Bert And I Quotes

One time, Bert and I were making out for so long it wasn't even funny..But then it was funny.

Can I ask you a question? You know with vampires and werewolves and goblins and things, is there any mythological creature that doesn't actually exist?" "Of course," he replied. "The unicorn and the leprechaun would be would be the two main ones. The Loch Ness Monster isn't real, either, that's just someone called Bert.

Every gay man should be familiar with Bert and Ernie." "And why is that?" Reece rolled his eyes, smiling. "Everyone knows that they're lovers." Ben stopped what he was doing and looked at the man incredulously. "Okay, Reece, seriously, can you hear yourself?" "They are!" Reece said. "They live together, share a bedroom; I'm telling you the sexual tension is very palpable." Ben raised an eyebrow and said nothing. Reece cleared his throat. "You're going to break up with me now, aren't you?

And I know someone who’s perfect for her. He works in my lab. He’s smart. He’s funny. His name is Bert.” Bert? Is she fucking kidding me? What kind of sick son of a bitch names his kid Bert in this day and age? That’s just cruel. “He’ll show Kate a good time. I plan on setting them up this weekend.” And I plan on handcuffing myself to Kate’s ankle and eating the key. Let’s see what kind of good time Bert can show Kate when she’s dragging me around behind her like a Siamese twin.

Someday I will stop being young and wanting stupid tattoos. There are 7 people in my house. We each have different genders. I cut my hair over the bathroom sink and everything I own has a hole in it. There is a banner in our living room that says “Love Cats Hate Capitalism.” We sit around the kitchen table and argue about the compost pile and Karl Marx and the necessity of violence when The Rev comes. Whatever the fuck The Rev means. Every time my best friend laughs I want to grab him by the shoulders and shout “Grow old with me and never kiss me on the mouth!” I want us to spend the next 80 years together eating Doritos and riding bikes. I want to be Oscar the Grouch. I want him and his girlfriend to be Bert and Ernie. I want us to live on Sesame Street and I will park my trash can on their front stoop and we will be friends every day. If I ever seem grouchy it’s just because I am a little afraid of all that fun. There is a river running through this city I know as well as my own name. It’s the first place I’ve ever called home. I don’t think its poetry to say I’m in love with the water. I don’t think it’s poetry to say I’m in love with the train tracks. I don’t think it’s blasphemy to say I see God in the skyline. There is always cold beer asking to be slurped on back porches. There are always crushed packs of Marlboro’s in my back pockets. I have been wearing the same patched-up shorts for 10 days. Someday I will stop being young and wanting stupid tattoos.

You know what happens when someone dies?' Delia said suddenly, startling me a bit. I kept putting together my sandwich, though, not answering: I knew there was more. 'It's like, everything and everyone refracts, each person having a different reaction'...'When Wish died, it just knocked the wind out of me. Truly. It's like that stupid thing bert and Wes do, the leaping out thing, trying to scare each other: it was the biggest gotcha in the world.' She looked down at the sandwiches. 'I'd just assumed she'd be okay. It had never occurd to me she might actually just be... gone. You know?'...'And then she was,' Delia said, her hand on the bread bag. 'Gone. Gotcha. And suddenly I had these two boys to take care of, plus a newborn of my own. It was just this huge loss, this huge gap, you know'...'Some people... they can just move on, you know, mourn and cry and be done with it. Or at least seem to be. But for me... I don't know. I didn't want to fix it, to forget. It wasn't something that was broken. It's just ... something that happened. And like that hole, I'm just finding ways, every day, of working around it. Respecting and remebering and getting on at the same time.' I envied Delia. At least she knew what she was up against. Maybe that's what you got when you stood over your grief, facing it finally. A sense of its depths, its area, the distance across, and the way over or around it, whichever you chose in the end.

I’ve got my Sig and I’m in a car I swiped,” Bert raged on.” I thought of that much ahead. I don’t miss! It’s like candy, Sammy. His car is candy red. Like Valentine’s Day for me!” I ain’t gonna let a perfect moment pass, Sammy. I’m my own man now in this stuff. I done enough already to earn the respect I don’t get. I’m not stupid, so go to bed.

You're a very odd man," said Bert. "I get that more often than you'd think," replied Charles.

When I lived in South Africa, someone told me what the longest road in Africa is. It's not the road from Cairo to Capetown, it's the way from your head to your heart, and from there to the here and now.

He was looking at me, jsut as I'd thought he would be, but like Bert's, his light was not what I expected. No pity, no sadness: nothing had changed. I realized all the times I'd felt people stare at me, their faces had been pictures, abstracts. None of them were mirrors, able to reflect back the expression I thought one I wore, the feelings only I felt.

Brendan suddenly 'came out' to me. In my experience, the hardest thing about having someone 'come out' to you is the 'pretending to be surprised' part. You want him to feel like what he’s telling you is Big. It’s like, if somebody tells you they’re pregnant, you don’t say, 'I did notice you’ve been eating like a hog lately.' Your gay friend has obviously made a big decision to say the words out loud. You don’t want him to realize that everybody’s known this since he was ten and he wanted to be Bert Lahr for Halloween. Not the Cowardly Lion, but Bert Lahr. 'Oh, my gosh, no waaaay?' You stall, trying to think of something more substantial to say. 'Is everyone, like, freaking out? What a… wow.

I turned down Halloween parties every year, where people wanted zombies raised at the stroke of midnight or some such nonsense. The scarier my reputation got, the more people wanted me to come be scary for them. I'd told Bert I could always go and threaten to shoot all the partygoers, that'd be scary. Bert had not been amused. But he had stopped asking me to do parties.

And I think she works so much becasue she can be in control of it, you know?' I said. She nodded. 'It makes her feel, I don't know, safe.' I can understand that,' Delia said softly. 'Losing someone can make you feel very out of control. Totally so.' I know,' I said. 'But it's not really fair. Like, after my dad died, I wanted to be okay for her. So I was. Even when I had to fake it. But now, when I really do feel okay, she's not happy with me. Because I'm not perfect anymore.' Grieving doesn't make you imperfect,' Delia said quietly, as Bert came back out to the van, adjusting one of the carts inside. 'It makes you human. We all deal with things differently.

I took the money and passed the box across the counter and said politely, ‘Your choice of colour really lacks style.’ I smiled and Beth laughed and the guy asked to see my manager. I got Bert and he leant over the box and looked at the paint and said, ‘Ed was being polite. Your choice of colour is shit.

I didn't want to understand. Bert had been thrilled that the police wanted to put me on retainer. He told me I would gain valuable experience working with the police. All I had gained so far was a wider variety of nightmares.

