C Drama Quotes

While an elderly man in his mid-eighties looks curiously at a porno site, his grandson asks him from afar, “‘What are you reading, grandpa?’” “‘It’s history, my boy.’” “The grandson comes nearer and exclaims, “‘But this is a porno site, grandpa, naked chicks, sex . . . a lot of sex!’” “‘Well, it’s sex for you, my son, but for me it’s history,’ the old man says with a sigh.” All of people in the cabin burst into laughter. “A stale joke, but a cool one,” added William More, the man who just told the joke. The navigator skillfully guided the flying disc among the dense orange-yellow blanket of clouds in the upper atmosphere that they had just entered. Some of the clouds were touched with a brownish hue at the edges. The rest of the pilots gazed curiously and intently outwards while taking their seats. The flying saucer descended slowly, the navigator’s actions exhibiting confidence. He glanced over at the readings on the monitors below the transparent console: Atmosphere: Dense, 370 miles thick, 98.4% nitrogen, 1.4% methane Temperature on the surface: ‒179°C / ‒290°F Density: 1.88 g/cm³ Gravity: 86% of Earth’s Diameter of the cosmic body: 3200 miles / 5150 km.

Because I want to have sex with him--and because that's sinful--I'm blushing and flushing furiously under his scrutinizing scrutiny.

Romantic haste in drama brings tears and sighs when the hero dies but the curtain fall is final when in life we take the tragic way The sunset too is a glorious thing but with it ends the day.

No I'm not a dream, I'm your worst nightmare

Keep The Drama In Your Books, Not Your Life." - The Cartel Publications.

Periods' are largely an invention of the historians. The poets themselves are not conscious of living in any period and refuse to conform to the scheme.

Roughly translated into English I am Galactic Exploration and Research Intelligence number twenty-seven.” “The first letter of those words comes out G.E.R.I., so I’ll call you GERI if that’s okay.

I care for you, darling, I love you, the only reason I fucked L. is because you fucked Z. and then I fucked R. and you fucked N. and because you fucked N. I had to fuck Y. But I think of you constantly, I feel you here in my belly like a baby, love I'd call it, no matter what happens I'd call it love, and so you fucked C. and then before I could move you fucked W., so I had to fuck D. But I want you to know that I love you, I think of you constantly, I don't think I've ever loved anybody like I love you.

My inner goddess confirms that staring at a beautiful/rich/powerful face is the basis of True Love.

Crazy got nothin on us" Neesa

You have just placed yourself in an untenable position, Mr. Mathews. You have made a threat that you cannot carry out. I’m not intimidated by your gun, so I won’t be going anywhere with you. I think you should re-read the book on successful information gathering techniques.

And there is escaping things the knowledge of which makes one unhappy. If "truth" is what we know and are aware of, in the most engrossing fiction we escape truth. Whatever else it is, drama is forgetfulness. We can forget and forget that we are forgetting. It is temporary mind control. If memories are pain, fiction is anesthesia.

We romanticize the past with our period dramas and glossy film adaptations. A bit like we do with nature. Nature is violent, unpredictable and unforgiving. Eat or be eaten. That's nature. However much Attenborough or Coldplay you wrap it up in.

People don't say what they mean very often. You have to read between the lines of their behavior, of what they say, to get to what they truly feel. That's what good literature is all about-- what Austen did better than anyone.

I turned completely around to make sure of what I was seeing. I needn’t have worried about getting the vehicle out of the hole. It had done that by itself.

I cannot believe that our existence in this universe is a mere quirk of fate, an accident of history, an incidental blip in the great cosmic drama. Our involvement is too intimate… We are truly meant to be here.

The history of literature is very far from being one of simple progress.

You ever have that happen where you meet someone and just--clash? We were like a gravel and cream sandwhich." "That is the weirdest thing you have ever said. I suppose you were the cream?" "Of course I was the cream. Sha."--Eve Rosser, The Drama Queen's Last Dance (Rachel Caine)

It must be remembered that no art lives by nature, only by acts of voluntary attention on the part of human individuals. When these are not made it ceases to exist.

Attempts to connect men's circumstances too closely with their literary productions are usually, I believe, unsuccessful.

In reality the puritans and the humanists were quite often the same people.

Drama and crisis are currency to them because they love the power to make people react. They thrive on a good fight, a good scandal, a good drama.

Drug addicts had their drugs. Alcoholics had their bottles. Serial killers had their murders.

Alannah?” He held her limp body waiting for a response. “Don’t do this.” He put his hand over the other cut whispering his words and healing it as well. “Alannah?” His voice begged, as he held her face in his hand Still no response. He looked at the ground she had laid on realizing that she had lost a lot of blood. Then from the corner of his eye he saw the rise and fall of her chest and let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. She still lives.

Nearly all our older poetry was written and read by men to whom the distinction between poetry and rhetoric, in its modern form, would have been meaningless. The 'beauties' which they chiefly regarded in every composition were those which we either dislike or simply do not notice. This change of taste makes an invisible wall between us and them.

Man with his new powers became rich like Midas but all that he touched had gone dead and cold.

Family drama is a trade off for having family.

The symbol of a drama, a symphony, or a dance is useful to correct a certain absurdity which may arise if we talk too much of God planning and creating the world for good and then being frustrated by the free will of the creatures. This may raise the ridiculous idea that the Fall to God by surprise and upset His plan, or else – more ridiculous still – that God planned the whole thing for conditions which, He well knew, were never going to be realized. In fact, of course, God saw the crucifixion in the act of creating the first nebulae. The world is a dance in which good, descending from God, is disturbed by evil arising from the creatures, and the resulting conflict is resolved by God's own assumption of the suffering nature which evil produces.

President Bo Haydn was bent over the Resolute desk, snoring gently with the tip of his nose submerged in a half-eaten bowl of rice pudding. “Should we wake him?” asked Daisy. “We usually try not to,” said Nelson.

Only an obstinate prejudice about this period (which I will presently try to account for) could blind us to a certain change which comes over the merely literary texts as we pass from the Middle Ages to the sixteenth century.

What hideous luck to be wretchedly stuck on this miserable blockading duty! What I need is a ship I can capture and strip to sequester my share of the booty. Oh, the treasure I’d net would remit all my debt and buy an estate with a gold coronet. Oh, captain who’s wise has his eye on the prize while he’s serving his country and King, oh sing, of a well-deserved rest in a well-feathered nest and the riches that duty can bring!

Feeling inferior or unworthy is like a flashing red light letting you know an EIRS or a drama triangle may be sucking you in. If you learn to interpret inferiority sensations as warnings that someone is trying to use you for their own self-esteem needs, you can step back and maintain your autonomy and positive self-concept.

