Billy Blanks Quotes

and yet a child’s utter innocence is but its blank ignorance, and the innocence more or less wanes as intelligence waxes.

I need something dramatic.I thought we would start with something theatrical, something that will make an impact on the city,something to focus their attention." Nereus considered for a moment and then he smiled, revealing his hideous teeth. "I do have the Lotan." Machiavelli and Billy looked at him blankly. "The Lotan," Nereus said. The two immortals shook their heads. "I have no idea what that is," Machiavelli admitted. "Doesn't sound scary to me," Billy said. "It's a seven-headed sea dragon." Machiavelli nodded. "That might work." "It'll certainly get their attention," Billy muttered.

Today is a reality, tomorrow's a promise, and yesterday's history!

In certain matters, some sailors even in mature life remain unsophisticated enough. But a young seafarer of the disposition of our athletic foretopman is much of a child-man. And yet a child’s utter innocence is but its blank ignorance, and the innocence more or less wanes as intelligence waxes. But in Billy Budd intelligence, such as it was, had advanced while yet his simplemindedness remained for the most part unaffected.

And when my heart is beating too rapidly in the dark, I will go downstairs in a robe, open it up to a blank page, and try to settle on the blue lines whatever it is that seems to be the matter.

What do you mean, you never have a chance to talk to me? We see each other all the time.” I patted the bed. “We live together.” “Yeah, exactly. And that’s about it.” He was off the bed now, pacing, scratching the side of his neck, like he always did when he was nervous. “We see each other all the time, but we never talk. The little we do is about nothing; I mention the baby, our baby, and you turn to stone.” Billy stopped pacing and looked away from me to a point above my head, a blank wall—my room had no decorations. “I’m so lonely.

Returning the Pencil to Its Tray Everything is fine— the first bits of sun are on the yellow flowers behind the low wall, people in cars are on their way to work, and I will never have to write again. Just looking around will suffice from here on in. Who said I had to always play the secretary of the interior? And I am getting good at being blank, staring at all the zeroes in the air. It must have been all the time spent in the kayak this summer that brought this out, the yellow one which went nicely with the pale blue life jacket— the sudden, tippy buoyancy of the launch, then the exertion, striking into the wind against the short waves, but the best was drifting back, the paddle resting athwart the craft, and me mindless in the middle of time. Not even that dark cormorant perched on the No Wake sign, his narrow head raised as if he were looking over something, not even that inquisitive little fellow could bring me to write another word.

When I was a baby child, they put the jinx on me. It was in my drink and food and milk. And when I ran, it heavied in my bones and when I sang, it stopped up my throat and when I loved, it let from me, hot and poisonous. I saw it in my daddy, the hard lines of his face, that uneasy lope - how in his years he didn't lift his feet, but slid them, soles across this gritted earth. It settled in my mama, trembled her voice and blanked her eyes. My brother, Billy, locked it inside him and it carried him low into that deep earth, silting then into the river and dew and air, in the moths and bee catchers, borne skyward and, as will be, lowed again, into earth again. It's dusking. There goes the sun. There goes sky and cloud and light, taken into that black horizon. And I know I am bad crossed. I see its line. It reaches up, arcs. It cuts through me. It draws me on and dogs me down to that place where I am bound. And when it is I borne down, my eyes and mouth stitched with gut, when they take my balls and brain and heart, and that deeper black claims me wholly, then let me meet that sumbitch at his eye, for I know my name's been writ - Robert Lee Chatham - in his Book.

done. Why did he stick around? Why would he force that encounter with you on the road, and that night at the diner . . .” He looked at Chris as though willing him to fill in the blanks, but Chris’s implacable eyes gave away nothing. “Wait,” Beck said, “I just remembered something. When Watkins came into the diner, I remember him looking surprised to see us there. But it was only me he was surprised to see, wasn’t it? He said he was there for a business . . . Ah,” he said with sudden enlightenment. “The payoff. He was meeting you there to get his money. “That was the night of Billy’s accident. I’d just come from the hospital. Our unscheduled meeting in the diner prevented you from conducting your transaction with Watkins. No wonder he was so angry that night on the road. He still hadn’t been paid. He was getting antsy. The heat was shifting from you onto him. In desperation, he went to Sayre and got Scott focused on the fratricide angle. That brought things to a head, so you arranged for a meeting with Watkins at the camp this morning.” Chris grinned. “I bet you aced law school, didn’t you? You’re actually very sharp. But, Beck, the only thing I would swear to under oath is that Slap Watkins came crashing through the door of the cabin, waving a knife and telling me he was going to kill his second Hoyle and how giddy he was at the prospect.” “I have no doubt that’s what happened, Chris. He just arrived earlier than you expected. He wanted to get the jump on you because he didn’t trust you. Justifiably. Even Watkins was smart enough to realize that you weren’t about to hand over money and let him walk away from that last meeting. He signed his own death warrant the minute he agreed to kill Danny.” “Please, Beck. Let’s not get sentimental over Slap. A double cross was his plan from the very beginning. Why do you think he left that matchbook in the cabin?” Beck mentally stepped back from himself and considered his options. He could leave now. Simply turn around and walk out. Go to Sayre. Live out the rest of his days loving her, and to hell with Chris and Huff, their treachery and corruption, to hell with their stinking, maiming, life-taking foundry. He was so damn weary of the struggle and the pretense. He longed to throw off this mantle of responsibility, to forget he ever knew the Hoyles and let the devil take them—if he would have them. That was what he wanted to do. Or he could stay and do what he had committed to do. As appealing as the former option was, the latter was preordained. “Slap Watkins didn’t plant the matchbook in the cabin, Chris.” He held Chris’s stare for several seconds, before adding, “I did.” • • • George

Surrendering to Christ is like signing your name to a blank check and letting the Lord put in the amount.

Watching Dad figure things out was like watching an artist paint a picture. He used to say an investigation was a lot like art, just a blank canvas and a whole lot of different colors in little jars. All the clues were there, just like a painting was already in those little jars of paint. But you had to mix them together and put them on the canvas right, so it all made sense.

When they broke for lunch—eating bologna sandwiches and pork rinds on the tailgate of Red’s truck, parked in the shade of an enormous oak tree—Red shook his head and said, “I’m drawing a blank so far.” “Me, too,” Billy Don said. “Wait a sec,” Red said. “You don’t even know what I’m talking about.” “I guess that’s why I’m drawing a blank,” Billy Don said.

What would Vidocq say right now? Hell. It’s been only three months and I’m having trouble remembering his face. What would he tell me right now? It doesn’t matter. He’s gone. Another ghost in a city of ghosts. I miss you, old man, but I have to work this one out on my own. That means, not what would Vidocq say, but what do I say? And the answer is nothing. Nothing at all. My mind is a blank and my face itches as the skin knits back together, already healing from Billy’s artwork.

Does this verse mean God gives us a blank check (so to speak) when we pray? Does He promise to give us anything we want, if we just keep asking? No. God loves us too much to answer prayers that are foolish or might harm us. But the closer we get to Him—the more we abide in Him and His word abides in us—the more we will desire what He desires, and the more our prayers will reflect His will.

Music needs blank spaces sometimes,” Cotton said. “They take up all the blank spaces.” “Now you’re talkin’ about music,” said Billy Goat. “Nobody makes real music anymore. It’s all just a big show.” “Just background for MTV,” said Duncan. “It’s almost impossible for a real musician to do anything worth listening to anymore. Now it’s all I-don’t-know-what.