Don't Disclose Quotes

Masquerades disclose the reality of souls. As long as no one sees who we are, we can tell the most intimate details of our life. I sometimes muse over this sketch of a story about a man afflicted by one of those personal tragedies born of extreme shyness who one day, while wearing a mask I don’t know where, told another mask all the most personal, most secret, most unthinkable things that could be told about his tragic and serene life. And since no outward detail would give him away, he having disguised even his voice, and since he didn’t take careful note of whoever had listened to him, he could enjoy the ample sensation of knowing that somewhere in the world there was someone who knew him as not even his closest and finest friend did. When he walked down the street he would ask himself if this person, or that one, or that person over there might not be the one to whom he’d once, wearing a mask, told his most private life. Thus would be born in him a new interest in each person, since each person might be his only, unknown confidant.

I’m not an animal anymore, sister,” she said, first scanning the empty ward as if about to disclose a momentous secret. “I don’t need to eat, not now. I can live without it. All I need is sunlight.

Perhaps we don't like what we see: our hips, our loss of hair, our shoe size, our dimples, our knuckles too big, our eating habits, our disposition. We have disclosed these things in secret, likes and dislikes, behind doors with locks, our lonely rooms, our messy desks, our empty hearts, our sudden bursts of energy, our sudden bouts of depression. Don’t worry. Put away your mirrors and your beauty magazines and your books on tape. There is someone right here who knows you more than you do, who is making room on the couch, who is fixing a meal, who is putting on your favorite record, who is listening intently to what you have to say, who is standing there with you, face to face, hand to hand, eye to eye, mouth to mouth. There is no space left uncovered. This is where you belong.

I don’t like to say what I’ve read. That’s how you disclose the most about yourself.

I hate when a man feels I’m obligated to disclose my marital status to somebody I don’t even know. Even this bullshit about status itself as if married and spinster are the only two choices for defining myself. Or because I’m a woman I’m supposed to have a status at all.

...I'm a fool. I expect too much, then I'm angry because nothing ever works out the way I want. When I was young and full of hopes and aspirations, I didn't know I would get hurt so often. I think I'll get tough and won't ache again, then my fragile shell shatters, and again, symbolically, my blood is spilled with the tears I shed. I pull myself back together again, go on, convince myself there is a reason for everything, and at some point in my life it will be disclosed. And when I have what I want, I hope to god it stays long enough to let me know I have it, and it wont hurt when it goes, for I don't expect it to stay, not now. I'm like a doughnut, always being punch out in the middle, and constantly I go around searching for the missing piece, and on and on it goes, never ending, only beginning...

Let the light of late afternoon shine through chinks in the barn, moving up the bales as the sun moves down. Let the cricket take up chafing as a woman takes up her needles and her yarn. Let evening come. Let dew collect on the hoe abandoned in long grass. Let the stars appear and the moon disclose her silver horn. Let the fox go back to its sandy den. Let the wind die down. Let the shed go black inside. Let evening come. To the bottle in the ditch, to the scoop in the oats, to air in the lung let evening come. Let it come, as it will, and don't be afraid. God does not leave us comfortless, so let evening come.

Don’t you like surprises?’ No, Frances didn’t like surprises. She hated the thought of people plotting and planning on her behalf. She loathed the burden of being delighted once the surprise was disclosed.

Really good work probably comes out of a willingness to disclose yourself, open yourself up in spiritual and emotional ways that risk making you look banal or melodramatic or naive or unhip or sappy, and to ask the reader really to feel something. To be willing to sort of die in order to move the reader, somehow. Even now I’m scared about how sappy this’ll look in print, saying this. And the effort actually to do it, not just talk about it, requires a kind of courage I don’t seem to have yet.

Failure in training identifies weaknesses so as to prevent them in the field, because as the common saying goes in the tactical community, “We don’t rise to the level of our expectations, we fall to the level of our training.” We live by that code.

I don’t really think it would be in my best interest to disclose the events that took place today,

I hate when a man feels I’m obligated to disclose my marital status to somebody I don’t even know. Even this bullshit about status itself as if married and spinster are the only two choices for defining myself. Or because I’m a woman I’m supposed to have a status at all. Hey big boy, here’s my status. Hi, before I tell you my name here’s my status. Maybe I should just say I’m a lesbian and throw the problem back in their faces for them to define it. Xanax for anxiety. Valium for sleep. Prozac for depression. Phenergan for nausea. Tylenol for headaches. Mylanta for bloating. Midol for cramps. I mean, Jesus Christ, menopause come already. Isn’t there some fast-track for a hot flash? It’s not like I’m ever going to breed, so why keep the damn store door open?

Child neglect and abuse is a hidden epidemic. The topic is taboo. Surviving abusive relationships, especially in the family unit, is complicated. Oftentimes, victims of child abuse, sexual assaults, domestic violence, and narcissistic abuse don’t report it. During my extensive research, I discovered that most children don’t disclose their sexual abuse, until late in life. On the website, Child USA, they share about delayed disclosure. “Most child victims of sexual assault disclose, if they disclose at all, during adulthood, with a median age of 48 and an average age of 52.

Four billion people on this earth, but my imagination is the way it's always been: bad with large numbers. It is still moved by particularity. It flits about the darkness like a flashlight beam, disclosing only random faces, while the rest go blindly by, unthought of, unpitied. Not even a Dante could have stopped that. So what do you do when you're not, even with all the muses on your side? Non omnis moriar—a premature worry. Yet am I fully alive, and is that enough? It never has been, and even less so now. I select by rejecting, for there's no other way, but what I reject, is more numerous, more dense, more intrusive than ever. At the cost of untold losses—a poem, a sigh. I reply with a whisper to a thunderous calling. How much I am silent about I can't say. A mouse at the foot of mother mountain. Life lasts as long as a few lines of claws in the sand. My dreams—even they are not as populous as they should be. There is more solitude in them than crowds or clamor. Sometimes someone long dead will drop by for a bit. A single hand turns a knob. Annexes of echo overgrow the empty house. I run from the threshold down into the quiet valley seemingly no one's—an anachronism by now. Where does all this space still in me come from— that I don't know.

We've never crossed paths before. I've never seen you walking down the street. I don't know the first thing there is to know about you. And the lines of my palm do not reveal nor disclose any untold secrets. Yet, here I am, holding the door as I whisper in your ear: "I'll be right across the street when you're done, my child.