Ilsa approached the office of Dr. Dr. Bradford M. Bradford armed with her thesis. But she hesitated a moment before opening the outer door. Habit made her tremble before the awful majesty of the dean. Still, her recent adventures changed things. Had the dean ever hijacked a Spanish ship of the line? Run a British blockade at sea? Had he ever trudged over hill and dale to a Revolutionary army camp? Had he ever shaken hands with George Washington or flown a kite with Benjamin Franklin? Did he have an actual duke staying in his spare bedroom? She was pretty sure the dean would fail all these simple tests.

But the very fact that this process is unconscious gives us the reason why man has thought of everything except the psyche in his attempts to explain myths. He simply didn’t know that the psyche contains all the images that have ever given rise to myths, and that our unconscious is an acting and suffering subject with an inner drama which primitive man rediscovers, by means of analogy, in the processes of nature both great and small.11 [9]

The tropical sun flickered between the swaying fronds of palm trees overhead. Ray and Ilsa rubbed their necks and blinked as they came out of their stupor. Their hair stood on end in frazzled locks, like quills upon the fretful porcupine. Their clothes were scorched, but they were alive. Or were they? Speechless, they gazed at their surroundings. Above them was an azure sky with fluffy clouds shaped like Spanish galleons sailing across a celestial sea. Birds chattered and sang in the foliage, which was fragrant and brilliant with blue, and pink and yellow flowers. Had they died? Was this heaven? Or, perish the thought, since obviously they were in the tropics, the other place?

Washington reflected bitterly. He was short of money, gunpowder, shot, and food. All he had going for him was The Cause, the Rights of Man. Very noble and all that. But just add a whiff of money, gunpowder, shot, and food, and the old Cause might really click. Congress had pledged more help, of course, which, knowing Congress, meant that the aid might come in a decade or so, after the war was lost. He sighed and gazed heavenward. Was a tiny miracle too much to ask?

I feel a blood moon rising" Neesa

Ray dearly wanted to make a satirical reply to this, but at the moment, when he really needed something snappy to say, nothing came to mind. What did the French call it? Ah, yes, l’esprit de l’escalier, the spirit of the staircase. It’s when you think of what you wish you would have said only when you’re standing on the staircase outside the room where, a moment ago, you should have said it.

Ray looked up and scanned Ilsa from North to South and then from East to West. It only took a moment. Ray was in love. Again. Probably. Conscious of his dashing Hispanic allure, Ray was always optimistic about his chances with the female sex. He had left a very long string of girlfriends in his wake, but there was something about this woman, who projected such shyness about her untapped feminine charms, that made his already active pulse race. Somehow he couldn’t help imagining her blundering into his bedroom at midnight wearing nothing but a towel. Those many affairs of the past, he told himself, were just steppingstones of his dead past on which he was rising to the discovery of his one, true love. And here she was. Probably.

the fuller story of the New Testament is that God’s people have been resurrected as the body of Christ. Just as Jesus is the embodiment of the shalom that God intends for creation, the church’s role in the drama of Creation is likewise to be the embodiment of God’s shalom, albeit in a form that hasn’t yet been fully realized.

Instead of relating to others as individuals, EIPs lump people into distorted, exaggerated roles. They tend to see every situation as a story populated by victims, aggressors, or rescuers. As they reduce reality to these story lines, EIPs jump to conclusions about who’s bad, who’s innocent, and who should step in to save them. This distorted role-playing is called the drama triangle (Karpman 1968), which is illustrated in the diagram below.

But when the wizard is onstage as the main character, you have to adopt what I call the Jack Vance Rule. I call it this because Jack Vance is the first author successfully and adroitly to have applied this rule in his The Dying Earth. The Jack Vance Rule is: (1) The wizard has to be able to do something unusual, or else he is not a wizard, (2) he cannot do everything, or else there is no drama; therefore (3) the story teller has to communicate to the reader whatever the dividing line is that separates what the wizard can do from what he cannot do, so that the reader can have a reasonable expectation of knowing what the wizard can and cannot do.

Life is a bowl of cherries just make sure you spit out the pits

– Nu te-oi speria cu Hugo, continuă rusul. Probabil c-o moarte din partea lui ți-ar părea mai comodă decât propria ta piele.

You see, none of these conflicts are about things that people only sort of like. It is always about love. You may think me blasphemous to use the Passion of the Christ as an example of drama, but not so: this is the one true story, the greatest story ever told, the tale of tales even as Christ is the King of Kings, and all truly inspired fairy tales and fiction have to contain some echo or reflection of the One True Tale, or else it is no tale of any power at all, merely a pastime. The most powerful and potent tales, even when they are told awkwardly and without grace or poetry or craft, are stories of paradise lost and paradise regained; sacrifice, selfless love, forgiveness and salvation; stories of a man who learns better.

must we then conclude after all that Man is the most important thing in Nature? If I had to answer ‘Yes’ to this question I should not be embarrassed. Supposing Man to be the only rational animal in the universe, then (as has been shown) his small size and the small size of the globe he inhabits would not make it ridiculous to regard him as the hero of the cosmic drama: Jack after all is the smallest character in Jack the Giant-Killer.

Everyone and everything needed to be raised to its highest level – the teacher must become a mage, the husband a knight errant, the labor a hero in a sacred drama – intensified, rarefied, baptized in the turbulent waters of restlessness, curiosity, and ardor.

That gives peace, when people feel that they are living [as] actors in the divine drama. That gives the only meaning to human life; everything else is banal and you can dismiss it. A career, producing of children, are all maya compared with that one thing, that your life is meaningful.

However, medieval Islam did not display interest in all aspects of Greco-Roman civilization: Islam remained inimical to classical art, drama, and narrative. Moreover, as we saw in chapter 1, during the early Muslim conquests there was a conscious destruction of the monuments of the pre-Islamic past. And in Spain, historian al-Andalusi tells us that such rulers as the Umayyad Abd Allah (888–912) and the dictator Muhammad Ibn Abu Amir al-Mansur (c. 938–1002, known to Christians as Almanzor) had precious books of ancient Greek and Latin poetry, lexicography, history, philosophy and law burned for their presumably impious content.

As a communicator, I spend a good portion of my days sharing stories. People don’t care a lot about cold facts. They don’t want to look at pie charts. They want excitement. They like drama. They care about pictures. They want to laugh. They want to see and feel what happened. Statistics don’t inspire people to do great things. Stories do!

