Aura Meaning Quotes

But when I touch you, your aura … it smolders. The colors deepen, it burns more intensely, the purple increases. Why? Why, Sydney?” He used that hand to pull me closer. “Why do you react that way if I don’t mean anything to you?” There was a desperation in his voice, and it was legitimate.

Do you know what I see in you now? The usual aura. A steady golden yellow, healthy and strong, with spikes of purple here and there. But when I do this. . . .” He rested a hand on my hip, and my whole body tensed up. That hand moved around my hip, slipping under my shirt to rest on the small of my back. My skin burned where he touched me, and the places that were untouched longed for that heat. “See?” he said. He was in the throes of spirit now, though with me at the same time. “Well, I guess you can’t. But when I touch you, your aura . . . it smolders. The colors deepen, it burns more intensely, the purple increases. Why? Why, Sydney?” He used that hand on me to pull me closer. “Why do you react that way if I don’t mean anything to you?” There was a desperation in his voice, and it was legitimate.

Your... Your aura. It's... amazing. It's shining. I mean, it always shines, but today... Well I've never seen anything like it. I didn't expect that after everything that happened.' I shifted around uncomfortably. If I lit up around Dimitri normally, what on earth happened to my aura post-sex?

If you live consciously, if you try to bring consciousness to every act that you go through, you will be living in a silent, blissful state, in serenity, in joy, in love. Your life will have the flavour of a festival. That is the meaning of heaven: your life will have many flowers in it, much fragrance will be released through you. You will have an aura of delight. Your life will be a song of life-affirmation, it will be a sacred yes to all that existence is. You will be in communion with existence — in communion with stars, with the trees, with the rivers, with the mountains, with people, with animals. This whole life and this whole existence will have a totally different meaning for you. From every nook and corner, rivers of bliss will be flowing towards you. Heaven is just a name for that state of mind. Hell means you are living so unconsciously, so absurdly, in such contradiction, that you go on creating more and more misery for yourself.

The mirror tosses back a version of me as if it has been whirled through a cosmic blender, morphing into shapes that don't quite stick. It's not only a reflection staring back but a whole gallery of emotions, imprisoned into a perpetual loop —hope flickers, despair looms, joy bursts, and pain shadows. They all merge into faces I swear I've known and echoes of a past I carry, recklessly pieced together in a spectacle of what it means to be achingly, beautifully human.

I wondered if my life was going to be one immersion after another, a great march of shallow, unpopular popular culture infatuations that don't really last and don't really mean anything. Sometimes I even think maybe my deepest obsessions are just random manifestations of my loneliness or isolation. Maybe I infuse ordinary experience with a kind of sacred aura to mitigate the spiritual vapidity of my life....no, it is beautiful to be enraptured. To be enthralled by something, anything. And it isn't random. It speaks to you for a reason. If you wanted to, you could look at it that way, and you might find you aren't wasting your life. You are discovering things about yourself and the world, even if it is just what you find beautiful, right now, this second.

My anxieties as to behavior are futile, ever more so, to infinity. If the other, incidentally or negligently, gives the telephone number of a place where he or she can be reached at certain times, I immediately grow baffled: should I telephone or shouldn't I? (It would do no good to tell me that I can telephone - that is the objective, reasonable meaning of the message - for it is precisely this permission I don't know how to handle.) What is futile is what apparently has and will have no consequence. But for me, an amorous subject, everything which is new, everything which disturbs, is received not as a fact but in the aspect of a sign which must be interpreted. From the lover's point of view, the fact becomes consequential because it is immediately transformed into a sign: it is the sign, not the fact, which is consequential (by its aura). If the other has given me this new telephone number, what was that the sign of? Was it an invitation to telephone right away, for the pleasure of the call, or only should the occasion arise, out of necessity? My answer itself will be a sign, which the other will inevitably interpret, thereby releasing, between us, a tumultuous maneuvering of images. Everything signifies: by this proposition, I entrap myself, I bind myself in calculations, I keep myself from enjoyment. Sometimes, by dint of deliberating about "nothing" (as the world sees it), I exhaust myself; then I try, in reaction, to return -- like a drowning man who stamps on the floor of the sea -- to a spontaneous decision (spontaneity: the great dream: paradise, power, delight): go on, telephone, since you want to! But such recourse is futile: amorous time does not permit the subject to align impulse and action, to make them coincide: I am not the man of mere "acting out" -- my madness is tempered, it is not seen; it is right away that I fear consequences, any consequence: it is my fear -- my deliberation -- which is "spontaneous.

Secrets and silences make life more real: the individual, self-absorbed and inwardly musing, taking himself very seriously, radiates a contagious aura: the tacit communication that the serious and the meaningful exist.

This is no small thing. Indeed, I would venture that, more than any other single quality, it is the relentless moment-by-moment forgetting, this draining of the pool of sense impression almost as quickly as it fills, that gives the experience of consciousness under marijuana its peculiar texture. Its helps account for the sharpening of sensory perceptions, for the aura of profundity in which cannabis bathes the most ordinary insights, and, perhaps most important of all, for the sense that time has slowed or even stopped. For it is only by forgetting that we ever really drop the thread of time and approach the experience of living in the present moment, so elusive in ordinary hours. And the wonder of that experience, perhaps more than any other, seems to be at the very heart of the human desire to change consciousness, whether by means of drugs or any other technique.

I was touched that he'd brought me here. I didn't know what to say. Up until then there was a part of me that wondered if maybe there was nothing more to him than an aura of danger and a disposable charm that he used to keep himself from getting into too much trouble. I was beginning to realize that like everyone else, he was searching for something, and like everyone else, he had no idea where he could find it. Thanks for bringing me here," I said. " It really means a lot me." Does it?" he asked. He seemed genuinely surprised by this. "I'm glad. I wasn't sure if you'd get it. I thought maybe you'd think it was creepy." No," I said quickly. "Not at all. I like that there's these different parts to you." Good," he said, smiling. "It's hard to show people everything, you know? You never know what they'll do with it once they have it.

It is precisely the envelopment of sex (and all other natural functions) with an aura of deeper meaning that makes man human and distinguishes him from the rest of animate nature. To remove that meaning, to reduce sex to biology, as all the sexual revolutionaries did in practice, is to return man to a level of primitive behavior of which we have no record in human history. All animals have sex, but only man makes love.

Didn’t it seem like really thin, gorgeous people were always so mean? Where did they get that aura of entitlement? And didn’t it seem like people always fawned over them even though they behaved badly? Why was that?

Someone knocked me down; I pushed Brinker over a small slope; someone was trying to tackle me from behind. Everywhere there was the smell of vitality in clothes, the vital something in wool and flannel and corduroy which spring releases. I had forgotten that this existed, this smell which instead of the first robin, or the first bud or leaf, means to me that spring has come. I had always welcomed vitality and energy and warmth radiating from thick and sturdy winter clothes. It made me happy, but I kept wondering about next spring, about whether khaki, or suntans or whatever the uniform of the season was, had this aura of promise in it. I felt fairly sure it didn't.

According to the biographical notes, Monsieur Julian Carax was twenty-seven, born with the century in Barcelona, and currently living in Paris; he wrote in French and worked at night as a professional pianist in a hostess bar. The blurb, written in the pompous, moldy style of the age, proclaimed that this was a first work of dazzling courage, the mark of a protean and trailblazing talent, and a sign of hope for the future of all of European letters. In spite of such solemn claims, the synopsis that followed suggested that the story contained some vaguely sinister elements slowly marinated in saucy melodrama, which, to the eyes of Monsieur Roquefort, was always a plus: after the classics what he most enjoyed were tales of crime, boudoir intrigue, and questionable conduct. One of the pitfalls of childhood is that one doesn't have to understand something to feel it. By the time the mind is able to comprehend what has happened, the wounds of the heart are already too deep. She laughed nervously. She had around her a burning aura of loneliness. "You remind me a bit of Julian," she said suddenly. "The way you look and your gestures. He used to do what you are doing now. He would stare at you without saying a word, and you wouldn't know what he was thinking, and so, like an idiot, you'd tell him things it would have been better to keep to yourself." "Someone once said that the moment you stop to think about whether you love someone, you've already stopped loving that person forever." I gulped down the last of my coffee and looked at her for a few moments without saying anything. I thought about how much I wanted to lose myself in those evasive eyes. I thought about the loneliness that would take hold of me that night when I said good-bye to her, once I had run out of tricks or stories to make her stay with me any longer. I thought about how little I had to offer her and how much I wanted from her. "You women listen more to your heart and less to all the nonsense," the hatter concluded sadly. "That's why you live longer." But the years went by in peace. Time goes faster the more hollow it is. Lives with no meaning go straight past you, like trains that don't stop at your station.

Often, her mate is the child of a narcissist, already indoctrinated to regard exploitation and disregard as love. Others lured by the narcissistic aura are those in whom healthy childhood exhibitionism has been repressed. . . . If the parent puts the child to shame for showing off, the need for attention gets repressed into the unconscious. Repression means that the need is not satisfied and continues to press for expression in the adult without her being aware of it. The repressed adult may select an exhibitionistic mate to achieve vicarious satisfaction.

When a Were moves in like that it means they're offering support. Cat and canine weres are very touch-feely and bird Were have a whole elaborate protocol for brush ad flutter. Snake Weres like to get right up into your aura and breather in your face, all but rubbing noses like Eskimos. And let's not even talk about Werespiders. I shivered.

To perceive the aura of an object we look at means to invest it with the ability to look at us in return.