Whatever happened to chivalry? Does it only exist in 80's movies? I want John Cusack holding a boombox outside my window. I wanna ride off on a lawnmower with Patrick Dempsey. I want Jake from Sixteen Candles waiting outside the church for me. I want Judd Nelson thrusting his fist into the air because he knows he got me. Just once I want my life to be like an 80's movie, preferably one with a really awesome musical number for no apparent reason. But no, no, John Hughes did not direct my life.

She swallowed, watching as the servants and Harry and Bert trooped out of the room. Lad, apparently not the brightest dog in the world, sat down next to Mickey O’Connor and leaned against his leg. Mr. O’Connor looked at the dog, looked at the damp spot growing on his breeches where the dog was leaning, and sighed. “I find me life is not as quiet as it used to be afore ye came to me palace, Mrs. Hollingbrook.” Silence lifted her chin. “You’re a pirate, Mr. O’Connor. I cannot believe your life was ever very quiet.” He gave her an ironic look. “Aye, amazin’, isn’t it? Yet since yer arrival me servants no longer obey me and I return home to find me kitchen flooded.” He crossed to a cupboard and took down a china teapot, a tin of tea, and a teacup. “And me dog smells like a whorehouse.” Silence glanced guiltily at Lad. “The only soap we could find was rose scented.

I believe that most of us, students and artists alike, ought to concern ourselves less with what we think is the right way to draw and more with letting our feelings flow through our hand. In this way, we stretch our dynamic nature. Our larger goal should be to draw in a way that expresses our vision.

Donneven," I said, in my best Monica imitation, and he laughed. "We're not talking about me." "We could be," he said, as I watched Bert take note of a group of what looked like ninth graders who had just come into the living room. "I'm not gorgeous," I said. "Sure you are." I just shook my head, knowing this was him evading the question. "You," I said, "have this whole tall, dark stranger thing going on. Not to mention the tortured artist bit." "Bit?" "You know what I mean." He shook his head, clearly discounting this description. "And you," he said, "have that whole blonde, cool and collected, perfect smart girl thing going on." "You're the boy all the girls want to rebel with," I said. "You," he replied, "are the unattainable girl in homeroom who never gives a guy the time of day.

As I said, I don’t expect you to understand—” “And I don’t,” he cut in. “Ye ask how I can live a life that I know will end with the hangman’s noose. Well, at least I am alive. Ye might as well have climbed inside yer husband’s coffin and let yerself be buried with his corpse.” Her hand flashed out before she’d thought about it, the smack against his cheek loud in the little courtyard. Silence had her eyes locked with Michael’s, her chest rising and falling swiftly, but she was aware that Bert and Harry had looked up. Even Mary and Lad had paused in their play. Without taking his gaze from hers, Michael reached out and grasped her hand. He raised her hand to his lips and softly kissed the center of her palm. He looked at her, her hand still at his lips. “Don’t take to yer grave afore yer time, Silence, m’love.

In the beginning, I want to say something about human greatness. Some time ago, I was reading texts of Kungtse. When I read these texts, I understood something about human greatness. What I understood from his writings was: What is greatest in human beings is what makes them equal to everybody else. Everything else that deviates higher or lower from what is common to all human beings makes us less. If we know this, we can develop a deep respect for every human being.

We enter that strange period between Christmas and New Year, when time seems to muddle, and we find ourselves asking again and again, What day is it? What date? I always mean to work on these days, or at least to write, but this year, like every other, I find myself unable to gather up the necessary intent. I used to think that these were wasted days, but I now realise that’s the point. I am doing nothing very much, not even actively being on holiday. I clear out my cupboards, ready for another year’s onslaught of cooking and eating. I take Bert out to play with friends. I go for cold walks that make my ears ache. I am not being lazy. I’m not slacking. I’m just letting my attention shift for a while, away from the direct ambitions of the rest of my year. It’s like revving my engines.

Okay, before we do this, do you all know which Loculi you’re carrying?” Aliyah asked. I adjusted my pack and stood. “I have Language and Flight.” “Invisibility and Healing,” Cass said. “Bert and Ernie,” Marco said. Aliyah glared at him. “Okay. Underwater Breathing and Teleportation,” Marco said. “Then let’s roll,” I said. Aliyah

It's nice, Tom. I never milked in a barn so nice.

I don't think we can ever say who we are in any fixed sense. Our own curiosity and sense of identification with others drive us constantly toward creative change.

Sometimes... Come on, how often exactly, Bert? Can you recall four, five, more such occasions? Or would no human heart have survived two or three? Sometimes (I have nothing to say in reply to your question), while Lolita would be haphazardly preparing her homework, sucking a pencil, lolling sideways in an easy chair with both legs over its arm, I would shed all my pedagogic restraint, dismiss all our quarrels, forget all my masculine pride - and literally crawl on my knees to your chair, my Lolita! You would give me one look - a gray furry question mark of a look: "Oh no, not again" (incredulity, exasperation); for you never deigned to believe that I could, without any specific designs, ever crave to bury my face in your plaid skirt, my darling! The fragility of those bare arms of yours - how I longed to enfold them, all your four limpid lovely limbs, a folded colt, and take your head between my unworthy hands, and pull the temple-skin back on both sides, and kiss your chinesed eyes, and - "Please, leave me alone, will you," you would say, "for Christ's sake leave me alone." And I would get up from the floor while you looked on, your face deliberately twitching in imitation of my tic nerveux. But never mind, never mind, I am only a brute, never mind, let us go on with my miserable story.

I’d like you to meet Bert and Ernie.” She lifted a brow at him and he shrugged. “I didn’t name them. They’re retired military working dogs. I adopted them about three years ago.” He paused. “I wanted Mr. Snuffleupagus too, but one of my buddies took him.

Dear Pen Pal, I know it’s been a few years since I last wrote you. I hope you’re still there. I’m not sure you ever were. I never got any letters back from you when I was a kid. But in a way it was always therapeutic. Everyone else judges everything I say. And here you are: some anonymous person who never says “boo.” Maybe you just read my letters and laughed or maybe you didn’t read my letters or maybe you don’t even exist. It was pretty frustrating when I was young, but now I’m glad that you won’t respond. Just listen. That’s what I want. My dog died. I don’t know if you remember, but I had a beagle. He was a good dog. My best friend. I’d had him as far back as I could remember, but one day last month he didn’t come bounding out of his red doghouse like usual. I called his name. But no response. I knelt down and called out his name. Still nothing. I looked in his doghouse. There was blood everywhere. Cowering in the corner was my dog. His eyes were wild and there was an excessive amount of saliva coming out of his mouth. He was unrecognizable. Both frightened and frightening at the same time. The blood belonged to a little yellow bird that had always been around. My dog and the bird used to play together. In a strange way, it was almost like they were best friends. I know that sounds stupid, but… Anyway, the bird had been mangled. Ripped apart. By my dog. When he saw that I could see what he’d done, his face changed to sadness and he let out a sound that felt like the word ‘help.’ I reached my hand into his doghouse. I know it was a dumb thing to do, but he looked like he needed me. His jaws snapped. I jerked my hand away before he could bite me. My parents called a center and they came and took him away. Later that day, they put him to sleep. They gave me his corpse in a cardboard box. When my dog died, that was when the rain cloud came back and everything went to hell…

Fr. Bert White: I think when you focus on money and property ownership, you go the way of the material world, of the Big, of Up and More. It becomes your agenda and then faith can fly out of the window. There has to be faith and a trust in God's reality - a trust that things will work out.