The things about you I appreciate May seem indelicate: I'd like to find you in the shower And chase the soap for half an hour. I'd like to have you in my power And see your eyes dilate. I'd like to have your back to scour And other parts to lubricate. Sometimes I feel it is my fate To chase you screaming up a tower Or make you cower By asking you to differentiate Nietzsche from Schopenhauer. I'd like successfully to guess your weight And win you at a fête. I'd like to offer you a flower. I like the hair upon your shoulders, Falling like water over boulders. I like the shoulders too: they are essential. Your collar-bones have great potential (I'd like your particulars in folders Marked Confidential). I like your cheeks, I like your nose, I like the way your lips disclose The neat arrangement of your teeth (Half above and half beneath) In rows. I like your eyes, I like their fringes. The way they focus on me gives me twinges. Your upper arms drive me berserk. I like the way your elbows work. On hinges … I like your wrists, I like your glands, I like the fingers on your hands. I'd like to teach them how to count, And certain things we might exchange, Something familiar for something strange. I'd like to give you just the right amount And get some change. I like it when you tilt your cheek up. I like the way you not and hold a teacup. I like your legs when you unwind them. Even in trousers I don't mind them. I like each softly-moulded kneecap. I like the little crease behind them. I'd always know, without a recap, Where to find them. I like the sculpture of your ears. I like the way your profile disappears Whenever you decide to turn and face me. I'd like to cross two hemispheres And have you chase me. I'd like to smuggle you across frontiers Or sail with you at night into Tangiers. I'd like you to embrace me. I'd like to see you ironing your skirt And cancelling other dates. I'd like to button up your shirt. I like the way your chest inflates. I'd like to soothe you when you're hurt Or frightened senseless by invertebrates. I'd like you even if you were malign And had a yen for sudden homicide. I'd let you put insecticide Into my wine. I'd even like you if you were Bride Of Frankenstein Or something ghoulish out of Mamoulian's Jekyll and Hyde. I'd even like you as my Julian Or Norwich or Cathleen ni Houlihan. How melodramatic If you were something muttering in attics Like Mrs Rochester or a student of Boolean Mathematics. You are the end of self-abuse. You are the eternal feminine. I'd like to find a good excuse To call on you and find you in. I'd like to put my hand beneath your chin, And see you grin. I'd like to taste your Charlotte Russe, I'd like to feel my lips upon your skin I'd like to make you reproduce. I'd like you in my confidence. I'd like to be your second look. I'd like to let you try the French Defence And mate you with my rook. I'd like to be your preference And hence I'd like to be around when you unhook. I'd like to be your only audience, The final name in your appointment book, Your future tense.

I bring up the problem I’ve been having: I can’t seem to get past small talk. I’m not having any of those amazing connections: it’s just the weather, or what’s your dog’s name, or what do you do. Or who’s the Queen. ‘Just the weather?’ Nick sounds disappointed. ‘Can you do it better?’ he asks. Of course I could do it better. If I were someone else. But I’m abysmal at this – I don’t know how to do it better. ‘You need to self-disclose more. Share more about yourself. Ask them personal questions.

More often, when explosive #Russiagate headlines go sideways, the original outlets simply ignore the new development, leaving the “retraction” process to conservative outlets that don’t reach the original audiences. This is a major structural flaw of the new fully divided media landscape in which Republican media covers Democratic corruption and Democratic media covers Republican corruption. If neither “side” feels the need to disclose its own errors and inconsistencies, mistakes accumulate quickly.

Language... is a highly ambiguous business. So often, below the word spoken, is the thing known and unspoken... You and I, the characters which grow on a page, most of the time we're inexpressive, giving little away, unreliable, elusive, obstructive, unwilling. But it's out of these attributes that a language arises. A language, I repeat, where under what is said, another thing is being said... There are two silences. One when no word is spoken. The other when perhaps a torrent of language is being employed. The speech we hear is an indication of that which we don't hear. It is a necessary avoidance, a violent, sly, anguished or mocking smokescreen. When true silence falls, we are still left with echo but are nearer nakedness. One way of looking at speech is to say that it is a constant stratagem to cover nakedness. We have heard many times that tired, grimy phrase, "failure of communication", and this phrase has been fixed to my work quite consistently. I believe the contrary. I think that we communicate only too well, in our silence, in what is unsaid, and that what takes place is a continual evasion, desperate rearguard attempts to keep ourselves to ourselves. Communication is too alarming. To enter into someone else's life is too frightening. To disclose to others the poverty within us is too fearsome a possibility. I am not suggesting that no character in a play can ever say what he in fact means. Not at all. I have found that there invariably does come a moment when this happens, when he says something, perhaps, which he has never said before. And where this happens, what he says is irrevocable, and can never be taken back.

Once Monica appeared wearing a borderline unprofessional dress, a bit too short, if you asked me. I could only think, Who does she think she is? She was straphanging around George Stephanopoulos, and I shooed her like a stray cat. She hissed another lame excuse. I was fed up with her games, but at this moment the president arrived, easily catching her sight (or scent—I don’t know which). They made small talk. She walked away. Her mission was complete; she had caught the president’s wandering eye. She turned back to ensure she had his attention—and flipped up her black-and-white print dress to reveal her blue thong.

Sometimes it's better to have a conversation with the things which can't answer you or pass any judgments on you. Sometimes it's better to share your feelings, thoughts with the things, which can't listen to you but are listening to you. Sometimes it's better to share your pain and love, cry and smile in front of those things, which can't sympathize but helps you to heal you. Dear moon, You have always been my escape to each and every problem. You know all my secrets and problems. No matter how hard it was to solve or put in front of others. But, I never felt odd while sharing anything with you. Because I know, sooner or later people will leave. And I don't want to live with the fear of disclosing my secrets to any third one. People will definitely call me mad after reading this. But truly thank you for always giving me hope and listening to me.

I don't know about you but I find I want to resist Buber here. Because personally I am pretty attached to my own feelings (and the complex, fascinating personality they imply). But even if I can't accept Buber totally here, I do find him a useful correction to some of my worse instincts. Looking at my life through a Buber lens, for example, I see that it is quite possible that my feelings, as strong as they may be, may disclose no more of reality to me than is afforded by the outline of my own self-image. This is useful knowledge. Every day I am confronted by situations in which I must judge the reality or otherwise of a situation by way of my feelings about it (this is especially acute in marital arguments). But just because I feel something very strongly, does this make it true? Isn't it possible that in may cases where my feelings are strong I may indeed be no different to all those delusional girls in the Bieber signing queue, who have so many feelings for him, after all, so very many sincere, deep, excruciating feelings, which are, of course, what define their identity, what makes of each of them Beliebers ...

