Bean Futures Quotes

Beasts of England, beasts of Ireland, Beasts of every land and clime, Hearken to my joyful tidings Of the golden future time. Soon or late the day is coming, Tyrant Man shall be o'erthrown, And the fruitful fields of England Shall be trod by beasts alone. Rings shall vanish from our noses, And the harness from our back, Bit and spur shall rust forever, Cruel whips shall no more crack. Riches more than mind can picture, Wheat and barley, oats and hay, Clover, beans, and mangel-wurzels, Shall be ours upon that day. Bright will shine the fields of England, Purer shall its water be, Sweeter yet shall blow its breezes On the day that sets us free. For that day we all must labour, Though we die before it break; Cows and horses, geese and turkeys, All must toils for freedom's sake. Beasts of England, beasts of Ireland, Beasts of every land and clime, Hearken well and spread my tidings Of the golden future time.

Live. And Live Well. BREATHE. Breathe in and Breathe deeply. Be PRESENT. Do not be past. Do not be future. Be now. On a crystal clear, breezy 70 degree day, roll down the windows and FEEL the wind against your skin. Feel the warmth of the sun. If you run, then allow those first few breaths on a cool Autumn day to FREEZE your lungs and do not just be alarmed, be ALIVE. Get knee-deep in a novel and LOSE track of time. If you bike, pedal HARDER and if you crash then crash well. Feel the SATISFACTION of a job well done-a paper well-written, a project thoroughly completed, a play well-performed. If you must wipe the snot from your 3-year old's nose, don't be disgusted if the Kleenex didn't catch it all because soon he'll be wiping his own. If you've recently experienced loss, then GRIEVE. And Grieve well. At the table with friends and family, LAUGH. If you're eating and laughing at the same time, then might as well laugh until you puke. And if you eat, then SMELL. The aromas are not impediments to your day. Steak on the grill, coffee beans freshly ground, cookies in the oven. And TASTE. Taste every ounce of flavor. Taste every ounce of friendship. Taste every ounce of Life. Because-it-is-most-definitely-a-Gift.

Rwanda had presented the world with the most unambiguous case of genocide since Hitler’s war against the Jews, and the world sent blankets, beans, and bandages to camps controlled by the killers, apparently hoping that everybody would behave nicely in the future.

And so, as per usual, it was James and Lily who managed to bring everyone out of that gloomy winter slog, just in time for spring. The marauders and their friends faced the rest of their year with fresh eyes and renewed purpose. Because fighting a war was one thing - but fighting for the Potters’ future child made every challenge seem more worthwhile.

In this crazy future tumbling like an avalanche straight at us, the ambitions of two people didn’t amount to a hill of beans.

It rained the day they got it right. Anna could hear the thrum of it against the glass of the window as she speared a piece of meat on a fork and promptly burst into tears because it tasted just like every time her mother had made it. It tasted like rain on the air and frogs hopping across the grass and coffee beans in a jar and the green, green leaves of the forest rustling in the night and the sound of her mother humming a song. It tasted like a future in which the rain and the coffee beans and her mother weren’t out of reach after all.

In focusing on “cultural change” and “conflict between cultures,” these studies avoid fundamental questions about the formation of the United States and its implications for the present and future. This approach to history allows one to safely put aside present responsibility for continued harm done by that past and the questions of reparations, restitution, and reordering society.9 Multiculturalism became the cutting edge of post-civil-rights-movement US history revisionism. For this scheme to work—and affirm US historical progress—Indigenous nations and communities had to be left out of the picture. As territorially and treaty-based peoples in North America, they did not fit the grid of multiculturalism but were included by transforming them into an inchoate oppressed racial group, while colonized Mexican Americans and Puerto Ricans were dissolved into another such group, variously called “Hispanic” or “Latino.” The multicultural approach emphasized the “contributions” of individuals from oppressed groups to the country’s assumed greatness. Indigenous peoples were thus credited with corn, beans, buckskin, log cabins, parkas, maple syrup, canoes, hundreds of place names, Thanksgiving, and even the concepts of democracy and federalism. But this idea of the gift-giving Indian helping to establish and enrich the development of the United States is an insidious smoke screen meant to obscure the fact that the very existence of the country is a result of the looting of an entire continent and its resources. The fundamental unresolved issues of Indigenous lands, treaties, and sovereignty could not but scuttle the premises of multiculturalism.

