Bay Decoration Quotes

Wanted, wanted: Dolores Haze. Hair: brown. Lips: scarlet. Age: five thousand three hundred days. Profession: none, or "starlet" Where are you hiding, Dolores Haze? Why are you hiding, darling? (I Talk in a daze, I walk in a maze I cannot get out, said the starling). Where are you riding, Dolores Haze? What make is the magic carpet? Is a Cream Cougar the present craze? And where are you parked, my car pet? Who is your hero, Dolores Haze? Still one of those blue-capped star-men? Oh the balmy days and the palmy bays, And the cars, and the bars, my Carmen! Oh Dolores, that juke-box hurts! Are you still dancin', darlin'? (Both in worn levis, both in torn T-shirts, And I, in my corner, snarlin'). Happy, happy is gnarled McFate Touring the States with a child wife, Plowing his Molly in every State Among the protected wild life. My Dolly, my folly! Her eyes were vair, And never closed when I kissed her. Know an old perfume called Soliel Vert? Are you from Paris, mister? L'autre soir un air froid d'opera m'alita; Son fele -- bien fol est qui s'y fie! Il neige, le decor s'ecroule, Lolita! Lolita, qu'ai-je fait de ta vie? Dying, dying, Lolita Haze, Of hate and remorse, I'm dying. And again my hairy fist I raise, And again I hear you crying. Officer, officer, there they go-- In the rain, where that lighted store is! And her socks are white, and I love her so, And her name is Haze, Dolores. Officer, officer, there they are-- Dolores Haze and her lover! Whip out your gun and follow that car. Now tumble out and take cover. Wanted, wanted: Dolores Haze. Her dream-gray gaze never flinches. Ninety pounds is all she weighs With a height of sixty inches. My car is limping, Dolores Haze, And the last long lap is the hardest, And I shall be dumped where the weed decays, And the rest is rust and stardust.

...while Norah described to me her plans for carpets and curtains, or showed me the sample of bedspread material she had hung over a chair to see if she could live with it. When I began to know her, I wondered if their courtship had been, for her, something of the same -- my brother draped over a chair for the statutory length of time, to see if she could live with him. In that case she might have noticed that he did not really go with the surroundings; perhaps she did see this, but knew that he would fade to a better match.

March 1898 What a strange dream I had last night! I wandered in the warm streets of a port, in the low quarter of some Barcelona or Marseille. The streets were noisome, with their freshly-heaped piles of ordure outside the doors, in the blue shadows of their high roofs. They all led down towards the sea. The gold-spangled sea, seeming as if it had been polished by the sun, could be seen at the end of each thoroughfare, bristling with yard-arms and luminous masts. The implacable blue of the sky shone brilliantly overhead as I wandered through the long, cool and sombre corridors in the emptiness of a deserted district: a quarter which might almost have been dead, abruptly abandoned by seamen and foreigners. I was alone, subjected to the stares of prostitutes seated at their windows or in the doorways, whose eyes seemed to ransack my very soul. They did not speak to me. Leaning on the sides of tall bay-windows or huddled in doorways, they were silent. Their breasts and arms were bare, bizarrely made up in pink, their eyebrows were darkened, they wore their hair in corkscrew-curls, decorated with paper flowers and metal birds. And they were all exactly alike! They might have been huge marionettes, or tall mannequin dolls left behind in panic - for I divined that some plague, some frightful epidemic brought from the Orient by sailors, had swept through the town and emptied it of its inhabitants. I was alone with these simulacra of love, abandoned by the men on the doorsteps of the brothels. I had already been wandering for hours without being able to find a way out of that miserable quarter, obsessed by the fixed and varnished eyes of all those automata, when I was seized by the sudden thought that all these girls were dead, plague-stricken and putrefied by cholera where they stood, in the solitude, beneath their carmine plaster masks... and my entrails were liquefied by cold. In spite of that harrowing chill, I was drawn closer to a motionless girl. I saw that she was indeed wearing a mask... and the girl in the next doorway was also masked... and all of them were horribly alike under their identical crude colouring... I was alone with the masks, with the masked corpses, worse than the masks... when, all of a sudden, I perceived that beneath the false faces of plaster and cardboard, the eyes of these dead women were alive. Their vitreous eyes were looking at me... I woke up with a cry, for in that moment I had recognised all the women. They all had the eyes of Kranile and Willie, of Willie the mime and Kranile the dancer. Every one of the dead women had Kranile's left eye and Willie's right eye... so that every one of them appeared to be squinting. Am I to be haunted by masks now?

As the Living Room made contact with a steady stream of hippies and the big house bulged at the seams with runaway teens, Evangelical Concerns began to promote the group among the churches in the Bay Area. Ted Wise and a revolving mix of the Living Room men were frequently slated for guest appearances at Sunday night services and pastors’ meetings. As exotic to the audience as any missionary returned from New Guinea, they would give their testimonies, tell about their work with the hippies, and field questions from teens and adults alike. A January 1968 appearance at Thornton Avenue Baptist Church in Fremont, California, was described in a local newspaper: Ted Wise . . . was accompanied . . . by two more converts, “Steve” and “Dan.” All three wore typical hippie garb—corduroy trousers, wide belts, casual shirts without ties, and black boots. Dan added a leather jacket decorated with long fringe, and Ted sported a wooden ornament on a long leather thong around his neck. The trio also wore their hair long and had over-sized moustaches.