Was this how you were going to awaken the creatures?" Machiavelli,clutching the bars of his cell,smiled but said nothing. Virginia stood in front of Dee and stared into his eyes,using herwill to calm him down. "So you tried to use the pages to awaken the cratures.Tell me what happened." Dee jabbed a finger into the nearest cell. It was empty. Virginia stepped closer and discovered the pile of white dust in the corner. "I don't even know what was in the cell-some winged monstrosity.Giant vampire bat,I think.I said the words,and the creature opened its eyes and immediately crumbled to dust." "Maybe you said a word wrong?" Virginia suggested. She plucked a scrap of paper from Josh's hands. "I mean,it looks difficult." "I am fluent," Dee snapped. "He is," Machiavelli said, "I will give him that.And his accent is very good too, though not quite as good as mine." Dee spun back to the cell holding Machiavelli. "Tell me what went wrong." Machiavelli seemed to be considering it; then he shook his head. "I don't think so." Dee jerked his thumb at the sphinx. "Right now she's absorbing your aura,ensuring that you cannot use any spells against me. But she'll be just as happy eating your flesh.Isn't that true?"he said, looking up into the crature's female face. "Oh,I love Italian," she rumbled. She stepped away from Dee and dipped her head to look into the opposite cell. "Give me this one," she said,nodding at Billy the Kid. "He'll make a tasty snack." Her long black forked tongue flickered in the air before the outlaw, who immediately grabbed it,jerked it forward and allowed it to snap back like an elastic band. She screamed,coughed, and squawked all at the same time. Billy grinned."I'll make sure I'll choke you on the way down." "It might be difficult to do that if you have no arms," the sphinx said thickly,working her tongue back and forth. "I'll still give you indigestion." Dee looked at Machiavelli. "Tell me," he said again, "or I will feed your young American friend to the beast." "Tell him nothing," Billy yelled. "This is one of those occasions when I am in agreement with Billy.I am going to tell you nothing." The Magician looked from one side of the cell to the other. Then he looked at Machiavelli."What happened to you? You were one of the Dark Elders' finest agents in this Shadowrealm. There were times you even made me look like an amateur." "John,you were always an amateur." Machiavelli smiled."Why, look at the mess you're in now.

numinous aura)—which balcony means that even the worst latex slip-and-slide off the steeply curved cerebrum’s edge would mean a fall of only a few meters to the broad butylene platform, from which a venous-blue emergency ladder can be detached and lowered to extend down past the superior temporal gyrus and Pons and abducent to hook up with the polyurethane basilar-stem artery and allow a safe shimmy down to the good old oblongata just outside the rubberized meatus at ground zero.

Stop glamorizing being busy. A hamster on a wheel is busy—where does it get him? I had grander ambitions. I resolved to stop doing whatever came up, whatever highly visible activity created a false aura of productivity and glamour, and instead to focus on being effective. That shift made all the difference.

Can I cuddle up with you when you sleep?” Sma stopped, detached the creature from her shoulder with one hand and stared it in the face. “What?” “Just for chumminess’ sake,” the little thing said, yawning wide and blinking. “I’m not being rude; it’s a good bonding procedure.” Sma was aware of Skaffen-Amtiskaw glowing red just behind her. She brought the yellow and brown device closer to her face. “Listen, Xenophobe—” “Xeny.” “Xeny. You are a million-ton starship. A Torturer class Rapid Offensive Unit. Even—” “But I’m demilitarized!” “Even without your principle armament, I bet you could waste planets if you wanted to—” “Aw, come on; any silly GCU can do that!” “So what’s all this shit for?” She shook the furry little remote drone, quite hard. Its teeth chattered. “It’s for a laugh!” it cried. “Sma, don’t you appreciate a joke?” “I don’t know. Do you appreciate being drop-kicked back to the accommodation area?” “Ooh! What’s your problem, lady? Have you got something against small furry animals, or what?” Look Ms. Sma, I know very well I’m a ship, and I do everything I’m asked to do—including taking you to this frankly rather fuzzily specified destination—and do it very efficiently, too. If there was the slightest sniff of any real action, and I had to start acting like a warship, this construct in your hands would go lifeless and limp immediately, and I’d battle as ferociously and decisively as I’ve been trained to. Meanwhile, like my human colleagues, I amuse myself harmlessly. If you really hate my current appearance, all right; I’ll change it; I’ll be an ordinary drone, or just a disembodied voice, or talk to you through Skaffen-Amtiskaw here, or through your personal terminal. The last thing I want is to offend a guest.” Sma pursed her lips. She patted the thing on its head and sighed. “Fair enough.” “I can keep this shape?” “By all means.” “Oh goody!” It squirmed with pleasure, then opened its big eyes wide and looked hopefully at her. “Cuddle?” “Cuddle.” Sma cuddled it, patted its back. She turned to see Skaffen-Amtiskaw lying dramatically on its back in midair, its aura field flashing the lurid orange that was used to signal Sick Drone in Extreme Distress.

Your aura has nothing to do with colors or foods you like.” She smiled. “Yellow can mean spiritual. And brown I associate with good sense, practical. Someone grounded in reality. I see your aura as being very spiritual but also very practical. Now mind you, that is my interpretation. For each person, colors mean a different thing.

Gods. Not even with a gun to his head. Whatever does Aurae see in him?” “Truth,” I say. “I’ve never met a man who means what he says more than that one. So when he says Lysander was a man of honor, that he cared about the Rim, that he saved Diomedes’s life and sacrificed his own, do you think that’s a reflection of Octavia or you?

gobo n. the delirium of having spent all day in an aesthetic frame of mind-watching a beautiful movie, taking photos across the city, getting lost in an art museum-which infuses the world with an aura of meaning, until every crack in the wall becomes a commitment to naturalism, and every rainbow swirling in a puddle feels like a choice.

It was a happy day when I discovered that in the English of Chaucer's day - which was also the time of the Black Death - the word "silly" meant "blessed." I am not sure when we strayed away from its original meaning, when blessedness took on a churchy aura and silliness became the realm of Monty Python and fourth-grade eschatological humor. As hard-working adults we too often lose the gift for letting go, for delight in simply being. We persuade ourselves that every moment must be lived productively; like the busy little bee, we feel a holy obligation to improve each shining hour. We would do well to take very small children or big silly dogs as our teachers. I have learned much about holy uselessness form Perry, the dog...

I understand what you’re saying. I do, and you’re right. You’re not some fragile little thing that needs coddling, but just like you couldn't stop yourself from overreacting and coating me in your aura before, I can’t see you in pain and not try to ease it. It doesn't mean that I think you’re less of a badass vampire or even less of a man. It means that I love you.

The unease is very distinctive and sets in only at a certain level in the abstraction process—because abstraction proceeds in levels, rather like exponents or dimensions. Let’s say ‘man’ meaning some particular man is Level One. ‘Man’ meaning the species is Level Two. Something like ‘humanity’ or ‘humanness’ is Level Three; now we’re talking about the abstract criteria for something qualifying as human. And so forth. Thinking this way can be dangerous, weird. Thinking abstractly enough about anything … surely we’ve all had the experience of thinking about a word—‘pen,’ say—and of sort of saying the word over and over to ourselves until it ceases to denote; the very strangeness of calling something a pen begins to obtrude on the consciousness in a creepy way, like an epileptic aura.

Contentedly sat the old woman. Soon now, the sea would hold no terrors, and the blinds wouldn't have to be down, nor the windows shut; she would even be able to walk along the shore at midnight as of old; and they, whom she had deserted so long ago, would once more shrink from the irresistable energy aura of her new, young body. The sound of the sea came to her, where she sat so quietly; calm sound at first, almost gentle in the soft sibilation of each wave thrust. Farther out, the voices of the water were louder, more raucous, blatantly confident, but the meaning of what they said was blurred by the distance, a dim, clamorous confusion that rustled discordantly out of the gathering night. Night! She shouldn't be aware of night falling, when the blinds were drawn. ("The Witch")

Mornings after sucked. Walks of shame were a necessary evil, but that didn’t mean I enjoyed shimmying back into the same trollop togs twice. I picked glitter out of my hair, then straightened my sequined top. I was officially decommissioning it. Multiple washings never quite managed to remove the lingering aura of bad decisions I made while wearing party clothes. My philosophy? Cross my fingers and hope for the most bang for the bucks spent later on new outfits.

About some books we feel that our reluctance to return to them is the true measure of our admiration. It is hard to suppose that many people go back, from a spontaneous desire, to reread 1984: there is neither reason nor need to, no one forgets it. The usual distinctions between forgotten details and a vivid general impression mean nothing here, for the book is written out of one passionate breath, each word is bent to a severe discipline of meaning, everything is stripped to the bareness of terror. Kafka's The Trial is also a book of terror, but it is a paradigm and to some extent a puzzle, so that one may lose oneself in the rhythm of the paradigm and play with the parts of the puzzle. Kafka's novel persuades us that life is inescapably hazardous and problematic, but the very 'universality' of this idea helps soften its impact: to apprehend the terrible on the plane of metaphysics is to lend it an almost soothing aura.

to, and some like the engineer never do get comfortable with them and use the less garish auditory side-doors; and the abundant sulcus-fissures and gyrus-bulges of the slick latex roof make rain-drainage complex and footing chancy at best, so there’s not a whole lot of recreational strolling up here, although a kind of safety-balcony of skull-colored polybutylene resin, which curves around the midbrain from the inferior frontal sulcus to the parietooccipital sulcus—a halo-ish ring at the level of like eaves, demanded by the Cambridge Fire Dept. over the heated pro-mimetic protests of topological Rickeyites over in the Architecture Dept. (which the M.I.T. administration, trying to placate Rickeyites and C.F.D. Fire Marshal both, had had the pre-molded resin injected with dyes to render it the distinctively icky brown-shot off-white of living skull, so that the balcony resembles at once corporeal bone and numinous aura)—which balcony means that

See, even though Jesse's a ghost, and can walk through walls and disappear and reappear at will, he's still...well, there. To me, anyway. That's what makes me-and Father Dom-different from everybody else. We not only can see and talk to ghosts, but we can feel them too-just as if they were anybody else. Anybody alive, I mean. Because to me and Father Dom, ghosts are just like anyone else, with blood and guts and sweat and bad breath and whatever. The only real difference is that they kind of have this glow around them-an aura, I think it's called.