What matters to Cavafy, and what so often gives his work both its profound sympathy and its rich irony, is the understanding, which as he knew so well comes too late to too many, that however fervently we may act in the dramas of our lives—emperors, lovers, magicians, scholars, pagans, Christians, catamites, stylites, artists, saints, poets—only time reveals whether the play is a tragedy or a comedy.

In books and movies, all the loose ends are tired, things are resolved, mysteries are solved, they catch the killer, the boy gets the girl, a sick baby is miraculously healed. In reality it doesn't always work that way. The killer gets away, the girl is in love with another boy, things just get buried under new dramas and don't get resolved. Life is far more complicated than the life depicted in a book or a movie.

Dr. Richard Selzer is a surgeon and a favorite author of mine. He writes the most beautiful and compassionate descriptions of his patients and the human dramas they confront. In his book Letters to a Young Doctor, he said that most young people seem to be protected for a time by an imaginary membrane that shields them from horror. They walk in it every day but are hardly aware of its presence. As the immune system protects the human body from the unseen threat of harmful bacteria, so this mythical membrane guards them from life-threatening situations. Not every young person has this protection, of course, because children do die of cancer, congenital heart problems, and other disorders. But most of them are shielded—and don’t realize it. Then, as years roll by, one day it happens. Without warning, the membrane tears, and horror seeps into a person’s life or into the life of a loved one. It is at this moment that an unexpected theological crisis presents itself.

The fact that I had killed a man was really putting a crimp in my love life. Well, okay, to be strictly accurate, I hadn't killed him. But I had helped. And I had watched enough of the Emmy Award-winning cops-andlawyers drama Crime and Punishment on TV to know that cops weren't very understanding about that sort of thing. I had even auditioned for the role of a murderess in a C&P episode the previous year, but I didn't get the part. So, since I had never even played a killer, actually being one now was something of a novelty.

Though I'm not sure, I thought I saw women dressed in black, with her head and face covered by a black veil, duck behind a tree as we approached the road and parked car. Hiding so we wouldn't see her. But I caught a glimpse, enough to reveal the rope of lustrous pearls she wore. Pearls that were there for a thin white hand to lift and nervously, out of long habit, twist and untwist into a knot. Only one women I knew did that--and she was the perfect one to wear black, and should run to hide! Forever hide! Color all her days black! Every last one!

Con los dedos temblorosos voy pasando las páginas mientras que cuento mentalmente cuántas víctimas hay. Tres...Cuatro...Cinco...seis... El tiempo se detiene cuando llego al siete. Mi cerebro se reinicia como si fuera un ordenador roto al que, en un último intento a la desesperada, se intenta arreglar. Por un momento creo que la Tierra ha detenido su movimiento haciendo que todos nosotros nos quedemos en un estado de semi letargo, y espero que cuando vuelva a reanudar su marcha los últimos minutos —o quizás mejor meses—, no sean más que un mal recuerdo.

All sorts of people are fond of repeating the Christian statement that 'God is love,' But they seem not to notice that the words 'God is love' have no real meaning unless God contains at least two Persons. Love is something that one person has for another person. If God was a single person, then before the world was made, He was not love. Of course, what these people mean when they say that God is love is often something quite different: they really mean 'Love is God.' They really mean that our feelings of love, however and wherever they arise, and whatever results they produce, are to be treated with great respect. Perhaps they are: but that is something quite different from what Christians mean by the statement 'God is love.' They believe that the living, dynamic activity of love has been going on in God for ever and has created everything else. And that, by the way, is perhaps the most important difference between Christianity and all other religions: that in Christianity God is not a static thing—not even a person—but a dynamic, pulsating activity, a life, almost a kind of drama. Almost, if you will not think me irreverent, a kind of dance.

Toda la danza, o drama, o patrón de conducta de esta vida tri-Personal debe ser llevado a cabo en cada uno de nosotros: o (en el sentido inverso), cada uno de nosotros tiene que entrar en ese patrón de conducta, tomar su puesto en esa danza. No hay otro camino hacia la felicidad para la que hemos sido hechos. Sabréis que las cosas buenas además de las malas se contagian por una suerte de infección. Son una gran fuente de energía y belleza que mana desde el centro mismo de la realidad. Si estáis cerca de esa fuente, su salpicadura os mojará; si no lo estáis, permaneceréis secos. Una vez que un hombre está unido a Dios, ¿cómo no iba a vivir para siempre?

Las palabras «Dios es Amor» no tienen un significado real a menos que Dios contenga al menos a dos Personas. El amor es algo que una persona siente por otra persona. Si Dios fuera una sola persona entonces, antes de que el mundo fuese creado, Dios no era amor. Y esa es, de paso, tal vez la diferencia más importante entre el cristianismo y todas las demás religiones: que en el cristianismo Dios no es una Cosa -ni siquiera una Persona- estática, sino una actividad dinámica y pulsante, una vida, casi una especie de drama. Casi, si no me tomáis por irreverente, una suerte de danza. La unión entre el Padre y el Hijo es algo tan vivo y concreto que esta unión misma es en sí una Persona.

And I would have contented, or, at least, I would clearly have enlightened him, and taught him well never again to expect of me the part of officious soubrette in a love drama; when, following his, soft, eager, murmur, meeting almost his pleading, mellow—“Do content me, Lucy!” a sharp hiss pierced my ear on the other side. “Petite chatte, doucerette, coquette!” sibillated the sudden boa-constrictor; “vous avez l’air bien triste, soumis, rêveur, mais vous ne l’êtes pas: c’est moi qui vous le dis: Sauvage! la flamme à l’âme, l’éclair aux yeux!” “Oui; j’ai la flamme à l’âme, et je dois l’avoir!” retorted I, turning in just wrath: but Professor Emanuel had hissed his insult and was gone.