I feared, at times, that I had lost my imagination, because I felt boxed in my role as victim. But when I was trapped, I learned I could still move internally. When I felt depressed, I wrote and imagined my future down to the coffee bean. The children's books I will illustrate, the chickens I will have in my yard, the soft cotton linens, the sauce-dipped wooden spoons on the counter. The need for it to come true according to plan was not important. The act of imagining was.

The mysterious kachampuli wasn't a magical elixir. There were still a few hiccups- a dash too much salt here, an overcooked and chewy chunk of pork there- and it took a few more attempts and a few more days to make it perfect. It rained the day they got it right. Anna could hear the thrum of it against the glass of the window as she speared a piece of meat on a fork and promptly burst into tears because it tasted just like every time her mother had made it. It tasted like rain on the air and frogs hopping across the grass and coffee beans in a jar and the green, green leaves of the forest rustling in the night and the sound of her mother humming a song. It tasted like a future in which the rain and the coffee beans and her mother weren't out of reach after all.

Soames screwed up his eyes; he seemed to see them sitting there. Ah! and the atmosphere—even now, of too many stuffs and washed lace curtains, lavender in bags, and dried bees’ wings. ‘No,’ he thought, ‘there’s nothing like it left; it ought to be preserved.’ And, by George, they might laugh at it, but for a standard of gentle life never departed from, for fastidiousness of skin and eye and nose and feeling, it beat to-day hollow—to-day with its Tubes and cars, its perpetual smoking, its cross-legged, bare-necked girls visible up to the knees and down to the waist if you took the trouble (agreeable to the satyr within each Forsyte but hardly his idea of a lady), with their feet, too, screwed round the legs of their chairs while they ate, and their “So longs,” and their “Old Beans,” and their laughter—girls who gave him the shudders whenever he thought of Fleur in contact with them; and the hard-eyed, capable, older women who managed life and gave him the shudders too. No! his old aunts, if they never opened their minds, their eyes, or very much their windows, at least had manners, and a standard, and reverence for past and future.

There is a story that illustrates this view. A long time ago in China there lived a very greedy monk. Whenever there was some temple donation, or a distribution of money from a rich layman, this monk was always the first in line. He officiated at many ceremonies, accumulating enough money to buy even the nicest house in town! He was so greedy for money, it seemed he took pleasure only in the joy of collecting it, and never spent any of it. He never even bothered to spend it on himself. His clothes were still quite shabby despite the fact that everyone knew he had a lot of money. “There’s the greedy monk in his ragged clothes,” the laypeople would say. “He’s so cheap he won’t even buy something for himself.” Then one day, it started to rain, and the rain did not stop for several weeks. The little town below the temple was washed out. Houses were destroyed, farms were submerged weeks before the big harvest, and cattle perished. The whole town faced a terrible winter without food or housing. The villagers were very sad and frightened. Then one day, the villagers woke up to find a great number of carts filling the village square. The carts were loaded with many bags of rice and beans, blankets, clothing, and medicine. There were several new ploughs, and four sturdy oxen to pull them! Standing in the middle was the “greedy monk,” in his shabby, patched clothes. He used half his money to buy these supplies, and he gave the rest to the mayor of the town. “I am a meditation monk,” he told the mayor. “Many years ago I perceived that in the future this town would experience a terrible disaster. So ever since then I have been getting money for this day.” When the villagers saw this, they were ashamed of their checking minds. “Waaah, what a great bodhisattva he is!” This is the story of the greedy monk.