The thing is, I don't really have any coming-out narratives of my own. I never felt as though anyone was entitles to a red-carpet presentation of who I am and how I identify. When I initially found myself attracted to women in college, for example, I simply showed up at the next family function with my first girlfriend in tow and introduced her as such. I didn't call each family member ahead of time and instruct them to brace themselves, nor did I write lengthy letters detailing the intricacies of my new desires. Likewise, when I'm meeting people for the first time at parties or other social engagements and they post the inevitable, "So what do you do?" I respond as routinely as possible: "Oh, I work in the sex industry. You?" I'm not trying to be provocative; rather, I've always believed that being "out" is the most powerful tool of activism available to disadvantaged minority communities, sex workers included, I find that when you approach a supposedly radical issue (queerness, nonmonogamy, atheism, gender nonconformity) with the same nonchalance as you would a less controversial topic (accounting, marriage, the weather), you give the other party permission to treat it with the same accepting ambivalence. We're pack animals, and we're constantly comparing ourselves to one another. We look for approval from our peers, and in many cases we use their reactions and opinions to help guide our own. I often observe people, who I've just disclosed to, pause to shift their eyes and gauge the receptiveness of those around them before responding. It'd be a fascinating study if it weren't so disheartening.

A few days after that dinner, I catch up with my new friend Paul over coffee. He is telling me about a time when he cycled from the Netherlands to Spain – a many-months-long endeavour that he completed solo. I try to imagine myself in this scenario. ‘Were you lonely?’ I ask. Paul pauses, taken aback by the question. And this is the problem with Deep Talk. Not only do you have to be a bit vulnerable and a bit ballsy to ask the questions in the first place, but you’re also asking whoever you’re speaking with to be the same: open up, take your hand and embrace the depths. Paul furrows his brow. After a beat, he nods. ‘Yeah, I was,’ he says. ‘What did you do to combat it?’ ‘I wrote in my journal a lot,’ he tells me. ‘I went for walks. But I was still really lonely.’ He tells me that he’s good at talking to people but that in most of the places where he stopped along the way people were pretty guarded. When I play back this conversation in my head, I wonder how differently pre-sauna Jess would have handled it. Given that I don’t know Paul well, I would have probably asked about logistics, or how many miles he covered per day, or what kind of bike he rode. Maybe, at best, I’d have launched into a story about a bike seat I’d used in Beijing that was such a literal arse ache that I could barely walk for two weeks, followed by a monologue about the realities of life with thigh chaffing. I am so impressed by how open Paul is with me. He could have lied and told me, nah, he doesn’t get lonely, that he relished the time alone on the road, he was a lone wolf, a cowboy striking out into the sunset with nothing but his trusty metallic steed. One of the most vital parts of Deep Talk is that it has to be a two-way process – both parties have to be willing to share, to disclose, to be vulnerable. If you initiate it with someone but don’t give back, you’re likely just harassing innocent people to share extremely personal information. I realise I probably shouldn’t go around asking men about their loneliness and not share my own experience of it. Since we’re all in this together, I’ll tell you, too.

As Graedon scrutinized the FDA’s standards for bioequivalence and the data that companies had to submit, he found that generics were much less equivalent than commonly assumed. The FDA’s statistical formula that defined bioequivalence as a range—a generic drug’s concentration in the blood could not fall below 80 percent or rise above 125 percent of the brand name’s concentration, using a 90 percent confidence interval—still allowed for a potential outside range of 45 percent among generics labeled as being the same. Patients getting switched from one generic to another might be on the low end one day, the high end the next. The FDA allowed drug companies to use different additional ingredients, known as excipients, that could be of lower quality. Those differences could affect a drug’s bioavailability, the amount of drug potentially absorbed into the bloodstream. But there was another problem that really drew Graedon’s attention. Generic drug companies submitted the results of patients’ blood tests in the form of bioequivalence curves. The graphs consisted of a vertical axis called Cmax, which mapped the maximum concentration of drug in the blood, and a horizontal axis called Tmax, the time to maximum concentration. The resulting curve looked like an upside-down U. The FDA was using the highest point on that curve, peak drug concentration, to assess the rate of absorption into the blood. But peak drug concentration, the point at which the blood had absorbed the largest amount of drug, was a single number at one point in time. The FDA was using that point as a stand-in for “rate of absorption.” So long as the generic hit a similar peak of drug concentration in the blood as the brand name, it could be deemed bioequivalent, even if the two curves reflecting the time to that peak looked totally different. Two different curves indicated two entirely different experiences in the body, Graedon realized. The measurement of time to maximum concentration, the horizontal axis, was crucial for time-release drugs, which had not been widely available when the FDA first created its bioequivalence standard in 1992. That standard had not been meaningfully updated since then. “The time to Tmax can vary all over the place and they don’t give a damn,” Graedon emailed a reporter. That “seems pretty bizarre to us.” Though the FDA asserted that it wouldn’t approve generics with “clinically significant” differences in release rates, the agency didn’t disclose data filed by the companies, so it was impossible to know how dramatic the differences were.

I heard them say: QUESTION:… But isn’t that why Vernon Jordan asked you on December 19th whether or not you had sexual relationships with Monica Lewinsky and why he asked her, because he knew it would be so highly improper to be helping her with a lawyer and a job if, in fact, she had had a relationship with you? CLINTON: I don’t know. I don’t believe that at all. I don’t believe that at all, particularly since, even if you look at the facts here in their light most unfavorable to me, no one has suggested that there was any sexual harassment on my part. And I don’t think it was wrong to be helping her.…

He finessed his way through it all, playing the “I don’t recall” game. He played the same game when asked about how Betty and UD officers had inserted Betty’s name on their official visitors’ log when it was Monica who actually visited, so as not to betray the president. It was yet another obvious lie on his part. I knew that game. Everyone with eyes could see it. He never recalled how she came to him with letters or papers. There was a back-and-forth on how the Clintons had garnered a lawyer for Monica so she could obfuscate matters and not implicate the president in his defense in Paula Jones’s civil sexual harassment case. They discussed how unethical that was, and that’s when the president had the nerve to blame the debacle on the information’s getting leaked, not that it actually happened. Finally it came down to blaming Monica.

The first time I saw Foster I figured he wouldn’t last a year. He looked uncomfortable and unhappy in the White House. I knew what it was like to be yelled at by superiors, but Mrs. Clinton never hesitated to launch a tirade. Yet her staffers never dared say, “I don’t have to take this shit!” They reminded me of battered wives: too loyal, too unwilling to acknowledge they’d never assuage her. They had no one to blame but themselves, but they could never admit it.

The Clintons directed others to lie for them, never in writing (as far as I knew), but I had seen lying firsthand. Their culture of corruption had pushed me out of my post and eventually from the White House. I feared it would push me from the Service as well. Many in the Service just said, “I don’t remember,” “I’m not sure,” “I don’t recall,” or “I can neither confirm nor deny,” or they obstructed justice by constantly standing by privileged information. The spirit was to protect the president and protect the Service.

