Cue The Sun Quotes

In space flight, “attitude” refers to orientation: which direction your vehicle is pointing relative to the Sun, Earth and other spacecraft. If you lose control of your attitude, two things happen: the vehicle starts to tumble and spin, disorienting everyone on board, and it also strays from its course, which, if you’re short on time or fuel, could mean the difference between life and death. In the Soyuz, for example, we use every cue from every available source—periscope, multiple sensors, the horizon—to monitor our attitude constantly and adjust if necessary. We never want to lose attitude, since maintaining attitude is fundamental to success. In my experience, something similar is true on Earth. Ultimately, I don’t determine whether I arrive at the desired professional destination. Too many variables are out of my control. There’s really just one thing I can control: my attitude during the journey, which is what keeps me feeling steady and stable, and what keeps me headed in the right direction. So I consciously monitor and correct, if necessary, because losing attitude would be far worse than not achieving my goal.

The sun sank with a sob and darkness waded in from all horizons so that the sky contracted and there was no more light left in the world, when, at this very moment of annihilation, the moon, as though she had been waiting for her cue, sailed up the night.

I feel to that the gap between my new life in New York and the situation at home in Africa is stretching into a gulf, as Zimbabwe spirals downwards into a violent dictatorship. My head bulges with the effort to contain both worlds. When I am back in New York, Africa immediately seems fantastical – a wildly plumaged bird, as exotic as it is unlikely. Most of us struggle in life to maintain the illusion of control, but in Africa that illusion is almost impossible to maintain. I always have the sense there that there is no equilibrium, that everything perpetually teeters on the brink of some dramatic change, that society constantly stands poised for some spasm, some tsunami in which you can do nothing but hope to bob up to the surface and not be sucked out into a dark and hungry sea. The origin of my permanent sense of unease, my general foreboding, is probably the fact that I have lived through just such change, such a sudden and violent upending of value systems. In my part of Africa, death is never far away. With more Zimbabweans dying in their early thirties now, mortality has a seat at every table. The urgent, tugging winds themselves seem to whisper the message, memento mori, you too shall die. In Africa, you do not view death from the auditorium of life, as a spectator, but from the edge of the stage, waiting only for your cue. You feel perishable, temporary, transient. You feel mortal. Maybe that is why you seem to live more vividly in Africa. The drama of life there is amplified by its constant proximity to death. That’s what infuses it with tension. It is the essence of its tragedy too. People love harder there. Love is the way that life forgets that it is terminal. Love is life’s alibi in the face of death. For me, the illusion of control is much easier to maintain in England or America. In this temperate world, I feel more secure, as if change will only happen incrementally, in manageable, finely calibrated, bite-sized portions. There is a sense of continuity threaded through it all: the anchor of history, the tangible presence of antiquity, of buildings, of institutions. You live in the expectation of reaching old age. At least you used to. But on Tuesday, September 11, 2001, those two states of mind converge. Suddenly it feels like I am back in Africa, where things can be taken away from you at random, in a single violent stroke, as quick as the whip of a snake’s head. Where tumult is raised with an abruptness that is as breathtaking as the violence itself.

Panicked, Mary stares into the camera, then holds up her hand, making a wiping motion and droning “Erase! Erase!” It’s the primal scene of reality TV stardom, rendered as bleak comedy.

The morning sun and the endless sky beckoned. Behind her, as if on cue, Moondagger rose on his haunches, spread his white wings wide, lifted his head to the vaults, and roared. In unison, the armory crews saluted them. Anna returned their salute, crossing her chest with her fist. “Arming master,” Master Zar asked formally. “Is the rider ready for orders?” “Sir.” Master Jason nodded, fist crossing his chest. “The rider is ready.

In The Sunset Sky The sunset sky dazzling with the golden hues, Taking bow in brilliant sparkle of experience Is it not a climax, of the story so far, that was today? Or is it building anticipation of the night yet to come. Watch the days go, some proud of their accomplishments Some leaving sighs of disappointments, Leaving all in awe of its Amaranthine twists and turns And the fortunate get to see the moon trying to steal the show from setting sun, Oh she is such a show off, isn't she, basking in reflected glory Its magical, the sunset sky,Puzzling, sometimes just like a riddle, Leaving the nature stunned and amazed For it has been filling the canvas whole day with colours And now the sunset threatens to hide them all And in dark all the colours will be same A cue for the wise. Sunset sky has so much to offer, is she not a fine exampleof how uncertain a life can be Often reminding no matter what you planned, there will besome unexpected returns For End has its own brain, its own script Charting its own course So why just the beginning,every moment of the life should be grand, meted with equal passion and fervor She has been so clever; the sunset sky Leaving Twinkling cryptic messages for the night sky For even the dark has sparkle and hope if you keep your head up, A constant reminder that exuberance is an attitude of deep,rich, warm hearts I want my sunset sky to be grand, magical, and full of stories of my life that has been And its memories to linger on in this world, in the tomorrow and a few more years to come