Consider for a few moments the enormous aesthetic claim of its chief contemporary rival—what we may loosely call the Scientific Outlook, 1 the picture of Mr. [H. G.] Wells and the rest. Supposing this to be a myth, is it not one of the finest myths which human imagination has yet produced? The play is preceded by the most austere of all preludes: the infinite void, and matter restlessly moving to bring forth it knows not what. Then, by the millionth millionth chance—what tragic irony—the conditions at one point of space and time bubble up into that tiny fermentation which is the beginning of life. Everything seems to be against the infant hero of our drama—just as everything seems against the youngest son or ill-used stepdaughter at the opening of a fairy tale. But life somehow wins through. With infinite suffering, against all but insuperable obstacles, it spreads, it breeds, it complicates itself, from the amoeba up to the plant, up to the reptile, up to the mammal. We glance briefly at the age of monsters. Dragons prowl the earth, devour one another, and die. Then comes the theme of the younger son and the ugly duckling once more. As the weak, tiny spark of life began amidst the huge hostilities of the inanimate, so now again, amidst the beasts that are far larger and stronger than he, there comes forth a little naked, shivering, cowering creature, shuffling, not yet erect, promising nothing, the product of another millionth millionth chance. Yet somehow he thrives. He becomes the Cave Man with his club and his flints, muttering and growling over his enemies’ bones, dragging his screaming mate by her hair (I never could quite make out why), tearing his children to pieces in fierce jealousy till one of them is old enough to tear him, cowering before the horrible gods whom he created in his own image. But these are only growing pains. Wait till the next act. There he is becoming true Man. He learns to master Nature. Science comes and dissipates the superstitions of his infancy. More and more he becomes the controller of his own fate. Passing hastily over the present (for it is a mere nothing by the time scale we are using), you follow him on into the future. See him in the last act, though not the last scene, of this great mystery. A race of demigods now rules the planet—and perhaps more than the planet—for eugenics have made certain that only demigods will be born, and psychoanalysis that none of them shall lose or smirch his divinity, and communism that all which divinity requires shall be ready to their hands. Man has ascended his throne. Henceforward he has nothing to do but to practise virtue, to grow in wisdom, to be happy. And now, mark the final stroke of genius. If the myth stopped at that point, it might be a little bathetic.

Anastase passa son pouce sur ma lèvre inférieure ; ses traits virils, son regard pénétrant me brûlait. — Laisse-toi aller, Mikhaïl. Personne ne surveille tes faits et gestes. Personne ne dira rien ni ne te jugera. Sois toi-même, abaisse tes barrières. J’inspirai profondément et collai sa mèche de cheveux à mon nez, m’apaisant. — Vivre dans un fort n’est pas vivre, les plus belles sensations sont celles de pleine liberté. Tu peux toucher qui tu veux. Rire avec qui cela te plaît. Agir comme un enfant si c’est ce dont tu as envie. Je plissai le nez. — Non merci, je laisse ça à Matt et Jimmy, deux enfants, c’est bien assez à gérer. Nous sourîmes tous deux. Le brun me posa un baiser sur la joue, et peu de temps après, la porte s’ouvrit à nouveau. — Hey ! Moi aussi je veux des câlins !

Where's Mason?” “Planting explosives.” Zinio did a double take. “You actually handed that man explosives?” “Damn it, Zinio. Let other people have some fun.” The explosion in the distance was followed by Mason yelling, “Yahoo!” Zinio and Delaney stared speechless as Mason flew by in the adjoining tunnel, riding the concussion wave of the blast. Finally, Zinio stomped after him. He peeled him off the floor in the adjoining tunnel. “You having fun yet?” “Hell yeah!” “Wanna go again?” “Hell yeah I wanta go again!” A short while later, Zinio watched Mason fly by on a concussion wave from the latest explosion, as Mason shouted, “Hot Diggity!” Zinio made his way over to the somewhat more charcoaled Mason. “You had enough yet?” Mason nodded shakily. “Good—because it'd be nice if we actually put a hole in the fricking wall! That is the object of this little exercise.

Freud’s incest theory describes certain fantasies that accompany the regression of libido and are especially characteristic of the personal unconscious as found in hysterical patients. Up to a point they are infantile-sexual fantasies which show very clearly just where the hysterical attitude is defective and why it is so incongruous. They reveal the shadow. Obviously the language used by this compensation will be dramatic and exaggerated. The theory derived from it exactly matches the hysterical attitude that causes the patient to be neurotic. One should not, therefore, take this mode of expression quite as seriously as Freud himself took it. It is just as unconvincing as the ostensibly sexual traumata of hysterics. The neurotic sexual theory is further discomfited by the fact that the last act of the drama consists in a return to the mother’s body. This is usually effected not through the natural channels but through the mouth, through being devoured and swallowed (pl. LXII), thereby giving rise to an even more infantile theory which has been elaborated by Otto Rank. All these allegories are mere makeshifts. The real point is that the regression goes back to the deeper layer of the nutritive function, which is anterior to sexuality, and there clothes itself in the experiences of infancy. In other words, the sexual language of regression changes, on retreating still further back, into metaphors derived from the nutritive and digestive functions, and which cannot be taken as anything more than a façon de parler. The so-called Oedipus complex with its famous incest tendency changes at this level into a “Jonah-and-the-Whale” complex, which has any number of variants, for instance the witch who eats children, the wolf, the ogre, the dragon, and so on. Fear of incest turns into fear of being devoured by the mother. The regressing libido apparently desexualizes itself by retreating back step by step to the presexual stage of earliest infancy. Even there it does not make a halt, but in a manner of speaking continues right back to the intra-uterine, pre-natal condition and, leaving the sphere of personal psychology altogether, irrupts into the collective psyche where Jonah saw the “mysteries” (“représentations collectives”) in the whale’s belly. The libido thus reaches a kind of inchoate condition in which, like Theseus and Peirithous on their journey to the underworld, it may easily stick fast. But it can also tear itself loose from the maternal embrace and return to the surface with new possibilities of life.

Interpretation in terms of the parents is, however, simply a façon de parler. In reality the whole drama takes place in the individual’s own psyche, where the “parents” are not the parents at all but only their imagos: they are representations which have arisen from the conjunction of parental peculiarities with the individual disposition of the child.39 The imagos are activated and varied in every possible manner by an energy which likewise pertains to the individual; it derives from the sphere of instinct and expresses itself as instinctuality. This dynamism is represented in dreams by theriomorphic symbols. All the lions, bulls, dogs, and snakes that populate our dreams represent an undifferentiated and as yet untamed libido, which at the same time forms part of the human personality and can therefore fittingly be described as the anthropoid psyche. Like energy, the libido never manifests itself as such, but only in the form of a “force,” that is to say, in the form of something in a definite energic state, be it moving bodies, chemical or electrical tension, etc. Libido is therefore tied to definite forms or states. It appears as the intensity of impulses, affects, activities, and so on. But these phenomena are never impersonal; they manifest themselves like parts of the personality. The same is true of complexes: they too behave like parts of the personality.