I said, somewhat confused, “What’s the problem?” [Kristy] rolled her eyes. Beside her, Monica said, “Donneven.” “Kristy.” Delia shook her head. “This isn’t the time or the place, okay?” “The time or the place for what?” Caroline asked. “There is never,” Kristy said adamantly, “a time or place for true love. It happens accidentally, in a heartbeat, in a single flashing, throbbing moment.” “Throbbing?” my mother said, leaning forward and looking at me. “Who’s throbbing?” “Macy and Wes,” Kristy told her. “We are not,” I said indignantly. “Kristy,” Delia said helplessly. “Please God I’m begging you, not now.” “Wait a second, wait a second.” Caroline held her hands up. “Kristy. Explain.” “Yes, Kristy,” my mother said, but she was looking at me. Not really mad as much as confused. Join the club, I thought. “Explain.” Bert said, “This ought to be good.” Kristy ignored him, tucking a piece of hair behind her ear. “Wes wants to be with Macy. And Macy, whether she’ll admit it or not, wants to be with Wes. And yet they’re not together, which is not only unjust, but really, when you think about it, tragical.” “That’s not a word,” Bert pointed out. “It is now,” she said. “How else can you explain a situation where Wes, a truly extraordinary boy, would be sent packing in favor of some brainiac loser…” “Why,” I said, feeling embarrassed, “do we have to keep talking about this?” “Because it’s tragical!” Kristy said….”I’ll tell you what it is. It’s wrong. You should be with Wes, Macy. The whole time you guys were hanging out, talking about how you were both with other people, it was so obvious to everyone. It was even obvious to Wes. You were the only one who couldn’t see it, just like you can’t see it now.” “Mmm-hmm,” Monica said aloud.

When she got home, Bert came out to meet her, and took her into the den, where Letty was trying to quiet Veda. Letty went back to the kitchen, and Veda broke into loud sobs. Over and over, she kept saying: “I owed her a nickel! Oh, Mother, I cheated her out of it, and I meant to pay it back, but—I owed her a nickel!

Religion is based on activity and performance outside of hearing and obeying. Liberty comes when you hear and obey what I say. Doing your own will genders bondage.   The only kind of religion that is pure is the kind written in James 1:27 which is to take care of widows and orphans and to keep oneself unspotted from the world.

As Guy passed a member who greeted him another turned and asked : “Who was that ? Someone new isn’t it?” ‘No, he’s belonged for ages. You’ll never guess who he is. Virginia Troy’s first husband.’ ‘Really? I thought she was married to Tommy Blackhouse.’ ‘This chap was before Tommy. Can’t remember his name. I think he lives in Kenya. Tommy took her from him, then Gussie had her for a bit, then Bert Troy picked her up when she was going spare.

Day after day we were on the list, for a trip to Berlin or Nancy or Munich or somewhere. We weren’t meeting any new people, or learning anything constructive, or deepening our understanding or cementing any friendships. We just went up there and over, to knock hell out of some city with the vague hope that some day that city will be rebuilt for some people we can get along with. Offhand it always seemed like a sort of sick way of doing things, and when the day turns up that we can start using other methods, I’m going to be one of the gladder people in the world.

[Women] are not even now as concerned about the health of their fame as men are, and, speaking generally, will pass a tombstone or a signpost without feeling an irresistible desire to cut their names on it, as Alf, Bert, or Chas must do in obedience to their instinct, which murmurs if it sees a fine woman go by, or even a dog, Ce chien est à moi. And, of course, it may be a dog, I thought, remembering Parliament square, the Sieges Allee and other avenues; it may be a piece of land or a man with curly black hair. It is one of the great advantages of being a woman that one can pass even a very fine negress without wishing to make an Englishwoman of her.

Calmly We Walk Through This April Day Calmly we walk through this April's day, Metropolitan poetry here and there, In the park sit pauper and rentier, The screaming children, the motor-car Fugitive about us, running away, Between the worker and the millionaire Number provides all distances, It is Nineteen Thirty-Seven now, Many great dears are taken away, What will become of you and me (This is the school in which we learn...) Besides the photo and the memory? (...that time is the fire in which we burn.) (This is the school in which we learn...) What is the self amid this blaze? What am I now that I was then Which I shall suffer and act again, The theodicy I wrote in my high school days Restored all life from infancy, The children shouting are bright as they run (This is the school in which they learn . . .) Ravished entirely in their passing play! (...that time is the fire in which they burn.) Avid its rush, that reeling blaze! Where is my father and Eleanor? Not where are they now, dead seven years, But what they were then? No more? No more? From Nineteen-Fourteen to the present day, Bert Spira and Rhoda consume, consume Not where they are now (where are they now?) But what they were then, both beautiful; Each minute bursts in the burning room, The great globe reels in the solar fire, Spinning the trivial and unique away. (How all things flash! How all things flare!) What am I now that I was then? May memory restore again and again The smallest color of the smallest day: Time is the school in which we learn, Time is the fire in which we burn.