Don’t shit where you eat. Don’t harass and screw interns and staff for the same reason. If someone can’t see how they jeopardize the mission by not being able to see past temptation, they aren’t fit for the job. I heard my old TI’s mottos, “The little mistakes get the wrong people killed!

I could have relied on “I don’t recall” or “I don’t remember,” but I would have been a liar. Plausible deniability is talk I reserve for criminals.

I knew how lucky I was. Many of my colleagues were on the hook for their own legal expenses, which ran to upwards of $350 per hour. It ruined them financially. That’s part of the damage the Clintons callously inflicted on the men and women sworn to lay down their lives to protect them. The Clintons knew that on meager Secret Service salaries they could never legally afford to challenge them, to reveal their secrets. Financially strapped and fearful of retribution, White House personnel found it sensible to fall back on a convenient “I don’t recall.

Today we remember Milk as perhaps the most significant gay rights leader of all time. He is the person who unlocked the secret to reducing prejudice against same-sex relationships, by people disclosing to friends and family that they were gay. Sean Penn won an Oscar after immortalizing Milk’s life in a 2008 film. But Milk owed his political career to dog poop. Shortly after taking office in 1978, Milk introduced the “Scoop the Poop” Act,3 which by the end of the summer the Board of Supervisors had passed.4 Afterward, a journalist said to Milk, “The police department says it may be hard to enforce this,” to which Milk replied, beaming, “I think it will be easy based on peer pressure. It’s going to be hard to write citations. But when a San Franciscan is walking down the street and sees someone breaking the law you say ‘Hey!’—with a smile—‘You broke the law.’ And after a while, when enough people do that, the message will be clear. It will be an education process. I really hope not one single citation is ever issued. . . . I don’t want to put anybody in jail. I don’t want to fine anyone. I just want to clean up the mess.”5 People

It is advisable to understand some basic principles and methods of the work before starting the first technique. You should not be surprised that our purpose is a new, clear-sightedness or self-vision. Yes, the Self is already there, waiting for you to reveal it. You will not ‘build’ the Self and its dream, you must show it or rather encourage it to reveal itself. Spiritual development is certainly a struggle, but letting go is the main weapon in this fight. It is not necessary to focus, try hard, or push when trying to open. What would happen if you were to do that? You'd operate from your ordinary mind, meaning that fraction of yourself that you're thinking about right now–the discursive mind that continues to talk in your head all the time. You are trained to do everything from the brain from an early age. So if you're attempting to ‘run’ the business of interpretation, you're likely to remain trapped in your talking mind–a surface that's famously unfit for any form of spiritual experience. Avoid doing that. Be fully conscious, but be aware of it. Relax and allow what is hidden to come to the surface and be revealed to you in consciousness. Don't do anything, let things unfold. Dance to the rhythm. If you want something, you have to search for it in the physical world. But in the spiritual world, as on the other side of a mirror, everything is inverted. You have to let it come to you if you want it. It's a new skill that needs to be developed. It might be called "active letting go" or "creative letting go." It is the opportunity, to be honest, and through you to disclose states of consciousness. Just be aware, and it will all happen.

You might try a phrase like “I don’t like it when this person ,” describing their behavior. When you hit upon your true feelings, you’ll feel a release of tension or sense of relief in your body. Don’t let guilt inhibit you. You’re speaking only to yourself, for the purpose of self-discovery. No one can hear you, and it’s completely safe. Some people think it’s necessary to confront the other person to get a true resolution, but I believe this is often counterproductive and provokes too much anxiety. Disclosing feelings too soon may flood you with unnecessary anxiety—not to mention risking a backlash—when you’re just beginning to get in touch with your true feelings. You can always talk to the person later if you wish, but first you need to regain your ability to speak your feelings to yourself. Just to be clear, what helps isn’t telling the other person; it’s knowing what you really feel. Simply admitting your true feelings and stating them out loud can make a huge difference in regaining your emotional peace. Waking

I am under secret observation and discovered by close spying through someone's team member or members who are nowhere. The globe is visible within my spirituality. I am not allowed to disclose the secret of mystical powers. Only you can reach my heart with your heart. Don't go far; don't play games; you will lose everything you have established in my heart.

I may disclose a secret: Internally, we replace the word "Quantum" with the word "Wrong.” Quantum Theory = Wrong Theory. Quantum Processor = Wrong Processor. Quantum Mechanics = Wrong Mechanics. We don't use the word Quantum internally. You define it? You are wrong. Everyone wrong. Quantum means: "We don't know what this means, although we can kind of make it work.

You don't have to surpass all the barriers - you can just drop them. Imagine you were dreaming. In that dream-life, you wanted to wake up, but there were many apparent obstacles, and you were always busy, never stopping for a moment. You lived your whole life without pausing for a moment. If you had just stopped, you would've woken up.

I have traveled to the high altitudes of the Himalayas. In one case I was going on the way to there because I wanted to do as we've heard. After the battle of Mahabharata, the Pandavas went to heaven by foot. So I also wanted to go by foot. When I arrived at there someone said: 'This way you should go.' So I started going, and on the way, there was one man doing penance in a cave. He was from Bengal. It was very cold, so I asked him 'Can I spend the night with you?' He said 'Yes, but you must cook.' It was a very small cave, 6 feet by 6 feet, and he said I would sleep there while he would sleep in the kitchen. There was a stone bench, with a cloth, and the pillow was also made of cloth with sand inside. So, this man was living in such a sacrifice, but I said 'I don't want this pillow because it's not comfortable. I can sleep without this sand pillow.' When I removed the pillow, under it, I found a book about sex. So this man had left his country, and went to do penance in the Himalayas and had a Filmfare book of sex. So this is the result of going to the caves. If you have to study sex living in such a cold place, why not stay in your home place? - Papaji Satsang in Lucknow, 1994

Yeong-hye moved her emaciated face closer to her sister. “I’m not an animal anymore, sister,” she said, first scanning the empty ward as if about to disclose a momentous secret. “I don’t need to eat, not now. I can live without it. All I need is sunlight.” “What are you talking about? Do you really think you’ve turned into a tree? How could a plant talk? How can you think these things?” Yeong-hye’s eyes shone. A mysterious smile played on her face. “You’re right. Soon now, words and thoughts will all disappear. Soon.” Yeong-hye burst into laughter, then sighed. “Very soon. Just a bit longer to wait, sister.