Whimsy. Fun. Instinct. Lightness. How some of the best – and worst – decisions of a life are made. Walking over a threshold and seeing a stranger, a set of rooms, and emptying one’s head, one’s pockets. Taking a hand, a key. Exchanging the milk cow for the magic beans. Thinking not of cost or profit. Refusing the call of future possibilities that will fall away when choosing this place, that person. The way it is done: from smell, sound, stomach; all the senses coming together to assay the moment.

Some of the most popular tantalizing and chemically processed foods of my youth were Swanson TV dinners, Cheez Whiz, Tang, Hunt’s canned Franks and Beans, Oreo cookies, Devil Dogs, Twinkies, Lucky Charms, and Kellogg’s Frosted Flakes whose motto, “They’re GRRREAT!” still rings in my ears! Then there was Diet Rite, the first diet soft drink. I’m disgusted to admit that I had my share of it all. It was preferable to have a perfect-looking tomato rather than a vine-ripe delicious one. Addiction to unhealthy foodstuffs turned into the norm.

You don’t have it. You are my future son-in-law now, Prince. I forbid you from breaking the law and crossing the gate. That is why I came to tell you myself.” The Queene’s cruel lips tipped down. “Lord Gwess’s second son was hardly worth having around to begin with. He had measly half-power and an obnoxious laugh.” Something snapped in Cress’s chest. “The High Court will demand that Whyp be avenged!” he shouted. “How can I come into power over the North before that human is killed and justice has been restored in our court?” The Queene looked back and forth between his eyes. “That sounded dangerously close to defiance,” she said. “You’ll send them to hunt the human, then?” Cress nodded toward the triad of kneeling males waiting beneath the lantern light. “I have been the North Court’s greatest assassin for over a decade,” he objected. “Can I not be granted this one request?” “You attacked a lord of the East yesterday!” Her voice blasted through the room with the volume of a horn, and frost crawled up the walls. Cress and Thessalie slammed their hands over their ears; the kneeling assassins by the lanterns went rigid. The Queene’s eyes narrowed. “The High Court will conspire against you if you disobey me. And no, I will not be sending your brother assassins after the human, either. There are more important things approaching in the new faeborn year—like the wedding. As I said, we will send an assassin to kill the human for breaking a fairy law in due time.

Beasts of England, beasts of Ireland, Beasts of every land and clime, Hearken to my joyful tidings Of the golden future time. Soon or late the day is coming, Tyrant Man shall be o’erthrown, And the fruitful fields of England Shall be trod by beasts alone. Rings shall vanish from our noses, And the harness from our back, Bit and spur shall rust forever, Cruel whips no more shall crack. Riches more than mind can picture, Wheat and barley, oats and hay, Clover, beans, and mangel-wurzels Shall be ours upon that day. Bright will shine the fields of England, Purer shall its waters be, Sweeter yet shall blow its breezes On the day that sets us free. For that day we all must labour, Though we die before it break; Cows and horses, geese and turkeys, All must toil for freedom’s sake. Beasts of England, beasts of Ireland, Beasts of every land and clime, Hearken well and spread my tidings Of the golden future time.