Poirot asked: ‘Whatdo you see so plainly? The witnesses? The counsel? The judge? The accused standing in the dock?’ Fogg said quietly: ‘That’s the reason, of course! You’ve put your finger on it. I shall always seeher…Funny thing, romance. She had the quality of it. I don’t know if she was really beautiful…She wasn’t very young-tired looking-circles under her eyes. But it all centered round her. The interest-the drama. And yet, half the time,she wasn’t there. She’d gone away somewhere, quite far away-just left her body there, quiescent, attentive, with the little polite smile on her lips. She was all half tones, you know, lights and shades. And yet, with it all, she was more alive than the other-that girl with the perfect body, and the beautiful face, and the crude young strength. I admired Elsa Greer because she had guts, because she could fight, because she stood up to her tormentors and never quailed! But I admired Caroline Crale because she didn’t fight, because she retreated into her world of half lights and shadows. She was never defeated because she never gave battle.’ He paused: ‘I’m only sure of one thing. She loved the man she killed. Loved him so much that half of her died with him…’ Mr Fogg, K.C., paused and polished his glasses. ‘Dear me,’ he said. ‘I seem to be saying some very strange things! I was quite a young man at the time, you know. Just an ambitious youngster. These things make an impression. But all the same I’m sure that Caroline Crale was a very remarkable woman. I shall never forget her. No-I shall never forget her…

Humanity came to its gods by accepting the reality of the symbol, that is, it came to the reality of thought, which has made man lord of the earth. Devotion, as Schiller correctly conceived it, is a regressive movement of libido towards the primordial, a diving down into the source of the first beginnings. Out of this there rises, as an image of the incipient progressive movement, the symbol, which is a condensation of all the operative unconscious factors—“living form,” as Schiller says, and a God-image, as history proves. It is therefore no accident that he should seize on a divine image, the Juno Ludovici, as a paradigm. Goethe makes the divine images of Paris and Helen float up from the tripod of the Mothers99—on the one hand the rejuvenated pair, on the other the symbol of a process of inner union, which is precisely what Faust passionately craves for himself as the supreme inner atonement. This is clearly shown in the ensuing scene as also from the further course of the drama. As we can see from the example of Faust, the vision of the symbol is a pointer to the onward course of life, beckoning the libido towards a still distant goal—but a goal that henceforth will burn unquenchably within him, so that his life, kindled as by a flame, moves steadily towards the far-off beacon. This is the specific life-promoting significance of the symbol, and such, too, is the meaning and value of religious symbols. I am speaking, of course, not of symbols that are dead and stiffened by dogma, but of living symbols that rise up from the creative unconscious of the living man.

In Miss Miller’s fantasy, too, there is an inner necessity that compels it to go on from the horse-sacrifice to the sacrifice of the hero. Whereas the former symbolizes the renunciation of biological drives, the latter has the deeper and ethically more valuable meaning of a human self-sacrifice, a renunciation of egohood. In her case, of course, this is true only in a metaphorical sense, since it is not the author of the story but its hero, Chiwantopel, who offers himself and is voluntarily sacrificed. The morally significant act is delegated to the hero, while Miss Miller only looks on admiringly and applaudingly, without, it seems, realizing that her animus-figure is constrained to do what she herself so signally fails to do. The advance from the animal sacrifice to the human sacrifice is therefore only an idea, and when Miss Miller plays the part of a pious spectator of this imaginary sacrificial act, her participation is without ethical significance. As is usual in such cases, she is totally unconscious of what it means when the hero, the vehicle of the vitally important magical action, perishes. When that happens, the projection falls away and the threatening sacrificial act recoils upon the subject herself, that is, upon the personal ego of the dreamer. In what form the drama will then run to an end it is impossible to predict. Nor, in the case of Miss Miller, owing to the lack of material and my ignorance of her personality, did I foresee, or venture to assume, that it would be a psychosis which would form the companion piece to Chiwantopel’s sacrifice. It was, in fact, a κατοχή—a total surrender, not to the positive possibilities of life, but to the nocturnal world of the unconscious, a débâcle similar to the one that overtook her hero.

Then he took my arm, in a much softer grip than the one he’d used on our first date when he’d kept me from biting the dust. “No, c’mon,” he said, pulling me closer to him and securing his arms around my waist. I died a thousand deaths as he whispered softly, “What’s wrong?” What could I possibly say? Oh, nothing, it’s just that I’ve been slowly breaking up with my boyfriend from California and I uninvited him to my brother’s wedding last week and I thought everything was fine and then he called last night after I got home from cooking you that Linguine and Clam Sauce you loved so much and he said he was flying here today and I told him not to because there really wasn’t anything else we could possibly talk about and I thought he understood and while I was driving out here just now he called me and it just so happens he’s at the airport right now but I decided not to go because I didn’t want to have a big emotional drama (you mean like the one you’re playing out in Marlboro Man’s kitchen right now?) and I’m finding myself vacillating between sadness over the end of our four-year relationship, regret over not going to see him in person, and confusion over how to feel about my upcoming move to Chicago. And where that will leave you and me, you big hunk of burning love. “I ran over my dog today!” I blubbered and collapsed into another heap of impossible-to-corral tears. Marlboro Man was embracing me tightly now, knowing full well that his arms were the only offering he had for me at that moment. My face was buried in his neck and I continued to laugh, belting out an occasional “I’m sorry” between my sobs, hoping in vain that the laughter would eventually prevail. I wanted to continue, to tell him about J, to give him the complete story behind my unexpected outburst. But “I ran over my dog” was all I could muster. It was the easiest thing to explain. Marlboro Man could understand that, wrap his brain around it. But the uninvited surfer newly-ex-boyfriend dangling at the airport? It was a little more information than I had the strength to share that night. He continued holding me in his kitchen until my chest stopped heaving and the wellspring of snot began to dry. I opened my eyes and found I was in a different country altogether, The Land of His Embrace. It was a peaceful, restful, safe place. Marlboro Man gave me one last comforting hug before our bodies finally separated, and he casually leaned against the counter. “Hey, if it makes you feel any better,” he said, “I’ve run over so many damn dogs out here, I can’t even begin to count them.” It was a much-needed--if unlikely--moment of perspective for me.