Yet the contents and structures of the unconscious are the result of immemorial existential situations, especially of critical situations, and this is why the unconscious has a religious aura. For every existential crisis once again puts in question both the reality of the world and man's presence in the world. This means that the existential crisis is, finally, "religious," since on the archaic levels of culture *being* and *the sacred* are one. As we saw, it is the experience of the sacred that founds the world, and even the most elementary religion is, above all, an ontology. In other words, in so far as the unconscious is the result of countless existential experiences, it cannot but resemble the various religious universes. For religion is the paradigmatic solution for every existential crisis. It is the paradigmatic solution notb only because it can be indefinately repeated, but also because it is believed to have a transcendental origin and hence is valorised as a revelation received from an *other*, transhuman world. The religious solution not only resolves the crisis but at the same time makes existence "open" to values that are no longer contingent or particular, thus enabling man to transcend personal situations and, finally, gain access to the world of spirit. This is not the place to develop all the consequences of this close relation between the content and structures of the unconscious on the one hand and the values of religion on the other. We were led to refer to it in order to show in what sense even the most avowedly nonreligious man still, in his deeper being, shares a religiously oriented behavior. But modern man's "private mythologies" -his dreams, reveries, fantasies, and so on- never rise to the ontological status of myths, precisely because they are not experienced by the *whole man* and therefore do not transform a particular situation into a situation that is paradigmatic. In the same way, modern man's anxieties, his experiences in dream or imagination, although "religious" from the point of view of form, do not, as in *homo religiosus*, make part of a *Weltanschauung* and provide the basis for a system of behaviour. -Mircea Eliade, The Sacred And The Profane:The Nature of Religion

What exactly do ‘motion’ and ‘existence’ denote? We know that concrete particular things exist, and that sometimes they move. Does motion per se exist? In what way? In what way do abstractions exist? Of course, that last question is itself very abstract. Now you can probably feel the headache starting. There’s a special sort of unease or impatience with stuff like this. Like ‘What exactly is existence?’ or ‘What exactly do we mean when we talk about motion?’ The unease is very distinctive and sets in only at a certain level in the abstraction process—because abstraction proceeds in levels, rather like exponents or dimensions. Let’s say ‘man’ meaning some particular man is Level One. ‘Man’ meaning the species is Level Two. Something like ‘humanity’ or ‘humanness’ is Level Three; now we’re talking about the abstract criteria for something qualifying as human. And so forth. Thinking this way can be dangerous, weird. Thinking abstractly enough about anything … surely we’ve all had the experience of thinking about a word—‘pen,’ say—and of sort of saying the word over and over to ourselves until it ceases to denote; the very strangeness of calling something a pen begins to obtrude on the consciousness in a creepy way, like an epileptic aura.

I just went on a date with a loopy new age witch who read my aura and took me to a play that critiqued consumer culture by spending a five minute segment just spouting off brand names,' she said. 'Niiiiice. That is something. And then you chose to call me, which I’m not sure I’m feeling good about. I mean, you go on a terrible date, and your first thought is to call me? Were you like, "He’s a terrible date, he’ll appreciate someone else being worse?"' Georgie laughed. 'No. You were an awesome date. But I still thought you would appreciate laughing at someone who wasn’t.' 'Now, now, Georgie. I don’t laugh at people. I laugh with them. Otherwise my aura turns puce, and you know I can’t deal with that. It would clash with my eyes.

Dominic, with the powerful aura, got under my skin before I had a chance to ward him off and now I’m screwed. Even more now I know his taste and how hard he feels against the soft, wet parts of me. Dominic just introduced me to the most dangerous man in New York. Fuck. Fuck. Clarity pours over me. Does this mean Dominic is a member of the mafia after all? Only it wasn’t only a little kiss, was it? I’m sexually frustrated and Dom is standing there with his hands in his tailored pants pockets, aroused. The bulge is unmistakable. “Gabriella…” God, I’m wet too. If I rub my thighs together, I’ll feel how much. He’s hard, I’m wet… it’s a match made in heaven. “Gabriella…” he says again, thick and tarnished as I look him up and down. “Yeah?” “I said you’re too far away,” he murmurs, cutting his dark gaze my way. Stirring me. “Come here to me, cara.” he hooks two fingers with a motion and smirks like a devil with the key to all my desires. I swear my belly bottoms out as my feet carry me forward. Unable to refuse the invisible rope he has around my waist, pulling me closer. “Bossy aren’t you?” “I am your boss.” “I don’t think you want to remind me of that.” He hums and the rumble hurtles down between my thighs. How does he do that? Turn me on with just a noise. “I guess you’d like it if I called you sir, wouldn’t you?” His eyes flare and then darken, he drops his chin to his chest. “Do you really wish to turn me on right this moment?” Oh, fuck. Do I? I do. Yeah, I really do.

Anything . . . supernatural?” I asked. “No. Yes.” Jackaby rubbed his eyes. “Everything. The walls, the floor, even the ceiling . . .” “What?” I said. “Ha!” He shook his head and spun in place, marveling at the dark, dusty cobwebs hanging over us. “It’s been scrubbed clean, every inch.” I looked around. “This might be why you and Jenny rarely see eye to eye about housekeeping,” I said. “Not scrubbed clean of dust or droppings,” he said. “There are plenty of those, of course.” I decided not to look too closely for confirmation about the droppings. “Scrubbed clean of magical residue. I can’t pick out any unique otherworldly auras in this space.” “Couldn’t that just mean that this place doesn’t have any?” “Hardly. When you were young, did you ever spill red wine on your parents’ carpet?” I blinked. “Er—yes? I knocked a bottle of merlot off of the table once.” “And what did your mother do to clean it up?” “Nothing. My mother never did the cleaning. She always had a maid handle that sort of thing.” “Precisely—white vinegar! Nothing better for a stain. Except that the carpet is never quite like it used to be, is it? Even if you can’t see the red anymore, there’s always something about that spot. It’s a little too clean for the rest of the rug, and it keeps that lingering vinegar smell, right? Now a healthy suspension of sodium bicarbonate might help with that, but there’s always something left behind.” “You know a lot about cleaning carpets for someone whose floor looks like a topical map of the East Indies.” “I know the Viennese waltz, too, but I don’t waste my time doing it every day. Focus, Rook. 

Il n'y a pas de comique en dehors de ce qui est proprement humain. Un paysage pourra être beau, gracieux, sublime, insignifiant ou laid ; il ne sera jamais risible. On rira d'un animal, mais parce qu'on aura surpris chez lui une attitude d'homme ou une expression humaine. On rira d'un chapeau; mais ce qu'on raille alors, ce n'est pas le morceau de feutre ou de paille, c'est la forme que les hommes lui ont donnée, c'est le caprice humain dont il a pris le moule. Comment un fait aussi important, dans sa simplicité, n'a-t-il pas fixé davantage l'attention des philosophes? Plusieurs ont défini l'homme "un animal qui sait rire". Ils auraient aussi bien pu le définir un animal qui fait rire, car si quelque autre animal y parvient, ou quelque objet inanimé, c'est par une ressemblance avec l'homme, par la marque que l'homme y imprime ou par l'usage que l'homme en fait.

Yet the contents and structures of the unconscious are the result of immemorial existential situations, especially of critical situations, and this is why the unconscious has a religious aura. For every existential crisis once again puts in question both the reality of the world and man's presence in the world. This means that the existential crisis is, finally, "religious," since on the archaic levels of culture being and the sacred are one. As we saw, it is the experience of the sacred that founds the world, and even the most elementary religion is, above all, an ontology. In other words, in so far as the unconscious is the result of countless existential experiences, it cannot but resemble the various religious universes. For religion is the paradigmatic solution for every existential crisis. It is the paradigmatic solution not only because it can be indefinitely repeated, but also because it is believed to have a transcendental origin and hence is valorized as a revelation received from an other, transhuman world. The religious solution not only resolves the crisis but at the same time makes existence "open" to values that are no longer contingent or particular, thus enabling man to transcend personal situations and, finally, gain access to the world of spirit,

In the past, people were vaguely fearful of photographs, believing the camera's exact reproduction of their own image would steal their souls. Not only did these images survive for much longer than their subjects, they were also endowed with an aura of magic the subjects lacked. A superstition, but one whose traces can still be felt today. People sense that the photograph captures an uncanny moment in the interstices of reality, enhancing reality's eeriness, the root of which is unknown, and fixing that moment in place like a death mask. Photography differs from the art of painting in that capturing or exposing such a moment happens neither at the will of the photographer nor the one who is photographed. What is photographed is a ghost moment, clothed in matter. Photography is the dream of comprehensive meaning. Each object has parts of itself that are invisible. This territory, which neither the photographer nor the subject can govern, constitutes the secret kept by the object. Unrelated to the intention of either photographer or subject, within the magic of photography dwells a still, quiet shock. Try to imagine our house one day when we ourselves are no more. Somewhere in that house is the ghost of us, which will pass alone in front of a blind mirror, revealing our own blurred image.