When using more than one questioner, ensure that you identify roles beforehand. One questioner takes the lead, while the other observes, takes notes, and considers follow-up questions—all without interrupting. When the first questioner is finished, he turns to the second questioner and “passes the baton” by saying, “That’s all I have. Do you have anything?” At this point, the roles reverse. The baton passing continues until both questioners are satisfied that the subject has revealed all of the truthful information he intends to disclose. There are advantages to having only one questioner in the room—remember the maxim “People don’t confess to crowds.” The baton passing helps create the sense of a one-on-one, rather than a two-on-one, encounter. •    Briefly apprise the subject of exactly what the issue is, and why you’re talking to him. Cryptic introductions or “hiding the ball” only work in the movies.

Don’t rush your pace between questions. After the subject responds to a question, take a momentary pause that’s just south of awkward before you ask your next question. The brief silence gives you time to digest the response, and to determine what your next question should be. In addition, a guilty person may blurt out a nugget of information that you wouldn’t have gotten if you had rushed into your next question. •    Maintain a noncoercive, nonadversarial demeanor throughout the process. Always treat the subject with dignity, respect, and compassion. •    Make the person feel good about disclosing information by rewarding him with statements like, “Thanks for sharing that,” or “That’s helpful, thank you.” •    Always incorporate catch-all questions to uncover lies of omission or information that was overlooked: “What else can we talk about that will help us understand your situation?” “What haven’t I asked you today that you think I should know about?

Clinton admired Zatko’s cowboy boots, hoisted his own snakeskins onto his desk, and disclosed that he owned boots made of every mammal on the planet. (“Don’t tell the liberals,” he whispered.)

Usually I don’t disclose who my friends are, or talk about the places where I have travelled or am going to travel.

Glancing out of the corner of his eye, he found Lucetta struggling to get Millie buttoned into her gown. Both ladies had barely taken any time at all to throw off their bathing attire and don dresses before they’d jumped into his buggy. When he’d voiced his amazement about how quickly they’d been able to leave Abigail’s cottage and get on their way, they’d proclaimed, somewhat indignantly, that it was not exactly the moment to primp. Caroline and her friends wouldn’t have stepped so much as a toe out of their homes unless they were coiffed to perfection. But there was something charming about barreling down the road with ladies missing stockings and shoes, although he was a little ashamed of himself for sneaking a bit of a peek when Millie had rolled stockings up her legs. It wasn’t well done of him, that peeking, but . . . he was only human after all, and . . . she had lovely legs. Although, it wasn’t well done of him, either, to be looking at any legs other than Caroline’s, not that he’d actually seen Caroline roll stockings up her legs. But since Caroline had disclosed such disturbing notions only hours before, he couldn’t help wonder why he hadn’t ended their alliance right then and there, which would have made his— “Scoot closer to Everett. I don’t have enough room to work,” Lucetta said. “I’m practically sitting on the poor man’s lap as it is,” Millie countered, although she did scoot another inch in his direction, that scooting leaving him with a strong desire to throw himself off the buggy seat because her knee was now firmly pressed against his leg. Resignation settled in as he realized there was no longer any denying the fact, whether appropriate or not, he was attracted to Millie. When he’d first touched her in the bathing machine, a shock of something sweet had coursed through him, that sweetness almost causing him to lose all good sense and . . . kiss her. That he hadn’t given in to that concerning urge was a miracle. But, instead of immediately diving back into the sea and putting as much distance between them as possible, he’d proceeded to torture himself further by teaching her to swim. Every time he’d touched her after that had been somewhat agonizing, but he hadn’t stopped, unwilling, or perhaps unable, to resist being in her company . . . to resist having an excuse to touch her. His behavior was completely irrational, but he just couldn’t seem to help himself.

Scandals have often plagued candidates, but the Clintons exceeded any politician’s call of duty. Mrs. Clinton coined her “vast right-wing conspiracy” phrase a few years later, but back in November 1992 I chalked up the hype that surrounded them as just that—hype. As the Clinton scandals accumulated, however, in the months and years to come, I kept recalling being on detail at a Clinton campaign event, small-talking with an Arkansas sheriff. When I asked about the Clintons’ latest rumors, he gave me a thousand-yard stare. “Let me tell you something, Gary. Everything—everything they say about them is true. The Clintons are ruthless. And [the media] don’t even know the half of it.” I didn’t know what to make of that. “From what I’ve seen,” he continued, “there’s no doubt in my mind they will secure the presidency—you watch.” “How can you be so sure,” I asked, “especially with all the scandals, the allegations of affairs, bribery.…” He just waved me off, saying, “It will never matter. Officer, I’m telling you they can spin shit into gold.” He spoke with great conviction, looking me straight in the eye, as if knowing that what he said was stranger than fiction. He spoke from a profound well of personal experiences with the Clintons, and it was eerie.

Let’s say it straight out: Hillary Clinton lied about the reason for the Benghazi attack. She lied about it to the nation as a whole and she lied right to the faces of the grieving family members of those who died there—and then lied about her lying. And she keeps telling Americans one huge, disgusting lie after another. As I wrap up writing this book, Hillary has claimed that we “didn’t lose a single person” in Libya. Really? Try telling that to the families of the four men we lost on September 11, 2012. Not too long before Mrs. Clinton committed that amazing, bizarre falsehood, the late Sean Smith’s mother, Pat, broke down on national television, exclaiming, “Hillary is a liar! I know what she told me.” Pat went on to say that she wanted to “see Hillary in jail” for her misdeeds at Benghazi. “She’s been lying. She’s turned the whole country into a bunch of liars.” Two decades ago the late New York Times columnist William Safire wrote: “Americans of all political persuasions are coming to the sad realization that our first lady—a woman of undoubted talents who was a role model for many in her generation—is a congenital liar.” The lies change. The liar doesn’t. I don’t know where the future will lead, but I know enough of history and I know my own personal experiences. I trust in the Constitution. I know who I am, what I do, and whom I’m doing it for. My God, my family, and my country are my riches. I’m not looking for a fight, but I don’t run from one, either: I walk softly and carry my standard-issue stick. I’m proud of my legacy, but it’s not over, not yet. No matter what, I never stop hearing Genny in my ear: “Just do the right thing.” That’s why I told you my story. Me, I’m not important. But what I learned about the Clintons firsthand—the hard way—is very important. It’s 2016, but with Hillary Clinton again running for president, it feels uncomfortably like the 1990s again—as if America were trapped in some great, cruel time machine hurtling us back to the land of Monica and Mogadishu and a thousand other Clinton-era nightmares. Fool me once, as the saying goes—your fault. Fool me twice… The bottom line: My job in the 1990s was to lay down my life for the presidency. My obligation today is to raise my voice, to help safeguard the presidency from Bill and Hillary Clinton—to remind readers like you of what happened back then. We all remember—or should remember—what a Clinton White House was like. If we board that time machine for a return trip—it’s our fault.