Whipped or ice cream on your dumplings?" she asked them, once the crust browned and the filling bubbled. She sprinkled additional cinnamon sugar on top. Grace and Cade responded as one, "Ice cream." Cade leaned his elbows on the table, cut her a curious look. "I didn't think we had a thing in common." She gave him a repressive look. "Ice cream doesn't make us friends." Amelia scooped vanilla bean into the bowls with the dumplings. Her smile was small, secret, when she served their dessert, and she commented, "Friendships are born of likes and dislikes. Ice cream is binding." Not as far as Grace was concerned. Cade dug into his dessert. Amelia kept the conversation going. "I bet you're more alike than you realize." Why would that matter? Grace thought. She had no interest in this man. A simultaneous "doubtful" surprised them both. Amelia kept after them, Grace noted, pointing out, "You were both born, grew up, and never left Moonbright." "It's a great town," Cade said. "Family and friends are here." "You're here," Grace emphasized. Amelia patted her arm. "I'm very glad you've stayed. Cade, too. You're equally civic-minded." Grace blinked. We are? "The city council initiated Beautify Moonbright this spring, and you both volunteered." We did? Grace was surprised. Cade scratched his stubbled chin, said, "Mondays, I transport trees and mulch from Wholesale Gardens to grassy medians between roadways. Flower beds were planted along the nature trails to the public park." Grace hadn't realized he was part of the community effort. "I help with the planting. Most Wednesdays." Amelia was thoughtful. "You're both active at the senior center." Cade acknowledged, "I've thrown evening horseshoes against the Benson brothers. Lost. Turned around and beat them at cards." "I've never seen you there," Grace puzzled. "I stop by in the afternoons, drop off large-print library books and set up audio cassettes for those unable to read because of poor eyesight." "There's also Build a Future," Amelia went on to say. "Cade recently hauled scaffolding and worked on the roof at the latest home for single parents. Grace painted the bedrooms in record time." "The Sutter House," they said together. Once again. "Like minds," Amelia mused, as she sipped her sparkling water.

Another girl had shown Tokue her new mobile phone, which was apparently the very latest, so Sentaro probably hadn’t seen one yet either, she said. What kind of world will it be in the future now that those things are an inseparable part of children’s lives, she wondered.

God tells us the future so we can change it. And sometimes, He tells us the future just to warn us.

Choices and decisions created our future. And when we get a glimpse into the future, we have the chance to make decisions to get us to that end goal. Or to avoid the darkness.

Piers Morgan Piers Morgan is a British journalist best known for his editorial work for the Daily Mirror from 1995 through 2004. He is also a successful author and television personality whose recent credits include a recurring role as a judge on NBC’s America’s Got Talent. A controversial member of the tabloid press during Diana’s lifetime, Piers Morgan established a uniquely close relationship with the Princess during the 1990s. The conversation moved swiftly to the latest edition of “Have I Got News for You.” “Oh, Mummy, it was hilarious,” laughed William. “They had a photo of Mrs. Parker Bowles and a horse’s head and asked what the difference was. The answer was that there isn’t any!” Diana absolutely exploded with laughter. We talked about which was the hottest photo to get. “Charles and Camilla is still the really big one,” I said, “followed by you and a new man, and now, of course, William with his first girlfriend.” He groaned. So did Diana. Our “big ones” are the most intimate parts of their personal lives. It was a weird moment. I am the enemy, really, but we were getting on well and sort of developing a better understanding of each other as we went along. Lunch was turning out to be basically a series of front-page exclusive stories--none of which I was allowed to publish, although I did joke that “I would save it for my book”--a statement that caused Diana to fix me with a stare, and demand to know if I was carrying a tape recorder. “No,” I replied, truthfully. “Are you?” We both laughed, neither quite knowing what the answer really was. The lunch was one of the most exhilarating, fascinating, and exasperating two hours of my life. I was allowed to ask Diana literally anything I liked, which surprised me, given William’s presence. But he was clearly in the loop on most of her bizarre world and, in particular, the various men who came into it from time to time. The News of the World had, during my editorship, broken the Will Carling, Oliver Hoare, and James Hewitt scoops, so I had a special interest in those. So, unsurprisingly, did Diana. She was still raging about Julia Carling: “She’s milking it for all she’s worth, that woman. Honestly. I haven’t seen Will since June ’95. He’s not the man in black you lot keep going on about. I’m not saying who that is, and you will never guess, but it’s not Will.” William interjected: “I keep a photo of Julia Carling on my dartboard at Eton.” That was torture. That was three fantastic scoops in thirty seconds. Diana urged me to tell William the story of what we did to Hewitt in the Mirror after he spilled the beans in the ghastly Anna Pasternak book. I dutifully recounted how we hired a white horse, dressed a Mirror reporter in full armor, and charged Hewitt’s home to confront him on allegations of treason with regard to his sleeping with the wife of a future king--an offense still punishable by death. Diana exploded again. “It was hysterical. I have never laughed so much.” She clearly had no time for Hewitt, despite her “I adored him” TV confessional.