In space flight, “attitude” refers to orientation: which direction your vehicle is pointing relative to the Sun, Earth and other spacecraft. If you lose control of your attitude, two things happen: the vehicle starts to tumble and spin, disorienting everyone on board, and it also strays from its course, which, if you’re short on time or fuel, could mean the difference between life and death. In the Soyuz, for example, we use every cue from every available source—periscope, multiple sensors, the horizon—to monitor our attitude constantly and adjust if necessary. We never want to lose attitude, since maintaining attitude is fundamental to success. In my experience, something similar is true on Earth. Ultimately, I don’t determine whether I arrive at the desired professional destination. Too many variables are out of my control. There’s really just one thing I can control: my attitude during the journey, which is what keeps me feeling steady and stable, and what keeps me headed in the right direction. So I consciously monitor and correct, if necessary, because losing attitude would be far worse than not achieving my goal.

… the countryside and the village are symbols of stability and security, of order. Yet they are also, as I have noted, liminal spaces, at a very narrow remove from the atavistic Wild. Arcadia is not the realm even of Giorgione and of Claude, with its cracked pillars and thunderbolts, its lurking banditti; still less is it Poussin’s sun-dappled and regularised realm of order, where, although the lamb may be destined for the altar and the spit, all things proceed with charm and gravity and studied gesture; least of all is it the degenerate and prettified Arcady of Fragonard and Watteau, filled with simpering courtier-Corydons, pallid Olympians, and fat-arsed putti. (It is only family piety that prevents me from taking a poker to an inherited coffee service in gilt porcelain with bastardised, deutero-Fragonard scenes painted on the sides of every damned thing. Cue Wallace Greenslade: ‘… “Round the Horne”, with Marie Antoinette as the dairymaid and Kenneth Williams as the manager of the camp-site….’) No: Arcadia is the very margin of the liminal space between the safe tilth and the threatening Wild, in which Pan lurks, shaggy and goatish, and Death proclaims, from ambush, et in Arcadia ego. Arcadia is not the Wide World nor the Riverbank, but the Wild Wood. And in that wood are worse than stoats and weasels, and the true Pan is no Francis of Assisi figure, sheltering infant otters. The Wild that borders and penetrates Arcady is red in tooth and claw.

Jasper would have been completely hidden if it weren't for Highway 17, the crumbling two-lane road that traced the coastline, splitting cypress swamps and tidal creeks edging right up to the 350,000-acre ACE Basin, where three rivers converged to form the largest, wildest estuarine preserve on the East Coast. Jasper bordered the northeast side of the basin where dolphins, gators, minks, otters, and every manner of waterfowl and shore bird prospered from the daily six-foot inflow and outflow of saltwater, freshwater, and brackish water that rose and fell on cue like the sun itself.

I’m trusting you with my future, Rusty,” he said quietly. “She’s everything to me. You understand that?” Her smile was oddly sad. “I understand all too well what happens when a Kelly man decides a woman is his. It’s too bad the rest of the male population can’t take their cues from you.

Spring had missed its cue. Snow still clings to the Derbyshire dales, and the sun hangs low, timid in the sky. Bluebells and snowdrops lie in wait, desperate for a climate in which they can thrive for a while. I suppose I wait like them too. Hardy to the core, but mindful that in the wrong environment, I can perish in an instant

Mika laughed. “That sounds like my kind of place.” “Exactly.” His voice was more serious now, and she glanced sideways at him, confused and curious about where this was going. “Someone in that town loves flowers the way you love magic. They went all in, and you should, too. You should open that enchanted tea and potion shop.” “It just isn’t possible,” Mika objected. “I don’t know of a single place in the world where I could do that.” Perfectly on cue, the car turned in at a pair of iron gates. The storm had blown over and the air had that wonderful, earthy scent of wet grass and new possibilities. The low, golden sun gleamed over the gables and chimneys of Nowhere House. A sense of complete rightness filled Mika. “It’s not always enough to go looking for the place we belong,” Jamie said, his eyes on the house ahead. “Sometimes we need to make that place.