Romans 7:18 where he confesses, “For I know that nothing good dwells in me, that is, in my flesh. For I have the desire to do what is right, but not the ability to carry it out.” In verse 24 he goes so far as to call himself a “wretched man.” If Paul made that confession in most churches today, the evangelegalists would run him out of the ministry. Paul is so disclosing of his own failings because he is a broken man trying to help other men find what he found in Jesus. Seeing Paul as arrogant because he tells his story is what the arrogant do, but men who have been laid low by Jesus Christ have an awesome story to relay and they don’t care if it gets a bit messy.

It’s the great irony of our national security personnel, from the swords to the shields, that if we do our jobs right, no one hears about it. The best umpire in the league is one you never notice. But if we don’t do our jobs right, it’s the USS Cole, Beirut, Oklahoma City, or even Benghazi all over again. Today we’re doing a tremendous job, but we’re at a crossroads.

As the Clinton scandals accumulated, however, in the months and years to come, I kept recalling being on detail at a Clinton campaign event, small-talking with an Arkansas sheriff. When I asked about the Clintons’ latest rumors, he gave me a thousand-yard stare. “Let me tell you something, Gary. Everything—everything they say about them is true. The Clintons are ruthless. And [the media] don’t even know the half of it.

Back to 1992 and seeing this oaf saunter down the White House hallway with his beaded necklace. Mr. Mardi Gras had only just begun having his tall, young sidekick slap Gay Pride stickers on the walls and furniture, yes, the priceless historical furniture and walls of the White House. “Sir! Sir!” Careers were on the line, so I needed backup. The duo pivoted toward me and got the fracas they wanted, a pointless quarrel with those whose job it was to protect them. “I don’t care what’s on the stickers! Do not disrespect, disregard, or vandalize the White House! This isn’t your dorm room. It’s a living monument to the greatest leaders this country’s ever had!” “Oh no, this is our house now!” they squawked. They accused us of homophobia. We focused on decorum, protocol—and vandalism. I never expected such behavior from anyone capable of even potentially being appointed to work in the White House. Imagine that after clearing every background check they’d demonstrate such willful, unthinkable incompetence, unprofessionalism, and contempt.

We don’t rise to the level of our expectations, we fall to the level of our training.

I mostly saw Vince Foster in the hallways. He was Mrs. Clinton’s personal attaché, a lawyer from Arkansas. Word circulated that she berated him mercilessly. The first time I saw Foster I figured he wouldn’t last a year. He looked uncomfortable and unhappy in the White House. I knew what it was like to be yelled at by superiors, but Mrs. Clinton never hesitated to launch a tirade. Yet her staffers never dared say, “I don’t have to take this shit!” They reminded me of battered wives: too loyal, too unwilling to acknowledge they’d never assuage her. They had no one to blame but themselves, but they could never admit it. She criticized Foster for failing to get ahead of the constant scandals, for cabinet positions not confirmed, and for the slowness of staffing the White House. Foster eventually took his own life in Fort Marcy Park. In his briefcase was a note torn into twenty-seven pieces, blaming the FBI, the media, the Republicans—even the White House Ushers Office. A rumor circulated among law enforcement types that contended his suicide weapon had to be repaired in order for the forensics team to fire it since it wouldn’t function for them. Maybe his final shot misaligned the cylinders and later prevented contact with the bullet primers. But that, along with many other public details of the case (carpet fibers on his suit coat, etc.), made his case spooky. The last lines of his sparse suicide note read: “I was not meant for the job or the spotlight of public life in Washington. Here ruining people is considered sport.” A UD friend of mine, Hank O’Neil, was posted outside of Foster’s office as part of the FBI’s investigation of his suicide. Maggie Williams, Mrs. Clinton’s always well dressed chief of staff, physically pushed her way past Hank into Foster’s office, arguing that he had no right to block her entrance. She removed boxes that were never recovered; they were destroyed. Congressmen bashed Officer O’Neil’s integrity, but he held firm. He reported exactly what he saw and didn’t make any inferences about it, but they were sure he held some smoking gun and was protecting the Clintons.

So a patent is a pact between an inventor and society,” continued Altschuler. “In exchange for twenty years of exclusive use of an invention, the inventor is required to disclose the invention publicly, in writing. In enough detail so that others can duplicate it. And build upon it. You can still choose to keep an invention a trade secret, of course, but if you do, you don’t get protection. You basically take your chances that competitors won’t learn your secret.

She set the empty mug in front of him, his eyes never leaving her face. “There are lists, of course. And you and I both know they’re incomplete. Project OSIRIS has never been disclosed to the public.” “OSIRIS?” The surprise showed in her face and she cursed herself for it. He had taken her off-guard, once again—and he could tell. “Come on now, Mehr,” he replied, and there was almost a sadness in his dark eyes. Pain. “We’ve known each other too long for these games. We both know that after 7/7, your government began exploring the potential of installing a network of facial-recognition cameras around London. It was code-named Project OSIRIS, an allusion to the all-seeing eye of Egyptian mythology—and completed in 2012. I haven’t been in-country since, don’t know where any of them are located. It’s a risk I can’t afford to take. Not now.” “Why?” she asked quietly

You need to self-disclose more. Share more about yourself. Ask them personal questions.” As Nick coaches me through meaningful conversation topics—what do you like about your job, tell me about your family, where’s the most interesting place you’ve been to this year—I realize that I’m a grown woman having a lesson on how to have a conversation. I also realize that I did not know how to have a conversation with new people. But if you think about it, no one taught us how to do this. OK, technically, life did, but I’ve come across so many people who are also pretty bad at this: they ask no questions, they ramble, they don’t listen, they interrupt, or they ask too many questions and offer up nothing of themselves.

Don't open the door or talk to strangers," "Unless they're selling something.Then allow them to disclose what they are selling and see if its something which might be useful. First say a 'No' upfront, that's taking charge of the situation from beginning. Make them explain, do not react at all till they finish, but listen carefully. Now pretend that hypothetically you might like it but not sure if it can be beneficial to you in this life. Without delay, even the sound of interest in another life work as a charge-up for salespeople, they will continue product explanation with enhanced passion. Even so, don't open-up your cards, just restart the game, ask about the first thing they explained than the second. Steer them around in circles by submitting the similar question in altered manner. Its always good to exhaust your opponent, make them so tired mentally that they wont be able to hide any fact or benefit. Once you see them fatigued start bargaining about the cost, remember instantly they either want to run away or slap you hard, but...Its a big but...The targets on their head will not allow them that option so they will listen to every demand, call their boss and offer you the second most reasonable price... Do not say yes yet...Tell them you will buy it but still need some time to think...They are at present in a flightless state, so they will promptly offer you the most competitive price possible and secure the deal. Although you can still ask for a corporate goody like a calendar, diary, pen T-shirt or a cap for me, now they might or might not possess anything big, but even a free pencil is a bonus. Our standards aren't that high when it comes to a gift.