We have learned in the course of this investigation that the libido which builds up religious structures regresses in the last analysis to the mother, and thus represents the real bond through which we are connected with our origins. When the Church Fathers derive the word religio from religare (to reconnect, link back), they could at least have appealed to this psychological fact in support of their view.71 As we have seen, this regressive libido conceals itself in countless symbols of the most heterogeneous nature, some masculine and some feminine—differences of sex are at bottom secondary and not nearly so important psychologically as would appear at first sight. The essence and motive force of the sacrificial drama consist in an unconscious transformation of energy, of which the ego becomes aware in much the same way as sailors are made aware of a volcanic upheaval under the sea. Of course, when we consider the beauty and sublimity of the whole conception of sacrifice and its solemn ritual, it must be admitted that a psychological formulation has a shockingly sobering effect. The dramatic concreteness of the sacrificial act is reduced to a barren abstraction, and the flourishing life of the figures is flattened into two-dimensionality. Scientific understanding is bound, unfortunately, to have regrettable effects—on one side; on the other side abstraction makes for a deepened understanding of the phenomena in question. Thus we come to realize that the figures in the mythical drama possess qualities that are interchangeable, because they do not have the same “existential” meaning as the concrete figures of the physical world. The latter suffer tragedy, perhaps, in the real sense, whereas the others merely enact it against the subjective backcloth of introspective consciousness. The boldest speculations of the human mind concerning the nature of the phenomenal world, namely that the wheeling stars and the whole course of human history are but the phantasmagoria of a divine dream, become, when applied to the inner drama, a scientific probability. The essential thing in the mythical drama is not the concreteness of the figures, nor is it important what sort of an animal is sacrificed or what sort of god it represents; what alone is important is that an act of sacrifice takes place, that a process of transformation is going on in the unconscious whose dynamism, whose contents and whose subject are themselves unknown but become visible indirectly to the conscious mind by stimulating the imaginative material at its disposal, clothing themselves in it like the dancers who clothe themselves in the skins of animals or the priests in the skins of their human victims.

But then the cowboy standing in front of you smiles gently and says, “You sure?” Those two simple words opened up the Floodgates of Hell. I smiled and laughed, embarrassed, even as two big, thick tears rolled down both my cheeks. Then I laughed again and blew a nice, clear explosion of snot from my nose. Of all the things that had happened that day, that single moment might have been the worst. “Oh my gosh, I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I insisted as another pair of tears spilled out. I scrambled around the kitchen counter and found a paper towel, using it to dab the salty wetness on my face and the copious slime under my nose. “I am so, so sorry.” I inhaled deeply, my chest beginning to contract and convulse. This was an ugly cry. I was absolutely horrified. “Hey…what’s wrong?” Marlboro Man asked. Bless his heart, he had to have been as uncomfortable as I was. He’d grown up on a cattle ranch, after all, with two brothers, no sisters, and a mother who was likely as lacking in histrionics as I wished I was at that moment. He led a quiet life out here on the ranch, isolated from the drama of city life. Judging from what he’d told me so far, he hadn’t invited many women over to his house for dinner. And now he had one blubbering uncontrollably in his kitchen. I’d better hurry up and enjoy this evening, I told myself. He won’t be inviting me to any more dinners after this. I blew my nose on the paper towel. I wanted to go hide in the bathroom. Then he took my arm, in a much softer grip than the one he’d used on our first date when he’d kept me from biting the dust. “No, c’mon,” he said, pulling me closer to him and securing his arms around my waist. I died a thousand deaths as he whispered softly, “What’s wrong?” What could I possibly say? Oh, nothing, it’s just that I’ve been slowly breaking up with my boyfriend from California and I uninvited him to my brother’s wedding last week and I thought everything was fine and then he called last night after I got home from cooking you that Linguine and Clam Sauce you loved so much and he said he was flying here today and I told him not to because there really wasn’t anything else we could possibly talk about and I thought he understood and while I was driving out here just now he called me and it just so happens he’s at the airport right now but I decided not to go because I didn’t want to have a big emotional drama (you mean like the one you’re playing out in Marlboro Man’s kitchen right now?) and I’m finding myself vacillating between sadness over the end of our four-year relationship, regret over not going to see him in person, and confusion over how to feel about my upcoming move to Chicago. And where that will leave you and me, you big hunk of burning love.

That very important faith that tied Chloe to the most important things in her life would not have found her. She was gone. Lost into the hand caressing her face, on which with she leaned her cheek with her eyes closed. Had it found her, slapped her in the head, and screamed in her ears, Chloe would not have turned back. The true god in her body had taken her. "You're mine," Jared whispered in her ear. "I've always been," she answered.

God, when He outlined His pattern for worship in the Old Testament, also mandated visible signs, tangible acts of drama that are not isolated from the Word or contrary to the Word but are married to the Word.

Great Sardaar" An ornamental piece of work by the Punjabi industry. Produced by Amritjit Singh Sran and Directed by Ranjeet Bal under the production house Apna Heritage &Sapphire Films presents to you "Great Sardaar" an Action/Drama film starring none other than the budding artist Dilpreet Dhillon and the multi talented Yograj Singh. This movie is an Action/Drama film in which the protagonist ends up with a series of challenges. The movie stars Dilpreet Dhillon as the lead along with Yograj singh who plays the role of (Dilpreet Dhillon) Gurjant's father. After watching the trailer one can surely say there's tasty substance beneath the froth, just enough to keep you hooked. "GREAT SRADAAR" is based on the true events about Major Shaitan Singh, who was awarded the Param Vir Chakra posthumously for his 'C' company's dig-in at Rezang La pass during the Sino-India conflict of 1962. This motivational movie is a Tribute to Sikkhism. It's really healing to see movies that are based on true events. It builds so much more compassion. Dilpreet Dhillon popularly known for his role in "once upon a time in Amritsar" has gained a great fan following. He is considered is one of the popular emerging male playback singer and actor in Punjabi music industry. And when it comes to Yograj Singh, he is not only a former Indian cricketer but also a boon to the Punjabi industry. Since the release of the official trailer on 7th of June,2017 which shows that the movie is action-packed and will leave the audience spellbound and wanting for more, the audience is eagerly waiting for the release of the movie.The trailer rolls by effortlessly and the Director has done an impeccable job. Ranjeet Bal evidently knew what he was doing and has ensured that every minute detail was taken care of particularly considering the genre he was treading. The audience will surely be sitting on the edge of their seats. Visual Effects Director- VFx Star has once again proved that there is nothing that will leave India from evolving in the field of technology. "Great Sardaar" which is set to be released on the 30th of June,2017 will be a very carefully structured story. The main question that will be raised is not what kind of world we live in, or what reality is like, rather what it has done to us.

Don’t participate or allow yourself to be dragged into other people’s dramas, complaints, or gossip.

For further reference: I go to love like a fire engine to a three-alarm, flashing and spinning, yelling across town. Nothing to be afraid of: the ceiling falling, windows concave, doors bowed and stiff.