Vim?” “Sweetheart?” The whispered endearment spoken with sleepy sensuality had Sophie’s insides fluttering. Was this what married people did? Cuddled and talked in shadowed rooms, gave each other bodily warmth as they exchanged confidences? “What troubles you about going home?” He was quiet for a long moment, his breath fanning across her neck. Sophie felt him considering his words, weighing what to tell her, if anything. “I’m not sure exactly what’s amiss, and that’s part of the problem, but my associations with the place are not at all pleasant, either.” Was that…? His lips? The glancing caress to her nape made Sophie shiver despite the cocoon of blankets. “What do you think is wrong there?” Another kiss, more definite this time. “My aunt and uncle are quite elderly, though Uncle Bert and Aunt Essie seem the type to live forever. I’ve counted on them living forever. You even taste like flowers.” Ah, God, his tongue… a slow, warm, wet swipe of his tongue below her ear, like a cat, but smoother than a cat, more deliberate. “Nobody lives forever.” The nuzzling stopped. “This is lamentably so. My aunt writes to me that a number of family heirlooms have gone missing, some valuable in terms of coin, some in terms of sentiment.” His teeth closed gently on the curve of her ear. What was this? He wasn’t kissing her, exactly, nor fondling the parts other men had tried to grope in dark corners—though Sophie wished he might try some fondling. “Do you think you might have a thief among the servants?” He slipped her earlobe into his mouth and drew on it briefly. “Perhaps, though the staff generally dates back to before the Flood. We pay excellent wages; we pension those who seek retirement, those few who seek retirement.” “Is some sneak thief in the neighborhood preying on your relations, then?” It was becoming nearly impossible to remain passively lying on her side. She wanted to be on her back, kissing him, touching his hair, his face, his chest… “Or has some doughty old retainer merely misplaced some of the silver?” Vim muttered right next to her ear. “You’ll sort it out.

Christopher Cerf has been composing songs for Sesame Street for twenty-five years. His large Manhattan townhouse is full of Sesame Street memorabilia – photographs of Christopher with his arm around Big Bird, etc. ‘Well, it’s certainly not what I expected when I wrote them,’ Christopher said. ‘I have to admit, my first reaction was, “Oh my gosh, is my music really that terrible?” ’ I laughed. ‘I once wrote a song for Bert and Ernie called “Put Down The Ducky”,’ he said, ‘which might be useful for interrogating members of the Ba’ath Party.’ ‘That’s very good,’ I said. ‘This interview,’ Christopher said, ‘has been brought to you by the letters W, M and D.’ ‘That’s very good,’ I said. We both laughed. I paused. ‘And do you think that the Iraqi prisoners, as well as giving away vital information, are learning new letters and numbers?’ I said. ‘Well, wouldn’t that be an incredible double win?’ said Christopher. Christopher took me upstairs to his studio to play me one of his Sesame Street compositions, called ‘Ya! Ya! Das Is a Mountain!’ ‘The way we do Sesame Street,’ he explained, ‘is that we have educational researchers who test whether these songs are working, whether the kids are learning. And one year they asked me to write a song to explain what a mountain is, and I wrote a silly yodelling song about what a mountain was.’ Christopher sang me a little of the song: Oompah-pah! Oompah-pah! Ya! Ya! Das is a mountain! Part of zee ground zat sticks way up high! ‘Anyway,’ he said, ‘forty per cent of the kids had known what a mountain was before they heard the song, and after they heard the song, only about twenty-six per cent knew what a mountain was. That’s all they needed. You don’t know what a mountain is now, right? It’s gone! So I figure if I have the power to suck information out of people’s brains by writing these songs, maybe that’s something that could be useful to the CIA for brainwashing techniques.’ Just then, Christopher’s phone rang. It was a lawyer from his music publishers, BMI. I listened into Christopher’s side of the conversation: ‘Oh really?’ he said. ‘I see . . . Well, theoretically they have to log that and I should be getting a few cents for every prisoner, right? Okay. Bye, bye . . .’ ‘What was that about?’ I asked Christopher. ‘Whether I’m due some money for the performance royalties,’ he explained. ‘Why not? It’s an American thing to do. If I have the knack of writing songs that can drive people crazy sooner and more effectively than others, why shouldn’t I profit from that?’ This is why, later that day, Christopher asked Danny Epstein – who has been the music supervisor of Sesame Street since the very first programme was broadcast in July 1969 – to come to his house. It would be Danny’s responsibility to collect the royalties from the military if they proved negligent in filing a music-cue sheet.

I lean back in my chair and turn on my computer. I have to admit that writing the list did help. Another point for Dad, king of the lists. Bert asks if

Here’s a good question for you—is greatness in a person born or made?” Tom didn’t have an answer. “I think it’s a combination.” Bert scratched at the bandage on his chin. “Some people are born with a fire inside them. The will to succeed. It isn’t a learned behavior. It’s just some unknown biological factor that makes them try harder.

When I first called Jerry Wexler, the man everybody most associates with Berns’s career, and told him I planned to work on this book, Wexler’s affable tone disappeared. “I’ll tell you this,” he said. “I don’t know where he’s buried, but if I did, I would piss on his grave.

Mexická kuchyně? Nic nestravitelně exotického. Zkuste plněné taštičky Když se řekne empanadas, představíte si něco složitého, exotického, co se v našich zeměpisných šířkách v podstatě nedá připravit. V praxi však zjistíte, že jsou to obyčejné plněné taštičky. Plněné surovinami, které používají Mexičané, ale jsou v každé samoobsluze dostupné i pro nás. Taštičky empanadas se servírují například se salsou. Náplň se bude skládat ze směsi pokrájené krkovičky, salámu chorizo, rajčat a koření. Celé se to zabalí do těsta a upeče. Podává se například se salsou, což je zase jen nasekané rajče s mangem a kořením. Tedy k pečenému trocha čerstvé chuti pro kontrast. Nejprve si připravíme náplň. Maso omyjeme, osušíme a nakrájíme na malé kostičky. Opravdu malé, uvědomme si, že musí vzniknout směska, kterou se bude plnit malá taštička. Takže oloupeme cibuli a nakrájíme najemno, přidáme nahrubo nakrájený  česnek. V pánvi rozpálíme olej, zpěníme cibulku, přidáme česnek a nadrobno pokrájené maso a chorizo. Restujeme asi 10 minut. Ochutíme pepřem, solí, oreganem a římským kmínem. Záleží na chuti, místo choriza je výborné použít třeba pancettu, tedy slaninu. Stejně tak se často používají do směsi i černé olivy, které se běžně nepovažují za nejtypičtější mexickou surovinu a evokují nám spíše Středomoří. Je ale pravdou, že od 16. století byly olivovníky do Mexika importovány, takže už měly možnost se ve stravě prosadit. Do orestované směsi přidáme olivy, k nim přidáme chilli papričky, najemno nakrájená rajčata nebo passatu, vařená vejce na kostičky a důkladně promícháme a necháme krátce povařit. Nakonec přidáme strouhanou kůru z limetky a limetkovou šťávu, promícháme a necháme vychladnout. „Dávkování koření typického pro mexickou kuchyni bych nechal na vás. Jsou lidi, kteří milují chilli, česnek, římský kmín a koriandr, ale jsou i takoví, kteří tyto chuti nemusí. Berte tento mexický recept jen jako inspiraci k vytvoření chutných plněných taštiček,“ říká kuchař Michal Suchánek, který mexickou kuchyni učí na kurzech vaření v pražském studiu Chefparade. Salsa Pico de Gallo Ingredience: 500 g rajčata 2 červené cibule 2 papričky - zelené jalapeňos 1/2 svazku koriandru 1 limeta 1 mango sůl a pepř Postup: Rajčata nasekáme na kostičky, přidáme nasekané papričky, koriandr, mango, cibuli. Dochutíme solí pepřem a limetkovou šťávou. Zatímco bude směs chladnout, vyrobíme si těsto. Smícháme 600 g hladké mouky, 80–100 g másla, sůl, 2 ks vejce, 100 ml ledové vody, 40 ml octa. Mouku s vejci a máslem smícháme důkladně dohromady, vodu, sůl a ocet postupně přidáváme a vše vypracujeme do hladkého těsta. Necháme na půl hodinky odpočinout do lednice. Pak rozválíme na cca 0,5 cm silnou placku a vykrajujeme kolečka o průměru zhruba 10 cm. Na ně rozdělíme připravenou masovou náplň. Pozor, nepřehánět to s náplní – myslete a to, že placku budete přehýbat a utěsňovat, tak aby vám směs při pečení nevytékala, jak to s oblibou dělá.  Kolečka přehneme a okraje pečlivě stiskneme k sobě. Taštičky rozložíme na plech a pečeme v předehřáté troubě při 200 °C asi 15 minut dozlatova. Kompletní postup krok za krokem najdete ve fotogalerii.