When Foreman disclosed that he had been blacklisted, Churchill said, “Oh, I know all about you. But we don’t like political blacklists in England.

I am being observed in secretly and discovered by close observation through someone's team member/members, who are nowhere. The globe is visible within my spirituality. I am not allowed to disclose the secret of mystical powers. Only you can reach my heart with your heart. Don't go far, don't play games, you will lose everything; you have established in my heart.

... in the end what you do to change people is far more important than anything else, because people last forever. Buildings don’t, nor does anything else. It’s that area of spirituality that isn’t easy to cover or to discover unless people disclose the state of their soul, but that area is the most important in the light of eternity.

THE COURT: And at our initial hearing, former counsel expressed he desire to address the issue of probable cause, whether there’s sufficient probable cause to support the charges in the complaint – I assume no amended complaint – although I have not received the motion, a formal motion to dismiss for lack of probable cause. Do you intend to litigate this issue of probable cause, Mr. Grigsby? GRIGSBY: I do, you Honor. The only issue that I am able to discern from what I have, and that’s simply two complaints, is the issue of probable cause. There’s apparently a large amount of discovery that I haven’t seen. I don’t know if it has been disclosed. Apparently they want a large fee for it. My understanding is that Ms. Grazzini has been given in forma pauperis, so then we could eventually present that to the court. 11-24-15 Hearing Case No.19HA-CR-15-2669 State of Minnesota vs. Sandra Grazzini, Page 1,2 of 7.

Someone asked him once what had inspired the studies, since you can so clearly hear that he was telling some kind of very beautiful story, and he just said, ‘I don’t believe in the artist that discloses too much of his images. Let them paint for themselves what it most suggests.’ I’ve always loved that.” Valencia loved it, too, because she’d always imagined the song was about her, and this information made her feel like she had the composer’s permission to do that. She was listening to it the way he meant her to. It was about love, after all. The complicated, possibly sort of requited to some extent but completely impossible and undeserved kind.

I’m struck by the fact there was nothing supernatural about my heightened perceptions that afternoon, nothing that I needed an idea of magic or a divinity to explain. No, all it took was another perceptual slant on the same old reality, a lens or mode of consciousness that invented nothing but merely (merely!) italicized the prose of ordinary experience, disclosing the wonder that is always there in a garden or wood, hidden in plain sight—another form of consciousness “parted from [us],” as William James put it, “by the filmiest of screens.” Nature does in fact teem with subjectivities—call them spirits if you like—other than our own; it is only the human ego, with its imagined monopoly on subjectivity, that keeps us from recognizing them all, our kith and kin. In this sense, I guess Paul Stamets is right to think the mushrooms are bringing us messages from nature, or at least helping us to open up and read them. Before this afternoon, I had always assumed access to a spiritual dimension hinged on one’s acceptance of the supernatural—of God, of a Beyond—but now I’m not so sure. The Beyond, whatever it consists of, might not be nearly as far away or inaccessible as we think. Huston Smith, the scholar of religion, once described a spiritually “realized being” as simply a person with “an acute sense of the astonishing mystery of everything.” Faith need not figure. Maybe to be in a garden and feel awe, or wonder, in the presence of an astonishing mystery, is nothing more than a recovery of a misplaced perspective, perhaps the child’s-eye view; maybe we regain it by means of a neurochemical change that disables the filters (of convention, of ego) that prevent us in ordinary hours from seeing what is, like those lovely leaves, staring us in the face. I don’t know. But if those dried-up little scraps of fungus taught me anything, it is that there are other, stranger forms of consciousness available to us, and, whatever they mean, their very existence, to quote William James again, “forbid[s] a premature closing of our accounts with reality.” Open-minded. And bemushroomed. That was me, now, ready to reopen my own accounts with reality.

I had become irritated about my first language, my second language, my third language, and all the languages I speak. Words increasingly don’t mean what they are supposed to mean in all these languages. Languages are increasingly becoming tools for disguising ideas and reality rather than disclosing them. It suddenly crossed my mind that perhaps one day I will be forced to put every single word I write inside quotation marks. Nothing means what it’s supposed to mean. I dreamt of a world in which everyone means what they say and say what they mean.

HERE’S WHAT I DON’T GET about an experience like Bob Jesse’s: Why in the world would you ever credit it at all? I didn’t understand why you wouldn’t simply file it under “interesting dream” or “drug-induced fantasy.” But along with the feeling of ineffability, the conviction that some profound objective truth has been disclosed to you is a hallmark of the mystical experience, regardless of whether it has been occasioned by a drug, meditation, fasting, flagellation, or sensory deprivation. William James gave a name to this conviction: the noetic quality. People feel they have been let in on a deep secret of the universe, and they cannot be shaken from that conviction. As James wrote, “Dreams cannot stand this test.” No doubt this is why some of the people who have such an experience go on to found religions,

I am being observed in secretly and discovered by close observation through someone's team member/members, who are nowhere. The globe is visible within my spirituality. I am not allowed to disclose the secret of mystical powers. Only you can reach my heart, with your heart. Don't go far, don't play games, you will lose everything; you have established in my heart.

Walt Rostow encouraged Johnson to “blow the whistle” and “destroy” Nixon. Dean Rusk urged him to keep silent: since the story came from someone in Saigon, the White House need say nothing, he argued, and to confirm it would expose the “special channels that we don’t make public.” Clark Clifford shared Rusk’s concern, and added another: he found “some elements of the story…so shocking that I’m wondering whether it would be good for the country to disclose the story, and then possibly have a certain individual elected. It could cast his administration under such doubt that I would think it would be inimical to our country’s interest.

It’s easy to avoid added phosphorus in processed foods—just don’t buy anything containing ingredients with the word “phosphate” in their names, including pyrophosphate and sodium triphosphate.87 With meat, it’s more difficult to determine the phosphate content, as producers aren’t required to disclose injected additives.