The aim of both little books, if you're interested," he said, " is supposedly to wake everybody up to the need and benefits of saying the Jesus Prayer incessantly. First under supervision of a qualified teacher - a sort of Christian guru - and then, after the person's mastered it to some extent, he's supposed to go on with it on his own. And the main idea is that it's not suppose to be just for pious bastards and breast-beaters. You can be busy robbing the goddam poor box, but you're to say the prayer while you rob it. Enlightenment's supposed to come with the prayer, not before it." Zooey frowned, but academically." The idea, really, is that sooner or later, completely on its own, the prayer moves from the lips and the head down to a center in the heart and becomes an automatic function in the person, right along with the heartbeat. And then, after a time, once the prayer is automatic in the heart, the person is supposed to enter into the so-called reality of things. The subject doesn't really come up in either of the books, but, in Eastern terms, there are seven subtle centers in the body, called chakras, and the one most closely connected with the heart is called anahata, which is supposed to be sensitive and powerful as hell, and when it's activated, it, in turn, activates another of these centers, between the eyebrows, called ajna - it's the pineal gland, really, or, rather, an aura around the pineal gland - and then, bingo, there's an opening of what mystics call the 'third eye'. It's nothing new, for God's sake. It didn't just start with the little pilgrim's crowd, I mean. In India, for God knows how many centuries, it's been known as japam. Japam is just the repetition of any of the human names of God. Or the names of his incarnations his avatars, if you want to get technical. The idea being that if you call out the name long enough and regularly enough and literally from the heart, sooner or later you'll get an answer. Not exactly an answer. A response.

The Extraordinary Persons Project In fact, Ekman had been so moved personally—and intrigued scientifically—by his experiments with Öser that he announced at the meeting he was planning on pursuing a systematic program of research studies with others as unusual as Öser. The single criterion for selecting apt subjects was that they be “extraordinary.” This announcement was, for modern psychology, an extraordinary moment in itself. Psychology has almost entirely dwelt on the problematic, the abnormal, and the ordinary in its focus. Very rarely have psychologists—particularly ones as eminent as Paul Ekman—shifted their scientific lens to focus on people who were in some sense (other than intellectually) far above normal. And yet Ekman now was proposing to study people who excel in a range of admirable human qualities. His announcement makes one wonder why psychology hasn't done this before. In fact, only in very recent years has psychology explicitly begun a program to study the positive in human nature. Sparked by Martin Seligman, a psychologist at the University of Pennsylvania long famous for his research on optimism, a budding movement has finally begun in what is being called “positive psychology”—the scientific study of well-being and positive human qualities. But even within positive psychology, Ekman's proposed research would stretch science's vision of human goodness by assaying the limits of human positivity Ever the scientist, Ekman became quite specific about what was meant by “extraordinary.” For one, he expects that such people exist in every culture and religious tradition, perhaps most often as contemplatives. But no matter what religion they practice, they share four qualities. The first is that they emanate a sense of goodness, a palpable quality of being that others notice and agree on. This goodness goes beyond some fuzzy, warm aura and reflects with integrity the true person. On this count Ekman proposed a test to weed out charlatans: In extraordinary people “there is a transparency between their personal and public life, unlike many charismatics, who have wonderful public lives and rather deplorable personal ones.” A second quality: selflessness. Such extraordinary people are inspiring in their lack of concern about status, fame, or ego. They are totally unconcerned with whether their position or importance is recognized. Such a lack of egoism, Ekman added, “from the psychological viewpoint, is remarkable.” Third is a compelling personal presence that others find nourishing. “People want to be around them because it feels good—though they can't explain why,” said Ekman. Indeed, the Dalai Lama himself offers an obvious example (though Ekman did not say so to him); the standard Tibetan title is not “Dalai Lama” but rather “Kundun,” which in Tibetan means “presence.” Finally, such extraordinary individuals have “amazing powers of attentiveness and concentration.

Almost a decade ago, I was browsing in a Barnes & Noble when I came across a book called Route 666: On the Road to Nirvana. It was a music book about a band I liked, so I started paging through it immediately. What I remember are two sentences on the fourth page which discussed how awesome it was that 'Smells Like Teen Spirit' was on the radio, and how this was almost akin to America electing a new president: 'It's not that everything will change at once,' wrote the author, 'it's that at least the people have voted for better principles. Nirvana's being on the radio means my own values are winning: I'm no longer in the opposition.' I have never forgotten those two sentences, and there are two reasons why this memory has stuck with me. The first reason is that this was just about the craziest, scariest idea I'd ever stumbled across. The second reason, however, is way worse; what I have slowly come to realize is that most people think this way all the time. They don't merely want to hold their values; they want their values to win. And I suspect this is why people so often feel 'betrayed' by art and consumerism, and by the way the world works. I'm sure the author of Route 666 felt completely 'betrayed' when Limp Bizkit and Matchbox 20 became superfamous five years after Cobain's death and she was forced to return to 'the opposition' ...If you feel betrayed by culture, it's not because you're right and the universe is fucked; it's only because you're not like most other people. But this should make you happy, because—in all likelihood—you hate those other people, anyway. You are being betrayed by a culture that has no relationship to who you are or how you live... Do you want to be happy? I suspect that you do. Well, here’s the first step to happiness: Don’t get pissed off that people who aren’t you happen to think Paris Hilton is interesting and deserves to be on TV every other day; the fame surrounding Paris Hilton is not a reflection on your life (unless you want it to be). Don’t get pissed off because the Yeah Yeah Yeahs aren’t on the radio enough; you can buy the goddamn record and play “Maps” all goddamn day (if that’s what you want). Don’t get pissed off because people didn’t vote the way you voted. You knew that the country was polarized, and you knew that half of America is more upset by gay people getting married than it is about starting a war under false pretenses. You always knew that many Americans worry more about God than they worry about the economy, and you always knew those same Americans assume you’re insane for feeling otherwise (just as you find them insane for supporting a theocracy). You knew this was a democracy when you agreed to participate, so you knew this was how things might work out. So don’t get pissed off over the fact that the way you feel about culture isn’t some kind of universal consensus. Because if you do, you will end up feeling betrayed. And it will be your own fault. You will feel bad, and you will deserve it. Now it’s quite possible you disagree with me on this issue. And if you do, I know what your argument is: you’re thinking, But I’m idealistic. This is what people who want to inflict their values on other people always think; they think that there is some kind of romantic, respectable aura that insulates the inflexible, and that their disappointment with culture latently proves that they’re tragically trapped by their own intellect and good taste. Somehow, they think their sense of betrayal gives them integrity. It does not. If you really have integrity—if you truly live by your ideals, and those ideals dictate how you engage with the world at large—you will never feel betrayed by culture. You will simply enjoy culture more.

Every person aerosolises around 37 million bacteria per hour. This means that our microbiome isn't confined to our bodies. It perpetually reaches out into our environment. [...] I contain multitudes, yes, but only some of them; the rest, I extend into the world like a living aura.

He must be fucking amazing in bed. Can you imagine that kind of intensity staring into your eyes, into your soul, while he’s sliding that thick, hard cock deep inside your pussy, knowing when to go harder, when to go faster, when to grind and adjust, exactly how to touch your skin with his big hands, how hard to put the pressure on your clit, how you like to be pinned beneath his rock-hard body and the bed, without a word, just knowing because he knows what your breath means, what the pitch of your moans means, because he can detect the smallest shift in your gasp, understands exactly how badly you need him to grip your ass, to push your legs farther apart, to pin your arms over your head, to bite your nipples, to slam home, to find that secret spot deep inside, and hit it over and over and over again until he draws out an orgasm so deep, so hard, so exquisite that an entire supernova explodes in your ovaries and an intense pleasure you’ve never known makes your very aura leave your entire body? Holy fuck, I need a drink. And he’s still watching me. His gaze going darker. Like he knows.

A distinctive poetic atmosphere surrounds our autobiographical being. The culmination of our personal experiences projects an expressive emotional prism upon our faces, a self-projected limelight casting us with an aura-like quality that other people readily perceive and interpret. Each person’s life consists of nurturing his or her poetic seedlings. Introspection is the first and foremost means that people rely upon to grasp the referential nature of their essential personal experiences. Reflective moments allow us to enrich our understanding of life’s nuisances that imbue even our most rouge experiences with a personalized ambiance. The juxtaposition of life’s prosodic fragments with unanticipated moments of exhilaration provides the tension that composes the contrapuntal language driving the meter of our life’s story. The sweeping arch of our hand-tooled stories designates our chosen path and serves to remind us that even persons injured while attempting to discern the pathway to bliss can use their own brand of resourcefulness to rescue themselves.

Looking through rose colored glasses doesn’t presume we don’t see what’s real and true, but it does mean we’re choosing a lovely hue for a more optimistic view.

Let's talk about you for a moment, the person reading these lines. Right now, with the book open in your hands, you are engaged in a mysterious, unsettling activity, though habit prevents you from being amazed. Think carefully. You are completely quiet, eyes moving over rows of letters made into meaning, that deliver ideas independent from the world now surrounding you. In other words, you have withdrawn to an inner chamber where absent voices speak, where there are ghosts only you can see (in this case, my phantom self), and where the pace of time's passage is the measure of your level of interest or boredom. You have created a parallel world like the illusion of cinema, a world that depends on you alone. At any moment, you can avert your gaze from these lines and return to the action and movement of the outside world. But in the meantime, you remain on the edge, in the place where you've chosen to be. There is an almost magical aura to the act of reading.