It’s always the same, that someone was a small kid in Nowheresville, they were gay, they were hiding it, and then they saw Lance and realized they weren’t alone,” Susan told me. Lance recognized his celebrity as a vocation, which meant that he alone among the Louds accepted the Raymonds’ role,

pack in its acute focus on female suffering, offering up a unique blend of abjection and Vegas glitz, like The Bachelor crossed with GoFundMe.

While Dragnet wasn’t a reality show, it played one on TV,

If the ’70s had given off the funk of a stained shag carpet after a basement orgy, the ’80s were more like a plastic slipcovered sofa in the living room, ready for company.

He and the real estate mogul Donald Trump were supposed to develop a show based on the board game Monopoly, a project that was a model of corporate synergy, uniting three brands—a high-end documentarian, a fake tycoon, and a game that celebrated capitalism.

The Bachelor was a more immersive experience, like being trapped inside an erotic terrarium, lulled by floating rose petals. In a world of tacky, The Bachelor was a fancy show.

Langley’s next anti-drug project, the 1985 music video “Stop the Madness”—which you must google immediately—was a for-hire project produced by actor Tim Reid, a member of the Entertainment Industries Council for a Drug-Free Society.

one version, gay male creativity is a superpower, healing the world and building bridges. In the other, it’s realpolitik, an awareness of how to “trade up.

Who you sympathized with came down to which kind of behavior you found more unstable: the notion of marrying a stranger to get a free week in Vegas or the idea of seeking your soulmate on a Fox game show.

Jon Kroll, a game show buff who had been raised in a hippie commune, amid what he described as “naked acid parties, hot tubs, and madness”—a perfect résumé for the job.

Cherry Hill, like most local wineries, is on a peninsula that juts into the vast expanse of Lake Michigan’s northernmost curve. The vineyards sprawl across gently rolling hills on either side of the long gravel road that brings us to the winery itself, all sleek glass, balsa wood, and corrugated metal. The parking lot is jammed, the gardens that encircle it bursting with colorful blooms, all tinted pinkish by the setting sun. Out beyond the flowers and hedges, whitewashed tables dot a grassy stretch, customers milling from the bocce court on one end to a duck pond at the other, delicately stemmed glasses in hand. Globe lights hang over the seating area, just waiting for the falling night to give them the cue to light up.

Ad – Add               Ail – Ale               Air – Heir               Are - R               Ate - Eight               Aye - Eye - I                 B                            B – Be - Bee               Base - Bass               Bi – Buy - By – Bye               Bite - Byte               Boar - Bore               Board - Bored                 C               C – Sea - See               Capital – Capitol               Chord – Cord               Coarse - Course               Core - Corps               Creak – Creek               Cue – Q - Queue                 D               Dam - Damn               Dawg – Dog               Days – Daze               Dew – Do – Due               Die – Dye               Dual - Duel                 E               Earn – Urn               Elicit – Illicit               Elude - Illude               Ex – X                 F               Fat – Phat               Faze - Phase               Feat - Feet               Find – Fined               Flea – Flee               Forth - Fourth                 G               Gait – Gate               Genes – Jeans               Gnawed - Nod               Grate – Great                 H               Hair - Hare               Heal - Heel               Hear - Here               Heard - Herd               Hi - High               Higher – Hire               Hoarse - Horse               Hour - Our                 I               Idle - Idol               Ill – Ill               In – Inn               Inc – Ink               IV – Ivy                 J               Juggler - Jugular                 K               Knead - Need               Knew - New               Knight - Night               Knot – Naught - Not               Know - No               Knows - Nose                 L               Lead – Led               Lie - Lie               Light – Lite               Loan - Lone                 M               Mach – Mock               Made - Maid               Mane – Main               Meat - Meet               Might - Mite               Mouse - Mouth                 N               Naval - Navel               None - Nun                 O               Oar - Or – Ore               One - Won                 P               Paced – Paste               Pail – Pale                            Pair - Pear               Peace - Piece               Peak - Peek               Peer - Pier               Pray - Prey                 Q               Quarts - Quartz                 R               Rain - Reign               Rap - Wrap               Read - Red               Real - Reel               Right - Write               Ring - Wring                 S               Scene - Seen               Seas – Sees - Seize               Sole – Soul               Some - Sum               Son - Sun               Steal – Steel               Suite - Sweet                 T               T - Tee               Tail – Tale               Team – Teem               Their – There - They’re               Thyme - Time               To – Too - Two                 U               U - You                 V               Vale - Veil               Vain – Vane - Vein               Vary – Very               Verses - Versus                 W               Waive - Wave               Ware – Wear - Where               Wait - Weight               Waist - Waste               Which - Witch               Why – Y               Wood - Would                 X                 Y               Yoke - Yolk               Yore - Your – You’re                 Z