If any proof is needed of the importance of having a good understanding of business, all you have to do is look at what often happens when the owner of a business decides to retire and turn it over to one of his or her children. More often than not, when this happens, the son or daughter who takes over has spent a few years working in the business and a few more helping the owner run it. But a lot of family businesses don’t do as well when they are passed on, and one of the primary reasons for this is that, even though the new owner has some experience in the business, he or she often doesn’t understand the various facets of business and how they are all interrelated. And the result, unfortunately, is that a perfectly viable company, one that its original owner spent years building up, now has a questionable future.

Marjan measured Bahar's unpredictable temperament according to the ancient and treasured Zoroastrian practice of gastronomic balancing, which pitted light and against dark, good against evil, hot against cold. Certain hot, or 'garm,' personalities tend to be quick to temper, exude more energy, and prompt all others around them to action. This energy often runs itself ragged, so to counter exhaustion, one must consume cold, or 'sard' foods, such as freshwater fish, yogurt, coriander, watermelon, and lentils. Most spices and meats should be avoided, for they only stoke the fires inside. (Tea, although hot in temperature, is quite a neutralizing element.) By contrast, for the person who suffers from too cold a temperament, marked by extreme bouts of melancholia and a general disinterest in the future, hot or 'garm' dishes are recommended. Foods such as veal, mung beans, cloves, and figs do well to raise spirits and excite ambitions. To diagnose Bahar as a 'garmi' (on account of her extreme anxiety and hot temper) would have been simple enough, had she not also suffered from a lowness of spirit that often led to migraine headaches. Whether in a 'garm' or a 'sard' mood, Bahar could always depend on her older sister to guide her back to a relative calm. Marjan had for a long time kept a close eye on Bahar and knew exactly when to feed her sautéed fish with garlic and Seville oranges to settle her hot flashes, or when a good apple 'khoresh,' a stew made from tart apples, chicken, and split peas, would be a better choice to pull Bahar out of her doldrums.

When it comes to money and so many other things in life, understanding your weaknesses and strengths can help you with your future plans.

Pixar started as a company that sold a special computer for doing digital animation; it took a while till they got into the moviemaking business. Similarly, Starbucks originally sold only coffee beans and coffee equipment; they hadn't planned to sell coffee by the cup.

The date on my phone accidentally got changed to the year 3076: Then a wrong number called me from the future, and it cost me $20,000.

Again, for the record, let me restate: you can't be rude to a coffee grinder and only an idiot would thank it for pulverizing beans. But you could, and probably should, unplug it if it doesn't shut up.

But I am so sorry that you have had to destroy human life on my account. Will it not trouble you in the future?” “Not in the least, Miss Bean,” he answered.

Your story, Bean, is the story of your sisters. And it is past time, I think, for you to stop telling that particular story, and tell the story of yourself. Stop defining yourself in terms of them. You don't just have to exist in the empty spaces they leave. There are times in our lives when we have to realize our past is precisely what it is, and we cannot change it. But we can change the story we tell ourselves about it, and by doing that, we can change the future.