SEEING Seeing is one of human beings' highest features. It's an extraordinary experience that helps you to grasp your own vastness. There are, of course, different levels of vision. Our constant aim will be to escape the lower astral clear-sightedness of the trance-medium psychics and to step into the ‘vision of Truth’ or self-vision, which is like an eruption of all mental limitations. A key difference between these two ways of vision is that the pictures that stream into the consciousness are attached in the latter. On the other hand, one of the ways to achieve the sight of Truth is to become less interested in what you see and focus more on the act of seeing, enabling your state of consciousness to grow by seeing. Then you arrive at a completely different experience and comprehension of the world. One can never completely turn what is ‘seen’ into words because the perception transcends the mind's common logic. Therefore, real sight feeds the Spirit and dissipates the soul's false perceptions. ‘Seeing’ should not be seen simply as a device of interpretation, but as an experience that has in itself a transformative meaning. Seeing is an extended form of perception. It's an ‘ontological amplification,’ which means a way of being more. When you think in these terms of clairvoyance, you're much less likely to be deluded by the lower astral vision hallucinations. One of the common mistakes of beginners is to expect their normal vision and physical eyes to see celestial realities as if unexpectedly auras and supernatural entities were to be attached to the pictures of the world obtained through the brain. This cannot function because the normal cognitive perception is precisely the blind part of yourself. The first thing to do to start seeing is to get out of your head.

SEEING Seeing is one of human beings' highest features. It's an extraordinary experience that helps you to grasp your own vastness. There are, of course, different levels of vision. Our constant aim will be to escape the lower astral clear-sightedness of the trance-medium psychics and to step into the ‘vision of Truth’ or self-vision, which is like an eruption of all mental limitations. A key difference between these two ways of vision is that the pictures that stream into the consciousness are attached in the latter. On the other hand, one of the ways to achieve the sight of Truth is to become less interested in what you see and focus more on the act of seeing, enabling your state of consciousness to grow by seeing. Then you arrive at a completely different experience and comprehension of the world. One can never completely turn what is ‘seen’ into words because the perception transcends the mind's common logic. Therefore, real sight feeds the Spirit and dissipates the soul's false perceptions. ‘Seeing’ should not be seen simply as a device of interpretation, but as an experience that has in itself a transformative meaning. Seeing is an extended form of perception. It's an ‘ontological amplification,’ which means a way of being more. When you think in these terms of clairvoyance, you're much less likely to be deluded by the lower astral vision hallucinations. One of the common mistakes of beginners is to expect their normal vision and physical eyes to see celestial realities as if unexpectedly auras and supernatural entities were to be attached to the pictures of the world obtained through the brain. This cannot function because the normal cognitive perception is precisely the blind part of yourself. The first thing to do to start seeing is to get out of your head. Therefore, one of the constant reminders provided in this chapter will be: stop looking if you want to ‘see.’ Stop processing and analyzing images, in other words, as you are used to doing with your brain. Don't bother to see. And you work from your heart as you try. Let yourself switch into another state of consciousness and let ‘something else’ happen.

I leaned back in my chair, pulling Roxy closer so that I could steal a moment with her for myself and brushing her hair away from her ear so that I could speak to her alone. She leaned in to listen to me and my grip on her waist shifted so that I could hold her even closer, the fingers of my other hand stroking against the bare skin of her shoulder where I'd smoothed her black hair aside. “Do you want to tell me about what happened in that alley?” I asked, wondering if I really should have been worrying about Nymphs or not. A shiver moved across her skin and I was filled with a protective kind of anger as I felt that echo of her fear. “Is this the part where you laugh at us for falling for some prank you set up?” she asked. “Was that one of your friends back there? Did you get someone to send the messages too?” I was tempted to push her for more information, but Lance and Francesca were already hunting for any signs of a Nymph and I didn't want to fall into the trap of arguing with her again while I was holding her like this. I just wanted to steal this moment from the universe and forget about all the shit that was hanging between us outside of right now. “I don’t need to recruit anyone to do my handy work,” I replied dismissively, dropping the subject. “Maybe I’m concerned for your wellbeing.” She snorted in disbelief, shifting away so that she wasn't pressed against my chest anymore and I fought a sigh at how quickly I'd managed to fuck that up. Though as she was currently still in my arms, I had to think it wasn't a total lost cause yet, not that I had any real idea what I was trying to achieve with her here. The bartender returned and I pulled a roll of auras from my pocket which was more than enough to cover our tab, pressing them into her hand as she finished laying the drinks out for us. We'd been planning to move on after this drink anyway and I was keen to get Roxy and her sister away from the place. Roxy reached out to claim her drink, my gaze moving to her mouth as she lifted the glass to it and tipped the whole thing back, swallowing over and over until every last drop was gone. “There you go,” she announced. “One drink.” She pushed out of my lap so suddenly that for a moment all I could do was blink up at her in confusion before my brain caught up to what was happening and I reached out to pull her back again. But she stepped aside, offering me a mocking smile which made it more than clear how much she disliked me. Darcy smirked as she got to her feet too, not even bothering to touch her drink. “See you later, guys,” she agreed and the two of them turned to walk away. Caleb shot into Roxy's way with his Vampire speed before she could actually escape and I was glad when she cut him a glare just as acidic as the one she'd offered me, even while he tried to throw the pretty boy charm on with his gleaming smile. “I guess your word means shit then?” she demanded as he gave her throat a look which said he was thinking about biting her. “No. I said I won’t bite you tonight and I meant it,” he promised, acting all alluring and pissing me the hell off as she hesitated. “I’m just wondering where you’re going now?” “Dancing,” Roxy replied moving to brush past him, her hands landing on his waist for a moment as she nudged him aside and irritation flared through me at the contact. “You can always join us if you think you can keep up.” My anger grew as she offered him that invitation and I scowled at the two of them openly, wondering why she was so much more willing to fall for his bullshit than she was for mine. Roxy gave Cal a flirtatious look and I ground my teeth before shoving to my feet the moment she was out of sight. My fist slammed into his bicep as he turned to look at me and he barked a laugh as he shoved me in return. "Come on, assholes, if the two of you waste time in a dick measuring contest then we'll lose them before you finish,” Max said.(Darius POV)

is manifest in the emergence of crowd-sourced sites such as Wikipedia, in which individual human authorship is obscured so as to endow the content with the transcendent aura of a holy text.

Android Girl Just Wants to Have a Baby! The first thing I do when I wake up is run my hands over my body. I like to make sure all my wires are in place. I lotion my silicone shell and snap my hair helmet over my head. I once had a dream I was a real girl, but when I woke up I was still myself in my paleness under the halogen light. The saliva of androids emits a spectral resonance, barely sticky between freshly-gapped teeth. After they made me, the first thing they did was peel the cellophane from my eyes. I blinked once, twice, and cried because that's how you say you are alive before you are given language. They named each of my heartbeats on the oceanic monitor: Guanyin, Yama, Nuwa, Fuxi, Chang'e, Zao-Shen. I listened to them blur into one. The fetus carves for itself a hollowed vector, a fragile wetness. In utero, extension cords are umbilical. Before puberty, I did not know there was such a thing as dishonor. Diss-on- her. This is what they said when I began to drip petrol between my legs. A tension exists between ritual and proof, a fantasy and its execution. Since then, I have been to the emergency room twice. The first time for a suicide attempt, and the second time because my earring was swallowed up by my newly pierced earlobe overnight, and when I woke up, it was tangled in a helix of wires. The idea of dying doesn't scare me but the ocean does. I was once told that fish will swim up my orifices if I am no longer a virgin. Is anyone thinking about erotic magazines when they are not aroused, pubes parted harshly down the center like red seas? My body carries the weight of four hundred eggs. I rise from a weird slumber, let them drip into the bath. This is what I'll leave behind - tiny shards purer than me. I have always been afraid of pregnant women because of their power, and because I don't yet understand what it means to carry something stubborn and blossoming inside of me, screeching towards an exit. The ectoplasm is the telos for the wound. A trance state is induced when salt is poured on it, pixel by pixel. I wish they had made me into an octopus instead, because octopuses die after their eggs hatch and crawl out into the sea, and I want to know what it's like to set something free into the dark unknown and trust it to choose mercy. If you can generate aura in a non-place, then there is no such thing as an authentic origin. In Chinese, the word for mercy translates to my heart hurts for you. They say my heart continues beating even after it is dislocated from my body. The sound of its beating comes from the valves opening and closing like a portal - Guanyin, Yama, Nuwa, Fuxi, Chang'e, Zao-Shen. I first learned about love by watching a sex tape where a girl looks up from performing fellatio and says, show them the sunset. Her boyfriend pans the camera to the sky, which is tinged violet like a bruise. In this moment, the sky displaces her, all digital and hyped, and saturates the scene until it collapses on me too, its transient witness. I move in the space between belly ring and catharsis. That night I have a dream where I am a camgirl, but all I do on screen is wash my laundry. Everybody loves me because I am a real girl doing real girl things. What lives on the border between meditation and oblivion, static and flux, a pomegranate seed and an embryo? I set up my webcam in the corner of the room and play ambient music while I scrub my underwear, letting soap bubbles rise up from the sink, laughing when they overflow on the linoleum floor - my frizzy hair, my pockmarked skin, my face slick with sweat. A body with exit wounds. I ride the bright rails of an animal forgetting. And when I wake up, the sky is a mess of blue.