A few years ago a corrective report announced that people had misinterpreted the first report. Humans needed a total of sixty-four ounces of liquid a day, but they did not have to drink that amount from a glass. It actually all could come from food. And coffee and tea counted. Studies showed that these caffeinated beverages didn’t deplete the body’s liquids after all. Why, in the midst of this epidemic of grown-ups toting and constantly nursing from water bottles decorated with various company logos, has no one asked how our mothers and fathers and our grandparents, and the entire human race for tens of thousands of years before, escaped mass annihilation by dehydration because high-impact polycarbonate plastic bottles filled with “spring water” hadn’t been invented yet? Our modern minds believed what putative “science” and old wives’ tales in magazines told us and overrode the wisdom of our bodies. WHEN

I’ve decided to make you my mistress.” A small thread of temper mixed in with the fear traveling through her veins. “Have you now?” “I bought this building just for you, and had the top floor decorated in a manner I was quite certain, given your dramatic attitude, you’d appreciate.” Lucetta drew in a breath—refusing to allow Silas the satisfaction of even glancing at some of the more gaudy pieces in the room he was pointing out—and waited until he’d run out of words before she lifted her chin another notch. “I’d like to know, if you please, how you came to the conclusion I’d be receptive to the idea of becoming your mistress.” Silas settled back in the chair, folding his hands across a stomach that strained against the buttons of the jacket he was wearing. “Come now, dear. There’s no need to continue playing coy. You’ve led me on a merry chase these past few years, never affording me an audience after your performances, and neglecting to answer the notes I sent asking you to join me for a late-night dinner here or there.” He wiggled a finger in her direction. “You and I know full well that you did so in order to increase your value.” “I wouldn’t be so certain about that.” He continued speaking as if she hadn’t voiced a reply. “I’m willing to allow you to live here, amongst this lavish setting, and will provide you with your very own personal maid, a carriage with matching bays, a driver for that carriage, and . . . give you the pleasure of my company until I tire of you.” She dug her fingernails into the tender skin of her palm so that she wouldn’t be tempted to rake them across the man’s face. “I have my own carriage, thank you very much, as well as a lovely place to stay, and while I’m flattered you want to spend time in my company, I do have a profession I need to get back to. That means I am—regretfully, of course—going to have to refuse your simply charming offer to become your mistress.” Her head snapped back from his slap before she’d even realized he’d gotten up from his chair. Blinking to hold back tears that longed to fall, she lifted her chin and ignored the pain in her cheek as Silas retook his seat and immediately took to staring at her. His eyes were filled with something hot, something she was certain verged on the edge of true insanity, and that insanity chilled her straight through her bones. “It wasn’t an offer, my dear,” he finally said quite pleasantly.

It's as if the light changes color when Maraia and Madam Maya are together. I heard them singing this afternoon. Maraia's high-pitched voice, and Madam Maya's with deeper and looser tones. They sat on the floor with two brown and green pieces of fabric between them, which they had folded into the shape of small animals with bodies and heads. "We sing for the turtles," Maraia said. She must have told Madam Maya about the princesses Tinaicaboga and Raudalice, who were transformed into turtles when they were kidnapped by fishermen from a village on Kadavu. They found a way to escape, but they had to go on living as sea turtles in the bay off the island. Maraia knew the song as well, the one the women in the princesses' village sing to them from the cliffs on the beach. The women of Namuana are dressed for grief They carry their holy clubs, decorated in strange patterns Raudalice, come up and show yourself to us! Tinaicaboga, come up and show yourself to us! When the women sing, the giant turtles come up to the surface and listen.

The tables were laid with white cloths and decorated with holly and ivy. There were crackers beside each plate. Two turkeys and four geese were carried in, their skins nicely browned and glistening. Mr Francis and Arthur carved for us while tureens of roast potatoes, chestnut stuffing, sage and onion stuffing, bread sauce, Brussels sprouts, cauliflower with a white sauce, cabbage and gravy were passed around. Claret was poured. We pulled our crackers, put on paper hats, read the silly mottos and riddles and demonstrated our toys and puzzles. Then we said grace and ate until we couldn't stuff in another bite. There was a blast on a bugle, and the Christmas puddings were carried in, flaming with brandy and with a sprig of holly stuck in them. I had helped to make these on Stir-up Sunday back in November, and most of them had been sent with the cooks to Osborne House. But there were plenty for us, served with the custard and brandy butter I had prepared.

Finally, Diana had worked her way down to the Abbey, an upscale restaurant with a small but lush courtyard that featured a tinkling fountain, a pair of wooden benches, flowering bushes and stands of tall grasses, and a statue resembling Rodin's The Thinker (one of the few things she did remember from the art history class she'd taken). She'd never eaten there, but she remembered Dr. Levy mentioning it as one of the places she and her husband visited for date night at least once every summer. She sat on the bench for a minute to rest her feet and peruse the menu. Tuna sushi tempura (eighteen dollars for an appetizer). Almond-crusted cod with a mandarin-citrus beurre blanc (twenty-eight dollars) and butter-poached lobster (market price). The list of cocktails and special martinis ran two pages, and when she walked up the curved stone steps and stepped into the dining room, the views of the bay were gorgeous.

The House was an architectural gem boasting four stories of crimson brick. Its steep, gabled roofs were supported by figurines of frowning satyrs and narrow-waisted caryatids. Huge, stained-glass bay windows graced its exterior. Rosebushes decorated the entrance, but they looked all wrong and far too bright, like lipstick on a corpse's mouth. In a slender turret, my gaze caught on an oddly shaped window. It was an eye. Blue and unblinking, the pupil a perfect circle of gold.

Any guest who wants to participate can take a photo of them doing the task they set out to do, and then send it to the printer. I decorated a huge board and put it in the parlor where everyone can add their photos.

I want to go on a sleigh ride, build a snowman, decorate the tree, drink hot cocoa, and put our socks out for you to fill. I want to go into town and look at the windows. I want to build a fire and roast marshmallows. I want to bake cookies, go ice skating,