I live in an unstable region, so I'm always ready for surprise curfews or my aunt dropping by uninvited to borrow some cooking oil. To protect my future from both, I swept $530,000 under the floor in Bitcoin- my emergency parachute. Well, things went downhill. Protesters filled the streets like a rowdy rave, with pepper spray in place of glow sticks. In the chaos, security personnel took my laptop and everything that wasn't bolted down. That's where I store the keys to my Bitcoin wallet. When I say I swallowed a brick, I am not kidding. I pictured myself telling my future self, who lived under a tarp, how I used to have half a million dollars but lost it since I had forgotten to encrypt my drive. "Great job, Past Me," I would be saying while heating canned beans over a candle. But fate, or possibly my guardian angel who was finally done laughing at me, intervened. During a hushed meeting with a journalist friend (we whispered like we were plotting an espionage thriller), he mentioned Tech Cyber Force Recovery. These folks were not just tech geniuses; they practically wore digital capes. I phoned, and the reassuring voice I received was so reassuring, I almost asked them to fix my love life too. They labored in their homes with the frenzy of an explosives specialist defusing a bomb. They constructed my wallet information from recovery fragments I barely remember creating. It was like magic shows where magicians extract bills from a hat, except the hat has been confiscated by the authorities. Thirteen days passed, and I received the call. My money had been returned. I was so relieved that I hugged my aunt, who naturally took the chance to request additional cooking oil. Tech Cyber Force Recovery did not just save my Bitcoin; they saved my future. And they gave me a newfound respect for proper backups and encryption. If you are in a tricky spot or just want to avoid awkward family requests during every political crisis, call them. They are the real deal and possibly part wizard, part therapist. CALL OR WHATSAPP THEM THOUGH +.1.5.6.1.7.2.6.3.6.9.7

How can science ask society to conserve that which it doesn’t fully understand? When I first began learning about red wolves, this was the question that kept coming back to me. It was intriguing enough that I decided to commit a significant amount of my time to documenting what red wolves are today; exploring how the wild population is managed; and understanding the contradictory concepts of the species’ origins, its past history in the East, and what its main conservation challenges are heading into the future. The morning after my beach stroll, I set out to meet a red wolf biologist named Ryan Nordsven. He had agreed to show me Sandy Ridge, which is a secure facility where the recovery program holds wild red wolves that are sick or being held for other reasons. A few wolves that are part of the captive breeding program are also kept there permanently. But the facility’s location is somewhat of a secret, and I was supposed to go first to the FWS’s Red Wolf Recovery Program headquarters in the small town of Manteo. Manteo is on Roanoke Island, a low and narrow, kidney-bean-shaped island wedged in the sounds between the Albemarle Peninsula and the Outer Banks. It is smothered in live oaks, and its perimeter is bordered by thick marsh grasses. From Manteo, the red wolf biologists make tracks across the whole peninsula. As I drove through the marsh and into town, my hope was that Ryan or one of the other biologists might let me tag along as they worked with the world’s only population of wild C. rufus. Little did I know then how deep Ryan and the others would ultimately take me into the secret world of red wolves.

The Bible is not an ancient book of scribblings from old people. It’s a guide, it’s information—holy divine information. It points us in the right direction, literally outlining the future. Yet, we somehow still choose not to believe it.

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Many creators are already afraid to use their community’s vocabulary because of the perception that the algorithm is working against them. TikTok in particular lost a lot of trust due to occasional “glitches” like the #BlackLivesMatter hashtag showing up with zero views[6] or the exposés showing how it prevented undesirable creators from showing up on the For You page. Reading between the lines, these creators choose to find algospeak replacements instead of using their own language. This is an incredibly relevant concern in the LGBTQ+ space. Beyond mass-reporting trolls and built-in bias politicizing queer identity, the community has to contend with direct geographic suppression. TikTok has openly admitted to censoring hashtags like #gay and #trans in conservative regions like Russia and the Middle East,[7] so, again, there’s been ample reason to be suspicious of the platform. Murky or incomplete feedback only worsens the issue. Several American trans creators have complained about being banned without explanation—contributing to the justifiable paranoia even if their incidents had valid but uncited rationale. As a result, many queer creators feel they must resort to algospeak to best express their identity. You’ll see people use the word “zesty” or the emoji as a metonym for “gay.” In other instances, they’ve replaced the term “LGBTQ+” with phrases like “leg booty” or “alphabet mafia.” The most famous example in the early 2020s was probably “le$bian” for “lesbian.” While this might seem like a typical grawlix substitution, TikTok’s text-to-speech function clearly didn’t understand that, and would instead read the phrase aloud as “le dollar bean.” This pronunciation was so wholly embraced by the online lesbian community that many creators started saying it out loud themselves.

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