Dearest Almighty God, I don't know where he is, I don't know who he is, I don't know if I have ever met him, or if we have crossed paths, I don't even know if he exists, but what I do know is that You won't let my Heart be a Void. What I know is when You put a dream in Someone's Heart You don't let that disappear just like that, You have your reason to even let that dream shape in, and mine has always been the most simplest and the most humblest of all. It doesn't matter how archaic or regressive it seems I would always imagine the most beautiful of all pathways is the route where two hearts connect and grow old together, when two souls find a Home together and that would always be my dearest prayer, and so I know that You know how that Prayer churns my Soul. I pray before You to give me Hope, to give me the heart to wait in Patience as You work on him and send him to my path in Your way for in You I trust blindly. I pray that You bless all lone hearts and give them courage and wisdom to learn the true meaning of Togetherness, to understand the true meaning of Companionship and above all the sanctity of Home, where children are born of Love, where hearts are united in Trust and Respect, so yes I pray with all my Heart that wherever he is, whoever he is, You bless him with my aura and make him grow in ways that only You can, that You paint his dreams and bless them in Your colour of Hope and Success, that You hold his hand and let him win in life in ways that You alone can. I know I would know my deepest Happiness in his smile, for I know whoever he is, wherever he is, his soul and mine are one, and soon in Your Timing, You will find Him in my Life, for Our Home would be Your Smile of Love. Until then, I will stay in Faith, praying for Him every single moment in my Heart and Soul. - an Old Soul trusting in God, always.

Ultimately, I think the purpose of life is to be happy and fulfilled. I don't mean this in a selfish 'me first' way. When we exude an aura of happiniess, this positive energy spreads to those around us, making the world a better place. To meet that larger goal, I think we each need to find happiness in harmony with those around us. So, what do we need in our daily lives to make this possible? I think one element is discovering our creative outlets and reveling in them.

After I woke from my dream within a dream, I clung to what you’d said in the dream about “reference auras.” It seemed to point to a way of trying to live with this unbearable absence. Once someone is in your reference aura, they stay there forever. Couldn’t forever include after death? I mean, if someone has died, they are still in your reference aura and so continue to grow in your heart like a living person. That little boy Ritchie was carrying in his arms was about a year old. “This is the way we do it,” Ritchie said in the dream, and perhaps this is the way to do it.

Rituals to Remove Relationship Curses You’ve been there before, A seemingly perfect relationship falls apart for reasons you can’t explain or understand. You think you’ve found “the one” only to have the relationship blow up in your face. Has someone put a curse on you and your relationships? While that might sound far-fetched, relationship curses could be more common than you think. Keep reading to learn about rituals you can perform to remove these curses and get your love life back on track. In 100 words or less, this article will teach you how to spiritually cleanse your aura and lift curses placed on you by exes, enemies, or even well-meaning friends and family. +27739970300

Just as abruptly, a wall seemed to slam in place around him, cutting off everything from Kira, even the tingling wave of his aura. “You would be better served by concentrating on managing your strength and your blood consumption,” Mencheres said, cool detachment in his tone. She strode over, not caring that she felt the floors creak and bend beneath her feet. “No you don’t,” she flared. “You don’t get to wall yourself off from the only indicator I have of what you’re thinking. You killed me yesterday and brought me back into an existence where everything is different, especially me. But what’s almost as frightening is that I don’t know if this means anything to you aside from a big, boring inconvenience. So give me something. It can be words, an unguarded expression, a flash of your emotions, whatever, but do it now, because I need a hint as to where I stand with you.” If Kira could still have breathed, she would have been panting with the emotions swirling in her, but she was as still as the vampire across from her as she waited for his response. Mencheres didn’t lose his inscrutable mask, nor did that invisible wall around him collapse, but at last he inclined his head. “You were working late into the night, and as it was more than proven the day we met, it wasn’t safe for you to walk to and from your employment.

Inherent in the word "violence" is violation, the invasion if someone's (or something's) aura, space, territory. We tend to think of violence as a physical attack, but this is only part of the meaning of violence. At the root of all violation there is the crime of disrespect. All wrong stems from this. When we act without regard for the spirit or nature of a thing, we violate it. To the extent that we become sensitive to that nature or spirit, violence will tend to disappear. I would like to become kinder and gentler to the spirit of all things. Our most important duty is to seek to know - to understand. Only with knowledge can we do right. Good intentions are necessary, but without knowledge they founder on ignorance.

Was there anything in it?” she asked, not bothering to wipe the tear tracing the rim of her nose. “Our summer here, all those long walks and even longer conversations? When you kissed me that night, did it mean anything to you?” When he did not answer, she took three paces in his direction. “I know how proud you must be of those enigmatic silences, but I believe I deserve an answer.” She stood between his icy silence and the heated aura of the fire. Scorched on one side, bitterly cold on the other— like a slice of toast someone had forgotten to turn. “What sort of answer would you like to hear?” “An honest one.” “Are you certain? It’s my experience that young ladies vastly prefer fictions. Little stories, like Portia’s gothic novel.” “I am as fond of a good tale as anyone,” she replied, “but in this instance, I wish to know the truth.” “So you say. Let us try an experiment, shall we?” He rose from his chair and sauntered toward her, his expression one of jaded languor. His every movement a negotiation between aristocratic grace and sheer brute strength. Power. He radiated power in every form— physical, intellectual, sensual— and he knew it. He knew that she sensed it. The fire was unbearably warm now. Blistering, really. Sweat beaded at her hairline, but Cecily would not retreat. “I could tell you,” he said darkly, seductively, “that I kissed you that night because I was desperate with love for you, overcome with passion, and that the color of my ardor has only deepened with time and separation. And that when I lay on a battlefield bleeding my guts out, surrounded by meaningless death and destruction, I remembered that kiss and was able to believe that there was something of innocence and beauty in this world, and it was you.” He took her hand and brought it to his lips. Almost. Warm breath caressed her fingertips. “Do you like that answer?” She gave a breathless nod. She was a fool; she couldn’t help it. “You see?” He kissed her fingers. “Young ladies prefer fictions.” “You are a cad.” Cecily wrenched her hand away and balled it into a fist. “An arrogant, insufferable cad.” “Yes, yes. Now we come to the truth. Shall I give you an honest answer, then? That I kissed you that night for no other reason than that you looked uncommonly pretty and fresh, and though I doubted my ability to vanquish Napoleon, it was some balm to my pride to conquer you, to feel you tremble under my touch? And that now I return from war, to find everything changed, myself most of all. I scarcely recognize my surroundings, except . . .” He cupped her chin in his hand and lightly framed her jaw between his thumb and forefinger. “Except Cecily Hale still looks at me with stars in her eyes, the same as she ever did. And when I touch her, she still trembles.” Oh. She was trembling. He swept his thumb across her cheek, and even her hair shivered. “And suddenly . . .” His voice cracked. Some unrehearsed emotion pitched his dispassionate drawl into a warm, expressive whisper. “Suddenly, I find myself determined to keep this one thing constant in my universe. Forever.” -Cecily & Luke

The most important thing for you to do,” he’d said, “is to make your aura as benign as possible.” “My aura? You mean, what, like my chi or something? Give off warm vibes before I blow them all away?” “You laugh, but it's true. The best close-in killers are able to mask that predatory vibration they send out, the thing that tickles your animal hindbrain when you're on the receiving end and causes all the hairs on your neck to stand up, the old ancestral genetic early-warning radar that told you something had you zeroed in and was moving to make the kill.” “Are you saying they'll be able to sense I'm going to kill them?” I had asked. “If they are good at their jobs, yes. A good bodyguard, really anyone with true combat instincts, can tune in on that aggressive mental energy when it's pointed their way. For most people, it only works at a subconscious level - like instinctively moving out of the way of someone because they make you uneasy and you can't quite put your finger on why, or turning around for no reason and seeing that someone across the room is glaring at you. We all do it from time to time, but it's not conscious. But the real survivors, the operators who dodge those shots that should have taken them down, but they somehow avoid at the last millisecond, those people can use their inner threat radar actively, and can pick up on the predatory vibe coming their way.” “So you're saying I need to act casual, and not give them the stink-eye to keep from tipping them off.” “It’s more than that. You need to learn how to control that aggressive aura, make it work for you. A good killer can put themselves into stealth mode right up to when they pull the trigger, and then when all the innocent bystanders are getting in the way and slowing you down, milling about in a panic, you dial it up all the way and blast it out like the bow-wave on a ship running at flank speed. You can clear a path through the crowd; they'll get out of your way without even knowing why. I've made it work for me, and I’ve seen others do it as well. It's just another weapon in your arsenal.” And so, I did

This is no small thing. Indeed, I would venture that, more than any other single quality, it is the relentless moment-by-moment forgetting, this draining of the pool of sense impression almost as quickly as it fills, that gives the experience of consciousness under marijuana its peculiar texture. It helps account for the sharpening of sensory perceptions, for the aura of profundity in which cannabis bathes the most ordinary insights, and, perhaps most important of all, for the sense that time has slowed or even stopped. For it is only by forgetting that we ever really drop the thread of time and approach the experience of living in the present moment, so elusive in ordinary hours. And the wonder of that experience, perhaps more than any other, seems to be at the very heart of the human desire to change consciousness, whether by means of drugs or any other technique.

religious rituals cast an aura of sacrality on bread by putting it in liminal contact with the celestial sphere. The meshing of the sacred with the profane endowed bread with a plethora of superimposed, ambivalent, and overcharged meanings, which the regime fully exploited.

Vanishing here is always a possibility and it gives the city a special aura. Kidnappings are frequent, but they at least mean someone wants to return the missing and is acting in a rational manner where a human has a value in money and a feasible transaction is possible. Vanishing means a page left half-written, a tale never fully told. It is more final than execution because it means not simply being murdered but being erased from any real memory or participation in the human community.

She wanted to see the sun set, on the day we all said goodbye to her. The sun setting does not mean it’s disappeared, it just means its light’s shining somewhere else, that’s what she told me.” I watched the sky dance with the last of the light. “That’s where she is, shining her light somewhere else. Somewhere better,” I finished almost choking on my last word, but able to keep my head straight, my eyes clear, so I could watch the last of the sun’s aura disappear.