Elle ne répondit pas immédiatement, se contentant de masser mon cuir chevelu. J’étais sur le point de m’endormir à même le sol, la nuque contre ses genoux, lorsqu’elle souffla : — J’aimerais que tu vives ta vie comme un grand frisson. Le courage ne réside pas dans l’absence absolue de peur. Craindre, c’est ressentir et sentir c’est vivre. J’aimerais que tu retires ces chaînes autour de toi, que tu t’autorises à aimer, à être heureux. Elle me redressa un peu et se décala pour encadrer mes joues de ses mains. Ses pouces caressèrent avec lenteur mes pommettes. Apaisé, je fermai les paupières. — Tu ne peux pas éternellement rester à bord de l’avion, Mikhaïl. Il faudra que tu prennes ce parachute et que tu sautes de toi-même. Stagner n’est pas vivre. Sauter n’est pas mourir.

Americans are individualist. Chinese people are oriented toward the good of the collective. The French are romantic and love cheese. And people with C-PTSD are drama queen self-saboteurs who are impossible to love.

What we should note is that the Greeks believed that the soul transmigrated, while Buddhism denied the existence of a soul. In the Buddhist work Milinda's Questions (Milindapañha, compiled in the 1st century B.C.E.–1st century C.E.), the Greek King Menandros (Menander) questions the Buddhist Nāgasena about the seeming contradiction between the Buddhist ideas of rebirth and a non-self. The king asks how rebirth takes place without anything transmigration, and Nāgasena replies as follows: "It is as if, sire, some person might light a lamp. Would it burn all night long?" "Yes, revered sir, it might burn all night long." "Is the flame of the first watch the same as the flame of the middle watch?" "No, reverend sir." "Is the flame of the middle watch the same as the flame of the third watch?" "No, reverend sir." "Is it then, sire, that the lamp in the first watch was one thing, the lamp in the middle watch another, and the lamp in the last watch still another?" "O no, reverend sir, it was burning all through the night inn dependence on itself." "Even so, sire, a continuity of dramas ["beings, existences, persons"] runs on; one uprises, another ceases; it runs on as though there was no before, no after; consequently neither the one [dhamma] nor another is reckoned as the last consciousness." This passage states the belief of Buddhists that there is no continuous and eternal "I." While the lamp burns, the flame changes from moment to moment, yet it is as if it were the same flame. The flame of the first watch is the "I" of the present, and the flame of the middle watch is the "I" of the future.

A deep self-loathing brought out the best in her: “I was a straight C student, a middle-of-the-roader in every aspect of my life. A quitter. Just a quitter.” How could I not love her attitude? That’s the attitude that fueled a million grunge-rock songs and painful revelations; in this case it fueled a whole new wave of comedy.

The new C.R.A. seemed a sound man. These people— a little dull though some of them might be— were the kind with whom one liked consorting. Socially, the army had its advantages. Once cited as co-respondent by Hawk Wethered, one would be barred from a good many of those advantages. This house, for instance, might no longer be open to one.

But where do these ideas come from? They are all derived from the writings of the Middle Ages—not works of academic theology, which generally were critical of such highly visual and dramatic approaches, but the popular religious literature of the age, which took pleasure in a powerful narrative of Satan’s being outmanoeuvred and outwitted by Christ.[615] According to these popular atonement theories, Satan had rightful possession over sinful human beings. God was unable to wrest humanity from Satan’s grasp by any legitimate means. Yet what if Satan were to overstep his legitimate authority, and claim the life of a sinless person—such as Jesus Christ, who, as God incarnate, was devoid of sin? The great mystery plays of the Middle Ages—such as the cycle performed at York in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries—dramatised the way in which a wily and canny God tricked Satan into overstepping his rights, and thus forfeiting them all. An arrogant Satan received his comeuppance, to howls of approval from the assembled townspeople. A central theme of this great popular approach to atonement was the “Harrowing of Hell”—a dramatic depiction of the risen Christ battering the gates of hell, and setting free all who were imprisoned within its realm.[616] All of humanity were thus liberated by the death and resurrection of Christ. In Narnia, Edmund is the first to be saved by Aslan; the remainder are restored to life later, as Aslan breathes on the stone statues in the Witch’s castle. Lewis’s narrative in The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe contains all the main themes of this medieval atonement drama: Satan having rights over sinful humanity; God outwitting Satan because of the sinlessness of Christ; and the breaking down of the gates of Hell, leading to the liberation of its prisoners. The imagery is derived from the great medieval popular religious writings which Lewis so admired and enjoyed.

I never saw the appeal of a relationship. I saw how my parents’ fell apart, saw all the drama at school. And then…” He glances away, then looks back at me. “And then when I was sixteen, I walked into a coffee shop I’d only been to twice before…and I just knew.

Les personnages savaient peut-être, sur un certain plan de conscience, que le scénario était toujours le même. Pourtant, invariablement et malgré la violence des sentiments, chacun jouait son rôle, parce que c'était son rôle à jouer.

We have also finally become aware that something is indeed wrong with most “grand narratives” or upward generalizations. Too much death and suffering accompany these comprehensive and often grandiose ideologies. No wonder that within the Holocaust trauma-drama there lodges a radical—and completely rational—suspicion concerning the demagogic abuse of collective superstitions often accompanying such schemes. There is, in particular, a bitter memory of the pernicious power of stereotypes.

put on three plays a year. This was Millie's second year in drama, and she had only done bit roles, which suited her fine. She confided in Lila that her real reason for joining the group was to find a husband—she had no acting ambition. All the interesting guys hung around there. They were already into rehearsals of The Owl and the Pussycat, the December production, starring the two most talented actors in school. She persuaded Lila to sneak backstage and watch. Millie ushered Lila into the wings of the dark stage. Lila melted into the curtain and watched the actors rehearse, illuminated only by the work light. Their voices resonated in the empty auditorium, filling Lila with awe. Absorbed in their performance, Lila startled when the instructor called for a break. She realized she had been holding her breath. Suddenly she knew she wanted to join this group. Yet she would never have the courage to do it. How could she? She was no match for these students. They probably had taken acting lessons and performed plays all through high school. All Lila had to her credit was her fifth-grade Christmas performance. But she knew in that moment that every chance she had would be spent in this theater, watching an enchanting world. At the campus bookstore she flipped through a copy of The

When sin is characterized as a crime, we see that Christ is the One Who actually comes under judgment in the drama of the atonement. He functions as the Substitute, the One Who stands in the place of the true criminals-you and me. Christ, then, is the One Who made satisfaction. By His work on the cross, He satisfied the demands of God's justice with regard to our debt, our state of enmity, and our crime. In light of the facts of God's justice and our sinfulness, it is not difficult to see the absolute necessity of the atonement.