Step by step instructions to Introduce Sex Toys In The Bedroom Since Fifty Shades of Gray is so mainstream, the majority of the media is discussing sex and sex toys. It is safe to say that you are interested about attempting them however are excessively humiliated? Is it accurate to say that you are uncertain whether they are directly for you and your relationship? Coming up next are some normal misguided judgments about grown-up toys: A great many people don't utilize sex toys Wrong! Numerous good individuals utilize grown-up toys, including individuals most would think about superbly ordinary. Utilizing a grown-up toy doesn't make you "odd" or doesn't utter a word negative about your relationship. It just encourages you have a ton of fun progressively fun in the room! You don't need to impart to your companions, your supervisor or your mom that you utilize toys except if anybody except if you need to. Sex toys are only for masturbation. While grown-up toys are normally utilized for masturbation, numerous couples appreciate utilizing toys together, regardless of whether they are female or male or hetero or gay. Normally these couples are happy with attempting new things together, are liberal, and trusting. Your accomplice will feel lacking on the off chance that you begin utilizing a sex toy. Is it true that you are anxious that in the event that you carry a grown-up toy into the room, it will offend your partner? A grown-up toy can give you a climax, yet it can't disclose to you the amount they cherish you or rub your back. An item is certifiably not a substitute for a genuine individual. On the off chance that your sweetheart has this dread, be touchy and stroke his or her sense of self a smidgen. Similarly as with most relationship issues, great openness is of the utmost importance. Utilizing sex toys can be physically perilous. No chance! Indeed, grown-up toys can have beneficial outcomes on your sexual wellbeing. For instance, numerous specialists and advisors prescribe grown-up toys to ladies who experience difficulty arriving at climax; on the off chance that you experience the ill effects of agonizing sex, vibrators can invigorate blood stream; all ladies can profit by kegel exercisers or kegel balls to condition the pelvic floor muscles; prostate massagers decrease the danger of prostate disease, erectile brokenness and successive evening pee. Ultimately, climaxes help you live more, square torment and, some state, look more youthful. Who wouldn't need that? On the off chance that you use sex toys excessively, you won't have a climax with your accomplice. On the off chance that your accomplice is apprehensive you'll supplant the person in question with your preferred toy, guarantee the person in question that you'll generally keep things diverse in the room: attempt various positions, new toys, light subjugation and dream play.

Look, Dad. I’m okay. I like this girl. Everything’s normal. “Only my father,” I say to Tina, “would imagine that anyone could find paperwork arousing.” “What?” Her smile is a touch too wide, a little too faked. “Don’t tell me your media training didn’t cover this, either.” I set the stack of papers on the flat surface of my desk and gesture Tina to sit in the leather-bound executive chair. “What am I supposed to say, then? Come on, baby. It’s a nondisclosure agreement. You’ll like it. I promise.” She gives me an unimpressed look. “God,” she says. “And I thought you were supposed to be a good liar. That’s not how you do it.” She bites her lip and then she leans toward me. Her eyelashes sweep down, and when she talks, she lowers her voice toward sultry. “I don’t know, Blake.” She bites her lip and reaches gingerly for the papers, stroking her thumb along the edge. “It’s so…big. I’m not sure it will fit.” I almost choke. She looks up with a touch of a smile. Fuck. I started this. “We’ll go nice and slow.” I pull a chair beside her and sit down, and very slowly take a pen from the holder. “Tell me if it hurts and I can stop anytime. I promise.” “Be gentle.” I know we’re just joking. I know this doesn’t mean anything. Still, my body doesn’t know this is a show when I lean toward her. I don’t feel like I’m lying when I inhale the sent of her hair. It goes straight to my groin, a stab of lust. “Trust me,” I murmur. She’s sitting in my chair. She’s smaller than me and all that dark leather surrounds her, blending in with her hair. But when she looks up, tilting her head toward me, she doesn’t seem tiny. She pulls the first paper-clipped section of pages to her, glances at the first paragraph, and wrinkles her nose. “Ouch,” she says in a much less sensual tone of voice. “It hurts already.” “It basically says that if you tell anyone anything about Cyclone business, we get one of your kidneys,” I translate helpfully. “How sweet.” She hasn’t looked up from the document. “Do your lawyers know you summarize their forms like that?” “Disclose two things,” I say, “and we get two kidneys.” “Mmm. Playing rough. What happens if I disclose three? You shut down my dialysis machine?” “You get a commemorative Cyclone pen,” I say mock-seriously. “Come on. We’re not monsters.” She cracks a smile at that. She’s not one of those girls who always smiles, and that means that when she does smile, it means something. Her whole face lights up and my breath catches at the sight. I lean in, as if I could breathe in her amusement. But then she drops her head and goes back to reading. When she finishes, she signs with a flourish. “What’s next?” she says. “Bring it on.” I hand over the next few pages. She holds it up and looks at me. “Don’t lie to me, baby. I bet you make all the girls you bring in here sign this.” You know what? I have never before found SEC regulations this sexy. I lean close to her. “No way,” I murmur. “This is just for you.” “Really?” She manages that look of hurt skepticism so well. I reach out, almost touching her cheek—until I remember that this isn’t real. “No,” I whisper back. “Not really. Everyone does sign it; it’s company policy.” “Oh, too bad.” She’s still reading the page. “I was hoping you had a selective disclosure just for me.” Selective, I realize, is a sexy word when drawn out the way she does it, her tongue touching her lips on the l sound. So is disclosure. “I can disclose,” I hear myself saying. “Selectively.” “Maybe you can give it to me in a material and nonpublic place.” I lean toward her. “You know me. I put the inside in insider trading.” She’s still holding the pen poised above the paper. I touch my finger to the cap and then slowly slide it down the barrel until my hand meets hers. A shock of electricity hits me, followed by a jolt of lust.

In the state of Florida, we are not required to tell police about our firearm unless they ask. I don't want an officer to see my firearm or my concealed carry permit and get scared, so I always disclose the fact that I have a gun immediately.

When condominiums don’t meet government-backed lenders’ standards they become non-warrantable. This means that buyers cannot get standard loans for these properties. They will have to pay cash or pay exorbitant rates through private lenders. When a building is full of non-warrantable condos, the pool of buyers shrinks and lowers the condo’s value. One might think that newer projects would have lower maintenance costs than older projects. But this isn’t always true. Some builders set monthly fees low while they advertise the project. This attracts bargain buyers, but owners soon discover they have inadequate reserves. The monthly fees then skyrocket. Even if the homeowners successfully sue the builder, it is hard to sell any properties while litigation is pending, and values drop. Most states have specific forms for condominium transactions in which the association discloses finances and reserves. Buyers must sign and verify they have examined the financial condition of the project. Pay attention to past history. How old is the roof? When were improvements last made? How often do association dues increase? Even though many people don’t investigate these issues, a home’s value depends on them. CHAPTER 7 BANK FINANCING Banks have a new image. Now you have ‘a friend,’ your friendly banker. If the banks are so friendly, how come they chain down the pens? — Alan King Bank lending standards and terms change daily. This chapter provides general principles that should prove useful over the long term. We will examine how to borrow from banks to acquire or refinance a home. Please note the term “banks” as used here includes credit unions and other major financial institutions. There’s another chapter on non-bank lending to help those who don’t meet the criteria set by major lending institutions.