In the basement of my fears, I memorised every line You wrote in your old perfumed letters. You said you would come back in 3 days, And each time I stood waiting Reciting your letter like a poem, I started to believe that you meant something else, Something more poetic when you said 3 days. I began to see everything in three; God the son, God the father, God the Holy Spirit. For three years I have been waiting Because if I lost my faith in God What would become of faith itself? And so, when she came, I took whatever she said with a grain of salt She promised to erase every memory of you, I did not want to disappoint her with the truth That I still remember you Whenever it rained That was how we met, You swept me with your beauty And showed me a wet letter When the sun shone, We dried it and the letter was never whole again, Maybe I should have taken a cue from it. love makes us blind When we are blind We don’t see disappointments Three days came, Three days met three decades, I was married, I had a child Yet I still had old memories of you, Your perfumed letters Were still ingrained in my mind For me to love you My lover had to die And your husband too had to die. So, we went to the chapel in secret And prayed for the death of people Who had promised to love us. And when they did die We run away On a boat Never to return To love ourselves like the character In the old perfume letters So hard that we couldn’t distinguish reality from poetry

If you don’t mind, I’d like to offer a Thanksgiving prayer.” “We’d like that,” my mother said. Taking our cue from Mr. Foster, we all bowed our heads. “Dear Lord, we are indeed grateful this day for the abundance of our lives. Help us to remember that you are the giver of all blessings. Thank you for this delicious food and for good neighbors to share it with. Beau and I are grateful to have new friends and we pray, dear Lord, that your favor will shine upon them like the morning sun.

Our ability to control our weight depends on deep sleep, which is directed by cues from the sun. Each new study strengthens the evidence for the connection between weight and sleep.

In 1612, two years after Galileo stunned the world with Sidereus nuncius, Cigoli completed a fresco in the Basilica of Saint Mary Major in Rome, the most important Marian shrine in Christendom. During Galileo’s lifetime, the large basilica had two new chapels added[*10] and Cigoli was hired to paint a scene from the Book of Revelation, which takes place during the Apocalypse. His subject was “a Woman clothed with the Sun, and the Moon under her feet,” standing opposite Saint Michael the Archangel. Cigoli painted as he was told. But the Moon at her feet was not the smooth orb of many early counterparts, who used the spotless Aristotelian Moon as a metaphor for the spotless Virgin Mary, mother of Christ. It was Galileo’s Moon, craggy, crater-pocked, indented, marred. Cigoli painted an astronomical Moon, not the Platonic ideal of a Moon. This fresco is still the subject of debate among scholars, but whatever Cigoli’s intent—acting contra Counter-Reformation Church politics, or just making a very well-placed hat tip to his art school friend—his Moon changed things.[24] Moons in art became real. Paintings might have remained religious in nature, but their depictions of the sky and Moon were vivid, believable, and terrestrial, taking their cue from modern astronomy.

Howard “Sandman” Sims, the “exterminator” from the amateur night at the Apollo Theater, also claimed to have inspired the gong.

God is setting you up! He is in the business of strategically positioning us in the right place at the right time. And His angels are our advance team! Each trip around the sun has been carefully choreographed for us by the Creator of the universe. We just need to take His cues.

pharmacist had everyone’s attention, he turned to the dog. “What would you rather do?” the pharmacist asked the dog. “Be a nigger or die?” The dog rolled over on cue. It flipped onto its back, folded its legs, shut its eyes, and froze. The grown people

Reality shows were strike-breakers, too—the slimy beneficiaries of anti-labor tactics, funded by executives who didn’t want to pay writers and actors.

Frank Berry, then the head of the NAACP, also objected to the show, but from a different angle. The way he saw it, the problem with Cops wasn’t that it worked with the police—it was that cops behaved better on camera than they did in real life, concealing their racism.

Early on, LAPD commander Daryl Gates had said no to Cops filming in his city. Then, in 1991, George Holliday recorded the beating of Rodney King, graphic evidence of police brutality that led to a mass uprising a year later, after the jury delivered a not-guilty verdict. In 1994, the new LAPD police chief, Willie Williams, agreed to let Cops film his officers. “At this juncture, it makes certain sense for the department to receive some positive coverage,” said Gary Greenebaum, the president of the police commission, in the Los Angeles Times.

