually charge. Unusually.

When I was leaving August Burgman looked at me, mystified. "You could've asked for the world!" she said, which just proved, she'd no idea how the goddamn world worked or how much it would’ve cost.

Downtown, in a parking lot in the middle of the day whilst people shopped around with their kids amidst their arguments and new purchases, Ronald Ford had purchased a range of narcotics. It had been that quick to get high. So while Ronald Ford was the son of royalty and I was King of the Dreamers we were both impecunious. And, as you can tell, pretty well read.

So while Ronald Ford was the son of royalty and I was King of the Dreamers, we were both impecunious. But, as you can tell, pretty well-read. All of which still counted for shit when you no money. Downtown, in a parking lot in the middle of the day whilst people shopped around with their kids amidst their arguments and new purchases, Ronald Ford had purchased a range of narcotics. It had been that quick to get high.

Coronelismo arose as a symptom of the decadence of rural patriarchies and the growing dependence of landowners on public officials. This was to maintain their own privileged position, which was built on the latticework of dependency of the popular sectors under them. As a form of brokerage, coronelismo emerged from the new need for compromise between urban groups and rural economic interests and was formed around the manipulation of an electorate that had grown significantly since the declaration of the republic. It developed as a mediating zone between the diminishing mechanisms of private power and the progressive strengthening of public power.