Man can only come in contact with God through meditation. Meditation is the only way to come in contact with God.  God symbolizes the whole, the universe. God symbolizes the totality of all: the sky, the stars, the moon, the sun, the people, the trees, the animals, the flowers and the earth. God is aloving symbol of all that is.  God is not a person, God is a presence. God is consciousness. When you are silent in deep meditation, you start feeling a presence surrounding you, and surrounding the stars, the people, the trees and the mountains. It is a subtle aura of light. The whole existence is radiating life, light and joy.  The whole existence is a dance, which never begins and never ends. The moment you start feeling this infinity of existence, there is nothing that you can do than bow down in gratefulness to the mystery of existence. There is nothing else to do, but to bow down in thankfulnessfor the precious gift that has been given to you. There is nothing else to do, but to bow down to the precious gift that you are alive and that you can love and be loved.  Thankfulness for this gift arises when we say yes to this great opportunity. Thankfulness arises when we put the mind aside, and start functioning from the heart. That is meditation.  Meditation means to move from the head to the heart. Then God is felt, and the presence becomes tangible. Then one has to surrender to the presence. One has to become one with God.

Worry is a spiral with death at its center, Cassius,” I reply. I feel Aurae smiling. Cassius rolls his eyes. “Worry is a spiral with…I mean, come on. You trying to outdo Stoneside?” I shrug. I am not as confident as I pretend to be, but how can you lead if you cannot walk—and how can you walk if you fear every step?

His finger traced some lines on the paper. “A set pattern, with set Essence, designed in set, specific, and particular ways, for a set, specific effect. This is how everyone seems to try and quantify Essence. This is important, because they measure using their bodies. Their pools and maximums, their thresholds and limits.” The piece of paper was folded back up and stowed as the old man sighed. “I can’t grasp them. The absolutism of an Inscription. It’s… it's the complete opposite of how I think and function. I think with fluidity, like a thundercloud that sparks and comes to a solution through different means each time. I don’t use my body to measure, I use my Aura directly. Thus I am not limited to the normal ebbs and flows, the barriers one would normally consider.

Sometimes I utilize a form of bibliomancy, or dictionariomancy, to give me a clue as to what in the foggy blue hell is going to happen next. My method is this: I make myself a pot of Evening in Missoula tea, pretend that I’m in Missoula, where I’ve never been. I light a wand of Nag Champa incense, pretend that I’m uncountable, which is the meaning of Nag Champa. I light whatever candle is handy. I am alone when I do this, not only out of respect for Pollux’s sensibilities. I would be embarrassed for anybody else to know that this is how I make rational decisions. It was a warm winter day, so Hetta and Pollux were out strolling with Jarvis, who was bundled and wrapped like a tiny mummy. The time was now. In an aura of ceremonial gravity, I set the dictionary down on the coffee table. I cleared my mind. I closed my eyes, opened up the dictionary, and let my finger drift until it touched down on a word. Divination n. 1. The art or act of foretelling future events or revealing occult knowledge by means of augury or alleged supernatural agency. 2. An inspired guess or a presentiment. 3. That which has been divined. My source confirmed my instinct and my finger landed on exactly what I was doing. My augur told me that something was coming. But I was annoyed. I thought the dictionary got it wrong because that something, the wraith of Flora, was already here. I was wrong. Something else was definitely on its way.

What the current aura of disenchantment means for the future of American and world politics is uncertain. Will members of the public turn their backs on politics and turn to aesthetic appreciation, enjoying the comforts of religion, or building Shangri-las in their own minds?20 The post–World War II record-low voter turnout in the 2014 midterm elections might be one indication that Americans are washing their hands of even the most basic expressions of political engagement. But there are other indications that the legions of discontented do not reject the idea of progress as such and will not retreat from politics; instead what we are seeing is a rejection of liberal universalist visions of progress and the political programs associated with them. In a 2013 address before the Federal Assembly, Russian president Vladimir Putin declared that “attempts to push supposedly more progressive development models onto other nations actually resulted in regression, barbarity and extensive bloodshed.”21 Putin’s military incursions in Russia’s near (and not- so-near) abroad aside, increasing numbers of Westerners seem to agree with the sentiment of his remarks, punishing establishment politicians as “globalists” and rewarding inward-looking populists. From Brexiteers bucking the European Union to America-firsters looking to make their country “great again,” from supporters of the National Front in France to loyalists of the Party for Freedom in the Netherlands or the Freedom Party of Austria, nationalists are on the ascent, seeking progress for themselves and their compatriots on their own terms.

Buddho A mantra, associated with the Mahayana or Vajrayana Buddhism and a significant part of the history of Theravada. Repeating the name of Buddha or other Pali phrases is known to help the individual cultivate loving kindness. ‘Buddho’ comes to mean His title, not His rank. You call upon the holy teacher to offer you peace, harmony between yourself and the universe, harmony between the sensual and the spiritual world, by repeating the mantra. Until you continue, sit comfortably on the ground and take a few deep breaths. Then breathe in, say a long' bud-,' breathe out, hold'-dho.' At the conclusion of your practice, the mantra will give you clarity and brightness. • Lumen de Lumine Lumen De Lumine is luminous song. It helps you to feel open towards the world. The person will be engulfed in light. When darkness overpowers your life, Lumen De Lumine removes your aura and fills you with glow and light. You'll be more relaxed and uplifted. This is the ideal balance of power and harmony. The mantra will give you the faith that you're free from negative energies. Just like the light, you'll feel strong, untouchable, and invincible. Anyone can touch Lumen De Lumine. You don't have to close yourself with this chant in mind. Think of your loved one bringing positive energy and feelings to them. • Sat, Chit, Ananda Often known as Satchitananda, a Sanskrit composite word composed of the three verbs' sat,'' cit' and' ananda.' Sat means ' life, being present, being alive, living, being real, being good, being right, being normal, intelligent, being truthful.' Chit means' see, feel, perceive, understand, accept, think about something, shape a thought, be conscious, remember, consider' Ananda means ‘joy, love, satisfaction, enjoyment, happiness, pure elation’.

In the beginning, I assumed she went through all the trouble of disguising herself because she wanted to be a man, which is why I respected her wishes and even addressed her as a man. Turns out, she has to be a man because being a woman is dangerous. She has a natural feminine aura, so does that mean she hasn’t been pretending to be a man for very long?

and then I spot him, crazy hot, I mean the most ridiculously handsomest sexiest man I’ve ever seen off screen, super cool, tall, broad shoulders, short dark hair and an aura of alpha sophistication.

In Richard Kieckhefer's summary of European witch hunts, which examines the traits of those falling victim to accusation, three categories are defined. These are persons caught in the act of actual (positive or negative) sorcery; well-meaning sorcerers or healers who lost either the authorities' or their clients' trust; and a third group who did nothing and in whose cases the accusation of maleficium was merely an outlet for tensions that had arisen between neighbors.{13} Christina Larner, in summarizing information derived from the Scottish witch trials, expands this list by adding people reputed to be witches, that is, individuals surrounded by an aura of witch beliefs.{14} In my view, especially in the present context, the importance of the latter has to be emphasized: in European belief systems they are the witches par excellence, supernatural witches who, according to the beliefs traditionally attributed to them, are capable of maleficium in a supernatural way.

The gold shimmers so much I am nearly blinded. I know what that means. It means that Jessica is going to start talking about Andrew again. She thinks she’s complaining about him, but as I watch her speak, all I can see is the pink aura around her, and the way her face lights up when she talks about him. Oh, but there is such a wounded heart underneath that light.

Amma’s hands fell back to her sides, and all the anxiety went out of her voice. “Why would I know, Damien?” He glanced back to the chamber through the door’s crack, still empty, but for how long with the spawn’s cries rising? “Because you’re, you know, kind and…and nurturing? Also you happen to have breasts.” Amma glared at him and poked herself in the chest. “These aren’t working, they’re just for show!” “I just, I mean—” Damien rubbed his forehead, the child’s cries, the temple’s aura, and his own stupid words making him as inarticulate as he’d ever been. “They’re warm and nice to be pressed against. That’s what spawn are fond of, no?

Oh, no,” Kirihime whispered in horror. A naked Camellia running around the base was not something she wanted to deal with. This is not good! Kirihime burst out the door. She didn’t even bother locking up and just ran down the hall, using the enhancement technique to run faster. “Lady Camellia!” She turned a corner and was just in time to see Camellia standing inside of an elevator, the doors slowly sliding shut. “Bye, bye, Kiri-Kiri!” Camellia waved at Kirihime, who rushed for the door. However, not even the enhancement technique gave her enough speed to reach her mistress before the doors shut. Kirihime slammed into the door, then fell onto her back, staring up at the ceiling. “This… this is really not good. Not good at all.” *** Kevin, dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt that conformed to his torso, exited the locker room and began the long walk back to his apartment. His muscles ached from his most recent exercises. He and Kiara had been trying to discover more about his power. They had learned a lot through experimentation. It seemed his strange ability only worked on barriers, but they didn’t work on anything else, which he’d learned the hard way after suffering several full-on youki attacks from the powerful inu. Still, this power is pretty useful, even if it’s just the ability to break barriers. Kevin looked at his left hand. This hand seemed to be where this strange power was contained. He’d tried breaking through Kiara’s barrier with his right hand but had only received severe burns for his troubles. I wonder if it only works on barriers? Can I use it for anything else? Kiara had described his unique skill as the “ability to unlock barriers,” and indeed, when watching his power at work, it did look more like unlocking than destroying. When he touched Kiara’s aura, the red energy would peel apart like a blooming flower. The energy didn’t dissipate either. It still existed, but it moved around his hand, meaning that he wasn’t destroying it, just moving it out of the way. Kiara’s aura isn’t a barrier either, not really. It stands to reason this power can work on more than just barriers. “Kkkkkeeeeeevvvvviiiinnnnnn…………….” Kevin stopped walking, his head tilting in idle curiosity as he heard someone calling his name. “Kkkkkkyyyyyuuuuuunnnnnnnn!!!!” His eyes widening, Kevin swiftly spun around as the source of the voice got louder. He promptly found two large, round, soft things being shoved into his face. “Uwa!!” He tumbled to the floor, taking the other person with him. Delightful, childish laughter told him exactly who had crashed into him tits first. Kevin felt almost resigned. Why do these things keep happening to me?