The catalyst for these protoreality shows was, as ever, a labor strike:

Since the beginning of evolutionary time, the Moon has sculpted life on this planet. The Moon stabilizes Earth’s tilt toward the Sun, making the Moon the captain of our seasons. The consistency of this tilt over millennia stabilizes our climate in turn. Life in all its endless forms, from corals to plants to humans, responds to the Moon’s cues. Oxygen exhaled by these breathing organisms streams out of our planet’s atmosphere, flies with the solar wind, and pools on the Moon as proof that we are here.

Website: h t t p s : / / spartan tech group retrieval . o r g WhatsApp: + 1 ( 9 7 1 ) 4 8 7 - 3 5 3 8 Telegram: + 1 ( 5 8 1 ) 2 8 6 - 8 0 9 2 Flying over mountain tops and cruising above crystal blue oceans, I capture the world from a drone's-eye view. Precision is my business, both in cinematography and in safeguarding my finances. That is, until the day both crashed, literally. I had securely saved $480,000 in Bitcoin on a hardware wallet stored safely inside my drone case. My plan was foolproof. Or so I thought. It was a standard flight over a picturesque Icelandic lake. The sun was setting impeccably over the rolling water, that Holy Grail of cinematic gold. I was midway through the flight, controlling the drone with the finesse of a virtuoso, when a savage North Atlantic gust of wind turned my concerto into a catastrophe movie. My drone dropped from the sky with a dramatic splash that would have won an award for best special effect if it was not my wallet sinking along with it.Cue panic. I was on the lakeshore, staring into the void, balancing the odds of swimming into hypothermia with the prospect of recovering my digital fortune. Spoiler alert: I opted for hypothermia. Three freezing dives later, I surfaced empty-handed and 100% convinced I had just donated my Bitcoin to Poseidon. Defeated, trembling, and contemplating a career change, I recalled another pilot at a tech conference raving about SPARTAN TECH GROUP RETRIEVAL. Desperation led me to call, still wrapped in a towel like a damp burrito. From that first call, their crew reacted to my situation as though it was a search-and-rescue mission. Not only were they tech-savvy, they knew my universe, my language, my horror. With a blend of satellite positioning, sonar mapping, and some technological Spartan that I still don't fully understand, they helped pinpoint the approximate location of my underwater drone. More incredibly, they remotely pulled the wallet details from my water-logged device, defying the laws of nature and logic. Two weeks later, they sent my Bitcoin back to me, like returning a set of lost car keys. I nearly cried. No, wait, I actually cried. Tears of happiness. My drone is in the air again today, my wallet is securely backed up (on land), and my faith in humanity (and technology) is soaring. SPARTAN TECH GROUP RETRIEVAL, not only did you retrieve my Bitcoin, you restored my sanity. Count me as your forever flying ambassador.

The way most WGA writers saw it, the genre was the enemy—a wedge networks used to resist union demands, first in 1988, when the WGA struck for twenty-two weeks, and then again in 2001. If reality laborers suffered, maybe they deserved to.

Anyone could rebrand a mediocre businessman, some small-timer in need of a glow-up. But taking a failed tycoon who was a heavily in hock and too risky for almost any bank to lend to, a crude, impulsive, bigoted, multiply-bankrupt ignoramus, a sexual predator so reckless he openly harassed women on his show, then finding a way to make him look attractive enough to elect as the president of the United States? That was a coup, even if no one could brag about it.

Scanlon would go on to edit two more seasons of The Apprentice, then got fired, two weeks before Christmas, after a male editor came back from paternity leave.

cartoonish stereotypes were the industry default.

One of the early discoveries in neuroscience that helped to rekindle the field’s interest in habit came from a 1990s study that separated habit learning in humans from conscious understanding. Twenty participants had Parkinson’s disease, which attacks motor control systems in the basal ganglia, especially the putamen, and impedes the ability to learn new habits (even non-motor ones) and to activate old ones. Twelve participants were patients with amnesia who had dysfunction in a different brain area (the hippocampus), one that interfered with their ability to remember recent events. Parkinson’s patients could explain the task and the instructions. They knew consciously what to do. But it didn’t matter how much they practiced. They could not learn the connections between cues (cards) and rewarded responses (rain/sun forecast). They could not form a habit. In contrast, the amnesiacs acquired habits more readily as they practiced the task. After taking fifty chances at predicting the weather, they could make accurate forecasts based on the cards. But when they were asked about what they were doing, they could not remember the instructions or details of what they had seen. This research provided some of the first insights into the neural mechanics of habit formation. It suggested that, in humans, habit learning isn’t superseded or subordinated by more thoughtful learning systems, as assumed by many researchers during the cognitive revolution. Habits live in resilient, deep-seated neural structures—ones that are fundamental to mammalian life.