He sat beside me, then grabbed the bread in silence and tore it into shreds, almost violently, dropping each piece deliberately onto his rag. The drama caught me off guard, but before I could say anything, he raised his wineskin above his head and poured it out onto the broken pieces of bread. Like water hitting a flat rock, the splatter was unmistakable. My heart, already raw with emotion and hope, was spellbound by the sight and sound. I couldn’t see it at the moment, but his dramatic action was already preparing me for his final and greatest lesson. The apostle soared into prayer: Lord Jesus, only begotten, beloved, and faithful Son of Abba, the living Word of God, anointed of the Holy Spirit, Son of Miriam, humble brother of the human race, Lord of all creation. With our whole hearts we honor you and bless your great name, the arche of creation, the Amen, the faithful and true Witness, the Lamb slain and seated upon the Throne of thrones, Heaven’s Gate, the “I Am,” Savior of the world, Victor over death and darkness. Worthy are you of all honor and glory and life, in this age and in all ages to come. We rest in you. Bless you for finding us in the great darkness, for receiving me and my young son and the whole world into your life with your Father, for giving us your eyes. Worthy, Lord Jesus, are you of the summation of the ages; blessed be your great Name. Holding

Exaggerating Your Gestures “Have you ever walked through a door and been jumped on by an over-enthusiastic dog with big paws who practically knocked you down? Some people have that effect. Being too flamboyant and over-boisterous can be overkill and push people away. Drama queens and kings have mastered these exaggerations, much to the chagrin of their observers. Remaining intentional in your gestures is a mark of poise, elegance, and maturity.

Benefits of Being Nice • You set positive karma into motion. • What you give is what you get back in return. • You are more likable. • People will treat you better. • You will reduce personal stress. • You will make friends more easily. • You can improve someone else’s day. • You will have less drama in your life. • It takes less energy than being otherwise. • It makes you a more valuable team player. • You create a sense of emotional safety for others. • It can keep you physically and psychologically safe. • You set a positive example for others to play nicely. • You will build bridges of cooperation and collaboration. • You will improve personal and professional interactions • Lastly, being nice feels nice!

Some people not only burn their bridges, but they also torch the town! With all their deeds of drama and destruction, they leave behind an aftermath of distrust, disrespect, and disappointment. And for what? This behavior creates immeasurable suffering in all directions. It ruins reputations and business deals, shatters lives—and closes doors which can never be re-opened. These repercussions can be prevented or avoided by simply BEING NICE.

You really need to trade in that End Days psychology, Stephanie, for some silver-lining thinking,” Jim said airily. “Not every second of every day is a friggin’ crisis. Besides, be careful what you wish for.” He paused to hand her a book, The Dark Side of the Light Chasers. “Says here, the more psychic energy you invest in gloom and doom, the more likely you are to make it happen. The universe is very sensitive to these things, picks up on all those thought impressions, and the next thing you know, whack!” He smacked the back of his right hand against his left palm for emphasis. They rounded the hall, and the next thing Stephanie knew her head was being stuffed in a microwave. Microwave Man, one of the robots, provided the service. “Five seconds to a side, makes for an evenly cooked meal,” Microwave Man said. He waited five seconds, then turned Stephanie’s head. “Get me out of here! I feel my brains boiling!” Stephanie screamed frantically. But Jim, as strong as he was, was no match for Microwave Man. “He’s got ahold of your hair. I’ll run and get some scissors.” “I’ll be dead by then, you fool!” “What did I say about looking on the bright side, Stephanie?

usted está creando tiempo, tiempo psicológico, el material del que está hecho el drama. Siempre que usted no está honrando el momento presente permitiéndole ser, usted está creando drama. La mayoría de las personas están enamoradas del drama particular de su vida. Su historia es su identidad. El ego gobierna su vida. Tienen todo su sentido de ser invertido en él. Incluso su búsqueda - habitualmente sin éxito - de una respuesta, de una solución o de curación forma parte de él. Lo que más temen y se resisten a aceptar es el fin de su drama. Mientras s e a n s u mente, lo que más temen y a lo que más se resisten es a su despertar. Cuando usted vive en una aceptación completa de lo que es, ese es el final de todo drama en su vida. Nadie puede tener siquiera una discusión con usted, no importa cuánto lo intente. Usted no puede discutir con una persona completamente consciente. Una discusión implica identificación con su mente y una posición mental, así como resistencia y reacción a la posición de la otra persona. El resultado es que los polos opuestos se energizan mutuamente. Esa es la mecánica de la inconsciencia. Usted puede todavía establecer su punto de vista clara y firmemente, pero no habrá fuerza reactiva tras ella, ni defensa o ataque. Por ello, no se convertirá en drama. Cuando usted es completamente consciente, deja de estar en conflicto."Nadie que está en unión consigo mismo puede siquiera concebir el conflicto", afirma U n C u r s o s o b r e M i l a g r o s . Esto se refiere no sólo al conflicto con las demás personas sino más fundamentalmente al conflicto consigo mismo, que cesa cuando ya no hay ningún choque entre las demandas y expectativas de su mente y lo que e s .

Vitamin C is a natural antihistamine. We traditionally think of orange juice as a ready source of vitamin C. But since oranges are high in histamine, your vitamin C can come from other low-histamine sources such as: Mango: 60.1 milligrams per cup (cut pieces) Kale: 80.4 milligrams per cup Broccoli: 81.2 milligrams per cup

I'm overweight, despise change, and rarely, if ever, initiate anything. Unlike my friends, I’ve had no drama in my life which might qualify as box office material. If a little more drama came my way, however, I would probably need to purchase some courage in order to withstand it. Oh well, if a bit of change equals a bit of drama, I’m willing to risk it.

My life was full of drama, with the highs and lows of Tyler’s daily mood swings and my private innuendos with Vandenberg. There’d never been a movie made that could permanently shift my mood away from my disappointment with myself.

Man, to Lewis, is an immortal subject; pains are his moral remedies, salutary disciplines, willing sacrifices, playing their part in a drama of interchange between God and him.

Without even realizing it, we magnetize people, opportunities, and outcomes. Many people continue to attract dysfunctional folks who bring trauma, drama, crisis, and negativity and then wonder why they are so miserable. Be cognizant of how you’re being because it is most certainly attracting what you’re receiving.

It is through hearing about wicked stepmothers, lost children, good but misguided kings… that children learn or mislearn what a child and what a parent is, what the cast of characters may be in the drama into which they have been born and what the ways of the world are.’2

Drama is just a word for nonsense without follow-through. I’m not here for drama.