Mexická kuchyně? Nic nestravitelně exotického. Zkuste plněné taštičky Když se řekne empanadas, představíte si něco složitého, exotického, co se v našich zeměpisných šířkách v podstatě nedá připravit. V praxi však zjistíte, že jsou to obyčejné plněné taštičky. Plněné surovinami, které používají Mexičané, ale jsou v každé samoobsluze dostupné i pro nás. Taštičky empanadas se servírují například se salsou. Náplň se bude skládat ze směsi pokrájené krkovičky, salámu chorizo, rajčat a koření. Celé se to zabalí do těsta a upeče. Podává se například se salsou, což je zase jen nasekané rajče s mangem a kořením. Tedy k pečenému trocha čerstvé chuti pro kontrast. Nejprve si připravíme náplň. Maso omyjeme, osušíme a nakrájíme na malé kostičky. Opravdu malé, uvědomme si, že musí vzniknout směska, kterou se bude plnit malá taštička. Takže oloupeme cibuli a nakrájíme najemno, přidáme nahrubo nakrájený  česnek. V pánvi rozpálíme olej, zpěníme cibulku, přidáme česnek a nadrobno pokrájené maso a chorizo. Restujeme asi 10 minut. Ochutíme pepřem, solí, oreganem a římským kmínem. Záleží na chuti, místo choriza je výborné použít třeba pancettu, tedy slaninu. Stejně tak se často používají do směsi i černé olivy, které se běžně nepovažují za nejtypičtější mexickou surovinu a evokují nám spíše Středomoří. Je ale pravdou, že od 16. století byly olivovníky do Mexika importovány, takže už měly možnost se ve stravě prosadit. Do orestované směsi přidáme olivy, k nim přidáme chilli papričky, najemno nakrájená rajčata nebo passatu, vařená vejce na kostičky a důkladně promícháme a necháme krátce povařit. Nakonec přidáme strouhanou kůru z limetky a limetkovou šťávu, promícháme a necháme vychladnout. „Dávkování koření typického pro mexickou kuchyni bych nechal na vás. Jsou lidi, kteří milují chilli, česnek, římský kmín a koriandr, ale jsou i takoví, kteří tyto chuti nemusí. Berte tento mexický recept jen jako inspiraci k vytvoření chutných plněných taštiček,“ říká kuchař Michal Suchánek, který mexickou kuchyni učí na kurzech vaření v pražském studiu Chefparade. Salsa Pico de Gallo Ingredience: 500 g rajčata 2 červené cibule 2 papričky - zelené jalapeňos 1/2 svazku koriandru 1 limeta 1 mango sůl a pepř Postup: Rajčata nasekáme na kostičky, přidáme nasekané papričky, koriandr, mango, cibuli. Dochutíme solí pepřem a limetkovou šťávou. Zatímco bude směs chladnout, vyrobíme si těsto. Smícháme 600 g hladké mouky, 80–100 g másla, sůl, 2 ks vejce, 100 ml ledové vody, 40 ml octa. Mouku s vejci a máslem smícháme důkladně dohromady, vodu, sůl a ocet postupně přidáváme a vše vypracujeme do hladkého těsta. Necháme na půl hodinky odpočinout do lednice. Pak rozválíme na cca 0,5 cm silnou placku a vykrajujeme kolečka o průměru zhruba 10 cm. Na ně rozdělíme připravenou masovou náplň. Pozor, nepřehánět to s náplní – myslete a to, že placku budete přehýbat a utěsňovat, tak aby vám směs při pečení nevytékala, jak to s oblibou dělá.  Kolečka přehneme a okraje pečlivě stiskneme k sobě. Taštičky rozložíme na plech a pečeme v předehřáté troubě při 200 °C asi 15 minut dozlatova.

I would have you know, son, that it was the filthy hands of religion that crucified the innocent clean hands of My life on that cross. It is still the filthy hands of religion today that crucify My life on the altar of the human will of man. It was the filthy hands of the religious spirit that opposed and then crucified the glorious life and liberty of the Son. Lucifer so opposes this life and liberty that is found in My Son because it defies religion and the selfish will of man.

Well, your ass doesn’t look too bad.” “Thanks, Roy. You’ve got a cute ass yourself.” “I meant, I don’t think you’re gonna bleed to death.” Bert laughed. “And just two minutes ago, I was hoping I’d bleed to death.” Roy eyed the stake. “I bet. Nasty.

It’s funny that I’m the one talking about helping Bert,” Victor said, “and not the other way around. I told you my grandfather came to America from Europe for a better life. My uncle died fighting communists in Poland. My dad worked for twenty-five years in an auto plant. He carried a lunch-pail every day. My mom worked part time at the five and ten. Bert’s uncles are big shots in various industries, his dad gives money to the art institute uptown. They’ve had money and position for generations. Bert wants to throw all that out and if he gets his way, no one else will ever have a chance. I used to think that the left....” Victor’s fingers trembled. Without paying attention to what he was doing, he put a spoonful of mashed potatoes into the ash tray with his pipe. “Why does he bother you?” Juliet asked. “You know his dreams will never come to pass. So does he.” She touched his hand. “It’s still warm. Let’s go outside. I’d like to look at the moon.” They walked to Lake Otrobe. The glow from a distant steel mill reddened the southern sky. “Industry,” Victor said admiringly. “Creating wealth.” He began to sputter again on the way back when they passed the apartment building where Bert lived. They looked up at a lighted window. A dark figure with his back to the street sat in a gray armchair, still, his head down. “He’s fallen asleep reading,” Victor mumbled. “Engels no doubt or Lenin or one of those other thieves.