Inanimate matter, or objects, radiate an overall static (fixed) field that can be altered by light radiation and thought-modulated human auras. Modulating an energy field, whether objective or subjective, means adding to or subtracting from a static field. That means that something, or some intelligence, is contained in the modulation of the field. Animate matter radiates a varying field that can be altered by light radiation and by human auras.

In the long run for myself because I was interested in lots of other things – I have a very eclectic kind of mind and I like to check out lots of things and make connections and put things together. This was not the thing to do. It was kind of like: “Well, you’re studying this.” And it makes sense. You know: “You’re studying this teaching. You’ve come here to learn this. You’ve come here to learn geometry not something else. But that’s what we’re teaching.” But I just found in the end… like Ouspensky said himself … ‘This is a good way but its not my way. The way itself isn’t bad but its not the way I should go’… In the end you just have to trust yourself, I guess. And the whole point of these things is to get you to trust yourself, to get you to trust your own feelings. I write about different people and I see connections between them and to me it’s more important to see connections between them rather than: ‘We have the Truth’ and, you know ‘Only this way and if you don’t follow this way there’s no salvation outside the Church’ or something like that. I mean I can understand the need to keep your integrity and keep your identity but I think at this point its more important to be able to see the connections between these things. It’s like I said before when I was talking about this whole idea of second wind and the Gurdjieff Movement pushing into you… pushing past your limits and breaking into what he calls the accumulators. We have these things that carry our tanks of energy, basically and there’s a small one we use for everyday things and then we think: ‘Oh, I’m exhausted’ but if some emergency comes up, we can tap into the other one and so on and so on. So… seeing connections between all that stuff makes me feel like “Well, this is real. It’s about something real.” And I don’t care if it comes from the Sarmoung Brotherhood or if it comes from Gurdjieff’s own very fertile mind… and I suspect its, I don’t know 70:30 or 60:40. But it doesn’t matter, the source of it to me isn’t what’s important. I mean that’s the kind aura of the esoteric aura and this is a real tradition, that kind of thing. And I’m not particularly interested in that, I’m pragmatic, I’m saying ‘Well, does it work?’ And I think it does work, at least in that context, I can see it. But the other side of it becomes a whole way of life, kind of thing… and again, I’ve nothing against people who do that but that’s not something I’ve ever been attracted to. Where you know you have… you have, your whole aesthetic, everything around you somehow is connected or a part or emanates that. And I have too many interests to have any one thing – its just a grab bag of stuff back there…

moved to the aura-based system. That's part of development: You throw stuff out there, and it works or it doesn't." Ultimately, however, auras passed the Blizzard North test: If a proposal's merit held up after testing, it made the cut. Auras became a defining characteristic of the Paladin. His assortment of combat skills and defensive auras enabled solo players to survive and thrive on their own, while Paladin players were sought after on Battle.net for the benefits their auras granted to parties. To fully upgrade each of any hero's thirty skills would require 600 skill points. The maximum character-level is 99, meaning players will never receive enough points to master—fully upgrade—all thirty skills. That limitation forces them to make difficult choices: maximize proficiency in a few skills, focus on a half dozen, or potentially spread themselves thin to become competent in all abilities but a master of none. Because each hero's skills are exclusive, all players wind up specializing simply by choosing a class. From there they only specialize further, investing heavily in some skills, spending a single point in others to satisfy requirements for later abilities, and ignoring most of the rest. Those limitations are not meant to restrain players, but to encourage them to think carefully about upgrades. The thought they put into skill points creates a bond between players and their avatars, and the satisfaction that comes from seeing a character evolve—as well as choosing each and every piece of a character's equipment load—feeds into Dave Brevik's peacock mentality: No two players were likely to spec out the same hero. In fact, a single player could roll several Amazons or Paladins and develop each differently. In a way, assigning exclusive skills to Diablo II's heroes was more limiting than Diablo's spell books, which could be read and cast by any of the game's three heroes as long as players dumped enough experience points into their Magic stat. Blizzard North's team saw that limitation as a good thing. It fostered agency, asking players to play an active role in evolving their characters.

deal in mumbo-jumbo. Why, I felt your aura the moment you stepped through the front door.’ ‘And do you know why we’ve come calling then?’ It was MacBride who asked the question, but only because he beat McLean to it. ‘Of course, of course. You want to know about ritual killing. Nasty business. Never works, at least not in my experience, but it’s worse than alcohol for bringing out the devil in people, if you know what I mean.’ ‘How did you … ?’ MacBride’s mouth hung open as the words escaped. Madame Rose let out a snort of most unlady-like laughter. ‘The spirit world talks to me, detective sergeant. And Jayne McIntyre from time to time.’ ‘I don’t have a lot of time, and even less patience.’ McLean shoved his warrant card back in his pocket. ‘I was led to believe you knew

What are we supposed to be doing?” Lonen whispered, though High Priestess Febe had left the room. “Meditating,” she hissed back. “Yes, I heard that part. What in Arill does that mean?” “Like… praying to your goddess. Silently,” she emphasized. He was quiet for a few breaths, no more. “Now what?” She tried to suppress the laugh, but failed so it choked out in a most unladylike sound. Lonen flashed a grin at her and she shook her head. “Keep doing it. And be quiet—she could come back at any time.” “Why would I keep doing something I already did?” “You’re supposed to be contemplating!” She tried to sound stern, but his complaints so closely echoed hers through the years that she couldn’t manage it. “Contemplate what?” he groused. “I already made the decision about the step I’m about to take. There’s no sense revisiting it.” “Then pretend. It won’t be that much longer.” He stayed quiet for a bit more, though he shifted restlessly, looking around the room and studying the various representations of the moons, looking at her from time to time. That insatiable curiosity of his built, feeding into her sgath, slowly intensifying. She was so keenly aware of him, she knew he’d speak the moment before he did. “You don’t mind?” he asked. “You talking when we’re supposed to be meditating?” “Do you always do what the temple tells you to do?” “Hardly ever,” she admitted. “But appearances are critical. Especially now.” He sighed and was quiet for a while. But his question remained between them, tugging at her like Chuffta pulling her braids when he wanted attention. And it might be some time before Febe returned. She reached out with her sgath to keep tabs on the high priestess, who was indeed still in one of the inner sanctums, no doubt also meditating and preparing herself for the ritual. “We have a little time and I’ll give us warning,” she relented. “Do I mind what?” “Not having a special dress, a big celebration. I don’t have a beah for you.” “What is a beah ?” “A Destrye gifts his bride with a beah and she wears it as a symbol of their marriage. I thought I’d have time to find something to stand in place of it until I can give you a proper one. And that we’d have time to change clothes.” “You look fine—I told you before.” “I look like a Báran,” he grumped, then glared, annoyance sparking when she giggled. “It’s not funny.” “Báran clothes look good on you,” she soothed, much as she would Chuffta’s offended dignity. Perhaps males of all species were the same. “Hey!” She ignored Chuffta’s indignant response. Lonen did look appealing in the silk pants and short-sleeved shirt, even though her sgath mainly showed her his exuberant masculine presence. “Well, you deserve something better than that robe,” he replied. “And more than this hasty ceremony. Arill knows, Natly went on enough about the details of planning…” He trailed off, chagrin coloring his thoughts. “Yeah,” she drawled. “Maybe better to not bring up your fiancée during our actual wedding ceremony.” “Former fiancée,” he corrected. “Really not even that. And this isn’t the ceremony yet—this is waiting around for it to start. My knees are getting sore.” “And here I thought you were the big, bad warrior.” “I am. Big, bad warriors don’t kneel. We charge about, swinging our weapons.” She laughed, shaking her head at him. That good humor of his flickered bright, charming her, banishing his perpetual anger to the shadowed corners of his aura. In the back of her mind, Febe moved. “She’s coming back. Not much longer. Try to school your thoughts.

It was exhausting having to be on all the time. To worry about saying the right thing, laughing at the appropriate time—but never too much, because that was lame—and constantly maintaining an aura of cool. Cool. What did it mean?

writer Robert Heinlein put it shortly after the Moon landing, Apollo’s success was “the greatest event in all the history of the human race up to this time.” 203 The symbolic meaning of the program’s end shouldn’t be underestimated. Apollo was nothing less than an instance of the technological sublime. The Apollo 11 mission, and the technological mastery a successful Moon landing represented, elicited a cross-cultural spiritual reaction. Images from the mission were “surrounded with the aura of religion,” 204 from the silvery Saturn V rocket, which towered against the darkness of space before it lifted off and sent the first humans to another world, to the Apollo 8 crew’s reading from the Book of Genesis on Christmas Eve 1968, to Armstrong’s footprints on the lunar surface. In the 20th century, the experience of the technological sublime was a recurrent phenomenon in America—think of the interstate highway system, the Hoover Dam, the Manhattan skyline, the atomic bomb, the jet airplane, or the Golden Gate Bridge.

am a fifth generation sorcerer, which means I’m special to my family. Each firstborn in a generation is born with a different power they specialized in, but every five years, each family’s firstborn sorcerer accumulates all the powers from the previous five years.