Twenty-two-year-old Bristolian Bert Sheard was on active service abroad when the Blitz began. A former factory worker, ‘it annoyed me when I used to see the papers and they had headlines like “We can take it, let them send it”. I didn’t hear anyone say that when I came home. They were all saying “We can’t stand much more of this”.’ To Bert, the press reports ‘were just propaganda’ which suggested that victory depended on the people affected to keep smiling through, rather than on government investment in medical support, shelters and troops.52 Bert considered such reports patronizing

Few things worth doing can be done alone. To get past the conceptual stage, ideas need to become crusades; you’ve got to convince people to join you. I was lucky right off the bat to find Bill Gates, whose passion for business matched mine for tracking technology. Later I’d be fortunate to meet Bert Rutan en route to SpaceShipOne and to find Allan Jones to lead our brain work. I’ve also seen what can happen when the right team isn’t in place, how the best ideas can founder. I made more mistakes in pursuing the Wired World than I can count, but the first and worst was this: I often failed to find the right people to help me execute my vision. My own history probably swayed me to take a flier on some with slim track records and to entrust them with too much too soon. Since then I have learned to be more careful. Talent is indeed essential, but seasoning and maturity are not to be underestimated. Above all, I’ve learned the pitfalls of getting so locked in to looking ahead that you miss the pothole that makes you stumble, or the iceberg that sinks you. Still, any crusade requires optimism and the ambition to aim high. For as long as I can remember, I’ve wanted to find my own challenges, see them through to fruition, and—if everything breaks right—change the world for the better.

As the 1970s drew to a close, and Commodore, Tandy, Altair, and Apple began to emerge from the sidelines, PARC director Bert Sutherland asked Larry Tesler to assess what some analysts were already predicting to be the coming era of “hobby and personal computers.” “I think that the era of the personal computer is here,” Tesler countered; “PARC has kept involved in the world of academic computing, but we have largely neglected the world of personal computing which we helped to found.”41 His warning went largely unheeded. Xerox Corporation’s parochial belief that computers need only talk to printers and filing cabinets and not to each other meant that the “office of the future” remained an unfulfilled promise, and in the years between 1978 and 1982 PARC experienced a dispersal of core talent that rivals the flight of Greek scholars during the declining years of Byzantium: Charles Simonyi brought the Alto’s Bravo text editing program to Redmond, Washington, where it was rebooted as Microsoft Word; Robert Metcalf used the Ethernet protocol he had invented at PARC to found the networking giant, 3Com; John Warnock and Charles Geschke, tiring of an unresponsive bureaucracy, took their InterPress page description language and founded Adobe Systems; Tesler himself brought the icon-based, object-oriented Smalltalk programming language with him when he joined the Lisa engineering team at Apple, and Tim Mott, his codeveloper of the Gypsy desktop interface, became one of the founders of Electronic Arts—five startups that would ultimately pay off the mortgages and student loans of many hundreds of industrial, graphic, and interaction designers, and provide the tools of the trade for untold thousands of others.

Oh, the airport’s not far from downtown. It’s just a little over an hour commute each way, thanks to this amazing Seattle traffic. The hotel’s not much, but it’s all we need. There’s ten channels’ worth of cable on the TV, and clean sheets on our twin beds, and a picturesque view of the gentlemen’s club next door.” Jimmy thought he saw Agent Miller’s left eye twitch. Jimmy said, “I’m sure that’s very entertaining.” Miller couldn’t take anymore. “It might be,” he said, “if we had a view of the inside, but all we can see is a parking lot full of desperate, lonely men, all of whom seem to look in our window. They seem to be fascinated by the sight of two middleaged men lying in twin beds like Ernie and Bert, watching The Weather Channel because it’s the most exciting thing on. It’s like being an exhibit in an alien zoo, on the planet of the scabby pervs!

Oh, the airport’s not far from downtown. It’s just a little over an hour commute each way, thanks to this amazing Seattle traffic. The hotel’s not much, but it’s all we need. There’s ten channels’ worth of cable on the TV, and clean sheets on our twin beds, and a picturesque view of the gentlemen’s club next door.” Jimmy thought he saw Agent Miller’s left eye twitch. Jimmy said, “I’m sure that’s very entertaining.” Miller couldn’t take anymore. “It might be,” he said, “if we had a view of the inside, but all we can see is a parking lot full of desperate, lonely men, all of whom seem to look in our window. They seem to be fascinated by the sight of two middleaged men lying in twin beds like Ernie and Bert, watching The Weather Channel because it’s the most exciting thing on. It’s like being an exhibit in an alien zoo, on the planet of the scabby pervs!

I’ll never know how many people I helped to kill. Sometime later, when there is a lull, I’ll sit alone and wonder about that. It’s an ugly thing we do to your city. Nobody can hand all the responsibility for this war to you, and no country has a corner on all the sons of bitches. There are some sad apples in every land and in every town, but they never took over quite so completely anywhere, as they have in your land and in your town.. [...] Someday, maybe, this senseless ugliness will stop.

I assure you that is possible to draw poisoned water from the clearest of wells.

Cy smiles a lot, and I don’t. He’s the Yin to my Yang; the Ernie to my Bert, the Patch Kids to my Sour.

Same old Bert. Handsome, confident, flying high,” said Helen. “He’s at that big church in Philly now, head of his district ministers association, obviously aiming for the association presidency—though it’s not such a clear shot for straight white guys these days. And . . .”—Helen lowered her voice—“one night on that retreat, when I was closing up the building, I saw him in the commons room with one of the seminary students. Female, of course. They were deep in conversation and awfully close. Nobody else was around. It was after midnight. They didn’t see me, they were all wrapped up in talking. Maybe it was nothing.

You might hunt me up the hind foot of a rabbit, shot by a cross-eyed coon in a graveyard, in the ‘dark of the moon,’ if you want to make sure of my winning,” jested Bert. “But, seriously, fellows, I’m

The Lord does not contradict himself. Nothing that we hear from him will conflict with Scripture or the teaching of the church. Recently, for example, on subsequent occasions at prayer I heard

The Lord is not a divine vending machine," says a friend, who cautions against taking a procedural approach to listening. I just try to pay attention to God, especially when I am praying. I have always struggled to quiet myself and listen for his word. I have learned to reserve moments of silence during my prayer times to let God have an opportunity to say something. Better pray-ers than I recommend that at the very least we take five minutes

Exhuming a few symbolic tidbits from the late poet Bert Meyers’s works, lest we forget… ‘To My Enemies’ Maddened by you for whom the cash register, with its clerical bells, is a national church; you, whose instant smile cracks the earth at my feet... ___ ‘Homecoming’ My home was a watercolor I left in the rain ...  ____ ‘Signature’ And my obsession’s a line I can’t revise.

-Psalm 118:1, 5-6, 19, 21-22 All our life is sown with tiny thorns that produce in our hearts a thousand involuntary movements of hatred, envy, fear, impatience, a thousand little fleeting disappointments, a thousand slight worries, a thousand disturbances that momentarily alter our peace of soul. For example, a word escapes that should not have been spoken. Or someone says something that offends us. A child inconveniences you. A bore stops you. You don't like the weather. Your work is not going according to plan. A piece of furniture is broken. A dress is torn. I know that these are not occasions for practicing very heroic virtue. But they would definitely be enough to acquire it if we really wished to.3 When I am able to thank the Lord for an inconvenience, I believe he chips away at my mountainous need to be in control. "Thanksgiving," says Patrick D. Miller Jr., "whether to other persons or God, is an inherent reminder that we are not autonomous or self-sufficient ... Praise to God does that in a fundamental way as it directs our love away from self and all human sufficiency."4 In my case it will take a lot more thanks and a lot more chipping away of my self-sufficiency before an adjective like "heroic" could even remotely apply to me. A Thanksgiving Sacrifice Mary Lou and I attend our parish's contemporary Mass at 6 p.m. on Sundays, and I pray often at daily Mass. The heart of the Mass is a celebration of the Eucharist, a representation of Christ's once-for-all sacrifice that rescued us from sin and united us to God. The word "eucharist" derives from a Greek root that means "thanksgiving." At Mass I enjoy the privilege of participating in Christ's eternal sacrifice, offering myself with him in thanksgiving to the Father. I am expressing my gratitude for his giving me a share in his divine life through the death and resurrection of

from the Latin "Ite, missy est." This is the charge to the congregation that concludes the liturgy, now translated as "The Mass is ended, go in peace to love and serve the Lord." I let my experience of worship at Mass flow into my daily prayer and life. It enhances my spirit of thanksgiving and strengthens me for my Christian service. Expressing gratitude to God gives shape and substance to my daily prayer. It fills me with joy, binds me to God, carries me through hardships, erodes my self-sufficiency, and engages me with Christ in his eternal self-giving. Those are big benefits for just saying thanks.

Enough! This is singua solus now,” said Locke. “It means ‘one fate.’ Does everyone understand?” Moncraine only glared. Chantal, Bert, and Sylvanus nodded. Donkey shook his head, and Alondo spoke. “I, uh, have to confess I don’t.” “It works like this,” said Locke. “Everyone here is now party to murder and treason. Congratulations! There’s no backing gently out of it. So we go straight through this business with our heads held high, or we hang. We swear ourselves to the plan, we tell the exact same lies, and we take the truth to the grave.” “And if anyone reneges,” said Sylvanas, slowly and grimly, “should anyone think to confess after all, and trade the rest of us for some advantage, we swear to vengeance. The rest of us vow to get them, whatever it takes.” “Mercy of the Twelve,” sobbed Donker, “I just wanted to have some fun onstage, just once.

The forest, I believe, will stay with Bert as he ages. It is a deep terrain, a place of unending variance and subtle meaning. It is a complete sensory environment, whispering with sounds that nourish rather than enervate, with scents that carry information more significant than 'nasty' or 'nice.' It is different each time you meet it, changing with the seasons, the weather the life cycles of its inhabitants. It is marked by history and mythologies; stories effortlessly spin from its depths. It is safe from the spite of suburban playgrounds, and dangerous in a way that insurance won't indemnify. Dig beneath its soil, and you will uncover layers of life: the frail networks of mycelia, the burrows of animals, the roots of trees. Bring questions into this space and you will receive a reply, though not an answer. Deep terrain offers up multiplicity, forked paths, symbolic meaning. It schools you in compromise, in shifting interpretation. It will mute your rationality and make you believe in magic. It removes time from the clock face and revelas the greater truth of its operation, its circularity and its vastness. It will show you rocks of unfathmoable age and bursts of life so ephemeral that they are barely there. It will show you the crawl of geological ages, the gradual change of the seasons, and the countless micro-seasons that happen across the year. It will demand your knowledge: the kind of knowledge that comes with study. Know it--name it--and it will reward you only with more layers of detail, more frustrating revelations of your own ignorance. A deep terrain is a life's work. It will beguile, nourish, and sustain you through decades, only to finally prove to you, too, are ephemeral compared to the rocks and the trees.

We take off our shoes, or we turn on our ears. We press our hands together in a gesture of prayer, or we remember the full extent of our lungs. Perhaps we even arrange ourselves cross-legged on the ground, or perhaps we dance or walk or swim instead. When we want to escape the surface, we activate our bodies, and they show us a different intelligence, pointing to a mind that resides not just in the head. Our knowing is diffused throughout all of us, distributed through muscle and bone, pulsing through organs and conveyed in the blood. We put our feet to the ground to listen with all of it. Not all that we know is verbal. Much of it--sometimes I think the vast majority--is somatic, the concern of the body. I learned this most keenly when Bert was a baby, and I used to reach towards him in the back seat on long car journeys and feel his foot press into my palm in reply. There was communication there far beyond words, and far more soothing to both of us. When I used to sit him on my lap and kiss his soft head, I was aware that information was being exchanged between us, transmitted through my lips and received through my nose. I could not even tell you what it said. Our bodies have answers to questions that we don't know how to ask.

Not once have I sipped from a freshly brewed mug of coffee, thinking "I had enough of this...

I know what Bert is going through. It's the loneliest feeling in the world. It's like walking down an empty street listening to your own footsteps. But all you have to do is knock on any door and say, 'If you let me in, I'll live the way you want me to live and I'll think the way you want me to think.' And all the blinds will go up and the doors will open and you'll never be lonely ever again.

He smiled, showing me his pretty fangs. “You’re coming with me.” “No thanks, I have a prior engagement. I’ve got tea with the queen, and then I’ve got therapy with Bert and Ernie, then…” I said, holding my hands up. “Check back tomorrow. In fact, don’t bother. I’ll have my people call your people.

she isn’t helping someone, she won’t feel like herself. I’m worried about Bert, but I’m just

At the moment, there are yards of books that I’m saving simply so that Bert will be able to put his hand to them when he’s a little older, before he starts forming a collection of his own. There will come a time when there’s no longer any point in clinging to them, and I’ll be able to whittle them down to the kernel of what I truly love. It will be like shedding a skin.

All the time I talk, more man gather round, summoned by Bert's silent rage. And I know they'll have made sure the screw is looking the other way whilst Bert punches me quietly in the stomach untill I fall to the floor. I'm talking all the time, as the punches take the air from my body. He'll always love him, I say. Over and over. Then Bert's kicking me in the chest and and someone else is kicking me in the back and I cover my face with my fists but it does no good because the blows keep coming. And still I'm getting the words out. He'll always love him. And I remember the time Tom came to the flat and was so angry with me for lying to him about portrait and a I imagine it's him kicking me again and again and again and I keep whispering his name until I no longer feel anything at all.

. “I don’t know how familiar you may be with the Pacific,” he resumed, “but on this coast there is every variety of monster that you can find in any other ocean, and usually of a fiercer and larger type. Nowhere do you find such man-eating sharks or such malignant devil-fish. The sharks don’t come near enough to the shore to bother us much. But it’s safe to say that within half a mile from here, there are gigantic squids, with tentacles from twelve to twenty feet long. More than one luckless[166] swimmer, venturing out too far, has been dragged down by them, and there are instances where they have picked a man out of a fishing boat. If those tentacles ever get you in their murderous grip, it’s all over with you.

And why is that, CiCi?” An undercurrent of rage buzzes in my ex’s voice. “Did you tell her things to turn her against me?” Good. Let him lose his temper for once. Let him be the one who goes off on a rant, not me. “I didn’t tell her anything. Erin has eyes. She’s not stupid. And if you’re thinking of making up to her by giving her whatever she wants, that’s a mistake. Erin needs you to be her father, not her best friend. She needs you to do what’s best for her, not what’s easiest for you.” I ignore the nagging feeling that I should take my own advice. Several tense, silent seconds later Bert says, “Okay, I’ll tell her she has to wait a year before she can move out. That’s fair, isn’t it?

That all you got, Bert?” said Mary Poppins, and she said it so brightly you could hardly tell she was disappointed at all. “That’s the lot,” he said. “Business is bad today. You’d think anybody’d be glad to pay to see that, wouldn’t you?” And he nodded his head at Queen Elizabeth. “Well—that’s how it is, Mary,” he sighed. “Can’t take you to tea today, I’m afraid.” Mary Poppins thought of the raspberry-jam-cakes they always had on her Day Out, and she was just going to sigh, when she saw the Match-Man’s face. So, very cleverly, she turned the sigh into a smile—a good one with both ends turned up—and said: “That’s all right, Bert. Don’t you mind. I’d much rather not go to tea. A stodgy meal, I call it—really.” And that, when you think how very much she liked raspberry-jam-cakes, was rather nice of Mary Poppins. The Match-Man apparently thought so, too, for he took her white-gloved hand in his and squeezed it hard. Then together they walked down the row of pictures. “Now, there’s one you’ve never seen before!” said the Match-Man proudly, pointing to a painting of a mountain covered with snow and its slopes simply littered with grasshoppers sitting on gigantic roses. This time Mary Poppins could indulge in a sigh without hurting his feelings. “Oh, Bert,” she said, “that’s a fair treat!” And by the way she said it she made him feel that by rights the picture should have been in the Royal Academy, which is a large room where people hang the pictures they have painted. Everybody comes to see them, and when they have looked at them for a very long time, everybody says to everybody else: “The idea—my dear!” The next picture Mary Poppins and the Match-Man came to was even better. It was the country—all trees and grass and a little bit of blue sea in the distance, and something that looked like Margate in the background. “My word!” said Mary Poppins admiringly, stooping so that she could see it better. “Why, Bert, whatever is the matter?” For the Match-Man had caught hold of her other hand now, and was looking very excited.

We became very fond of Bert - but when we had to move on he absolutely refused to be put in a box so that we could take him with us.  I am ashamed to say that we left an alcoholic  gerbil wandering round the desert looking for gin and chocolate.

«Signor Berteli! Vorrei sapere ancora una cosa da lei. Che opinione ha di noi anziani?» Tom impallidì. Poi si passo una mano tra i capelli e si rivolse alla platea disordinata che attendeva speranzosa un suo verdetto: «Cara signora, voi siete quello che sarò io. E quello che io sono, è ciò che voi eravate. Per tanto, chi meglio di lei potrebbe rispondere alla sua domanda?»

When I finished, Ma was still drinking her coffee so I became bored. I get bored quickly. It’s a slight problem of mine. I was so bored that I started measuring other stuff. I took off my shoes and measured my toes to see which was longest. I measured my head. I measured Con’s head. I measured Con’s eyebrows and earlobes. On the floor was a squashed meatball that someone had dropped and stood on. I measured it. I measured the distance between my eyes. I measured the length of Con’s armpit. I measured my belly button. Con bent over to pick up his fork so I measured his butt. Ma stood up and I tried to measure her butt and she said “Try it and I’ll tie you up with that tape-measure and leave you here with the squashed meatball.” I thought she was joking so I measured her butt. She wasn’t joking. The meatball and I are now good friends. I’ve named him Bert.

The forest, I believe, will stay with Bert as he ages. It is a deep terrain, a place of unending variance and subtle meaning. It is a complete sensory environment, whispering with sounds that nourish rather than enervate, with scents that carry information more significant than “nasty” or “nice.” It is different each time you meet it, changing with the seasons, the weather, the life cycles of its inhabitants. It is marked by history and mythologies; stories effortlessly spin from its depths. It is safe from the spite of suburban playgrounds, and dangerous in a way that insurance won’t indemnify. Dig beneath its soil, and you will uncover layers of life: the frail networks of mycelia, the burrows of animals, the roots of trees. Bring questions into this space and you will receive a reply, though not an answer. Deep terrain offers up multiplicity, forked paths, symbolic meaning. It schools you in compromise, in shifting interpretation. It will mute your rationality and make you believe in magic. It removes time from the clock face and reveals the greater truth of its operation, its circularity and its vastness. It will show you rocks of unfathomable age and bursts of life so ephemeral that they are barely there. It will show you the crawl of geological ages, the gradual change of the seasons, and the countless micro-seasons that happen across the year. It will demand your knowledge: the kind of knowledge that’s experiential, the kind of knowledge that comes with study. Know it—name it—and it will reward you only with more layers of detail, more frustrating revelations of your own ignorance. A deep terrain is a life’s work. It will beguile, nourish, and sustain you through decades, only to finally prove that you, too, are ephemeral compared to the rocks and the trees.